A TEA MEETING.
Tiny was very ill the next day—too ill to get up, or to notice what was passing around her. Mrs. Coomber, who had had very little experience of sickness, was very anxious when she saw Tiny lying so quiet and lifeless-looking, the white bandage on her forehead making her poor little face look quite ghastly in its paleness. The fisherman had crept into the room before he went out, to look at her while she was asleep, and the sight had made his heart ache.
"I never thought I could ha' been such a brute as to hurt a little 'un like that," he said, drawing his sleeve across his eyes, and speaking in a whisper to his wife.
"It was the whisky," said his wife, by way of comforting him.
But Coomber would not accept even this poor comfort. "I was a fool to take so much," he said. "Wus than a fool, for I knowed it made me savage as a bear; and yet I let it get the mastery of me. But it's the last, mother; I took the bottle to the farm last night, and they're going to let me have the value of it in milk for the little 'un, and please God she gets well again, it's no more whisky I'll touch."
It was not easy for a man like Coomber to make such a promise, and still more difficult to keep it. For the first few days, while Tiny was very ill, it was not so hard to send Bob and Tom to Fellness, with the teal and widgeon he had shot; but when she began to get better, and the craving for the drink made itself felt, then began the tug of war. During the first few days of the little girl's illness, the fisherman kept carefully out of her sight, though he longed to see her once more, and hear her sayshe had forgiven him the cruel blow he had dealt to her.
Tiny, too, longed for him to come and see her in the daytime; but as it grew dusk the longing passed away, and every night, as the hour drew near when he usually came back from Fellness, a positive dread and terror of him seized her, and she would lie shivering and holding Mrs. Coomber's hand whenever she heard his voice in the kitchen.
Mrs. Coomber tried to persuade her husband to go and see the child in the daytime; but he only shook his head. "She hates me, and I don't deserve to see her agin," he said, gloomily.
He returned the same answer again and again, when pressed to go in and see her before he went out with his gun in the morning. At length, as he sat at breakfast one day, he was startled by Tiny creeping up to him, just as she had slipped out of bed.
"Oh, daddy, why didn't you come to me?"she said, with a little gasping sob, throwing her arms round his neck.
"My deary, my deary," he said, in a choking voice, gathering her in his arms, and kissing her, while the tears rolled down his weather-beaten face.
"Oh, daddy, don't you love me," said Tiny; "that you didn't come to see me all these days?"
"Love you, my deary? Ah, you may well ask that, after what I've done to yer; but it was just because I did love yer that I kept away from yer," he went on; "I thought you'd never want to see yer cruel old daddy any more; and as for me, why I'd punish myself by not trying to see yer, or get back your love. That's just how it was, deary," said the fisherman, as he looked tenderly at the little pallid face.
"But, daddy, I love you, and I wanted you all the days," said Tiny, nestling closer to him as she spoke.
"Bless you, deary, I believe you're one ofGod's own bairns, as well as a sailor's lass," said Coomber.
"I wanted you all the days, daddy; but—but—don't—come—at—night," she added, in a hesitating tone.
"I know what you mean; mother's told me, little 'un," he said, drawing his sleeve across his eyes, and sighing.
"I can't help it, daddy, I can't help it," said the little girl, with a sob.
"Well, I s'pose not; but you needn't be afraid now, you know. I've done with the bottle now; and it wasn't me you was afraid of, mother said, but the whisky."
Tiny nodded. "Yes, that's it," she said; "and I shan't be afraid long if I know you don't have it now;" and from that time the little girl set herself strenuously to overcome the terror and dread that nightly crept over her; but still it was some time before she could endure Coomber's presence after dusk.
Meanwhile pinching want was again makingitself felt in the household. For some reason known only to themselves, the teal and widgeon did not come within range of the fisherman's gun just now; and sometimes, after a whole day spent in the punt, or among the salt marshes along the coast, only a few unsaleable old gulls would reward Coomber's toil. They were not actually uneatable by those who were on the verge of starvation; but they were utterly unfit for a child like Tiny, in her present weak, delicate condition; and again the question of sending her to the poorhouse until the spring was mooted by Mrs. Coomber. Her husband did not refuse to discuss it this time when it was mentioned, and it was evident that he himself had thought of it already, for he said, with a groan—
"It seems as though God wasn't going to let me keep the little 'un, though she's getting on a bit, for never have I had such a bad shooting season as this since I knocked the little 'un down. It seems hard, mother; what do you think?"
But Mrs. Coomber did not know what to think; she only knew that poor little Tiny was often hungry, although she never complained. They had eaten up all the store of biscuits by this time; and although Dick and Tom often spent hours wandering along the shore, in the hope of finding another wonderful treasure-trove, nothing had come of their wanderings beyond the usual harvest of drift wood that enabled them to keep a good fire in the kitchen all day.
At length it was decided that Coomber should take Tiny to the poorhouse, and ask the authorities to keep her until this bitter winter was over; and then, when the spring came, and the boat could go out once more, he would fetch her home again.
But it was not without many tears that this proposal was confided to Tiny, the fisherman insisting—though he shrank from the task himself—that she should be told what they thought of doing. "She is a sailor's lass, and it's only fair to her," he said, ashe left his wife to break the news to Tiny.
She was overwhelmed at the thought of being separated from those who had been so kind to her, and whom she had learned to love so tenderly, but with a mighty effort she choked back her tears, for she saw how grieved Mrs. Coomber was; though she could not help exclaiming: "Oh! if God would only let me stay with you, and daddy, and Dick!"
Her last words to Dick before she started were in a whispered conference, in which she told him to pray to God every day to let her come back soon. "I will, I will!" said Dick through his tears; "I'll say what you told me last night—I'll say it every day." And then Coomber and Tiny set out on their dreary walk to Fellness, reaching it about the middle of the afternoon.
Bob and Tom had let their old friends know that their father had given up the whisky, and now he, foolish man, felt half afraid and halfashamed to meet them; but he was obliged to go, for he wanted Peters to go with him, and tell the workhouse people about the rescue of the little girl, for fear they should refuse to take her in unless his story was confirmed.
Coomber explained this to his friend in a rather roundabout fashion, for he had not found Peters on the shore, as he had expected, and where he could have stated his errand in a few words. He had found instead that all the village was astir with the news of a tea-meeting, that was to take place that afternoon in the chapel, and that Peters, who was "something of a Methody," as Coomber expressed it, had gone to help in the preparations.
He was astonished to see Coomber when he presented himself, and still more to hear the errand he had come upon. He scratched his head, and looked pityingly at the little girl, who held fast to Coomber's hand. "Well now, mate, I'm in a fix," he said, slowly, and pointing round the room; "I've got all these forms to move, and to fix up the tables for 'em byfour o'clock; but if you'll stay and lend a hand, why, you and the little 'un 'll be welcome to stay to tea, I know; it's free to all the village to-day," he added, "and the more that come, the better we shall like it."
Coomber looked at Tiny, and saw how wistfully her eyes rested on a pile of cakes that stood near; and that look decided him. "Would you like to have some of it?" he said, with a faint smile. The little girl's face flushed with joy at the prospect of such a treat. "Oh, daddy! if I could only take Dick some, too," she said.
Both the men laughed, but Peters said, "Well, well, we'll see what we can do; come in here while daddy helps me with the forms;" and he led the way into a small room, where several of the fishermen's wives were cutting bread and butter. Peters whispered a word to one of them, and she seated Tiny by the fire, and gave her some bread and butter at once. When the tea was all ready, and the company began to arrive, Coomber fetchedTiny to sit with him, and the two had a bountiful tea, and such cake as the little girl had not tasted for a long time. But she would not eat much. She took what was given to her, but slipped most of it into Coomber's pocket, that he might take it home to Dick, for the little girl thought they would go on to the poorhouse as soon as tea was over.
But while the tea-things were being cleared away, and they were preparing for the meeting that was to follow, the fisherman drew her aside, and whispered: "I do believe God has heard what you've been a-praying for, deary, for Peters has heard of a job of work for me since I've been here."
"Oh, daddy! and we shall go home together again," exclaimed Tiny, looking round for her bonnet at once.
"Yes, but not jest yet. There's to be some preaching or somethin', and—and—little 'un, I've been a bad man, and I dunno as God'll have anything to do wi' helping such a tough customer to be any better; but if He would—"
And here Coomber drew his sleeve across his eyes, and turned his head aside to hide his emotion.
The little girl threw her arms round his neck, and drew his face close to hers. "Oh, daddy, He will! He will!" she whispered, earnestly; "He loves you, and He's been waiting all this long time for you to love Him; and you will, won't you, now, you know?"
But there was no time for Coomber to reply, for the people were taking their seats again, and Peters touched him on the shoulder, motioning him to do the same. The two sat down, feeling too eager for shyness, or to notice that others were looking at them. A hymn was sung, and a prayer followed, and then Coomber began to feel disappointed, for he was hungering to hear something that might set his doubts at rest. At length he heard the words that have brought help and gladness to so many souls: "God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should notperish, but have everlasting life." Then followed a simple address, enlarging upon the text, and an exhortation to accept God's offer of salvation. "The Lord Jesus Christ Himself said: 'Come unto Me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest,'" continued the speaker, "and in His name I beg each one of you to become reconciled to God. He is waiting: He is willing to receive each one of you."
These were his closing words, and Coomber, who had listened with eager, rapt attention, stayed only for the people to move towards the door, and then followed the speaker into the little vestry. "Beg pardon, sir," he said, pausing at the door, "but 'tain't often as I gets the chance of hearing such words as I've heard from you to-night, and so I hopes you'll forgive me if I asks for a bit more. I'm a bad man. I begins to see it all now; but—but——"
"My friend, if you feel that you are a sinner, then you are just one of those whom the Lord Jesus died to redeem. He came to seek andto save those who are lost—to redeem them from sin. He gave His life—dying upon the cross, a shameful, painful death—not, mark me, that they may continue in sin. To say we believe in God, and to live in sin, makes our belief of no effect. We must learn of Christ, or He will have died in vain for us. We must learn of Him, and He will help us to overcome our love of drink, our selfishness, and sullenness, and ill-temper;" for the gentleman knew something of Coomber, and so particularised the sins he knew to be his easily besetting ones.
"And you think He'd help me? You see, sir, He's done a deal for me lately, bad as I am," said Coomber, twisting his hat in his hand.
"Help you! ah, that He will. If He gave His only Son, what do you think He will withhold? 'What man is there of you, whom if his son ask bread, will he give him a stone? Or if he ask a fish, will he give him a serpent? If ye then, being evil, know how to give good gifts unto your children, how much more shallyour Father which is in heaven give good things to them that ask Him.'"
"And what are the good things that I'm to ask for," said Coomber. "I know what the asking means; this little 'un here has taught me that praying is asking God; and though I ain't never done it afore, I'll begin now."
"Do, my man. Ask that the Holy Spirit may be given you, to lead you, and teach you, and guide you into all truth. Without His help you can do nothing; but, seeking His help, trusting in his guidance, you will be enabled to overcome every difficulty and obstacle, however hard it may be."
"And you think God will forgive me all the past?"
"My brother, Christ died—He shed His precious blood, to wash away our sin, to set our conscience free from guilt, and to assure us beyond a doubt of the perfect love of God towards us."
The words spoken fell into prepared soil, for Coomber had been hungering and thirstingafter righteousness, and he went home that night feeling that he had been fed.
What a happy walk home that was for Tiny and the fisherman! As he left the little chapel at Fellness, a basket, well filled with the odds and ends left from the tea-meeting, had been handed to Coomber to take home, and Peters whispered, as he went out: "I've heard of another job for yer, so be along in good time in the morning, mate." To describe Mrs. Coomber's joy, when her husband walked in with Tiny asleep in his arms, and also with the basket of bread and butter, would be impossible.
"God has given us the little 'un back, mother," he said, placing the child in his wife's arms. "He's been good to me, better than I deserved, only the Lord Jesus Christ has died for me, and that explains it all."
His heart was full of joy and gratitude to-night, and he forgot his usual shyness, and told his wife of the good news he had heard at Fellness, both for body and soul. "Now,mother," he said, as he concluded, "you and I must both begin a new life. We must ask God to help us like this little 'un, and we must teach our boys to do the same. We owe it all to her," he added, as he kissed Tiny, "for if she hadn't come among us, we might never have heard about God down here at Bermuda Point."
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 thelittle 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 boatafore 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. Hardas 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.
TINY AND THE OLD MAN. [See page 130.
TINY AND THE OLD MAN. [See page 130.
"Oh, daddy! there's a little ugly, old manover 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 theother 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 asI 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 herGrandfather 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 byfive 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 itbefore 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.