Kitabı oku: «Little Miss Joy», sayfa 6

CHAPTER XII.
THE SPIRIT OF PEACE

Bet had been sent on an errand for her grandmother, and when Patience came up to her she was laden with a heavy basket of market produce. She was bending under the weight she carried, and as Patience joined her she set down the basket and wiped her hot face with her handkerchief.

"Is little Miss Joy worse?" she asked eagerly, "I couldn't come early, for grandmother wanted me to scrub out the room Joe uses, and the passage; and then I had to change my frock and go to the market. I met the girls going to Miss Bayliff's, and they laughed at me, and said they supposed I was so clever I had left school because there was no more to learn; and they laughed and jeered at me as they daren't have done if little Miss Joy had been there. But as she loves me a little, and never laughs at me, I don't mind."

"I thought I should meet you, Bet, and I came along to tell you some news."

"Not that Jack is come? Oh my!"

"No; my wanderer is not come home; but another has – your Aunt Maggie."

Bet stared in Mrs. Harrison's face with open mouth.

"My Aunt Maggie! she that went away! I have got her picture in a box. I showed it to little Miss Joy that last evening she was ever running about, and she came home with me."

"Bet, that Aunt Maggie is Joy's mother."

"How do you know?"

"She is with Joy now. I have left them together."

"Are you come to tell grannie? She has been so mopy since the wedding. Uncle Joe had a breeze with her just before he married. She says she can't get along living in this house alone with me. Come and see her, do; and tell her about Aunt Maggie. I think you must tell her that."

"But I do not know your grandmother very well. I have scarcely spoken a dozen words to her in my life."

"I feel afraid to tell her," Bet said. "Do come along, please, Mrs. Harrison."

Patience did not like to refuse the earnest pleading of poor Bet. Just as they reached the back door – for Bet never entered at the front – she paused.

"Little Miss Joy won't care for me, or no one, now that she has got her mother. I say, is it wicked? I almost wish Aunt Maggie had never come back. Little Miss Joy will belong to her now, and – she won't care for me."

"Bet," Patience said, "all love that is very, very strong for any person is likely to lead to jealousy; take care, for jealousy would make you unhappy. True love thinks nothing of itself in comparison with the person beloved. Whatever is for the good and for the happiness of any one we love, should make us happy also. Try to see that."

"I can't," said poor Bet. "I'd like little Miss Joy to love me, that I would; and I thought she was beginning to love me, and now she'll have her mother, and never want me."

"Or me," Mrs. Harrison said. "I might say the same; but I think it would be a great mistake if I did, for I believe dear little Joy will love you and me and Uncle Bobo just the same as ever."

"Do you?" Bet said; "that's good to hear;" and then Bet opened the door and went up the long narrow passage to the front of the house.

Mrs. Skinner was seated by the table in the kitchen, stiff and straight; her hands were folded, and she only nodded as Bet put the basket on the table with both her tired arms.

"Grannie, Mrs. Harrison is come to see you."

"I don't want Mrs. Harrison," was the reply.

"I won't stay long, Mrs. Skinner," Patience said. Mrs. Skinner's back was turned to the door, and she never moved her position.

Patience advanced to her side and said —

"Bet thought you would like to hear some good news."

"There is never good news for me," was the answer, in a tone so hard and yet so pathetic that Patience's heart was touched.

"A wanderer has come home," Mrs. Harrison said.

"Oh! your scapegraces I suppose. My son Joe has a very bad opinion of him – I can tell you that."

Mrs. Harrison took no notice of this thrust, but said —

"No, my boy has not come home; but your daughter has returned. She is little Joy's mother."

"What!" exclaimed Mrs. Skinner; "I don't believe it."

"Well, it is true; and you have only to come to Mr. Boyd's to convince yourself of the truth. If other tokens were wanting, the likeness between dear little Joy and her mother is striking; and, besides – "

"There, I don't want to hear any more," Mrs. Skinner said. "I'm a miserable woman – that's what I am; but I want no pity, and I want nobody or nothing."

Patience Harrison ventured a little nearer, and said, "Come and see our dear little Joy and her mother. You will feel happier then. God will comfort your sore heart, if you turn to Him. Do come and satisfy yourself that you have a child and a grandchild, who will love you if you will let them."

Mrs. Skinner took no further notice of what Patience Harrison said, and resolutely turned her head away. But just as Bet was leaving the kitchen with her visitor she said:

"You stay at home, and don't go gadding off where you are not wanted. Bide at home and do your duty. Do you hear?"

"You had better stay," Patience said, "and be patient. You are sure to hear something from Aunt Maggie before the day is over."

It was not till the evening was closing in that a gentle tap was heard at the door, and Bet, opening it, saw her aunt standing there.

"You are Bet, I suppose. Little Joy sent me," she whispered. "I was afraid to come till mother wished for me; but Joy begged me to come, and tell her I am sorry I offended her. For, Bet, I ought not to have deserted her, and I see it all now. Where is your grandmother?"

"Sitting in the parlour knitting; but she won't speak, and she looks very strange. I've had such a long day, Aunt Maggie, watching the clock, and thinking it would never end. I have got your picture," she added, "and it is very like dear little Miss Joy. You are not like it now."

"No, no; trouble and sorrow have changed me. Poor Bet! I remember coming to kiss you that night when I went away. Poor little thing, I pitied you. But, Bet, I ought never to have acted as I did; and God has been kinder to me than I deserve; for my darling found a true friend, and if only she gets well I shall be a happy mother. I think how proud her poor father would have been of such a dear child."

"She is dear!" said Bet, in an ecstasy of delight. "But there's grannie calling; you had better come."

"Bet, who are you gossiping with out there?" cried Mrs. Skinner. "Shut the door at once, and come in, will you?"

Then Maggie Chanter, trembling and half choked with emotion, went up to the table where, by the light of a dull little paraffin lamp, Mrs. Skinner sat.

"Mother!"

Mrs. Skinner looked up over her spectacles.

"Mother, I am so sorry. Please forgive me, and let me comfort your old age, mother! My little Joy sent me. She does so want to see you, and to know you will forgive me."

"Forgive you! What do you care for my forgiveness? You chose your own way, and made your own bed, and it isn't my fault you found it hard."

"Come to Joy, mother. Hear her dear little voice asking you to – to be kind. Will you come?"

"I'll see about it."

"But come now; it is not very dark; there's a moon rising. Oh, mother, come!"

There was a pause, and then Mrs. Skinner said —

"Get me my cloak and bonnet, Bet. I suppose for peace sake I shall have to go."

But Mrs. Skinner's voice trembled, and Bet saw her hand shake so that she could hardly fasten her cloak. She followed her daughter silently out of the house, only saying to Bet, "Be sure to lock the door."

Bet was left alone, and had again nothing to do but to count the clock's chimes as it struck the quarters. At last, lulled by the sound of the in-coming tide and the low moan of the wind, she fell asleep in her grandmother's chair.

She was awakened by the sound of a laugh – a discordant laugh. It came from her Uncle Joe's old room. Presently there was the chink of money, and Bet, creeping softly to the end of the passage, listened attentively.

"Come, that's a good card," said the speaker; "you are in luck's way."

"Oh! I know what I'm about now; we'll have shilling stakes to-night."

"Won't your pretty bride wonder where you are?"

"She'll be taught not to wonder, that's all."

"Has that young hopeful ever turned up?" was the next question, as the cards were shuffled.

"No, and it will be the worse for him when he does."

Silence reigned after this, and it was evident that Joe Skinner thought his mother and Bet were safe in bed.

Bet crept upstairs. At last she heard the clock strike eleven, and then the three men below departed, noiselessly as they came, by the back door, of which Joe Skinner had the key.

Bet pinched herself to keep awake till she heard her grandmother's step at the front of the house. Running down, she opened the front door before there was time to ring.

Mrs. Skinner came in as she had gone out, silent and self-restrained.

"Go back to bed, child," she said; "you'll catch your death of cold."

"But you are so cold, grannie; let me make up the fire, and get you a cup of tea; let me."

Mrs. Skinner said nothing, but she shivered, and leaned her head against the back of the chair.

Bet instantly made her preparations, and the kettle was soon boiling, and the cup of tea ready. The crackling of the wood, and the sudden blaze, seemed to thaw poor Mrs. Skinner mentally and bodily.

"You are a good girl," she said; "go to bed now."

As Bet was leaving the kitchen she looked back, and saw her grandmother with her head bowed on her hands, and heard a low, sobbing cry. The hardly-wrung tears of old age, the painful, difficult sobs of a sore and seared heart, how sad they are! Bet did not return to her grandmother, but, softly closing the door, left her, saying to herself —

"When I'm bad, and crying my heart out, I don't like to be watched. I dare say grannie is like me."

Then, faithful and loyal-hearted, she climbed the narrow stairs, and lay down this time to hear no disturbance till the morning dawned.

There are moments when the soul is brought, as it were, into the very presence of the all-loving Saviour of the lost. In the silent watches of that night the words which had been spoken by a child had a strange and unwonted power.

"Grannie," little Joy had said – "Grannie, God is Love; and as He loves us and forgives us, we'll love and forgive one another, won't we? and we'll be so happy together – you, and I, and mother, and Uncle Bobo, and dear Goody."

"Happy! No, I shall never be happy," Mrs. Skinner had replied. Little Miss Joy was disappointed; but she quietly said:

"Yes, you will, if you make other folks happy, grannie. That's the secret."

Was it indeed the secret? Again and again, like a breath of heaven, gentle and subtle, an influence unknown before seemed to touch Mrs. Skinner's heart in those solemn, lonely hours as she sat pondering over the sad, sad past.

The Holy Spirit had convinced her of sin, and she was turning by that divine power from darkness to a glimmering of light. When the grey, cold dawn of the autumn morning crept through the chinks of the shutters, she went softly to her room, and lay down with the relief a tired labourer feels who has laid down a heavy burden he has borne through the long hot day. That burden was the burden of harsh, unforgiving judgment and remorse. It had been rolled away, like that of one of old, at the foot of the cross – the cross of Him who, in the pains of a cruel death, could pray for those who had done Him wrong, and say, "Father, forgive them."

CHAPTER XIII.
A TOKEN AT LAST

The ship that had picked up Colley and Jack Harrison in mid-ocean, and saved them from the lingering death of starvation, was bound for the islands of the South Pacific, and the captain told them that they must be content to be absent from England till the following spring. He had to call at several of the islands, and exchange cargo, so that even with fair weather their return voyage could not be made under nine months.

Poor Colley was slow to recover; indeed, he never did recover fully from the effects of those terrible days and nights at sea. But Jack was young and strong, and he and Toby were soon, as old Colley said, "hale and hearty as ever they were."

Jack earned his biscuit and won favour as well; and the captain's kind heart was touched by Colley's history of what had happened to his old mother and his little children at home, and the fear he had that he should never see them again.

"I am cut to the heart that I can't work as a able-bodied seaman should," Colley would say. "But God will reward you for your goodness to me and the boy."

The captain puffed his short pipe, and said:

"I am an old hand now; but I say, Once get a taste of shipwreck like yours, and you are cured of your craze for the sea. Not that I am chicken-hearted, and I'd stand to my ship as your captain did – ay, and go down with her if needs must; but for all that it is a roughish life, and a terrible trial for them that love you and are left ashore."

"Ay! ay!" old Colley said, "there's the pinch. The youngster's father made off to better himself now ten years agone, and he's never been heard of from that day to this. Dead, of course; only the poor woman, his wife, won't believe it – so the lad says."

A day or two after this the captain called Jack, and said:

"The mate wants a word with you in private."

"What have I done to offend him, sir?" Jack said.

"Don't jump at conclusions, youngster. Did I say anything was wrong? Be off with you."

Jack went to the mate's berth, and found him sitting cross-legged on the edge, and looking mysterious.

"Is your name Harrison, young 'un?'

"Yes," Jack said.

"Do you hail from Yarmouth?"

"Yes," said Jack again.

"Where's your father?"

"He was lost at sea – so we think; but we never heard a word about it, and mother thinks he may be still alive."

"Did he own several small herring boats, and have a share in a curing-house, before he went a-whaling?"

"Yes," Jack said, growing more and more wondering and excited by these questions.

"Look here, youngster. When I was a boy, eleven years ago, I was working on a whaleship, and your father was aboard. His name was John Harrison, hailing from Yarmouth."

"Oh!" Jack said. "Where is he – do you know?"

"No, my lad; let us hope his soul is gone aloft, but his body is lost. We had dragged our boat across a field of ice for some miles, on the look-out for our ship, which we had left, stored with provisions, in open water. We were pretty near starving, for we had missed the track, and the men said they would not go on another step. But your father, boy, had a brave heart, such as I never saw before or since; and he said, if those that were too chicken-hearted to go on, would stay where they were for a few hours, he would go ahead and find the ship, as he knew perfectly well we were near it, and near a village of the folk they call Esquimaux. One youngster, just such another as you, said, 'I'm your man, captain'; and they set off with a good heart. We that were left turned our boat bottom upwards, and a sorry set we were, frost-bitten and starving. We huddled together to keep each other warm – warm! why, I am cold now when I think of it; and look here, I lost a finger and the end of a thumb that same time."

"How?" Jack asked.

"How? Frost-bitten, of course. Well, those two that left us never came back, and never were seen again. We waited till we were so weak we could scarce crawl, and then two of us – for three of the fellows died – made our way back, and found a ship which took us aboard; but never a word of your father and the young 'un from that day."

"My father!" said Jack. "Are you sure?"

"Well, I am as sure as I can be of anything. I was rummaging in my locker t' other day, after we had picked you and old Colley up, and I knew your name, and I found an old handkerchief that belonged to John Harrison, and I'll proceed to produce it, lad."

The mate then dragged from the depths of the locker a torn and ragged red handkerchief, with yellow spots, and in the corner in white letters was marked with thread, "J. H."

"Yes, boy, there's the article, and your father gave it to me to tie up my leg, which had a bad wound. He was uncommon loth to part with it, but there never was a man with a kinder heart, never. He was a bit fiery and off at a tangent, always thinking he was right and every one else wrong; but he was a fine fellow, and you bid fair to be like him. Here, take the handkerchief, and you can show it to your mother. She'll know it; for John said to me, 'I'll let you have it for your poor leg; but when I come back you must give it to me again, because my wife tied it round my neck when I bid her good-bye, and I value it.' I remember he said, 'She is a right good woman is my wife, and I'll see her and the boy again, please God. I never lose heart.' Well, he may see you again in the next world, but never in this, boy, never in this; he is dead and gone long ago."

Jack folded the handkerchief, and put it in his pocket. He felt strangely affected by the sailor's story, and could only say:

"If ever I see my mother again she shall have this token. She has often prayed for a token that my father was dead, or a sign that he was living; and now she will have it."

Then Jack returned to his post on the deck, and, throwing himself down behind some loose crates, found himself sobbing bitterly.

The homeward voyage was prosperous, and it was on a bright August evening that the white cliffs of old England came in sight. In another hour Jack and his old friend found themselves dropping down with the tide to St. Catherine's Docks.

They were penniless, and how to get back to Yarmouth was a puzzle. Jack could walk, but Colley could only hobble with the help of a stick. The captain was kindly-disposed, and at parting gave Jack a few shillings, saying he had more than earned his biscuit; while the mate said he felt quite downhearted at losing him.

"Tell 'ee what, lad," Colley said, "I know there's a place where the shipwrecked fishermen's folk hang out. Let's enquire for it, and may be they'll give us a helping hand."

So the two made their way through the crowded thoroughfares to the place which has been a refuge for many in like circumstances. The kindness of their reception greatly cheered old Colley, and they were put up for the night, while inquiries were made about the Galatea, and the truth of their story.

"The Galatea had been lost, with all hands," was the answer from Lloyd's; and the captain of the Claudia, the ship which had picked the poor waifs up in mid-ocean, gave both man and boy an excellent character.

"The old geezer was useless, but I didn't grudge him his berth. What's the world like, if we can't hold out a helping hand to one another in trouble?"

This was all satisfactory, and money was provided to pay the railway journey to Yarmouth, while Jack's few shillings were expended in a pair of second-hand boots for himself, and a new jersey – that which had served for a flag of distress in mid-ocean being so full of holes that he presented a very ragged appearance.

Home at last! Home! Yes, where his mother was, was Home. He would not care about the cold looks of his aunt: he would bear even Mr. Skinner's gibes and scoffs: he would bear everything for his mother's sake. And then, at last he had tidings for her!

Colley was put down at a station before Yarmouth was reached, as it was nearer the home of his old mother, who looked after his little ones.

"For I married late in life, my boy," he said to Jack, "and lost my poor wife almost as soon as I'd got her. She just lived to be the mother of the youngest of the three children, and then she died. The sailor's life is a hard one, and the wives of sailors have a hard time, boy! The men grow old, like me, before their time. Why, I'm but just over fifty years old, and I feel a vast deal more like seventy. Take my advice, boy, and give up the sea. You are a good scholar, and you are the only son of your mother. Bear all your aunt's hard words, and live ashore, and be a comfort to her. You have had your lesson. God has given you a pretty hard one to learn, first page! But never mind – so much the better for you. Those days and nights were about the worst I ever went through, and I've had a taste of dangers, I can tell you. Don't you forget them, nor the Lord's mercy to you and me in delivering us from the dreadful death of starvation. Don't forget it."

"Forget it!" Jack said. "Why, I dream of it most nights, and see little Peter's dying eyes. I – "

Jack's voice was choked with tears, and old Colley wrung his hand, while Toby wriggled up to him, and licked his face with silent sympathy.

Colley stumbled out of the carriage with Toby in his arms when the station was reached, and so they parted.

In a few minutes more Jack found himself in Yarmouth, and was making his way towards the row. His only thought was of his mother and little Miss Joy. He looked up the familiar row, and then darted through it till he came to the little milliner's shop. The widow's caps still showed in the window, and there was a straw bonnet trimmed, and some artificial flowers, lying on a very dusty bit of black velvet. The window that used to be so bright looked dim, and the brass ledge before it dull and stained. Altogether there was a dejected appearance about the place. The door was open, and Jack entered cautiously.

His aunt was sitting behind the counter waiting for customers, who were slow to come; for the business had very much declined since Mr. Skinner had taken the command and Mrs. Harrison had left the house.

Mrs. Skinner looked very different from the Miss Pinckney of scarcely a year ago. She had a dirty, faded look, and her face was pinched and miserable. When she saw a sailor boy standing by the counter, she rose and said —

"What for you? Have you brought a message from any one?"

"No, Aunt Pinckney. Don't you know me? Where's my mother?"

Mrs. Skinner was for a moment speechless. Then she raised her shrill voice —

"Joe! Joe! come here; the young thief is come back."

Mr. Skinner, who was apparently smoking in the back parlour and taking life easily, now appeared.

"What are you making such a row about? screeching like a poll-parrot!"

Days of courtship and days of matrimony are apt to differ, in cases like that of Mr. and Mrs. Skinner!

Then, having delivered himself of this polite question, Mr. Skinner caught sight of Jack.

"You! oh! it's you, is it? Well, the police have been looking for you, and I'll just give you in charge."

Jack, utterly bewildered, was for the moment speechless. Then he said —

"Hands off! What do you mean? Where's my mother?"

"She is not here; so you needn't think any of her crying and fuss will avail. I'll give you in charge unless you confess."

"Confess what?" said Jack, wriggling away from Mr. Skinner's grip. "Hands off, I say! I am not going to run away. What am I to confess?"

"Take him into the back parlour, Joe. You'll have the neighbours coming in: take him out of the shop."

"Hold your tongue!" was the rejoinder. "I shall do as I choose."

"Let me go and call Mr. Boyd," Jack said. "He will tell me where my mother is. Let him be a witness of what you say, and what charge you have against me."

Jack now looked across the row for the first time, and saw a young man standing at the door of the little stuffy shop, which, unlike its opposite neighbour, had grown smarter, and had a lot of ships' lanterns hanging over the door, and showy aneroids and compasses in the window.

"Where's Mr. Boyd? Where's little Joy's Uncle Bobo?"

"Gone! He has sold the business; he is gone right away."

"Gone! And where's Joy – little Miss Joy? I tell you I will know. And where is my mother?"

"Look here, youngster! This matter must be cleared up. You'll not be let off so easy; but if you confess, well – we shan't be hard on you."

"Confess what?" Jack shouted now. He was getting very angry, and repeated, "Confess what?"

"Oh, that's all very fine! Perhaps you've forgotten you ran away and broke your poor mother's heart, and took my little cash-box with you with four pounds odd money in it," said his aunt.

"It's convenient to forget. You'd better not try to fool me," said Mr. Skinner. "Your aunt's key of that drawer was in her little key-basket. You slily took it out, and when the house was quiet, opened the drawer and put the box in your pocket I see!"

Jack's face grew crimson. He felt very much inclined to fly at Mr. Skinner's throat, and pummel him well with his strong young fist. But the vision of his mother and little Miss Joy rose before him, and with a desperate effort he controlled himself.

"Prove what you say, and don't call me a thief till you have proved me one."

"Well, it's my duty – my painful duty," said Mr. Skinner, "to lock you up till I have fetched a policeman, and communicated with your mother."

"You needn't lock me up," said Jack proudly. "If I say I'll stay here, I'll stay. Indeed, I will stay till you have made it all clear. Your little cash-box! Aunt Pinckney – "

"No, no, not Aunt Pinckney; I am Mrs. Skinner now."

The tone was so sad that Jack's boyish heart was touched.

"Do you think I could steal a penny of yours, aunt, when you had kept me and mother all those years? Will you send for her? and I will stay till she comes."

But Mr. Skinner pushed Jack into the kitchen behind the parlour.

He had just turned the key in the lock, when a voice was heard in the shop – Bet's voice.

"I have brought you some fresh eggs, and half a pound of butter, Aunt Skinner," she said. "Aunt Maggie sent them with her love. What is amiss, Aunt?"

"Child," Mrs. Skinner said, "Jack is come home. Your uncle has locked him up in the kitchen. Hush! here he is."

"Well, what are you prying about here for?" Mr. Skinner said. "Oh, eggs! My dear, poach me a couple for supper; I'm fond of poached eggs."

But Bet stood on one foot speechless by the counter, where she had put the basket.

"What do you say Jack stole?"

"My little cash-box, the night he ran away; but I don't want to be hard on the boy – my only sister's child. I'll forgive him if he'll confess."

Bet stood pondering for another moment, and then she said —

"I've got another errand to do. I'll come back for the basket."

And Bet was off, as if on the wings of the wind – off to the Denes and the little lonely red-brick house, which was shut up and had a board on a pole in the front garden, with "To Let. Inquire for the key at Mr. Skinner's, Market Row," painted in white letters on it.

Bet looked right and left; there was no one in sight, and she went round to the back, and found, to her great joy, an old trowel with half the handle broken, which she seized eagerly. She went down on her hands and knees, and dug and burrowed with her fingers in the soft, sandy soil. Her heart beat wildly with hope and fear; her hat fell back, and her tawny hair fell over her shoulders. The light of the April evening was waning; she had not a moment to lose.

"It was here – it was here – it must have been just here," she cried. Some people passing on the raised path where Uncle Bobo had sat on the evening of little Miss Joy's accident turned to look at her once, and wondered what she was doing, digging there on hands and knees.

At last Bet stopped, and, raising her head and clasping her hands, said —

"Little Miss Joy would tell me to pray to God to help me to find it. He would hear her. Will He hear me, I wonder?"

Then poor Bet uttered a few words, calling on God, who saw everything, to show her where what she sought lay hid.

She redoubled her efforts, and moving a little further from the house, she dug another hole till she came to some bricks. She lifted them, and there was the little cash-box – empty now, but, oh! of what priceless value!

Bet gathered up her stray tools, and putting on her hat, ran off again along the sand by the sea-shore, now left hard by the retreating tide, on and on to the farther end of that part of Yarmouth where a road, then lately made, led towards Gorlestone. Breathless and panting she reached the first of two pretty houses standing together, with a strip of garden in front, bright now with wallflowers and hardy hepaticas and celandines.

Under the porch of the first, smoking his pipe, sat Uncle Bobo; and warmly covered with a rug, in a reclining chair by his side, was little Miss Joy.

Maggie Chanter was sowing some seeds in the window-box of the next house, and Mrs. Harrison was standing by the porch, waiting and watching. She had her knitting in her hand, but her eyes were on the sea, with the same wistful longing in them as of old.

"Jack is come home. Jack!" gasped Bet. "They say he stole the cash-box, but – but – I've found it. Quick! take it to Uncle Joe, and say I found it in the ground at the back of grannie's old home."