“Otto,” whispered Dr Marsh, “our having been diverted from our course has not turned out such a bad business after all, has it?”
“On the contrary, the very best that could have happened. I’ll never give way to unbelief again!”
Poor Otto! He did not at that time know how deeply doubt and unbelief are ingrained in the human heart. He did not know that man has to be convinced again and again, and over again, before he learns to hope against hope, and to believe heartily at all times that, “He doeth all things well.”
It was with very mingled feelings that the Rigondas, Dr Marsh, and Brown-eyes parted next day from the friends with whom they had associated so long. It is no exaggeration to say that there was scarcely a dry eye in the two vessels; for, while the settlers wept for sorrow, the crews and passengers wept more or less from sympathy. Even the dead-eyes of the ship, according to Malone, shed tears! As for poor Brown-eyes, who was a prime favourite with many of her old friends, male and female, before she got away she had been almost crushed out of existence by strong arms, and her eyes might have been pea-green or pink for anything you could tell, so lost were they in the swollen lids. Long after the vessels had separated the settlers continued to shout words of good-will and blessing, “We’ll never forgit ye, Miss Pauline,” came rolling after them in the strong tones of Joe Binney. “God bless you, Miss,” came not less heartily from Hugh Morris. “We loves ye, darlint,” followed clear and shrill from the vigorous throat of the widow Lynch, and a wild “Hooray!” from Teddy endorsed the sentiment. Nobbs, the blacksmith, and little Buxley, ran up the rigging to make the waving of their caps more conspicuous, and when faces could no longer be distinguished and voices no longer be heard, the waving of kerchiefs continued until the rounding of a cape suddenly shut them all out from view for ever.
“Thank God,” said Dr Marsh, with a voice deepened and tremulous from emotion, “that though they have lost their queen, they shall never lose the sweet influences she has left behind her.”
The great ocean steamer had now cleared the land; her mighty engines seemed to throb with joy at being permitted once more to “Go ahead, full speed,” and soon she was cleaving her way grandly through the broad-backed billows of the Southern sea—homeward bound!
Let us leap on in advance of her.
The little old lady with the gold spectacles and neat black cap, and smooth, braided hair, is seated in her old arm-chair, with the old sock, apparently—though it must have been the latest born of many hundreds of socks—on the needles, and the unfailing cat at her elbow. The aspect of the pair gives the impression that if a French Revolution or a Chili earthquake were to visit England they would click-and-gaze on with imperturbable serenity through it all.
But the little old lady is not alone now. Old Mr Rigonda sits at the table opposite to her, with his forehead in his hands, as though he sought to squeeze ideas into his head from a book which lies open before him on the table. Vain hope, for the book is upside down. Profound silence reigns, with the exception of the clicking needles and the purring cat.
“My dear,” at length exclaimed the bald old gentleman, looking up with a weary sigh.