THE WAIF AFTER THE STORM.
Phebe listened to the rolling music with an ecstasy never before
experienced in her wildest dreams, and as the winds moaned on the
distant shore and the sea-birds shrieked their sad accompaniment to the
chorus of her song, she fell asleep hungry and weary.
Little slumberer, who shall guide thy frail bark, unseen by mortal eye,
over the trackless waves? Who shall check the rising storm and temper
the fury of the winds to the poor lone lamb? An eye is upon thee and
thou cans't not perish! A sure hand is at the helm, and the frail bark
shall ride gloriously over the angry deep, and a sweet voice near thee
shall whisper "peace, be still!"
It was quite dark when the rolling thunder awoke the sleeper, and with a
scream of horror she sprang to her feet to find her alluring dreams, her
fancied bliss, all dispelled as the realities of danger burst upon her.
She called loudly, but the sea gave only a dismal echo to her ears; she
shouted but the deep-toned thunders alone sent back a reply. Where now
was the brightness that had so dazzled her? The sunbeams had gathered up
all their sparkling gems and with them had disappeared! The music of the
waves had died away, the little song which a few hours before had
bubbled up in her joyous heart was hushed, and all was darkness and
gloom. Ah, little mariner, life is full of just such changes! Sunshine
and tempest--noonday and darkness; all intermingling their lights and
shades! Thy first great lesson is a sad one, but it will never leave
thee. Better so than that it should be only half learned.
Phebe lay in the bottom of the boat famished with hunger, wet with the
drenching rain, pale and sick, when the captain of a gallant yacht which
had "laid to" during the storm, espied from its deck a little speck far
away to leeward, apparently lying still upon the waters.
"I say, Thornton," he remarked to a shipmate near him; "isn't that a
boat off yonder? Here--take the glass! I can hardly make it out. But
it's something, whether there's any life about it or not."
"Yes, it's a boat clear enough," replied his companion eyeing it
intently; "but I imagine it's one that has been washed from some ship
during the storm for there is nothing alive about it as I can see."
"I think you are right so we'll leave it to its fate."
In a few moments the beautiful craft had disappeared and the little boat
with its helpless occupant was left unheeded except by Him who permits
not a sparrow to fall to the ground without his notice. Ah--thy fate was
near thee, little one but the unseen hand has removed it and it is well!
Through the waves the yacht ploughed its way, for the breakers were
rushing back from the shore and all on board save one returned to their
berths for the rest that had been deprived them by the howling winds
and the tossing of the staunch hull which the day before had seemed so
sure and safe in its strength, but which the billows bore high on their
foaming crests, then dashed as a helpless thing into the dark furrows
the storm-king had ploughed out from the angry deep as he marched
onward! O the horrors of a night spent amid a "storm at sea!"
Seated in one of the state rooms was a tall, queenly woman, robed in a
rich _deshabille_ of gray silk, with her elbow resting on the window
sill, her hand supporting the head that bent wearily upon it, while her
dark eyes gazed through the heavy plate glass out upon the black waters
that kept dashing and surging against the victorious yacht proudly
crushing the intruding waves that presumed to cross its pathway.
"Mother," said a winning voice near, "why will you not lie down awhile
before breakfast? The danger is all over, and listen! Hear how calmly
the seamen walk the deck! I presume everyone has concluded to make up
for the fearful lying awake and will not be astir for two hours at
least. Come Mother!"
"No--I can rest here! We shall be out another night, and it may be
_two_," was the desponding reply.
"You used to sing 'life on the ocean wave' Mother, and I remember your
saying once that you had no sympathy with Headley who declared that 'to
sing that song by a good warm fire and being in it were two very
different experiences,' for _you_ rather enjoyed the one you passed
through during your first voyage."
"Yes, child, I remember! I was not as old then as now"; and she might
have added "and not as _guilty_ then as now"; but they passed on.
It was nearly noon before a coasting vessel came in sight, and spying
the little boat that was floating amid the waves the kind-hearted
captain ordered three sturdy tars to go and capture it.
"Not so great a job as we've had sometimes," remarked one playfully.
"Pull away boys, see--there is something in the bottom! Steady,--" and
as they came alongside the speaker sprang into the boat.
"Och--but she's dead!" exclaimed Mike, as he raised the insensible child
in his arms. "She is! Look at her, shipmates," he continued bringing her
forward as he would a coil of rope.
"There isn't a bit of color in her face under the dirt; poor wee thing!"
and he passed her over to a man with a very brown, weather-beaten face,
who laid her tenderly on some blankets and began chafing her hands.
"She is _alive_, boys," he said a few minutes after; "here Mike--pass me
that little bottle I saw you put in your pocket this morning, it looked
to me like very good brandy," he continued with a laugh, at the same
time reaching out for it.
"Sorra a bit of _brandy_!"
"Never mind, pass it over, whatever it is. For once I'll not expose you
for the good it may do now." The small bottle was passed and the kind
man placed it to the lips of the insensible girl.
"Drink it, child," he said in tones as low and soft as a woman's; "it
will make you well."
[Illustration: "LOOK AT HER, SHIPMATES!"]
She did not hear him; yet she did swallow the few drops that were turned
into her mouth, and the good man's predictions proved correct, for in a
few moments she opened her eyes, but turned her head, hid her face in
the blankets on which she was lying.
"She is afraid of our hard old faces," remarked the sailor who was
bending over her; "but we will soon be where there will be more
agreeable ones. Give way, boys, they are waiting for us," and rising, he
left the "wee" stranger to herself.
"I should think she would have got used to ugly faces if she has been
where there's a glass," remarked the third of the party, rather cruelly,
but laughing and good-natured. They reached the schooner, and the
wearied child was handed on board, amid many exclamations and
intermingling remarks of sympathy and astonishment.
There were two women down in the small cabin; one the wife of Mike, who,
in accordance with the kindness natural to her people, took the little
outcast mariner under her especial care, and, with feminine instincts,
provided for her wants.
The next few days the diminutive figure of Phebe Blunt sat upon the
dark, dingy chest beneath the small narrow window in the cabin, looking
out upon the blue, blue sea her beating heart so much loved, as it
gathered up the jewels of emerald, and gold, and crystal pearls which
the sunbeams scattered upon the wavelets' snowy crests, and with them
her fancy built a palace of its own, to which in after years memory
would often return and bear away some precious stones to adorn her sober
real life.
"Ye're a strange child," said Cathreen, one day, after watching her for
a long time, as she sat coiled up on the heavy chest, her large eyes
peering from the window at the dark waters over which they were
sailing. "What makes ye look so much at the sea? I'd rather see the land
any time; and I wouldn't care a farthing if I never put my eyes on a bit
of water again as long as I live." The child turned her beaming face
towards the speaker with an expression of wonder and incredulity playing
over it.
"How _can_ it?" she asked at last, as her little brown hands brushed
back the mass of dark hair from her broad forehead.
"Can what?" and the two women laughed heartily.
"Walk on the water. I couldn't, and I don't believe _He_ could," and the
bewildered gaze was turned again out of the narrow window.
"_Who_, child? Are you beside yourself?"
"_He!_ Lutie Grant's mother said He walked on the great sea, but _I_
don't believe it. How could He? _I_ can't."
"Ye don't know what ye're talking about."
"Yes she does," interrupted the other. "It's Christ, the Bible tells
about."
"And he used to love little girls, and took 'em up and kissed 'em; she
said so; but, pshaw! that's nothing! Maria kissed _me_ once, but
'twasn't much. I'd like to walk on the water, though," and again the
eyes sought the far-off, and dropping her head upon her arms sat
motionless as before.
"She's a puzzle," remarked Cathreen as she went about her work.
"I'd just like to know who she is and where she came from," remarked her
companion, musingly. "I can almost believe that she _did_ come up out of
the sea, as she says, and that her name _is_ 'Lily-Pearl'," and she
laughed.
There was a third one who had been listening to the conversation from
the narrow stairway that led to the deck, and entering at this moment,
said, gently:
"I think I know some one who would enjoy working out this 'puzzle'," and
he laid his hand tenderly on the bushy head of the little girl.
"Would you like to go home with me and live?" he asked. "You will find
one there who can tell you all about _Him_ who walked on the sea and
loved little children, and I imagine he would love _you_, too, for there
is more in this little heart and brain than is generally given to one so
young and ignorant," he continued, as he turned to the wondering women
who were listening.
"Ye're not going to take her home with ye _sure_, Mr. Evans? Mike said
that _he_ guessed we'd take her; she's no trouble and likes the water."
Phebe shrugged her shoulders and looked toward her friend who said,
pleasantly:
"I think I will take her home with me; and perhaps we will hear from her
mother or somebody who will want her, some day," and patting the rounded
cheek, left the cabin and ascended to the deck while Phebe went on with
her musings, and the two women commented on her future and the "strange
conduct of the mate." Yet, all unseen a hand was tenderly leading the
little stray lamb back to its fold through "pastures green" and "by the
still waters," where the thorns and the briars were scattered along its
banks, and where the poor feet would many times get torn, and the heart
grow faint; but her way is onward, for the Father leadeth her. Somebody
has said that "God will make the blind bird's nest," and Faber once
declared that "there is hardly _ever_ a complete silence in our souls.
God is whispering to us well nigh continually. Whenever the sounds of
the world die out, then we hear these whisperings of God." Was He not
doing this to our little mariner? "They talk to me," she would say, and
in her innocence it was the waves that talked--it was the billows that
called, but the Father's tender voice was whispering, and his loving
care was continually over her.
"The wind is coming up again pretty brisk, Mate, and I guess we shall
have another rough night," said the captain, as he met the other on his
rounds just as the darkness began to settle down about the vessel.
"If it will keep in the northeast, all right; we will reach the harbor
by to-morrow," and he walked thoughtfully on.
This prediction was true. In less than a half hour the gale was tossing
the billows high about the ship, and the sky was dark and lead-colored.
Phebe would not leave the little window, although the white foam dashed
against the small panes and the gloom without was impenetrable.
"Come away, child," commanded one of the women, sharply, "what makes you
keep sitting there, when you can't see the nose on your face?"
"I don't want to see it," was the quick reply; "I want to see them roll
and tumble over each other. _He_ couldn't walk on it now?" she queried,
turning to the mate who had entered.
"But He could do something more wonderful than that," he said, coming to
her and laying his hand on her head.
The wondering eyes that were looking into the face of the speaker grew
larger and brighter and she said--
"I don't believe it!"
"The Bible says so, Phebe, and Willie believes it. Hark--how the wind
blows and the waves roar! but _He_ could say to them all, 'Peace, be
_still_!' and they would mind him."
"Stop blowing?"
"Yes, and the sea stop rolling."
She looked at the smiling face for a moment and then with a shrug of the
shoulders turned her eyes again out of the window. The ship was plunging
madly in the darkness, and the occupants in the little cabin were
obliged to hold tightly on to the railing around it to prevent being
dashed together, but Phebe kept her seat on the old weather-beaten
chest, clinging to the window for power to hold her position, yet her
face did not lose its quiet expression for a moment.
"Well, little girl, I see you are not afraid," remarked the mate,
pleasantly, as he turned to go above. "I didn't know but the storm would
make you think of your ride all alone, and would want some of my help
again."
"It don't rain and thunder now," she remarked quietly. "It was awful;
the waves talked, and something said, 'Poor little Phebe! the pearls are
looking at you, and will take you down in their beautiful home, where
you belong, if the storm don't stop'--but it did, and I went to sleep.
Where are the pearls? It's cold down there, and what made them throw me
on the waves?" Thus Phebe mused while the winds died away and the waves
were calmed, and as the ship settled down into quiet on the dark sea,
she turned to the frightened inmates of the cabin with the expression:
"Guess He _did_," and getting off her seat crept softly to her bed.
In the elegant yacht seen in the morning, another pair of dark eyes was
gazing through the window of the stateroom into the rapidly gathering
storm. Evidently it had changed its course, and instead of making its
way southward along the coast, it was now laboring to gain the open sea.
The eyes were wild in their burning excitement, as the blackness became
more intense and the billows roared as they dashed against the brave
craft. There was no gathering of the "precious gems" into the soul of
the stately lady, for her memory was full of a sad record, from which
she could not shut her thoughts. She turned almost fiercely towards the
calm figure reclining on the sofa opposite, exclaiming: "Lillian, you
anger me. What are you lying there for, when such a terrible storm is
out upon the sea? Do you not know that we are not going towards Mobile
at all, but are sailing as rapidly as the winds can drive us out
into--nobody knows where?"
"Eternity, perhaps," was the quiet response.
"Are you trying to torture me, child?"
"This should not do it, Mother, for your pallid, pinched face tells me
that I have given you no new thought. We are in danger, as you know, and
many have come where we are never to a shore again."
Mrs. Belmont was silent. Her wild gaze turned once more out of the
window, and the daughter mused on.
At last. "If Pearl only knew, I could lie down under a friendly billow
peacefully--yes, gladly."
"Will you persist, Lillian?"
"He is my husband and the father of my child."
A moment's silence.
"How terrible! That peal was directly over us!"
The stately head dropped upon the white arm extended across the heavy
bar of iron to which she was clinging, while the shouts and heavy
hurried feet made a dismal accompaniment to the confusion all about her.
Lillian spoke.
"Mother, with death in the air and on the sea, tell me, _where_ is my
child?"
"In heaven, I hope," and for once she spoke truly.
"If not there, do you know where she is?"
"She is there. I will not endure your suspicions, Lillian! Never ask me
concerning your child again."
The stately lady attempted to rise, but fell back insensible upon the
chair. When consciousness was restored the fury of the storm was passed,
and Mrs. Belmont, weak and dispirited, moaned upon her bed until the
sea-sick passengers landed safely at their destination.
[Illustration]