BRIGHTER DAYS.
The dreary winter came to an end at last, and with the first spring days
there was a general bustle of preparation in the fisherman's family, for
boat and nets alike required overhauling, and there would be a good deal
of repairing to do before the old boat would be fit for further use.
Bob's face was fast losing its sullen, defiant, angry look, and he was
whistling as merrily as a lark one morning, when he and Coomber went to
remove the tarpaulin that had been covered over the boat during the
winter; but the whistling suddenly ceased when the boat was uncovered,
for, with all their care, the winter's storms had worked sad havoc with
the little craft. Seams were starting, ribs were bulging, and there were
gaping holes, that made Coomber lift his hat and scratch his head in
consternation.
"This'll be a tough job, Bob," he said.
"Aye, aye, dad, it will that," said the lad, carefully passing his
finger down where one rib seemed to be almost rotten.
A few months before Coomber would have raved and blustered, and sworn it
was all Bob's fault, but since that tea-meeting at Fellness he had been
a changed man--old things had passed away, and all things had become
new; and none felt this more than Bob. It was a blessed change for him,
and he had given up all thoughts of running away now, if the old boat
could only be patched up and made serviceable. But it was a problem
whether this could ever be done effectually enough to make it seaworthy.
"If I'd only found out ten years ago that I could do better without the
whisky than with it, we might ha' got a new boat afore this, Bob," said
the fisherman, with a sigh.
"Aye, aye, and had Jack with us, too, dad," Bob ventured to remark. He
had not dared to mention his brother's name for years, but he had
thought a good deal of him lately, wishing he could come home, and see
the blessed change that had been wrought in his father.
The old fisherman lifted his head, and there was a look of bitter
anguish in his face, as he said: "Hark ye, lad, I'd give all the days of
my life to bring Jack back. The thought of him is making yer mother an
old woman afore her time, and I can't help it now; it's too late, too
late;" and the old fisherman covered his face and groaned.
"There now, father, ain't I heard you say it was never too late to
repent?"
"Aye, lad, that you have, and the precious blood of Christ can take away
the guilt of our sin; but, mark me, not even God Himself can do away
with the consequences of sin. Hard as they may be, and truly and
bitterly as we may repent, the past can't be undone; and as we sow we
must reap. Poor Jack! Poor Jack! If I could only know where he was. Why,
it's nigh on ten years since he went away, and never a storm comes but
I'm thinking my boy may be in it, and wanting help."
Bob recalled what had passed on Fellness Sands the night they rescued
Tiny, and which had helped him often since to bear with his father's
gruff, sullen ways and fierce outbursts of temper; but he would not say
any more just now, only he thought that but for that tea-meeting his
father would now be mourning the loss of two sons; for he had made up
his mind to leave home when it was decided to take Tiny to the
poorhouse.
They were working at the boat a few days after this, caulking, and
plugging, and tarring, when Tiny, who had been playing on the sandhills
a little way off, came running up breathless with some news.
[Illustration: TINY AND THE OLD MAN. (_See page 130._)]
"Oh, daddy! there's a little ugly, old man over there, and he says my
name is Coomber. Is it, daddy?"
The fisherman lifted his hat and scratched his head, looking puzzled.
Strange to say, this question of the little girl's name had never
suggested itself to anybody before, living as they did in this
out-of-the-way spot. She was "Tiny," or "deary," or "the little 'un,"
and no need had arisen for any other name; and so, after scratching his
head for a minute, he said: "Well, deary, if I'm your daddy, I s'pose
your name is Coomber. But who is the old man?" he asked; for it was not
often that strangers were seen at Bermuda Point, even in summer-time.
"I dunno, daddy; but he says he knowed my mother when she was a little
gal like me."
Coomber dropped the tar-brush he was using, and a spasm of pain crossed
his face. Had somebody come to claim the child after all? He
instinctively clutched her hand for a minute, but the next he told her
to go home, while he went to speak to the stranger.
He found a little, neatly-dressed old man seated on one of the
sandhills, and without a word of preface he began:
"You've come after my little gal, I s'pose?"
The old man smiled. "What's your name, my man?" he said, taking out a
pocket-book, and preparing to write.
"Coomber."
"Coomber!" exclaimed the old man, dropping his book in his surprise.
"Why, yes; what should it be?" said the fisherman. "Didn't you tell my
little Tiny that you knew her name was Coomber? But how you came to
know----"
"Why, I never saw you before that I know of," interrupted the other,
sharply; "so how do you suppose I should know your name? I told the
child I knew her name was Matilda Coomber, for she is the very image of
her mother when she was a girl, and she was my only daughter."
"Oh, sir, and you've come to fetch her!" gasped the fisherman.
The stranger took out his snuff-box, and helped himself to a pinch.
"Well, I don't know so much about that," he said, cautiously; "I am her
grandfather, and I thought, when I picked up that old newspaper the
other day, and read about her being saved, I'd just like to come and
have a look at her. I was pretty sure she was my Tilly's little one, by
the description of the silver medal she wore, for I'd given it to her
mother just before she ran away to get married to that sailor Coomber."
"Oh, sir, a sailor, and his name was Coomber! Where is he? What was he
like?" asked the fisherman, eagerly.
"He was drowned before his wife died; she never held up her head
afterwards, the people tell me. I never saw her after she was married,
and swore I'd never help her or hers; but when she was dying she wrote
and told me she was leaving a little girl alone in the world, and had
left directions for it to be brought to me after her death. With this
letter she sent her own portrait, and that of her husband and child,
begging me to keep them for the child until she grew up. A day or two
after came another letter, saying she was dead, and a neighbour was
coming from Grimsby to London by ship, and would bring the child to me;
but I never heard or saw anything of either, and concluded she was
drowned, when, about a month ago, an old newspaper came in my way, and
glancing over it, I saw the account of a little girl being saved from a
wreck, and where she might be heard of. I went to the place, and they
sent me here, and the minute I saw the child, I knew her for my
Tilly's."
The old man had talked on, but Coomber had comprehended very little of
what was said. He stood looking half-dazed for a minute or two after the
stranger had ceased speaking. At length he gathered his wits
sufficiently to say: "Have you got them pictures now?"
"Yes," said the old man, promptly, taking out his pocket-book as he
spoke. "Here they are; I took care to bring 'em with me;" and he brought
out three photographs.
Coomber seized one instantly. "It is him! It is my Jack!" he gasped.
"Oh, sir, tell me more about him."
"I know nothing about him, I tell you," said the other, coldly; "I never
saw or spoke to my daughter after she married him; but I'm willing to do
something for the little child, seeing it was my girl's last wish."
"The child," repeated Coomber. "Do you mean to say little Tiny is my
Jack's child?"
"Well, yes, of course I do. What else could I mean?" replied the other.
"Then--then I'm her grandfather, and have as much right to her as you
have," said the fisherman, quickly.
The stranger shrugged his shoulders. "Well, I s'pose you have," he said;
"I'm not going to dispute it. I'm willing to do my duty by her. But
mind, I'm not a rich man--not a rich man," he added.
Coomber was puzzled for a minute to know what he meant, and was about to
say that he wanted no payment for keeping Tiny; but the other lifted his
hand in a commanding manner, and exclaimed: "Now, hear me first. Let me
have my say, and then, perhaps, we can come to terms about the matter.
You've got a wife, I s'pose, that can look after this child. I haven't;
and if she came to me, I shouldn't know what to do with her. Well now,
that being the case, she'd better stay here--for the present at least;
she's happy enough, I s'pose; and I'll pay you twenty pounds a year as
my share towards her expenses."
Coomber was about to exclaim indignantly against this, and protest that
he would accept no payment; but just then he caught sight of Bob and the
old boat, and the thought of what that money would enable him to do kept
him silent a little longer.
"Well now," resumed the old man, "if that plan suits you, we'll come to
business at once. You've had her about eighteen months now, so there's
about thirty pounds due. You see I'm an honest man, and mean to do the
just thing by her," he added.
"Thirty pounds!" repeated Coomber, to whom such a sum seemed immense
wealth. But the other mistook the exclamation for one of discontent, and
so he said, quickly, "Well now, I'll throw you ten pounds in, as I hear
you were the one that saved her, and pay you the next six months in
advance. That'll make it a round fifty; but I won't go a penny farther.
Now will that satisfy you?"
Satisfy him? Coomber was debating with himself whether he ought to take
a farthing, considering what a rich blessing the little girl had been to
him. It was only the thought of the bitter winter they had just passed
through, and that, if he could get a new boat, he could better provide
for the child, that made him hesitate, lest in refusing it he should do
Tiny a wrong.
At length, after a pause, during which he had silently lifted his heart
in prayer to God, he said: "Well, sir, for the little 'un's sake I'll
take your offer. But, look you, I shall use this money as a loan that is
to be returned; and as I can save it, I shall put it in the bank for
her."
The other shrugged his shoulders. "You can do as you like about that. I
shall come and see the child sometimes, and----"
"Do, sir, do, God bless her! To think she's my Jack's child!"
interrupted Coomber, drawing his sleeve across his eyes. "Do you know,
sir, where my boy went down?" he asked, in a tremulous voice.
But the other shook his head. "I tell you I know nothing of my daughter
after she married; but she sent me a box with some letters and these
portraits, and some other odds and ends, to be kept for her little
Matilda. I'll send you them if you like;" and the old man rose as he
spoke. "Can you go with me to Fellness now, and settle this business
about the money?" he added.
"But don't you want to see Tiny?" exclaimed Coomber, who could not
understand his willingness to give up his claim to the child.
"I have seen her. We had a long talk here before you came. You may tell
her that her Grandfather West will come and see her sometimes. And now,
if you'll follow me as quickly as you can to the village, we'll settle
this business;" and as he spoke, Mr. West turned towards the road,
leaving Coomber still half-dazed with astonishment.
"Bob, Bob," he called at last, "I've got to go to the village. A strange
thing has happened here to-day, and I want to get my wits a bit together
before I tell your mother. But you needn't do much to the boat till I
come back, for it may be we shall have a new one after all."
Bob looked up in his father's face, speechless with surprise. He spoke
of having a new boat as though it was a very sad business. But his next
words explained it. "I've heard of Jack," he said; "no storms will
trouble him again;" and then the fisherman burst forth into
heart-breaking sobs and groans, and Bob shed a few tears, although he
felt heartily ashamed of them.
"Now go back, Bob, and tell your mother I've gone to Fellness; and if I
ain't home by five o'clock, you come and meet me, for I shall have some
money to carry--almost a fortune, Bob."
Having heard so much, Bob wanted to hear more, and so walked with his
father for the first mile along the road, listening to the strange tale
concerning Tiny. Then he went back, and told the news to the astonished
group at home; and so, before Coomber returned, his wife had got over
the first outburst of grief for the death of her son, and she and Bob
had had time to talk calmly over the whole matter. They had decided that
the money must be used in such a way as would give the little girl the
greatest benefit from it, and that she must go to school, if possible.
"Now, if dad could buy a share in one of the bigger boats where he and I
could work, wouldn't it be better than buying a little one for
ourselves?" suggested Bob; "then we could go and live at Fellness, and
Tiny could go to school--Sunday-school as well as week-day."
"And Dick, too," put in Tiny.
"Yes, and we should all go to God's house on Sunday," said Mrs. Coomber,
drying her eyes.
Strange to say, a similar project had been suggested to Coomber by his
old friend Peters, who knew a man who wanted to sell his share in one of
the large fishing-boats, and was asking forty pounds for it.
"That will leave us ten pounds, mother, to buy the children some new
clothes, and take us to Fellness. What do you say to it now?" asked her
husband, after they had talked it over.
"Why, it seems too good to be true," said the poor woman, through her
tears. "But oh! if only poor Jack was here!" she sighed.
Her husband shook his head, and was silent for a minute or two; but at
length he said: "God has been very good to us when we had no thought of
Him. I always knew the little 'un must be a sailor's lass, but to think
that she should be our Jack's own child is wonderful. The old gentleman
had made quite sure of it before he came here--he wouldn't part with his
money unless he'd been sure, I know; and now she's ours, just as much as
Dick and Bob is. And we'll take good care of her, God bless her, and Him
for sending her to us."
* * * * *
The rest of my story is soon told. The fisherman and his family removed
to Fellness, and brighter days dawned for them than they had ever hoped
to see. When the box arrived from Mr. West, containing the letter and
papers relating to the latter years of their son's life, they found that
he had become a true Christian through his wife's influence. He had also
learned to read and write; and in the last letter sent to his wife
before his death, he told her he meant to go and see his parents as soon
as he returned from that voyage. Alas! he never did return; but the
"little lass," of whom he spoke so lovingly, became God's messenger to
his old home, and the joy and comfort of his parents' hearts.
Printed by Cooke & Halsted, The Moorfields Press, London, E.C.