Part 34 (1/2)
”Ah,” remarked d.i.c.k Moy, ”Irish mutton, I s'pose. Well, I don't know 'ow you feels, but I feels so hungry that I could snap at a ring-bolt; and I know of a lot o' child'n, big an' small, as won't look sweet on their daddy if he keeps 'em waitin' for dinner, so come along, mates.”
Saying this, d.i.c.k and his friends left the buoy-store, and walked smartly off to their several places of abode in the town.
In a darkened apartment of that same town sat Nora Jones, the very personification of despair, on a low stool, with her head resting on the side of a poor bed. She was alone, and perfectly silent; for some sorrows, like some thoughts, are too deep for utterance. Everything around her suggested absolute desolation. The bed was that in which not long ago she had been wont to smooth the pillow and soothe the heart of her old grandmother. It was empty now. The fire in the rusty grate had been allowed to die out, and its cold grey ashes strewed the hearth.
Among them lay the fragments of a black bottle. It would be difficult to say what it was in the peculiar aspect of these fragments that rendered them so suggestive, but there was that about them which conveyed irresistibly the idea that the bottle had been dashed down there with the vehemence of uncontrollable pa.s.sion. The little table which used to stand at the patient's bedside was covered with a few crumbs and fragments of a meal that must, to judge from their state and appearance, have been eaten a considerable time ago; and the confusion of the furniture, as well as the dust that covered everything, was strangely out of keeping with the character of the poor girl, who reclined by the side of the bed, so pale and still that, but for the slight twitching movement of her clasped hands, one might have supposed she had already pa.s.sed from the scene of her woe. Even the old-fas.h.i.+oned timepiece that hung upon a nail in the wall seemed to be smitten with the pervading spell, for its pendulum was motionless, and its feeble pulse had ceased to tick.
A soft tap at the door broke the deathlike silence. Nora looked up but did not answer, as it slowly opened, and a man entered. On seeing who it was, she uttered a low wail, and buried her face in the bed-clothes.
Without speaking, or moving from her position, she held out her hand to Jim Welton, who advanced with a quick but quiet step, and, going down on his knees beside her, took the little hand in both of his. The att.i.tude and the silence were suggestive. Without having intended it the young sailor began to pray, and in a few short broken sentences poured out his soul before G.o.d.
A flood of tears came to Nora's relief. After a few minutes she looked up.
”Oh! thank you, thank you, Jim. I believe that in the selfishness of my grief I had forgotten G.o.d; but oh! I feel as if my heart was crushed beyond the power of recovery. _She_ is gone” (glancing at the empty bed), ”and _he_ is gone--gone--_for ever_.”
Jim wished to comfort her, and tried to speak, but his voice was choked.
He could only draw her to him, and laying her head on his breast, smooth her fair soft hair with his hard but gentle hand.
”Not gone for ever, dearest,” he said at length with a great effort.
”It is indeed along long time, but--”
He could not go further, for it seemed to him like mockery to suggest by way of comfort that fourteen years would come to an end.
For some minutes the silence was broken only by an occasional sob from poor Nora.
”Oh! he was so different _once_,” she said, raising herself and looking at her lover with tearful, earnest eyes; ”you have seen him at his worst, Jim. There was a time,--before he took to--”
She stopped abruptly, as if unable to find words, and pointed, with a fierce expression, that seemed strange and awful on her gentle face, to the fragments of the broken bottle on the hearth. Jim nodded. She saw that he understood, and went on in her own calm voice:--
”There was a time when he was kind and gentle and loving; when he had no drunken companions, and no mysterious goings to sea; when he was the joy as well as the support of his mother, and _so_ fond of me--but he was always that; even after he had--”
Again Nora paused, and, drooping her head, uttered the low wail of desolation that went like cold steel to the young sailor's heart.
”Nora,” he said earnestly, ”he will get no drink where he is going. At all events he will be cured of _that_ before he returns home.”
”Oh, I bless the Lord for that,” said Nora, with fervour. ”I have thought of that before now, and I have thought, too, that there are men of G.o.d where he is going, who think of, and pray for, and strive to recover, the souls of those who--that is; but oh, Jim, Jim, it is a long, long, weary time. I feel that I shall never see my father more in this world--never, never more!”
”We cannot tell, Nora,” said Jim, with a desperate effort to appear hopeful. ”I know well enough that it may seem foolish to try to comfort you with the hope of seein' him again in this life; and yet even this may come to pa.s.s. He may escape, or he may be forgiven, and let off before the end of his time. But come, cheer up, my darling. You remember what his last request was?”
”How can you talk of such a thing at such a time?” exclaimed Nora, drawing away from him and rising.
”Be not angry, Nora,” said Jim, also rising. ”I did but remind you of it for the purpose of sayin' that as you agreed to what he wished, you have given me a sort of right or privilege, dear Nora, at least to help and look after you in your distress. Your own unselfish heart has never thought of telling me that you have neither money nor home; this poor place being yours only till term-day, which is to-morrow; but I know all this without requiring to be told, and I have come to say that there is an old woman--a sort of relation of mine--who lives in this town, and will give you board and lodging gladly till I can get arrangements made at the lighthouse for our--that is to say--till you choose, in your own good time, to let me be your rightful protector and supporter, as well as your comforter.”
”Thank you, Jim. It is like yourself to be so thoughtful. Forgive me; I judged you hastily. It is true I am poor--I have nothing in the world, but, thanks be to G.o.d, I have health. I can work; and there are some kind friends,” she added, with a sad smile, ”who will throw work in my way, I know.”
”Well, we will talk about these things afterwards, Nora, but you won't refuse to take advantage of my old friend's offer--at least for a night or two?”
”No, I won't refuse that, Jim; see, I am prepared to go,” she said, pointing to a wooden sea-chest which stood in the middle of the room; ”my box is packed. Everything I own is in it. The furniture, clock, and bedding belong to the landlord.”
”Come then, my own poor lamb,” said the young sailor tenderly, ”let us go.”
Nora rose and glanced slowly round the room. Few rooms in Ramsgate could have looked more poverty-stricken and cheerless, nevertheless, being a.s.sociated in her mind with those whom she had lost, she was loath to leave it. Falling suddenly on her knees beside the bed, she kissed the old counterpane that had covered the dead form she had loved so well, and then went hastily out and leaned her head against the wall of the narrow court before the door.