A FRIENDLESS SUFFERER

THE morning after the storm dawned so fresh and beautiful that it seemed as if Nature were anxious to atone for her wrath and passion of the previous night. The breeze was light and sportive; such clouds as the sky showed were hurrying out of sight as fast as possible; the sea, on which the sun was pouring his warm rays, though still high, no longer dashed on the shore with devouring rage, but only heaved and flowed with the buoyancy of full life.

But the brightness of the day could not make amends for the ruin which the storm had wrought. On every side were heard complaints of loss and disaster. Some of the fishermen had lost their boats, others their nets; and the loss of their means of livelihood was a serious calamity for these poor men to face, involving, as it did, want and starvation for their wives and families. But the greatest loss of all was the loss of life, and with sad hearts, the few who had been saved from shipwreck counted the number of their comrades who had gone down to death in the dark waters. Several bodies were washed ashore during the course of that day, along with pieces of the wreck—barrels, life-buoys, seamen's jerseys, and articles of various kinds belonging to the fittings of a ship. The drowned were handled with reverent pity by the kindly folk of Egloshayle, and decent burial given them in the churchyard. There were only a few in the Cornish village, and those persons of recognised bad character, who could rejoice in the spoil the sea brought them that day, and showed greedy haste in bearing it away.

The vessel so cruelly wrecked was a merchant ship from Montreal, bound for Swansea. She had carried no passengers save the lady and child now sheltered in Mr. Hollys' home, and the gentleman who had perished. The sailors shook their heads when they heard that the lady was still very ill. It would go hard with her, they feared, for she had been an invalid when she came on board, and they had understood that the gentleman was making this voyage mainly for the benefit of his wife's health.

Beryl awoke on this bright March morning with the sense of a strange weight upon her mind. She could not understand what made her feel so heavy-hearted, till she saw that she was not lying as usual in her own little bed, but on a somewhat frail couch, which Lucy had hastily arranged for her. Then she remembered all, and sprang up, that she might take a look at the little companion who had been brought to her so strangely on the previous night. The child was sleeping peacefully in the bed close by. Beryl crept quietly to her side, and looked at her with a glance of love and pity, for a sense of the child's great loss was still prominent in her mind. The child looked very pretty as she lay with one arm bent beneath her curly head, and the long, dark eyelashes resting on her soft, pale cheek. Beryl stooped and kissed her very gently, so as not to rouse her.

"What a dear little thing she is!" said Beryl to herself. "I wonder what her name is! How I should like to have her for a little sister! I never thought before that I should care for a sister."

At this moment Lucy entered the room. She exclaimed at seeing Miss Beryl standing with bare feet on the cold matting.

"Hush, Lucy," said Beryl, in a shrill whisper, giving her nurse an indignant glance. "You will wake the child if you make such a noise, and she looks so tired, poor little thing."

Lucy made no reply, but quietly fetched the young lady's shoes and stockings from the other side of the room, and Beryl had time to observe that her nurse's eyes were very red, as though she had been weeping.

"Whatever is the matter with you, Lucy?" she asked. "What have you been crying about? Has Aunt Cecilia been scolding you again?"

"Oh no, it's not that, Miss Beryl," replied Lucy, "it's about my brother. They have been telling me what danger he was in last night; and I can't help thinking whatever I should have done if I had lost him."

"But he is all right, is he not?" asked Beryl. "He was not hurt at all, was he?"

"Oh no; he is quite safe and well; not hurt, at least, as I know of," said Lucy.

"Then why ever should you cry?" demanded Beryl, in a tone of astonishment. "I should think you ought to be very glad that he was able to save this little girl and her mother. I think it was so good and brave of him. I should be quite proud of my brother if I were you. Why, I heard papa talking of it last night, and he said Joe deserved a medal from the Royal Humane Society, and he thought he would very likely get it too. Does not that please you, Lucy?"

"Yes, it's all very fine," said Lucy, tears coming into her eyes as she spoke; "and of course I'm proud of Joe; but I reckon the Royal Humane Society could not have brought him to life again if he had been drowned; and he is the only brother I've got, and I can't help thinking how different it might have been."

"Well, really, Lucy, you are silly to cry over what has not happened," said plain-spoken, practical Beryl. "Think what it is for this poor little girl to lose her father. That is a real thing, and far worse."

"Ah, poor child, I should not wonder if she were to lose her mother too," said Lucy, showing no resentment of her young lady's freedom of speech, to which she was probably well accustomed.

"What do you mean, Lucy?" said Beryl, looking frightened.

"The poor lady is very ill," said Lucy; "for a lady they say she is; and, indeed, I was sure of it as soon as I saw her pretty white hands with the rings upon them. The doctor says the shock may kill her."

"Oh, Lucy, what a dreadful thing!" said Beryl, tears coming into her eyes at the thought. "Whatever will become of this poor little thing if she loses her mother too!"

"I can't tell, I'm sure," replied Lucy. "Perhaps she has friends who will take care of her."

"Make haste and dress me, please, Lucy," said Beryl, in a tone of decision. "I must go and speak to papa."

But Beryl found it no easy matter to get the quiet talk with her father upon which she had set her mind. All the morning people kept coming to the house to consult him on various matters, and just as she thought she had secured his ear, he was summoned to go down to the beach to view a body which had come ashore, and which was believed to be that of the lady's husband.

In vain, Beryl turned for sympathy to Miss Hollys. She was far too absorbed in her own sensations, and would talk of nothing but the terrible shock she had sustained, and the great inconvenience it was to have strangers ill in the house.

At last Beryl was so annoyed at what she considered her aunt's heartlessness, that she was driven to say bluntly, "Well, aunt, you know that if you were half-drowned, and very ill, you would be thankful to any kind people who would take care of you; so I think it is very horrid of you to grumble because we have to do it."

Whereupon Beryl was well scolded for her impertinence, and no doubt she deserved it.

Her aunt's society proving so uninteresting, Beryl went upstairs again, and found, to her delight, that the little girl was awake, and less shy and fretful than on the previous night.

Beryl looked on with pleasure whilst Lucy arrayed the child in some of Beryl's clothes which she had long outgrown.

"What is your name, little girl?" asked Beryl, in such a dignified, patronising tone, that Lucy could hardly keep from smiling to hear her.

"Coral," replied the child.

"Coral!" repeated Beryl. "What a funny name! I have never heard of any one being named Coral; have you, Lucy?"

"No, I don't know that I ever have," replied Lucy; "but after all it is not much stranger than your own name, Miss Beryl."

"Oh, well," said Beryl; "you know that papa called me Beryl because it was the name of a song mamma used to sing to him."

"Yes," said Lucy; "and this little girl's parents may have had some such reason for calling her Coral."

"Mamma often calls me Cora," said the child, "but papa likes Coral best. Where are papa and mamma? Can't I see them now?"

"I can take her down to see her mamma," said Lucy. "She is sleeping now, they say, so little missy can just look at her quietly, and then come away again."

Little Coral was quite satisfied when she had taken a look at her mother, lying with her face almost as white as the pillow it pressed, in the deep sleep of utter exhaustion. Apparently she saw nothing very unusual in her mother's appearance, for she whispered to Lucy that her mamma was often ill thus, and would be sure to be better soon, and then very willingly suffered herself to be taken back to Beryl.

Beryl brought out her prettiest books and playthings to amuse her little guest, and completely won her heart by the gift of a doll, a kind of toy which Beryl was wont to eye with disdain, but which seemed the loveliest object imaginable to little Coral. The children were very happy together for the rest of the day.

On the following day, the shipwrecked sufferer seemed a little stronger. Mr. Hollys had some talk with her. He was obliged to tell her that her husband's body had been washed ashore, and to ask if there were any relatives to whom she would like him to communicate the fact of his death. The poor woman bore the sad intelligence better than could have been expected. She knew that her husband was dead, she said; and she should not have wished to survive him, save for the sake of their little child.

To Mr. Holly's surprise, she declared that she had no friends in England. The only relative she had living, her brother, was far away in Australia. She had quarrelled with him at the time of her marriage, of which he had disapproved, and had not heard of him for years, so that she did not know where a letter might find him.

Her husband's name was Louis Despard; he came of an old Canadian family of French extraction; her child was named Coralie Despard, after her husband's mother.

Their wedded life had been full of trouble. For a short time they had lived in London; but things had not prospered with them there, and her husband had always been eager to get back to his own country, so when he had the offer of a share in a business in Montreal, nothing would do but he must accept it. But the venture proved unhappy. The business was a failing concern, and her husband lost nearly all his money in it. After struggling for years with disappointment and difficulty, Mrs. Despard's health, never very robust, completely broke down, and a doctor having said that a voyage might perhaps restore her, they had resolved, as a last resource, to sell everything, and return to England, to begin life anew there.

Such was the story told by the suffering woman, in brief, broken sentences as her strength permitted. "And now," she said at last, bursting into tears, "my husband is gone, everything is lost; and what will become of me and my child, I know not."

Mr. Hollys was touched by the sight of her distress. He was a man of tender heart, though little used to scenes of sorrow and suffering. Kind words rushed to his lips in his anxiety to soothe the delicate, grief-stricken woman.

"Do not think of that now," he said. "Do not trouble about the future till you are stronger. We will do all we can for you here, and you are welcome to remain as long as you please."

Mrs. Despard thanked him most gratefully; but he hurried away from her thanks, as though they made him uneasy.

Guy Hollys did not, like his sister, anticipate inconvenience or annoyance from the presence of these strangers in his home. He was a man of generous, kindly nature, and loved to give with a free hand. And although he did not do good from high and sacred motives, he was yet one who could never look on suffering unmoved, nor see others in want, without making an effort to relieve them.