On a fine spring morning in the early part of the present century,Tetby, a small port on the east coast, was keeping high holiday.Tradesmen left their shops, and labourers their work, and flocked downto join the maritime element collected on the quay.
In the usual way Tetby was a quiet, dull little place, clustering in atiny heap of town on one side of the river, and perching in scatteredred-tiled cottages on the cliffs of the other.
Now, however, people were grouped upon the stone quay, with its litterof fish-baskets and coils of rope, waiting expectantly, for to-day thelargest ship ever built in Tetby, by Tetby hands, was to start upon herfirst voyage.
As they waited, discussing past Tetby ships, their builders, theirvoyages, and their fate, a small piece of white sail showed on the noblebarque from her moorings up the river. The groups on the quay grewanimated as more sail was set, and in a slow and stately fashion the newship drew near. As the light breeze took her sails she came faster,sitting the water like a duck, her lofty masts tapering away to the skyas they broke through the white clouds of canvas. She passed within tenfathoms of the quay, and the men cheered and the women held theirchildren up to wave farewell, for she was manned from captain to cabinboy by Tetby men, and bound for the distant southern seas.
Outside the harbour she altered her course somewhat and bent, like athing of life, to the wind blowing outside. The crew sprang into therigging and waved their caps, and kissed their grimy hands to recedingTetby. They were answered by rousing cheers from the shore, hoarse andmasculine, to drown the lachrymose attempts of the women.
They watched her until their eyes were dim, and she was a mere whitetriangular speck on the horizon. Then, like a melting snowflake, shevanished into air, and the Tetby folk, some envying the bold mariners,and others thankful that their lives were cast upon the safe andpleasant shore, slowly dispersed to their homes.
Months passed, and the quiet routine of Tetby went on undisturbed. Othercraft came into port and, discharging and loading in an easy,comfortable fashion, sailed again. The keel of another ship was beinglaid in the shipyard, and slowly the time came round when the return ofTetby's Pride, for so she was named, might be reasonably looked for.
It was feared that she might arrive in the night--the cold and cheerlessnight, when wife and child were abed, and even if roused to go down onto the quay would see no more of her than her side-lights staining thewater, and her dark form stealing cautiously up the river. They wouldhave her come by day. To see her first on that horizon, into which shehad dipped and vanished. To see her come closer and closer, the goodstout ship seasoned by southern seas and southern suns, with the crewcrowding the sides to gaze at Tetby, and see how the children had grown.
But she came not. Day after day the watchers waited for her in vain. Itwas whispered at length that she was overdue, and later on, but only bythose who had neither kith nor kin aboard of her, that she was missing.
Long after all hope had gone wives and mothers, after the manner oftheir kind, watched and waited on the cheerless quay. One by one theystayed away, and forgot the dead to attend to the living. Babes grewinto sturdy, ruddy-faced boys and girls, boys and girls into young menand women, but no news of the missing ship, no word from the missingmen. Slowly year succeeded year, and the lost ship became a legend. Theman who had built her was old and grey, and time had smoothed away thesorrows of the bereaved.
It was on a dark, blustering September night that an old woman sat byher fire knitting. The fire was low, for it was more for the sake ofcompany than warmth, and it formed an agreeable contrast to the windwhich whistled round the house, bearing on its wings the sound of thewaves as they came crashing ashore.
"God help those at sea to-night," said the old woman devoutly, as astronger gust than usual shook the house.
She put her knitting in her lap and clasped her hands, and at thatmoment the cottage door opened. The lamp flared and smoked up thechimney with the draught, and then went out. As the old woman rose fromher seat the door closed.
"Who's there?" she cried nervously.
Her eyes were dim and the darkness sudden, but she fancied she sawsomething standing by the door, and snatching a spill from themantelpiece she thrust it into the fire, and relit the lamp.
A man stood on the threshold, a man of middle age, with white drawn faceand scrubby beard. His clothes were in rags, his hair unkempt, and hislight grey eyes sunken and tired.
The old woman looked at him, and waited for him to speak. When he did sohe took a step towards her, and said--
"Mother!"
With a great cry she threw herself upon his neck and strained him to herwithered bosom, and kissed him. She could not believe her eyes, hersenses, but clasped him convulsively, and bade him speak again, andwept, and thanked God, and laughed all in a breath.
Then she remembered herself, and led him tottering to the old Windsorchair, thrust him in it, and quivering with excitement took food anddrink from the cupboard and placed them before him. He ate hungrily, theold woman watching him, and standing by his side to keep his glassfilled with the home-brewed beer. At times he would have spoken, but shemotioned him to silence and bade him eat, the tears coursing down heraged cheeks as she looked at his white famished face.
At length he laid down his knife and fork, and drinking off the ale,intimated that he had finished.
"My boy, my boy," said the old woman in a broken voice, "I thought youhad gone down with Tetby's Pride long years ago."
He shook his head heavily.
"The captain and crew, and the good ship," asked his mother. "Where arethey?"
"Captain--and--crew," said the son, in a strange hesitating fashion; "itis a long story--the ale has made me heavy. They are--"
He left off abruptly and closed his eyes.
"Where are they?" asked his mother. "What happened?"
He opened his eyes slowly.
"I--am--tired--dead tired. I have not--slept. I'll tell--you--morning."
He nodded again, and the old woman shook him gently.
"Go to bed then. Your old bed, Jem. It's as you left it, and it's madeand the sheets aired. It's been ready for you ever since."
He rose to his feet, and stood swaying to and fro. His mother opened adoor in the wall, and taking the lamp lighted him up the steep woodenstaircase to the room he knew so well. Then he took her in his arms in afeeble hug, and kissing her on the forehead sat down wearily on the bed.
The old woman returned to her kitchen, and falling upon her kneesremained for some time in a state of grateful, pious ecstasy. When shearose she thought of those other women, and, snatching a shawl from itspeg behind the door, ran up the deserted street with her tidings.
In a very short time the town was astir. Like a breath of hope thewhisper flew from house to house. Doors closed for the night were thrownopen, and wondering children questioned their weeping mothers. Blurredimages of husbands and fathers long since given over for dead stood outclear and distinct, smiling with bright faces upon their dear ones.
At the cottage door two or three people had already collected, andothers were coming up the street in an unwonted bustle.
They found their way barred by an old woman,--a resolute old woman, herface still working with the great joy which had come into her old life,but who refused them admittance until her son had slept. Their thirstfor news was uncontrollable, but with a swelling in her throat sherealised that her share in Tetby's Pride was safe.
Women who had waited, and got patient at last after years of waiting,could not endure these additional few hours. Despair was endurable, butsuspense! "Ah, God! Was their man alive? What did he look like? Had heaged much?"
"He was so fatigued he could scarce speak," said she. She had questionedhim, but he was unable to reply. Give him but till the dawn, and theyshould know all.
So they waited, for to go home and sleep was impossible. Occasionallythey moved a little way up the street, but never very far, and gatheringin small knots excitedly discussed the
great event It came to beunderstood that the rest of the crew had been cast away on anuninhabited island, it could be nothing else, and would doubtlessly soonbe with them; all except one or two perhaps, who were old men when theship sailed, and had probably died in the meantime. One said this in thehearing of an old woman whose husband, if alive, would be in extreme oldage, but she smiled peacefully, albeit her lip trembled, and said sheonly expected to hear of him, that was all.
The suspense became almost unendurable. "Would this man never awake?Would it never be dawn?" The children were chilled with the wind, buttheir elders would scarcely have felt an Arctic frost With growingimpatience they waited, glancing at times at two women who heldthemselves somewhat aloof from the others; two women who had marriedagain, and whose second husbands waited, awkwardly enough, with them.
Slowly the weary windy night wore away, the old woman, deaf to theirappeals, still keeping her door fast. The dawn was not yet, though theoft-consulted watches announced it near at hand. It was very close now,and the watchers collected by the door. It was undeniable that thingswere seen a little more distinctly. One could see better the grey, eagerfaces of his neighbours.
They knocked upon the door, and the old woman's eyes filled as sheopened it and saw those faces. Unasked and unchid they invaded thecottage and crowded round the door.
"I will go up and fetch him," said the old woman.
If each could have heard the beating of the others' hearts, the noisewould have been deafening, but as it was there was complete silence,except for some overwrought woman's sob.
The old woman opened the door leading to the room above, and with theslow, deliberate steps of age ascended the stairs, and those below heardher calling softly to her son.
Two or three minutes passed and she was heard descending the stairsagain--alone. The smile, the pity, had left her face, and she seemeddazed and strange.
"I cannot wake him," she said piteously. "He sleeps so sound. He isfatigued. I have shaken him, but he still sleeps."
As she stopped, and looked appealingly round, the other old woman tookher hand, and pressing it led her to a chair. Two of the men sprangquickly up the stairs. They were absent but a short while, and then theycame down like men bewildered and distraught. No need to speak. A lowwail of utter misery rose from the women, and was caught up and repeatedby the crowd outside, for the only man who could have set their heartsat rest had escaped the perils of the deep, and died quietly in his bed.
THE END.
January 1899.
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