THE FISHERMAN'S HOME.
"Why, mother, are you here?" Coomber spoke in a stern, reproachful tone,
for he had found his wife and the cowering children huddled together in
the corner of the old shed where the family washing and various
fish-cleaning operations were usually carried on; and the sight did not
please him.
"Are yer all gone mad that yer sitting out there wi' the rain drippin'
on yer, when yer might be dry an' comfortable, and have a bit o'
breakfast ready for a feller when he comes home after a tough job such
as I've had?"
"I--I didn't know when you was coming to breakfast," said Mrs. Coomber,
timidly, and still keeping close in the corner of the shed for fear her
husband should knock her down; while the children stopped their mutual
grumblings and complaints, and crept closer to each other behind their
mother's skirts.
"Couldn't you ha' got it ready and waited wi' a bit o' fire to dry these
duds?" exclaimed her husband.
"But the boat, Coomber, it wasn't safe," pleaded the poor woman. "We
might ha' been adrift any minute."
"Didn't I tell yer she was safe, and didn't I ought to know when a
boat's safe better nor you--a poor tool of a woman? Come out of it," he
added, impatiently, turning away.
The children wondered that nothing worse than hard words fell to their
share, and were somewhat relieved that the next question referred to
Bob, and not to their doings.
"You say he ain't come home?" said Coomber.
"I ain't seen him since he went with you to Fellness. Ain't you just
come from there?" said his wife, timidly.
"Of course I have, but Bob ought to have been back an hour or so ago,
for I had something to do in the village. Come to the boat, and I'll
tell you all about it," he added, in a less severe tone; for the thought
of the child he had rescued softened him a little, and he led the way
out of the washing-shed.
The storm had abated now, and the boat no longer rocked and swayed, so
that the children waded back through the mud without fear, while their
father talked of the little girl he had left with Dame Peters at
Fellness. They listened to his proposal to bring her home and share
their scanty meals with very little pleasure, and they wished their
mother would say she could not have another baby; but instead of this
Mrs. Coomber assented at once to her husband's plan of fetching the
child from Fellness that afternoon.
The Coombers were not a happy family, for the fisherman was a stern,
hard man by nature, and since he had lost his little girl he had become
harder, his neighbours said. At all events, his wife and children grew
more afraid of him--afraid of provoking his stern displeasure by any of
those little playful raids children so delight in; and every one of them
looked forward to the day when they could run away from home and go to
sea, as their grown-up brother had done. Bob, the eldest now at home,
was already contemplating taking this step very soon, and had promised
to help Dick and Tom when they were old enough. It had been a startling
revelation to Bob to hear his father speak as he had done on the beach
at Fellness about his brother, for he had long ago decided that his
father did not care a pin for any of them, unless it was for the baby
sister who had died, and even of that he was not quite sure. He had made
up his mind, as he walked through the storm that morning, that he would
not go back again, but make his way to Grimsby, or some other seaport
town, after his business at Fellness was done. But what he had heard on
the beach from his father somewhat shook his purpose, and when he
learned from Dame Peters afterwards, that the child they had rescued was
to share their home, he thought he would go back again, and try to bear
the hard life a little longer, if it was only to help his mother, and
tell her his father did care for them a bit in spite of his stern, hard
ways.
Perhaps Mrs. Coomber did not need to be told that her husband loved her
and his children; at all events, she received Bob's information with a
nod and a smile, and a whispered word. "Yer father's all right, and a
rare good fisherman," she said; for in spite of the frequent unkindness
she experienced, Mrs. Coomber was very fond of her husband.
"Ah, he's a good fisherman, but he'd be all the better if he didn't have
so much of that bottle," grumbled Bob; "he thinks a deal more about that
than he does about us."
It was true enough what Bob said. If his father could not by any chance
get his bottle replenished, wife and children had a little respite from
their usual hard, driving life, and he was more civil to their only
neighbours, who were at the farm about half a mile off; but once the
bottle got filled again, he grew sullen and morose, or quarrelsome. He
had recently made himself very disagreeable to Farmer Hayes in one of
his irritable fits, a fact which suddenly recurred to his wife when she
heard of the sick child being brought home to her to nurse, but she
dared not mention it to her husband. When Coomber brought the child that
afternoon, he said, gaily: "Here's a present for yer from the sea,
mother; maybe she'll bring us good luck coming as she did."
"It 'ud be better luck if we'd picked up a boat," muttered Bob, who was
standing near.
"Why, she ain't such a baby as you said," exclaimed Mrs. Coomber, as she
unpinned the shawl in which she was wrapped; "she is about five."
"Five years old," repeated Coomber; "but she'd talk if she was as old as
that, and Dame Peters told me she'd just laid like a dead thing ever
since she'd been there."
"She's ill, that's what it is, poor little mite--ill and frightened out
of her senses;" and Mrs. Coomber gathered her in her arms, and kissed
the little white lips, and pressed her to her bosom, as only a tender
mother can, while the boys stood round in wondering silence, and Coomber
dashed a tear from his eye as he thought of the little daughter lying in
Fellness churchyard. But he was ashamed of the love that prompted this
feeling, and said hastily: "Now, mother, we mustn't begin by spoiling
her;" but then he turned away, and called Bob to go with him and look
after the boat.
For several days the child continued very ill--too ill to notice
anything, or to attempt to talk; but one day, when she was lying on Mrs.
Coomber's lap before the fire, the boys mutely looking at her as she
lay, she suddenly put up her little hands, and said in a feeble whisper,
"Dear faver Dod, tate tare o' daddy and mammy, and Tiny;" and then she
seemed to drop off into a doze.
The boys were startled, and Mrs. Coomber looked down hastily at the
little form on her lap, for this was the first intimation they had had
that the child could talk, although Mrs. Coomber fancied that she had
showed some signs of recognising her during the previous day.
"I say, did you hear that?" whispered Dick. "Was she saying her prayers,
mother, like Harry Hayes does?"
Mrs. Coomber nodded, while she looked down into the child's face and
moved her gently to and fro to soothe her to sleep.
"But, mother, ought she to say that? Did you hear her? She said 'dear
God,'" said Dick, creeping round to his mother's side.
Mrs. Coomber was puzzled herself at the child's words. They had awakened
in her a far-off memory of days when she was a girl, and knelt at her
mother's knee, and said, "Our Father," before she went to bed. But that
was long before she had heard of Bermuda Point, or thought of having
boys and girls of her own. When they came she had forgotten all about
those early days; and so they had never been taught to say their
prayers, or anything else, in fact, except to help their father with the
boat, shoot wild-fowl in the winter, and gather samphire on the shore
during the summer.
She thought of this now, and half wished she had thought of it before.
Perhaps if she had tried to teach her children to pray, they would have
been more of a comfort to her. Perhaps Jack, her eldest, would not have
run away from home as he did, leaving them for years to wonder whether
he was alive or dead, but sending no word to comfort them.
The boys were almost as perplexed as their mother. The little they had
heard of God filled them with terror, and so to hear such a prayer as
this was something so startling that they could think and talk of
nothing else until their father came in, when, as usual, silence fell on
the whole family, for Coomber was in a sullen mood now.
The next day Tiny, as she had called herself, was decidedly better. A
little bed had been made up for her in the family living-room, and she
lay there, quiet but observant, while Mrs. Coomber went about her
work--cooking and cleaning and mending, and occasionally stopping to
kiss the little wistful face that watched her with such quiet curiosity.
"Am I in a s'ip now?" the child asked at length, when Mrs. Coomber had
kissed her several times.
"You're in a boat, deary; but you needn't be afraid; our boat is safe
enough."
"I ain't afraid; Dod is tatin' tare of me," said the child, with a
little sigh.
Mrs. Coomber wondered whether she was thinking of the storm; whether she
could tell them who she was, and where her friends might be found; and
she ventured to ask her several questions about this, but failed to
elicit any satisfactory answer. The child was sleepy, or had forgotten
what Mrs. Coomber thought she would be sure to remember; but it was
evident she had taken notice of her surroundings during the last few
days, for after a little while she said, "Where's der boys--dat Dick and
Tom?"
Mrs. Coomber was amused. "They're out in the boat looking after the
nets," she said.
"When they toming home?" asked the little girl; "home to dis boat, I
mean," she added.
"Oh, they'll come soon," replied Mrs. Coomber. "But, now, can't you tell
me something about your mother and father, and where you lived, my
deary?" she asked again.
"I tomed in a s'ip, and 'ou my mammy now," said the child, looking round
the cosy room with perfect content.
"But where is your own mammy, who taught you to say your prayers?" asked
Mrs. Coomber.
The tears came into the sweet blue eyes for a minute as she said, "See
dorn up dere, to tay in Dod's house, and Tiny do too if see a dood dal."
Mrs. Coomber laid down the jacket she was patching, and kissed the
serious little face. "Is your mother dead, my deary?" she asked, while
the tears shone in her own eyes.
"See done to see daddy, and tell him about Tiny," answered the child;
from which Mrs. Coomber gathered that mother and father were both dead;
and when her husband came home she told him what she had heard, which
seemed to afford the old fisherman a good deal of satisfaction.
"Then she's ours safe enough, mother," he said, rubbing his hands, "and
when she gets well she'll toddle about the old boat like our own little
Polly did."
"But I thought you said Peters was going to see the newspaper man to
tell him to put something in the _Stamford Mercury_ about finding her,
so that her friends should know she was saved, and come and fetch her."
"I said her mother or father," interrupted Coomber, sharply; "but if
they're dead, there ain't anybody else likely to want such a little 'un,
and so we may keep her, I take it. But Peters shall go to the newspaper
man, never fear," added Coomber; "I don't want to rob anybody of the
little 'un; but if nobody don't come in a week, why then, Mary----" and
Coomber paused, and looked at his wife.
"Well, then, I'll get out little Polly's things; they'll just about fit
her," said Mrs. Coomber, hastily wiping her eyes with her apron for fear
her husband should reproach her again for her tears.
When the boys came in, the little girl said, shyly, "Tome and tell me
about the nets."
Dick looked at her, and then at his mother.
"What does she mean?" he asked, drawing near the little bed where Tiny
lay.
"She wants to know about the fishing," said Mrs. Coomber. "Have you had
a good take, Dick?" asked his mother, rather anxiously, for she wanted
some more milk for Tiny, and her little secret store of halfpence was
gone now.
"Oh, it ain't much," said Dick; "Bob has taken a few plaice to Fellness,
and I dessay he'll bring back some bread or some flour."
"But I want some milk for the child; she can't eat bread and fish and
potatoes now she's ill. Couldn't you run up to the farm, Dick, and ask
Mrs. Hayes if she wants a bit o' fish, and I'll be thankful for a drop
o' milk for it."
But Dick looked dubious. "I'd like to go," he said, "if it was only to
have a word with Harry Hayes, and ask him about his rabbits; but father
don't like the farm people now, and he said I was never to speak to
them. You know they've had a quarrel."
"Well, what are we to do? They are our only neighbours, and they ain't a
bad sort either, Mrs. Hayes is a kind soul, who has children of her own,
and would let me have milk in a minute if she knew I wanted it for this
poor little mite," said Mrs. Coomber, in perplexity as to the best thing
to do.
"I'll go, mother, if you can find any fish worth taking," at last said
Dick.
Mrs. Coomber went and turned over what the boys had brought. The best
had been picked out and sent to Fellness, and what was left was not more
than sufficient for themselves; but she carefully looked out the largest
she could find and washed it. While she was doing this her husband came
in.
"It's a poor take to-day, mother," he said.
"Yes, and I wanted a bit extra, to get some milk for the child," said
Mrs. Coomber; "but I think I can manage with this," she said, still
busying herself with the fish, and not turning to look at her husband.
"What are yer goin' to do wi' it?" he inquired.
"I want to send Dick up to the farm; Mrs. Hayes will give me some milk
for it, I know," replied his wife, trying to speak in a matter-of-fact
tone.
[Illustration: "'ME LIKES 'OU,' SHE SAID." (_See page 40._)]
"And you'd send Dick to that place when I said they shouldn't go near
the house," said her husband, angrily. "Take the fish and cook it for
supper. Not a bit o' my fish shall they have."
"But the milk. What am I to do for the milk for the child now she's
ill?"
"What have yer done afore?" demanded her husband; and the poor woman was
obliged to confess that she had taken milk from the man as he went past
in his cart to the village each day since the child had been there. "She
couldn't do wi'out milk," protested Mrs. Coomber.
"How do you know she couldn't?" said her husband. "What business have
you to spend money for milk--what business have you wi' money at all?"
he inquired, suspiciously; for he saw in this wastefulness a cause for
the recent strange scarcity of whisky; and he felt he had been deeply
wronged. His quarrel with Hayes had also been disregarded, and this made
him further angry with his wife, and he strictly charged her never to
have any more dealings with any of the farm people.
"We can live very well without milk," he said. "I will feed the little
'un, and you'll see she can eat fish and bread as well as the rest of
us."
It was useless for Mrs. Coomber to protest against this; she knew if her
husband made up his mind to do anything he would do it; but she almost
dreaded supper-time coming, for she could not tell how Tiny would like
the proposed change in her nurse and diet.
But as it happened the little girl was very pleased to be lifted out of
bed and seated on Coomber's knee at the table.
"Me likes 'ou," she said, patting his cheek with her little white hand;
and she ate the fish and bread as though she was quite used to such
food.
[Illustration]