OLD JARVIS AND HIS DOG NEPTUNE.
"Ma'am, old Jarvis is in the kitchen. He has brought some fish, and
wants to see you," said Flora's maid one morning, as her mistress had
just finished washing and dressing the baby.
"The poor old man! I thought he was dead," said Flora. "I have not seen
him for such a long time!" and, with baby in her arms, she followed the
girl into the kitchen.
David Jarvis was a fisherman, well known upon that coast,--an active,
energetic son of the sea, though somewhat time-worn and weather-beaten.
The person of the old man had been familiar to Flora since she was a
little child; and many a stolen trip had she taken with her brothers in
his cockleshell of a boat, which, tough as its master, had stood the
wear and tear of the winds and waves for many years.
Since she came to reside at ----, she had often watched that little boat
dancing over the waves, carried onward by a stiff breeze,--now hiding in
the green valleys of the sea, now mounting aloft, like a feather
floating on the ridge of some toppling surge. The old man seemed to
bear a charmed life; for at all seasons, and in almost all weather, the
little wiry seaman, with his short pipe in his mouth, and his noble
Newfoundland dog, Neptune, in the bow of his boat, might be seen
coasting along the shore, following his adventurous calling.
That large, deep-chested, powerful dog, was the admiration of all the
children in the town. It was considered a privilege by the young fry to
pat Neptune's buff head, and call him the "dear, good, old dog!" and
well did the fine animal deserve the title.
The good dog had, at different times, saved nine seamen from a watery
grave, as the collar he wore round his neck recording the fact could
testify.
Next to his two fine sons, Nep was the delight of the old man's heart.
They were never seen apart. In storm or shine, Nep accompanied his
master in the boat; or, if fishing on the beach, he sat up on his
haunches, with a calm, sagacious air, watching the accumulating pile of
fish entrusted to his care. Sociable, affable, and gentle, he submitted
good-humouredly to the caresses of all the youngsters who passed that
way; but if any one dared to lay a finger upon the fish, the lion-like
nature of the animal was roused into instant action. His mild eye became
red and fiery, and his deep voice bade defiance to the incautious
intruder on his master's rights, to protect which Nep was ready to lay
down his valuable life.
Jarvis and his dog enjoyed a great degree of popularity in an humble
way; and were decidedly among the lions of the place. Gentlemen had
offered large sums for the buff Newfoundland dog, which Jarvis had
rejected without a second thought; declaring, that he would as soon sell
a child for money, as his faithful Nep.
During the past year the old seaman had been severely tried. Misfortune
had followed upon misfortune; until the hardy veteran looked like the
spectre of his former self. His only daughter, a pretty girl of
eighteen, was engaged to marry the ostler at the Crown Inn, a
fine-looking young man, who had lately come from London. He saw Nancy
Jarvis, became enamoured of the fisherman's daughter, told his tale of
love, and was accepted. The old man was rather averse to the match; for,
in his eyes, no man was worthy of his Nancy, who was not a genuine son
of the sea. Robert Green at last succeeded in overcoming his nautical
prejudices; and a day was fixed for the wedding. Nancy's rosy, artless
face was all smiles and sunshine, as night after night she sauntered
past Flora's windows, leaning upon the arm of her betrothed. Only two
days previous to the one appointed for the wedding, the father learned
from old captain P----, whose vessel had just returned from London, that
Robert Green had a wife and two children in the great city; that the
poor young woman, hearing that his vessel was from the Port of ----, had
come on board, to make some inquiries respecting her faithless husband;
and that she and her little ones were now on their way to join him.
This distressing intelligence was rashly communicated without any
previous warning, to Nancy Jarvis. The unfortunate girl, seized with a
sudden frenzy, rushed to the pier and flung herself into the sea, when
the tide was running out; and her distracted parents never succeeded in
recovering the body of the poor maniac. The worthless libertine, on
whose account this desperate act was committed, decamped in the night;
and so escaped the vengeance of the old fisherman and his sons.
Davy Jarvis, the old seaman's youngest son, a fine lad of sixteen, was
drowned in the month of July, only a few weeks after the tragical death
of his sister. Flora and Lyndsay had been eye-witnesses of this fresh
calamity. Every fine afternoon the young Davy was in the habit of going
off with another boy, of his own age, in his father's boat. When they
had rowed a couple of miles from the shore, they lay to, stripped, and
went into the water to swim, diving and sporting among the waves, like
two sea-gulls taking their pastime in the summer ocean.
Lyndsay had often watched them, and admired the dexterity with which
the younger Jarvis would tumble himself from the water into the boat,
which was left rocking upon the billows, and steady it for his comrade
to get in. They would then resume their garments, and row to the beach.
One afternoon they went off as usual. The day was bright and cloudless,
with a stiff breeze. Lyndsay was reading aloud to Flora, as she sat at
work at the open window which commanded a view of the whole bay.
"There's Davy Jarvis and his comrade, putting off their boat, for a
swim. They must mind what they are about," said Lyndsay; "the wind is
rather too blustering for their water frolic to-day."
He put down his book, and continued to watch the lads with some
interest. The boys reached their accustomed track among the waves; and,
leaving their boat as usual, seemed to enjoy their sport with more zest
than ever. Whilst in the water, the breeze freshened, and it was with
great difficulty, and not without hard swimming, that the lads regained
their boat, which driven before the wind, seemed determined to reach the
shore without them. They succeeded at last, dressed themselves, and
stood in for the land. A long line of heavy surf was beating violently
against the beach, and by some mismanagement, the boat got capsized
among the breakers. One lad was thrown on shore, but Davy Jarvis got
entangled in the surf, which beat continually over him, and rendered
all the efforts of himself and his comrade fruitless; and the brave boy
was drowned before the sailors who hurried to his assistance could
rescue him from his perilous situation.
Flora had watched the scene with a degree of excitement so intense, that
it almost deprived her of breath. She could not believe that the lad
could perish within the reach of help, and so near the shore. The
shrieks of the mother, and the mute despair of the old fisherman, who
had been summoned to the spot, too clearly corroborated the report of
Lyndsay, that the lad was indeed dead.
After this fresh calamity old Jarvis appeared an altered man. His sinewy
frame became bent and attenuated, his step fell feebler, his hair was
bleached to snowy whiteness, and his homely, tanned features assumed an
expression of stern and patient endurance. It was evident to Flora that
his heart was breaking for the loss of his children.
Neptune seemed to understand it all--to comprehend in the fullest sense
his master's loss and his present sufferings. He would walk slowly by
the fisherman's side, and whenever he paused in his unsteady aimless
ramble along the beach, Nep would thrust his nose into his hard brown
hand, or, rearing on his hind legs, embrace him with his shaggy
fore-paws, fawning and whining to attract his notice, and divert him
from his melancholy.
Day after day, during the long bright summer of 1831, Flora had watched
the old man come to the spot on the beach where the dead body of his son
first touched the shore, and stand there for hours, looking out over the
broad sea, his eyes shaded from the rays of the sun by his bony red
hand, as if he expected the return of the lost one. During these fits of
abstraction Nep would stretch himself along the beach at the fisherman's
feet, his head sunk between his fore-paws, as motionless as the statue
of a dog cut out of stone. The moment the old man dropped the raised
hand from his face, Nep would leap to his feet, look up wistfully into
his master's eyes, and follow him home.
This touching scene had drawn tears from Flora more than once, and she
loved the good dog for his devoted attachment to the grief-stricken
desolate old man. When, however, the fishing season returned, Jarvis
roused himself from the indulgence of hopeless grief. The little
cockle-shell of a boat was once more launched upon the blue sea, and
Jarvis might daily be seen spreading its tiny white sheet to the breeze,
while the noble buff Newfoundland dog resumed his place in the bow.
Jarvis came regularly every day to the house to offer fish for
sale--cod, whitings, herrings, whatever fish chance had given to his
net. Flora was glad to observe something like cheerfulness once more
illumine the old sailor's face. She always greeted him with kind words,
and inquired affectionately after his welfare; and without alluding to
his heavy family afflictions, made him sensible that she deeply
sympathised in his grief.
Things went on smoothly, until one terrible night in October, Jarvis and
his only remaining son, a strong powerful man of thirty, had been off
with several experienced seamen in the pilot-boat, to put a pilot on
board a large vessel which was toiling her way through the storm to
London. Coming back, the wind rose to a gale, and the sailors, in trying
to enter the harbour, ran the boat against one of the piers with such
violence, that it upset, and the whole party were thrown into the water.
Old Jarvis was an admirable swimmer, and soon gained the beach, as did
most of the others, two of their number being rescued from death by the
exertions of the brave dog. One alone was missing--Harry Jarvis was the
lost man.
From that hour Flora had never seen the old Jarvis or his dog. The boat
lay high and dry upon the beach, and his net was still suspended between
the poles where it had been left to dry, and she concluded that Jarvis
had not survived this last terrible blow. It was a joyful surprise,
therefore, to hear, that he was not only alive, but pursuing his old
calling.
She found the fisherman leaning against the open kitchen-door, a basket
of fish at his feet, and his clear grey eyes fixed vacantly upon the
silver waves, which flashing and murmuring in the sunlight, came racing
to the beach below. The old sailors' wrinkled face, once so ruddy and
bronzed, was as white as his hair; his cheeks had fallen in, and deep
hollows had gathered about his temples; it was painful to observe the
great alteration in his appearance since they last met. The old man
started from his abstraction, as Flora's foot sounded on the floor, and
he tried to smile. It was a vain attempt, his shrunken features
instantly contracted into their former melancholy expression.
"My good old friend" said Flora, "I am glad to see you; I was afraid you
had been ill. What fish have you got for me?"
"Eels, Madam; I caught them in the river. They ar'n't for sale, but just
a little present. I he'erd you wor goin' to cross the salt seas to
Canady, an' I had a mind to see you agin."
"I will accept them with pleasure, Davy, and I am very much obliged to
you for your kindness. I am very fond of eels,--we get them so seldom,
they are quite a treat. I have not seen you out in the boat lately,
Jarvis?"
"Maybe you'll never see me out in her agin," said the fisherman. "I'm
thinking my fishing days are 'most over; boat, tackle and measter are
all worn out together. I've parted with the boat; how'somever. An' as to
the sea, I allers look'd upon its broad face with pleasure, but t'has
been a cruel enemy to me and mine; my path, I'm thinking, will be over
it no more."
Flora saw the tear glistening in the old man's eye, and she tried to
divert his attention by asking him what he had done with his dog--"with
dear, old 'Nep?'"
"I shot him." The seaman's thin lips quivered, and his whole frame
trembled. "Ay, I shot my good dog--my brave, faithful dog,--the best,
the truest friend man ever had; an' I've niver know'd a happy hour
since."
The bright drops were now raining down the old man's cheeks.
Flora reached him a chair, and begged him to sit down. The fisherman
mechanically obeyed, with his chin sunk between his hands, and his
elbows resting on his knees. For some minutes both were silent, until
the old man said, in a thick, husky voice--
"Yes, I shot 'Nep'--shot him with my own hand. It wor cruel and wicked
of me to do the like, but I wor mad--stark staring mad, and who's to
blame? You see, my lady, he wor with us that terrible Saturday night,
when we went off to put the pilot on board the brig _Sally_, from
Shields. Comin' back it wor pitch dark, an' the sea runnin' mountains
high, Sam Masters ran the boat plump upon the pier, an' we wor upset on
the bar. Nep saved Sam Masters and Ben Hardy, but he let my Harry drown.
I never rebelled agin' the providence of God till then; but I trust
He'll forgive what the old man said in his mortal distress. Instead of
thanking Him, when I sor that so many wor safe, an' encouragin' Nep for
having saved two on 'em, I cursed the dog for an ungrateful brute for
saving strangers, an' letting my Harry be lost. I dashed him off
whenever he'd come whining around, to lick my hands an' make friends,
an' when I got home I took down the old gun--poor Harry's gun--and
called Nep out upon the cliff an' shot him dead.
"I repented the moment I sor him drop. It wor too late then. I thought
that both Davy and Harry would have blamed me for taking the poor
brute's life--for they wor mortal fond of 'un. The next morning I wor up
by daybreak, and down to the piers in the little boat to see if I might
chance to light upon the dead body.
"The storm was over, an' in rowing 'atwixt the piers, I sor summut that
looked like the thing I sought, hanging, as it wor, to the planking of
the pier. I steered for the place, an', God o' heaven! it wor the body
of my son! He wor just two feet below the water, hanging with his head
downwards. The force of the waves had driven him upon an iron
stauncheon, which extended some distance from the pier, the woodwork to
which it belonged had been wrenched away in the storm. It had passed
right through Harry's body, and held him fast. And the dog--the poor
dog--had tried to get him off; he had dragged at his jacket and
shirt-collar, till they wor all shred to bits, and had only given over
when he found it of no use, an' then did what he could to save the rest!
An' I killed him--I, that should have fed and cherished him to his dying
day--I can never forgive myself for that."
"Do not distress yourself, Jarvis, in this way. No one will blame you
for what you did in such a distracted state of mind," said Flora, though
she was grieved to the heart for the death of the noble dog.
"You are right--you are just right; I was mad; and you must not think
hard of a poor broken-hearted old man. My sorrow is 'most greater than I
can bear. It will not be for long; I feel I'm goin' the way of all the
earth, an' it matters little when we cast anchor in that port, whether
our voyage wor short or long--rough or smooth, when the righteous Judge
overhauls our vessel, an' lays bare the secrets of all hearts. I trust
He'll have mercy on old Davy Jarvis, and forgive him for the death of
his brave dog."
The fisherman took the eels from his basket, and grasping Flora's hand
in his hard horny palm, said, "May the Lord grant you prosperity! an'
bless you an' your husband an' the little 'un, an' bring you safe to the
far land to which you are journeying! May it prove to you a haven of
rest! God bless you! good bye!"
Flora looked after the drooping figure of the fisherman as he slowly
descended the cliff, and she thought how intense must have been his
agony in that dark hour of utter bereavement, which had tempted him to
sacrifice his dog on the mere supposition that he had neglected to save
the life of his son.
"God comfort you! poor Jarvis," she said, "and guide you in peace
through the shadows of the dark valley that stretches its long night
before you. The grief which has brought your grey locks in sorrow to the
grave was enough to have broken a sterner heart."