Chapter VII: Act III (5)

In obedience to a mind stronger than their own, the others followed Tronda from the house—from the house, down the slope, over the stony beach, under the moonlight, against the gale, to the scene of the shipwreck. There they found no living thing. There were broken spars and floating _débris_ of various kinds, and there was a helpless human corpse, but that was all. In vain did Rassmie and Hermann search among the crags, in the hope of finding their father concealed there. In vain did Doya call upon his name; and at last they were obliged to believe that fear had compelled Bartle to fly. He had felt that he was safe from discovery while only Doya knew of his crimes, but he could not be so certain of the boys, whose eyes had actually been on him while he committed murder.

They all lingered on the beach for some time, but no one came from either land or sea, and at last the storm compelled them to seek the shelter of their home. You may believe it was a sad, sad night in that lone dwelling, and although the gale calmed down, and the snow lay still and fair when the daylight gleamed upon it, there was no hushing the inward storm. A very dark picture of sin had been presented to young pure spirits, and it was little wonder that their innocent hearts quivered and bled before the remembrance of that dreadful scene.

Morning—Yule morning—with its merry breakfast by candlelight, frothing bowl of “whipcull,” and sweetest of short-cakes for the rich; its “burstin” and rarely-tasted bacon, with jolly drams of whiskey, for the cottagers; and its fun and mystic spells, and football and evening dance, and olden tale and Norland song for both high and low. Morning—Yule morning—brought the discovery to all in the neighbourhood of the disastrous shipwreck on the island. Doya and her children sat in the house and saw the gathering crowd hurry to and fro upon the beach. They saw when the poor sailor’s body was found wounded, as the simple islanders supposed, by their own cruel crags; and all the day long the wife and family of the wrecker watched and waited, but no one came to them. The corpse was conveyed to an uninhabited dwelling close by, and decently buried next day; and Doya fell mechanically into all her accustomed duties. Curious people wondered what had become of Bartle, and somehow a story got about that he had deserted his wife, because she had taunted him with having taken her from a life of ease to one of hard and humble work. Those who believed such a tale had surely observed little of Doya’s meek contented acceptance of her lowlier lot; but she was quite willing that the inquisitive neighbours should accept that solution of Bartle’s conduct. That he had fled from his home and family she knew was true, but the reason, ah! how different from what was supposed.

The events of that most eventful Yule e’en had worked a great change in Rassmie and Hermann. They were sharp enough lads, and had made a pretty shrewd guess that their father gained his livelihood by rescuing from the deep its unlawful prey, but that he employed such criminal means for that end they never dreamed of. The appropriation of wreck was viewed, with smuggling, as a very light offence by the Shetlanders, who, at the same time, would have shrunk with horror from such crimes as those which Bartle had committed, and however little the boys might have thought of the sin against human codes of morality, they saw in all its deepest blackness the enormity of their parent’s offence against Divine laws. Therefore, as I told you, these things went a great way to work a change in the characters of the lads, adding to their hatred of sin, and taking away much that was evil in their disposition.

But time, that never flies from the happy, nor lingers with the sad, although we often think he is cruel enough to do so; time, whose monotonous footsteps echo along the years at the same even pace, no matter how we smile or suffer; time went on, and marked another season on the tablets of eternity, and, as he traced the first lines of the coming year, he also brought back the brave old Yule. Yule came this time with glittering frost and smiling sky, quiet waves, and scarce a breath of wind, and Rassmie launched his fishing boat for a day’s excursion among the cliffs. Their home was, as usual, unbrightened by festivity, so the good lads persuaded their mother and Tronda to accompany them on the water, and the four made a pleasant, if sober, party. Tronda had seldom been upon the sea, and had seen very little of the sublime scenery so near her home, therefore she easily prevailed on her brothers to row close to the shore, that she might the better admire the varied beauty of the crags and caves. One of the latter particularly attracted Tronda’s girlish fancy, and at her desire the boat entered the rock-hewn hall, whose tinted walls gave back a thousand silvery echoes of the splashing oars. It was a vast cavern into which the boat had entered, and the further she went the wider and more extensive seemed the boundaries of that ocean home. Even Doya’s broken spirit seemed to share in the enthusiasm of the young people, whose exclamations of rapture mingled with the shrill cry of the brooding sea fowl, and the whispering of the billows. But suddenly Tronda’s voice changed to a scream of terror, and she pointed to a ledge of rock in one of the deepest recesses of the cave. There lay what at first appeared to be merely a heap of ragged clothing, but which contained too surely a human skeleton. Rassmie’s first instinct was to turn his boat and fly from the horrible sight, but his mother was quite above the vulgar fears of the ignorant, and, after she had by her quiet mien and pious words reassured her children, their skiff was gently impelled nearer to the object of their alarm. There was nothing loathsome about those poor mortal remains; only a few whitened bones, huddled within the folds of a seaman’s dress, and a fleshless hand spread out upon the chilly stone. He had escaped from drowning by the help of a little boat, whose broken bits, cast up beyond the reach of the sea, by some unusually high tide and storm, spoke to so much of the sad tale. On that hard bed of shelving rock the unfortunate man had met a more dreadful death than that of the engulphing wave. Unheard, unsuccoured, he had died of starvation. “What had we better do, mother?” said one of the boys, after a long silence, which had been employed by the young people in gazing upon the miserable spectacle of man’s helpless humanity, and in gathering up the courage which had so suddenly deserted them. Doya did not reply, and the pallor and anguish which had fallen so suddenly upon her features gave much alarm to her children. “Are you ill, dear mother? What is it?” they queried. When at last she spoke, her voice trembled, and her figure shook with the force of some inward trouble, which she evidently tried to conceal and overcome. Having summoned all her strength of mind, she said, hurriedly—“No one must come here, no one must know of this but you and I. Children, children, the guardian spirit, who never forsakes its charge, has guided us here.” By the mother’s direction, Rassmie and Hermann landed on the little strip of sand which carpeted the further end of the cave. There they gathered together some bits of wood belonging to the broken boat, and, clambering up the rude walls, they deposited the spars on a ledge close to that on which the sailor lay. Then Doya got out of the boat, telling her children to return to the mouth of the cavern, and linger there out of sight until she called them. They were reluctant to leave her alone in such a place, and with such a task as they rightly guessed she had set herself to do, but obedience was the first lesson these young people had learned, and reverence for their mother and her wishes was the consequence of her wise training. The oars were dipped into the quiet water, and in a few moments Doya was alone with _it_. Ah! who but a wife would have knelt so tenderly by that ghastly object, and wrapped it in the folds of her cloak? who else would have laid her living lips on the bleached and bony palm, and have recognized in those un-sepulchred bones something she had once loved? Who but a wife, whose young affections had been altogether _his_, would have forgotten the sin and sorrow, the neglect and unkindness of years, and have thus cared for the poor remains of a wicked man?

Doya knelt long and prayed by her husband’s corpse, then with reverent hands she wrapped it closer in the shroud she had taken from her own person for that purpose, and while doing so she found among the skeleton fingers a small pocket-book. With an eager hope she opened this message from the departed. The sleeve of the dead man’s oil-skin coat had protected the paper from destruction, and the words which Bartle’s dying hand had pencilled on the leaves were easily deciphered. This is what he had written:—

“My wife and children, forgive me. God has done so. I am dying
here, within a short distance of you all and home. I do not
know how many days I have been here. It seems like ages. No
help can come to me, and I am beyond the reach of being heard.
I fled from your accusing eyes, and the boat carried me here.
She was tossed like a weed on the rocks, and I have crawled up
hither to die a harder death than any I ever dealt. It is the
meet reward for all my crimes—that I know; but I am not alone,
and I am forgiven. Try to think kindly of me. I have been very
wicked, but now I am at peace, and dying. Something whispers
you will know my fate, my children, my wife.”

Could anything have been of such infinite value to Doya as those parting words? They washed away every trace of bitter or offended feeling, and when she placed the precious relic in her bosom, she blotted out from its generous heart every remembrance of Bartle, save their early love and his Christian death.

Very slowly, very tenderly, Doya encased the withered form in the broken bits of wood, lashing them around it by means of some fishing lines which they had chanced to have in the boat. Very carefully she attached some pieces of rock to the rope, and then, after one long lingering look, and a silent, earnest prayer, she let it slide gently down into the calm limpid ocean. The waves gave one low gurgling sigh as they opened to receive that strangely buried thing, and Doya, kneeling on the cold stone, strained her sight to see the very last of her husband. The clear water hid nothing from her, and she saw him sink to rest down below the sea. And then the tide bore a floating mass of weed, glittering brown and crimson, to the spot, and laid it over poor Bartle, who slumbers peacefully there in that wild cavern, cradled by the surf, and lulled by the wind. And surf and wind say, better than sculptured stone, that mercy endureth for ever, and He, our Father, and our Judge, is long-suffering, and doeth all things well.

It was some time ere Doya could venture to break the awe and quiet of that scene by summoning her children. It seemed as if she had parted from every earthly trouble, as she knelt there alone, and pressed to her heart the token of her husband’s repentance; as she knelt there, alone with nature’s sublimest voices speaking to her soul; but slowly her thoughts came back to life and earth, and at her call the boat glided into the cave again. Then, as the boys rowed slowly homewards, Doya told them the end of the story. They had guessed it already, but they were not prepared for the surprise which she had in store—the reading of their father’s parting words. That took away almost all the sorrow. Under the moonlit sky of Yule, with Yule stars looking down like eyes of forgiving love, and Yule zephyrs winnowing by like the rustle of angel-wings, when they hurry to earth with Christmas messages of peace and good will, of mercy and pardon; with Yule frost glittering upon the heath, Doya and her children returned to their home; and when Rassmie clung to her neck, and Hermann’s head nestled on her bosom, while Tronda’s sweet voice whispered, “You have _us_, mother,” Doya’s sorely tried heart was comforted.

* * * * *

Just as Cousin Cyntha concluded her story, the clock struck, and then a strange stare of astonishment stole over every face. What the hour was it is not necessary to state, but a general stirring among the company told the fact that all of them were of opinion it was high time to be thinking of returning to their homes. But while glasses were being handed round, Old Merry took the opportunity of arresting attention; and, amid cries of “Hurrah, bravo! A speech! Old Merry, a speech!” got upon his legs, and after polishing his bald pate and adjusting his specs, according to time-honoured usage, he thus delivered himself:—

“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, MY DEAR YOUNG PEOPLE,

“Before we separate we must all pledge ourselves in lemonade,
et cetera, and wish one another ‘A Merry Christmas and a
Happy New Year!’ Perhaps in all the year the few merry hours
of Christmas Eve are the brightest and happiest to the whole
world. This night, while we have been here enjoying ourselves
together, thousands of homes have been full of gladness and
merriment. Boys and girls from school have been telling the
adventures of the ‘last half;’ apprentices, home for the
Christmas-tide, have been giving their parents and friends
an account of their trials and joys; family circles, broken
throughout the year by circumstances, have been united round
the old fireside in thousands of homes; sailors on the sea
have struggled between cheerfulness and sorrow as they have
told their shore stories and drunk to absent friends; settlers
in the colonies, despite the differences of time and climate,
have been linking themselves again with the associations of
the old country; heaven and earth have been vocal with new
songs of praise; and the blessed Redeemer Himself, whose birth
in this world is the source of all our joy and gladness, has
looked down on the delights which He has created, and seeing
the results of the travail of His soul ‘has been satisfied.’
Well, my young friends, I am not going to preach you a sermon,
but I do ask you to try and realize the pleasure of sharing the
joy of the whole world. But do not forget amid the festivities
that Christmas is the anniversary of the birthday of our Lord.
He came to bless us and He lives to bless us. He gave to us all
we have, and we should seek to give back to Him all we are. The
cheerful heart, the smiling face, the happy thought, the kindly
act, the friendly speech, are more acceptable to Him than the
long drawn face and the sigh and the groan. His service is not
simply that of the Sabbath-day or the appointed Church, but at
the fireside, the play-ground, the office; in our hours of rest
and toil and recreation, at home and at school, all through the
life He requires, and is pleased with, our acknowledgment of
Him. So now for all the happy hours of this happy season let
us devoutly thank Him, and let us each determine that as He
came this day to bless all the world, we will try to follow His
example as far as we can.

“Let each of you determine that some other life shall be
happier to-morrow through your means. Join your labours to
those of the ministering angels, and see if you cannot lighten
some burden, and give joy to some sad heart on Christmas Day.
The lad who sweeps the crossing, encourage him with a copper;
your sister who has quarrelled with you, kiss her and make it
up; that poor old woman in the garret, beg some plum pudding
for her and send it with a twig of holly in it. Only be willing
to do what you can, and depend upon it the opportunities will
not be wanting. And now we must separate; I wish you all happy
meetings and greetings on the morrow, pleasant hours for merry
thoughts and serious thoughts—good digestions—and everything
that can make to its full degree, A Merry, Happy, Christmas!”