Saved at Sea - Mrs. O.F. Walton
'Wait a bit,' said my grandfather; 'we must tell that poor girl first.
Which of you will go and tell her?'
The men looked at each other and did not speak. At last one of them, who
knew my grandfather a little, said, 'You'd better tell her, Sandy; she
knows you, and she'll bear it better than from strangers; we'll wait
here till you come back, and then we can bring him in.'
'Well,' said my grandfather, with a groan, 'I'll go then! Come with me,
Alick, my lad,' said he, turning to me; 'but no, perhaps I'd better go
by myself.'
So he went very slowly up towards the lighthouse, and I remained behind
with the four men on the shore, and that silent form lying at the bottom
of the boat.
I was much frightened, and felt as if it was all a very terrible dream,
and as if I should soon wake up to find it had all passed away.
CHAPTER IX.
A CHANGE IN THE LIGHTHOUSE.
It seemed a long time before my grandfather came back, and then he only
said in a low voice, 'You can bring him now, my lads; she knows about it
now.'
And so the mournful little procession moved on, through the field and
garden and court, to the Millars' house, my grandfather and I following.
I shall never forget that night, nor the strange, solemn feeling I had
then.
Mrs. Millar was very ill; the shock had been too much for her. The men
went back in the boat to bring a doctor to the island to see her, and
the doctor sent them back again to bring a nurse. He said he was afraid
she would have an attack of brain-fever, and he thought her very ill
indeed.
My grandfather and I sat in the Millars' house all night, for the nurse
did not arrive until early in the morning. The six children were fast
asleep in their little beds. I went to look at them once, to see if my
little Timpey was all right; she was lying in little Polly's bed, their
tiny hands fast clasped together as they slept. The tears came fast into
my eyes, as I thought that they both had lost a father, and yet neither
of them knew anything of their loss!
When the nurse arrived, my grandfather and I went home But we could not
sleep; we lighted the kitchen fire, and sat over it in silence for a
long time.
Then my grandfather said: 'Alick, my lad, it has given me such a turn as
I haven't had for many a day. It might have been _me_, Alick; it might
just as well have been _me_!'
I put my hand in his, and grasped it very tightly, as he said this.
'Yes,' he said again, 'it might have been me; and if it had, I wonder
where I should have been now?'
I didn't speak, and he went on,--'I wonder where Jem is now, poor
fellow; I've been thinking of that all night, ever since I saw him lying
there at the bottom of that boat.'
So I told him of what Jem Millar had said to me the last time I had seen
him.
'On the Rock!' said my grandfather. Did he say he was on the Rock? Dear
me! I wish I could say as much, Alick, my lad.'
'Can't you and I come as he came, grandfather?' I said. 'Can't we come
and build on the Rock, too?'
'Well,' said my grandfather, 'I wish we could, my lad. I begin to see
what he meant, and what the old gentleman meant too. He said, "You're on
the sand, my friend; you're on the sand, and it won't stand the storm;
no, it won't stand the storm!" I've just had those words in my ears all
the time we were sitting over there by Mrs. Millar. But, dear me, I
don't know how to get on the Rock; I don't indeed.'
The whole of the next week poor Mrs. Millar lay between life and death.
At first the doctor gave no hope whatever of her recovery; but after a
time she grew a little better, and he began to speak more
encouragingly. I spent my time with the poor children, and hardly left
them a moment, doing all I could to keep them quietly happy, that they
might not disturb their mother.
One sorrowful day only, my grandfather and I were absent for several
hours from the lighthouse; for we went ashore to follow poor Jem Millar
to the grave. His poor wife was unconscious, and knew nothing of what
was going on.
When, after some weeks, the fever left her, she was still very weak and
unfit for work. But there was much to be done, and she had no time to
sit still, for a new man had been appointed to take her husband's place;
and he was to come into the house at the beginning of the month.
We felt very dull and sad the day that the Millars went away. We went
down to the pier with them, and saw them on board the steamer--Mrs.
Millar, the six little children, and the servant-girl, all dressed in
mourning, and all of them crying. They were going to Mrs. Millar's home,
far away in the north of Scotland, where her old father and mother were
still living.
The island seemed very lonely and desolate when they were gone. If it
had not been for our little sunbeam, as my grandfather called her, I do
not know what we should have done. Every day we loved her more, and what
we dreaded most was, that a letter would arrive some Monday morning to
tell us that she must go away from us.
'Dear me, Alick,' my grandfather would often say, 'how little you and me
thought that stormy night what a little treasure we had got wrapped up
in that funny little bundle!'
The child was growing fast; the fresh sea did her great good, and every
day she became more intelligent and pretty.
We were very curious to know who was appointed in Jem Millar's place;
but we were not able to find out even what his name was. Captain Sayers
said that he did not know anything about it; and the gentlemen who came
over once or twice to see about the house being repaired and put in
order for the new-comer were very silent on the subject, and seemed to
think us very inquisitive if we asked any questions. Of course, our
comfort depended very much upon who our neighbour was, for he and my
grandfather would be constantly together, and we should have no one else
to speak to.
My grandfather was very anxious that we should give the man a welcome
to the island, and make him comfortable on his first arrival. So we set
to work, as soon as the Millars were gone, to dig up the untidy garden
belonging to the next house, and make it as neat and pretty as we could
for the new-comers.
'I wonder how many of them there will be,' I said, as we were at work in
their garden.
'Maybe only just the man,' said my grandfather. 'When I came here first,
I was a young unmarried man, Alick. But we shall soon know all about
him; he'll be here next Monday morning, they say.'
'It's a wonder he hasn't been over before,' I said, 'to see the house
and the island. I wonder what he'll think of it?'
'He'll be strange at first, poor fellow, said my grandfather; 'but we'll
give him a bit of a welcome. Have a nice bit of breakfast ready for
him, Alick, my lad, and for his wife and bairns too, if he has any--hot
coffee and cakes, and a bit of meat, and any thing else you like;
they'll be glad of it after crossing over here.'
So we made our little preparations, and waited very anxiously indeed for
Monday's Steamer.
CHAPTER X.
OUR NEW NEIGHBOUR.
Monday morning came, and found us standing on the pier as usual awaiting
the arrival of the steamer.
We were very anxious indeed to see our new neighbours. A nice little
breakfast for four or five people was set out in our little kitchen, and
I had gathered a large bunch of dahlias from our garden, to make the
table look cheerful and bright. All was ready, and in due time the
steamer came puffing up towards the pier, and we saw a man standing
on the deck, talking to Captain Sayers, who we felt sure must be the new
lighthouse-man.
[Illustration: 'PUFF, PUFF,' SAID LITTLE TIMPEY.]
'I don't see a wife,' said my grandfather.
'Nor any children,' said I, as I held little Timpey up, that she might
see the steamer.
'Puff, puff, puff,' she said, as it came up, and then turned round and
laughed merrily.
The steamer came up to the landing-place, and my grandfather and I went
down the steps to meet Captain Sayers and the stranger.
'Here's your new neighbour, Sandy,' said the captain. 'Will you show him
the way to his house, whilst I see to your goods?'
'Welcome to the island,' said my grandfather, grasping his hand.
He was a tall, strongly-built man, very sun-burnt and weather-beaten.
'Thank you,' said the man, looking at me all the time. 'It _is_
pleasant to have a welcome.'
'That's my grandson Alick,' said my grandfather, putting his hand on my
shoulder.
'Your grandson,' repeated the man, looking earnestly at me; 'your
grandson--indeed!'
'And now come along,' said my grand father, 'and get a bit of something
to eat; we've got a cup of coffee all ready for you at home, and you'll
be right welcome, I assure you.'
'That's very kind of you,' said the stranger.
We were walking up now towards the house, and the man did not seem much
inclined to talk. I fancied once that I saw a tear in his eye, but I
thought I must have been mistaken. What could he have to cry about? I
little knew all that was passing through his mind.
'By the bye,' said my grandfather, turning round suddenly upon him,
'what's your name? We've never heard it yet!'
The man did not answer, and my grandfather looked at him in
astonishment. 'Have you got no name?' he said, 'or have you objections
to folks knowing what your name is?'
'Father!' said the man, taking hold of my grandfather's hand, 'don't you
know your own lad?'
'Why, it's my David! Alick, look Alick, that's your father; it is
indeed!'
And then my grandfather fairly broke down, and sobbed like a child,
whilst my father grasped him tightly with one hand, and put the other on
my shoulder.
'I wouldn't let them tell you,' he said 'I made them promise not to
tell you till I could do it myself. I heard of Jem Millar's death as
soon as I arrived in England, and I wrote off and applied for the place
at once. I told them I was your son, father, and they gave me it at
once, as soon as they heard where I had been all these years.'
'And where have you been, David, never to send us a line all the time?'
'Well, it's a long story,' said my father; 'let's come in, and I'll tell
you all about it.'
So we went in together, and my father still looked at me. 'He's very
like HER, father,' he said, in a husky voice.
I knew he meant my mother!
'Then you heard about poor Alice?' said my grandfather.
'Yes,' he said; 'it was a very curious thing. A man from these parts
happened to be on board the vessel I came home in, and he told me all
about it. I felt as if I had no heart left in me, when I heard she was
gone. I had just been thinking all the time how glad she would be to see
me.'
Then my grandfather told him all he could about my poor mother. How she
had longed to hear from him; and how, as week after week and month after
month went by, and no news came, she had gradually become weaker and
weaker. All this and much more he told him; and whenever he stopped, my
father always wanted to hear more, so that it was not until we were
sitting over the watchroom fire in the evening that my father began to
tell us his story.
He had been shipwrecked on the coast of China. The ship had gone to
pieces not far from shore, and he and three other men had escaped safely
to land. As soon as they stepped on shore, a crowd of Chinese gathered
round them with anything but friendly faces. They were taken prisoners,
and carried before some man who seemed to be the governor of that part
of the country. He asked them a great many questions, but they did not
understand a word of what he said, and, of course, could not answer him.
For some days my father and the other men were very uncertain what their
fate would be; for the Chinese at that time were exceedingly jealous of
any foreigner landing on their shore. However, one day they were brought
out of the wooden house in which they had been imprisoned, and taken a
long journey of some two hundred miles into the interior of the country.
And here it was that my poor father had been all those years, when we
thought him dead. He was not unkindly treated, and he taught the
half-civilized people there many things which they did not know, and
which they were very glad to learn. But both by day and night he was
carefully watched, lest he should make his escape, and he never found a
single opportunity of getting away from them. Of course, there were no
posts and no railways in that remote place, and he was quite shut out
from the world. Of what was going on at home he knew as little as if he
had been living in the moon.
Slowly and drearily eleven long years passed away, and then, one
morning, they were suddenly told that they were to be sent down to the
coast, and put on board a ship bound for England. They told my father
that there had been a war, and that one of the conditions of peace was,
that they should give up all the foreigners in their country whom they
were holding as prisoners.
'Well, David, my lad,' said my grandfather, when he had finished his
strange story, 'it's almost like getting thee back from the dead, to
have thee in the old home again!'
CHAPTER XI.
ON THE ROCK.
About a fortnight after my father arrived, we were surprised one Monday
morning by another visit from old Mr. Davis. His son-in-law had asked
him to come to tell my grandfather that he had received a letter with
regard to the little girl who was saved from the _Victory_. So he told
my father and me as we stood on the pier; and all the way to the house I
was wondering what the letter could be.
Timpey was running by my side, her little hand in mine, and I could not
bear to think how dull we should be when she was gone.
'Why, it's surely Mr. Davis,' said my grandfather, as he rose to meet
the old gentleman.
'Yes,' said he, 'it is Mr. Davis; and I suppose you can guess what I've
come for.'
'Not to take our little sunbeam, sir,' said my grandfather, taking
Timpey in his arms. 'You never mean to say you're going to take her
away?'
'Wait a bit,' said the old gentleman, sitting down and fumbling in his
pocket; 'wait until you've heard this letter, and then see what you
think about her going.'
And he began to read as follows:
MY DEAR SIR,--I am almost over
powered with joy by the news received by
telegram an hour ago. We had heard of
the loss of the _Victory_, and were mourning
for our little darling as being amongst the
number of those drowned. Her mother has
been quite crushed by her loss, and has
been dangerously ill ever since the sad intelligence
reached us.
'Need I tell you what our feelings were
when we suddenly heard that our dear child
was alive, and well and happy!
'We shall sail by the next steamer for
England, to claim our little darling. My
wife is hardly strong enough to travel this
week, or we should come at once. A thousand
thanks to the brave men who saved
our little girl. I shall hope soon to be
able to thank them myself. My heart is
too full to write much to-day.
'Our child was travelling home under the
care of a friend, as we wished her to leave
India before the hot weather set in, and I
was not able to leave for two months. This
accounts for the name Villiers not being on
the list of passengers on board the _Victory_.
'Thanking you most sincerely for all your
efforts to let us know of our child's safety,
'I remain, yours very truly,
'EDWARD VILLIERS.'
'Now,' said the old gentleman, looking at me, and laughing, though I saw
a tear in his eye, 'won't you let them have her?'
'Well, to be sure,' said my grandfather, 'what can one say after that?
Poor things, how pleased they are!
'Timpey,' I said, taking the little girl on my knee, 'who do you think
is coming to see you? Your mother is coming--coming to see little
Timpey!'
The child looked earnestly at me; she evidently had not quite forgotten
the name. She opened her blue eyes wider than usual, and looked very
thoughtful for a minute or two. Then she nodded her head very wisely,
and said,--
'Dear mother coming to see Timpey?'
'Bless her!' said the old gentleman, stroking her fair little head; 'she
seems to know all about it.'
Then we sat down to breakfast; and whilst we were eating it, old Mr.
Davis turned to me, and asked if I had read the little piece of paper.
'Yes, sir,' said my grandfather, 'indeed we have read it;' and he told
him about Jem Millar, and what he had said to me that last morning. 'And
now,' said my grandfather, 'I wish, if you'd be so kind, you would tell
me _how to get on the Rock_, for I'm on the sand now; there's no doubt
at all about it, and I'm afraid, as you said the last time you were
here, that it won't stand the storm.'
'It would be a sad thing,' said old Mr. Davis, 'to be on the sand when
the great storm comes.'
'Ay, sir, it would, said my grandfather; 'I often lie in bed at nights
and think of it, when the winds and the waves are raging. I call to mind
that verse where it says about the sea and the waves roaring, and men's
hearts failing them for fear. Deary me, I should be terrible frightened,
that I should, if that day was to come, and I saw the Lord coming in
glory.'
'But you need not be afraid if you are on the Rock,' said our old
friend. 'All who have come to Christ, and are resting on Him, will feel
as safe in that day as you do when there is a storm raging and you are
inside this house.'
'Yes,' said my grandfather, 'I see that, sir; but somehow I don't know
what you mean by getting on the Rock; I don't quite see it, sir.'
'Well,' said Mr. Davis, 'what would you do if this house was built on
the sand down there by the shore, and you knew that the very first storm
that came would sweep it away?
'Do, sir!' said my grandfather, 'why, I should pull it down, every stone
of it, and build it up on the rock instead.'
'Exactly!' said Mr. Davis. 'You have been building your hopes of heaven
on the sand--on your good deeds, on your good intentions, on all sorts
of sand-heaps. You know you have.
'Yes,' said grandfather, 'I know I have.'
'Well, my friend,' said Mr. Davis, 'pull them all down. Say to
yourself, "I'm a lost man if I remain as I am; my hopes are all resting
on the sand." And then, build your hopes on something better, something
which _will_ stand the storm; build them on Christ. He is the only way
to heaven. He has died that you, a poor sinner, might go there. Build
your hopes on Him, my friend. Trust to what He has done for you as your
only hope of heaven--_that_ is building on the Rock!'
'I see, sir; I understand you now.'
'Do that,' said Mr. Davis, 'and then your hope will be a sure and
steadfast hope, a good hope which can never be moved. And when the last
great storm comes, it will not touch you; you will be as certainly and
as entirely safe in that day as you are in this lighthouse when the
storm is raging outside, because you will be built upon the immovable
Rock.'
I cannot recollect all the conversation which Mr. Davis and my
grandfather had that morning, but I do remember that before he went away
he knelt down with us, and prayed that we might every one of us be found
on the Rock in that last great storm.
And I remember also that that night, when my grandfather said good-night
to me, he said, 'Alick, my lad, I don't mean to go to sleep to-night
till I can say, like poor Jem Millar,
'On Christ, the solid Rock, I stand,
All other ground is sinking sand.'
And I believe that my grandfather kept his word.
CHAPTER XII.
THE SUNBEAM CLAIMED.
It was a cold, cheerless morning; the wind was blowing, and the rain was
beating against the windows. It was far too wet and stormy for little
Timpey to be out, so she and I had a game of ball together in the
kitchen, whilst my father and grandfather went down to the pier.
She looked such a pretty little thing that morning. She had on a little
blue frock, which my grandfather had bought for her, and which Mrs.
Millar had made before she left the island, and a clean white pinafore.
She was screaming with delight, as I threw the ball over her head and
she ran to catch it, when the door opened, and my father ran in.
'Alick, is she here? They've come!'
'Who've come, father?' I said.
'Little Timpey's father and mother; they are coming up the garden now
with your grandfather!
He had hardly finished speaking before my grandfather came in with a
lady and gentleman. The lady ran forward as soon as she saw her child,
put her arms round her, and held her tightly in her bosom, as if she
could never part from her again. Then she sat down with her little
darling on her knee, stroking her tiny hands and talking to her, and
looking, oh, so anxiously, to see if the child remembered her.
At first, Timpey looked a little shy, and hung down her head, and would
not look in her mother's face. But this was only for a minute. As soon
as her mother _spoke_ to her she evidently remembered her voice, and
when Mrs. Villiers asked her, with tears in her eyes,--
'Do you know me, little Timpey? My dear little Timpey, who am I?' the
child looked up, and smiled, as she said, 'Dear mother--Timpey's dear
mother!' and she put up her little fat hand to stroke her mother's face.
And then, when I saw that, I could feel no longer sorry that the child
was going away.
I can well remember what a happy morning that was. Mr. and Mrs. Villiers
were so kind to us, and so very grateful for all that my grandfather and
I had done for their little girl. They thought her looking so much
better and stronger than when she left India, and they were so pleased
to find that she had not forgotten all the little lessons she had learnt
at home. Mrs. Villiers seemed as if she could not take her eyes off the
child; wherever little Timpey went, and whatever she was doing, her
mother followed her, and I shall never forget how happy and how glad
both the father and the mother looked.
But the most pleasant day will come to an end; and in the evening a boat
was to come from shore to take Mr. and Mrs. Villiers and their child
away.
'Dear me!' said my grandfather, with a groan, as he took the little girl
on his knee, 'I never felt so sorry to lose anybody, _never_; I'm sure I
didn't. Why, I calls her my little sunbeam, sir! You'll excuse me
saying so, but I don't feel over and above kindly to you for taking her
away from me; I don't indeed, sir.'
'Then I don't know what you will say to me when you hear I want to rob
you further,' said Mr. Villiers.
'Rob me further?' repeated my grandfather.
'Yes,' said Mr. Villiers, putting his hand on my shoulder. 'I want to
take this grandson of yours away too. It seems to me a great pity that
such a fine lad should waste his days shut up on this little island. Let
him come with me, and I will send him to a really good school for three
or four years, and then I will get him some good clerkship, or something
of that kind, and put him in the way of making his way in the world. Now
then, my friend, will you and his father spare him?'
'Well,' said my grandfather, 'I don't know what to say to you, sir;
it's very good of you--very good, indeed it is, and it would be a fine
thing for Alick, it would indeed; but I always thought he would take my
place here when I was dead.'
'Yes,' said my father; 'but, you see, _I_ shall be here to do that,
father; and if Mr. Villiers is so very kind as to take Alick, I'm sure
we ought only to be too glad for him to have such a friend.'
'You're right, David; yes, your right. We mustn't be selfish, sir; and
you'd let him come and see us sometimes, wouldn't you?'
'Oh, to be sure,' said Mr. Villiers; 'he can come and spend his holidays
here, and give you fine histories of his school life. Now, Alick, what
say you? There's a capital school in the town where we are going to
live, so you would be near us and you could come to see us on holiday
afternoons, and see whether this little woman remembers all you have
taught her. What say you?'
I was very pleased indeed, and very thankful for his kindness, and my
father and grandfather said they would never be able to repay him.
'Repay _me_!' said Mr. Villiers. 'Why, my friends, it's _I_ who can
never repay _you._ Just think, for one moment, of what you have given
me'--and he put his arm round his little girl's neck.' So we may
consider that matter settled. And now, when can Alick come?'
My grandfather begged for another month, and Mr. Villiers said that
would do very well, as in that time the school would reopen after the
holidays. And so it came to pass, that when I said good-bye to little
Timpey that afternoon, it was with the hope of soon seeing her again.
Her father called her Lucy, which I found was her real name. Timpey was
a pet name, which had been given her as a baby. But though Lucy was
certainly a prettier name, still I felt I should always think of her as
Timpey--_my_ little Timpey.
I shall never forget my feelings that month. A strange new life was
opening out before me, and I felt quite bewildered by the prospect.
My grandfather, and father, and I sat over the watchroom fire, night
after night, talking over my future; and day after day I wandered over
our dear little island, wondering how I should feel when I said good-bye
to it, and went into the great world beyond.