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!”