Chapter 10 OLD JARVIS AND HIS DOG NEPTUNE.

"Ma'am, old Jarvis is in the kitchen. He has brought some fish, and wants to see you," said Flora's maid one morning, as her mistress had just finished washing and dressing the baby.

"The poor old man! I thought he was dead," said Flora. "I have not seen him for such a long time!" and, with baby in her arms, she followed the girl into the kitchen.

David Jarvis was a fisherman, well known upon that coast,-an active, energetic son of the sea, though somewhat time-worn and weather-beaten. The person of the old man had been familiar to Flora since she was a little child; and many a stolen trip had she taken with her brothers in his cockleshell of a boat, which, tough as its master, had stood the wear and tear of the winds and waves for many years.

Since she came to reside at --, she had often watched that little boat dancing over the waves, carried onward by a stiff breeze,-now hiding in the green valleys of the sea, now mounting aloft, like a feather floating on the ridge of some toppling surge. The old man seemed to bear a charmed life; for at all seasons, and in almost all weather, the little wiry seaman, with his short pipe in his mouth, and his noble Newfoundland dog, Neptune, in the bow of his boat, might be seen coasting along the shore, following his adventurous calling.

That large, deep-chested, powerful dog, was the admiration of all the children in the town. It was considered a privilege by the young fry to pat Neptune's buff head, and call him the "dear, good, old dog!" and well did the fine animal deserve the title.

The good dog had, at different times, saved nine seamen from a watery grave, as the collar he wore round his neck recording the fact could testify.

Next to his two fine sons, Nep was the delight of the old man's heart. They were never seen apart. In storm or shine, Nep accompanied his master in the boat; or, if fishing on the beach, he sat up on his haunches, with a calm, sagacious air, watching the accumulating pile of fish entrusted to his care. Sociable, affable, and gentle, he submitted good-humouredly to the caresses of all the youngsters who passed that way; but if any one dared to lay a finger upon the fish, the lion-like nature of the animal was roused into instant action. His mild eye became red and fiery, and his deep voice bade defiance to the incautious intruder on his master's rights, to protect which Nep was ready to lay down his valuable life.

Jarvis and his dog enjoyed a great degree of popularity in an humble way; and were decidedly among the lions of the place. Gentlemen had offered large sums for the buff Newfoundland dog, which Jarvis had rejected without a second thought; declaring, that he would as soon sell a child for money, as his faithful Nep.

During the past year the old seaman had been severely tried. Misfortune had followed upon misfortune; until the hardy veteran looked like the spectre of his former self. His only daughter, a pretty girl of eighteen, was engaged to marry the ostler at the Crown Inn, a fine-looking young man, who had lately come from London. He saw Nancy Jarvis, became enamoured of the fisherman's daughter, told his tale of love, and was accepted. The old man was rather averse to the match; for, in his eyes, no man was worthy of his Nancy, who was not a genuine son of the sea. Robert Green at last succeeded in overcoming his nautical prejudices; and a day was fixed for the wedding. Nancy's rosy, artless face was all smiles and sunshine, as night after night she sauntered past Flora's windows, leaning upon the arm of her betrothed. Only two days previous to the one appointed for the wedding, the father learned from old captain P--, whose vessel had just returned from London, that Robert Green had a wife and two children in the great city; that the poor young woman, hearing that his vessel was from the Port of --, had come on board, to make some inquiries respecting her faithless husband; and that she and her little ones were now on their way to join him.

This distressing intelligence was rashly communicated without any previous warning, to Nancy Jarvis. The unfortunate girl, seized with a sudden frenzy, rushed to the pier and flung herself into the sea, when the tide was running out; and her distracted parents never succeeded in recovering the body of the poor maniac. The worthless libertine, on whose account this desperate act was committed, decamped in the night; and so escaped the vengeance of the old fisherman and his sons.

Davy Jarvis, the old seaman's youngest son, a fine lad of sixteen, was drowned in the month of July, only a few weeks after the tragical death of his sister. Flora and Lyndsay had been eye-witnesses of this fresh calamity. Every fine afternoon the young Davy was in the habit of going off with another boy, of his own age, in his father's boat. When they had rowed a couple of miles from the shore, they lay to, stripped, and went into the water to swim, diving and sporting among the waves, like two sea-gulls taking their pastime in the summer ocean.

Lyndsay had often watched them, and admired the dexterity with which the younger Jarvis would tumble himself from the water into the boat, which was left rocking upon the billows, and steady it for his comrade to get in. They would then resume their garments, and row to the beach.

One afternoon they went off as usual. The day was bright and cloudless, with a stiff breeze. Lyndsay was reading aloud to Flora, as she sat at work at the open window which commanded a view of the whole bay.

"There's Davy Jarvis and his comrade, putting off their boat, for a swim. They must mind what they are about," said Lyndsay; "the wind is rather too blustering for their water frolic to-day."

He put down his book, and continued to watch the lads with some interest. The boys reached their accustomed track among the waves; and, leaving their boat as usual, seemed to enjoy their sport with more zest than ever. Whilst in the water, the breeze freshened, and it was with great difficulty, and not without hard swimming, that the lads regained their boat, which driven before the wind, seemed determined to reach the shore without them. They succeeded at last, dressed themselves, and stood in for the land. A long line of heavy surf was beating violently against the beach, and by some mismanagement, the boat got capsized among the breakers. One lad was thrown on shore, but Davy Jarvis got entangled in the surf, which beat continually over him, and rendered all the efforts of himself and his comrade fruitless; and the brave boy was drowned before the sailors who hurried to his assistance could rescue him from his perilous situation.

Flora had watched the scene with a degree of excitement so intense, that it almost deprived her of breath. She could not believe that the lad could perish within the reach of help, and so near the shore. The shrieks of the mother, and the mute despair of the old fisherman, who had been summoned to the spot, too clearly corroborated the report of Lyndsay, that the lad was indeed dead.

After this fresh calamity old Jarvis appeared an altered man. His sinewy frame became bent and attenuated, his step fell feebler, his hair was bleached to snowy whiteness, and his homely, tanned features assumed an expression of stern and patient endurance. It was evident to Flora that his heart was breaking for the loss of his children.

Neptune seemed to understand it all-to comprehend in the fullest sense his master's loss and his present sufferings. He would walk slowly by the fisherman's side, and whenever he paused in his unsteady aimless ramble along the beach, Nep would thrust his nose into his hard brown hand, or, rearing on his hind legs, embrace him with his shaggy fore-paws, fawning and whining to attract his notice, and divert him from his melancholy.

Day after day, during the long bright summer of 1831, Flora had watched the old man come to the spot on the beach where the dead body of his son first touched the shore, and stand there for hours, looking out over the broad sea, his eyes shaded from the rays of the sun by his bony red hand, as if he expected the return of the lost one. During these fits of abstraction Nep would stretch himself along the beach at the fisherman's feet, his head sunk between his fore-paws, as motionless as the statue of a dog cut out of stone. The moment the old man dropped the raised hand from his face, Nep would leap to his feet, look up wistfully into his master's eyes, and follow him home.

This touching scene had drawn tears from Flora more than once, and she loved the good dog for his devoted attachment to the grief-stricken desolate old man. When, however, the fishing season returned, Jarvis roused himself from the indulgence of hopeless grief. The little cockle-shell of a boat was once more launched upon the blue sea, and Jarvis might daily be seen spreading its tiny white sheet to the breeze, while the noble buff Newfoundland dog resumed his place in the bow.

Jarvis came regularly every day to the house to offer fish for sale-cod, whitings, herrings, whatever fish chance had given to his net. Flora was glad to observe something like cheerfulness once more illumine the old sailor's face. She always greeted him with kind words, and inquired affectionately after his welfare; and without alluding to his heavy family afflictions, made him sensible that she deeply sympathised in his grief.

Things went on smoothly, until one terrible night in October, Jarvis and his only remaining son, a strong powerful man of thirty, had been off with several experienced seamen in the pilot-boat, to put a pilot on board a large vessel which was toiling her way through the storm to London. Coming back, the wind rose to a gale, and the sailors, in trying to enter the harbour, ran the boat against one of the piers with such violence, that it upset, and the whole party were thrown into the water.

Old Jarvis was an admirable swimmer, and soon gained the beach, as did most of the others, two of their number being rescued from death by the exertions of the brave dog. One alone was missing-Harry Jarvis was the lost man.

From that hour Flora had never seen the old Jarvis or his dog. The boat lay high and dry upon the beach, and his net was still suspended between the poles where it had been left to dry, and she concluded that Jarvis had not survived this last terrible blow. It was a joyful surprise, therefore, to hear, that he was not only alive, but pursuing his old calling.

She found the fisherman leaning against the open kitchen-door, a basket of fish at his feet, and his clear grey eyes fixed vacantly upon the silver waves, which flashing and murmuring in the sunlight, came racing to the beach below. The old sailors' wrinkled face, once so ruddy and bronzed, was as white as his hair; his cheeks had fallen in, and deep hollows had gathered about his temples; it was painful to observe the great alteration in his appearance since they last met. The old man started from his abstraction, as Flora's foot sounded on the floor, and he tried to smile. It was a vain attempt, his shrunken features instantly contracted into their former melancholy expression.

"My good old friend" said Flora, "I am glad to see you; I was afraid you had been ill. What fish have you got for me?"

"Eels, Madam; I caught them in the river. They ar'n't for sale, but just a little present. I he'erd you wor goin' to cross the salt seas to Canady, an' I had a mind to see you agin."

"I will accept them with pleasure, Davy, and I am very much obliged to you for your kindness. I am very fond of eels,-we get them so seldom, they are quite a treat. I have not seen you out in the boat lately, Jarvis?"

"Maybe you'll never see me out in her agin," said the fisherman. "I'm thinking my fishing days are 'most over; boat, tackle and measter are all worn out together. I've parted with the boat; how'somever. An' as to the sea, I allers look'd upon its broad face with pleasure, but t'has been a cruel enemy to me and mine; my path, I'm thinking, will be over it no more."

Flora saw the tear glistening in the old man's eye, and she tried to divert his attention by asking him what he had done with his dog-"with dear, old 'Nep?'"

"I shot him." The seaman's thin lips quivered, and his whole frame trembled. "Ay, I shot my good dog-my brave, faithful dog,-the best, the truest friend man ever had; an' I've niver know'd a happy hour since."

The bright drops were now raining down the old man's cheeks.

Flora reached him a chair, and begged him to sit down. The fisherman mechanically obeyed, with his chin sunk between his hands, and his elbows resting on his knees. For some minutes both were silent, until the old man said, in a thick, husky voice-

"Yes, I shot 'Nep'-shot him with my own hand. It wor cruel and wicked of me to do the like, but I wor mad-stark staring mad, and who's to blame? You see, my lady, he wor with us that terrible Saturday night, when we went off to put the pilot on board the brig Sally, from Shields. Comin' back it wor pitch dark, an' the sea runnin' mountains high, Sam Masters ran the boat plump upon the pier, an' we wor upset on the bar. Nep saved Sam Masters and Ben Hardy, but he let my Harry drown. I never rebelled agin' the providence of God till then; but I trust He'll forgive what the old man said in his mortal distress. Instead of thanking Him, when I sor that so many wor safe, an' encouragin' Nep for having saved two on 'em, I cursed the dog for an ungrateful brute for saving strangers, an' letting my Harry be lost. I dashed him off whenever he'd come whining around, to lick my hands an' make friends, an' when I got home I took down the old gun-poor Harry's gun-and called Nep out upon the cliff an' shot him dead.

"I repented the moment I sor him drop. It wor too late then. I thought that both Davy and Harry would have blamed me for taking the poor brute's life-for they wor mortal fond of 'un. The next morning I wor up by daybreak, and down to the piers in the little boat to see if I might chance to light upon the dead body.

"The storm was over, an' in rowing 'atwixt the piers, I sor summut that looked like the thing I sought, hanging, as it wor, to the planking of the pier. I steered for the place, an', God o' heaven! it wor the body of my son! He wor just two feet below the water, hanging with his head downwards. The force of the waves had driven him upon an iron stauncheon, which extended some distance from the pier, the woodwork to which it belonged had been wrenched away in the storm. It had passed right through Harry's body, and held him fast. And the dog-the poor dog-had tried to get him off; he had dragged at his jacket and shirt-collar, till they wor all shred to bits, and had only given over when he found it of no use, an' then did what he could to save the rest! An' I killed him-I, that should have fed and cherished him to his dying day-I can never forgive myself for that."

"Do not distress yourself, Jarvis, in this way. No one will blame you for what you did in such a distracted state of mind," said Flora, though she was grieved to the heart for the death of the noble dog.

"You are right-you are just right; I was mad; and you must not think hard of a poor broken-hearted old man. My sorrow is 'most greater than I can bear. It will not be for long; I feel I'm goin' the way of all the earth, an' it matters little when we cast anchor in that port, whether our voyage wor short or long-rough or smooth, when the righteous Judge overhauls our vessel, an' lays bare the secrets of all hearts. I trust He'll have mercy on old Davy Jarvis, and forgive him for the death of his brave dog."

The fisherman took the eels from his basket, and grasping Flora's hand in his hard horny palm, said, "May the Lord grant you prosperity! an' bless you an' your husband an' the little 'un, an' bring you safe to the far land to which you are journeying! May it prove to you a haven of rest! God bless you! good bye!"

Flora looked after the drooping figure of the fisherman as he slowly descended the cliff, and she thought how intense must have been his agony in that dark hour of utter bereavement, which had tempted him to sacrifice his dog on the mere supposition that he had neglected to save the life of his son.

"God comfort you! poor Jarvis," she said, "and guide you in peace through the shadows of the dark valley that stretches its long night before you. The grief which has brought your grey locks in sorrow to the grave was enough to have broken a sterner heart."

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