THE HOLLOW OF GOD’S HAND.

At the last moment two of the crew refused to sail in the “Dolphin,” on the score of her being overladen. The pilot was on board, and all was ready, but they steadily resisted every effort to get them to set a foot upon her. The river police were called to urge them to their duty or to take them into custody, but they declared loudly they would rather spend the next three months in the worst jail ashore than run the risk of sailing with such a cargo. Captain Norcott argued and stormed by turns, and such of the men as were not drunk overwhelmed them with abuse, excepting Peter Blake, who stood by in silence. By the desertion of these two, the dangers they feared to face were considerably increased for those who remained, as there was now no time to fill up their places, and the “Dolphin” would be undermanned.

“Captain,” said Peter, as the two men were led away by the policemen, “I’d give all the world if you’d let Victor off.”

“Hold your tongue, you coward,” answered the captain passionately, “if any other soul goes it shall be to jail like those rascals yonder.”

The ‘Dolphin’ sailed slowly down the river, tugged by its little pilot-boat. It was growing dusk, and Peter and Victor could see the light already shining through the bow-window of their home. In a little while they saw too the heads of those who were looking through it at the passing vessel. There was Bessie, with the baby nestling up against her neck, and the dear old mother, holding Nannie, as if to keep her from falling through the open casement. They had lit the lamp that Victor and Peter might see them more clearly. “Thank God!” said Peter to himself, “they don’t know what’s been going on at the wharf.”

But it could not be long before they heard the bad news. The gossip soon spread from one to another throughout Wapping that two sailors had gone to jail rather than sail in the “Dolphin.” Bessie’s cousin, the sailmaker, came in to tell her the first thing in the morning.

“So Peter’s off in the ‘Dolphin,’” he said, significantly. “Well, well, they tell me she was only a few inches above water amidships, and that was in the river, where the water’s as smooth as a pond. Dear! dear! to think that men with wives and children will run such risks! But he had always a fine spirit, had Peter, afore he married. He’s been more timorous since, but his spirit is showing itself again now. How ever could you let him go in the ‘Dolphin,’ Bessie?”

“Captain Norcott said it was a very good ship,” answered Bessie, trying hard not to let herself be frightened. She knew the old sailmaker was a man who made the worst of everything, and took a pleasure in trouble, especially in the trouble of other people. A day was irksome to him if it did not bring the excitement of hearing of some calamity; and a terrible shipwreck with great loss of life was an event of the utmost interest to him.

“Captain!” he said, in a tone of contempt; “what’s a captain’s word worth? He wanted a first-rate seaman like your Peter, and he’d swear his head off that the ‘Dolphin’ was the very best boat in the river.”

“Victor’s gone too,” said Bessie, trying to speak calmly.

“Victor! Well now, I am sorry,” exclaimed the old man. “I shall miss him sore, singing his songs about the house. Madam, why did you let Victor go? Well, I shall never look to hear his voice again. You’ve heard that two of the crew are gone to jail rather than venture in her.”

“No!” cried Bessie. “No. It can’t be true. You’re frightening me, and it’s not kind of you. I’m that shaken I can’t bear up against bad news.”

“I’m only telling you what they’ve told me,” said the sailmaker, slowly; “everybody is talking about it in High Street. They’re all telling the same tale. Why! what’s the woman going to do?”

Bessie had started from her rocking-chair as he spoke, and almost tossed the baby into the cradle. All the color had died out of her face, but she was not rendered passive or languid by the shock of dread. She tore down her shawl from the nail behind the door, and before the sailmaker could speak again she had fled from the house, as though by some mighty effort of will and energy she could bring the vessel back to its moorings.

There were plenty of men employed about High Street whom she knew well; for she had lived all her life in Wapping. She seized the arm of the first man she met, and held it with a convulsive strength.

“The ‘Dolphin!’” she gasped; “is it a good ship?”

“Ay! ay! Good enough,” answered the workman, kindly. “Peter’s gone aboard her--hasn’t he? Don’t frighten thyself, Bessie. She’s a fairly good ship, and he’s a right good seaman.”

“But there were two men,” she sobbed, “wouldn’t go--’ud rather go to jail--is it true?”

“Well, they say so,” he answered, reluctantly; “there are always some cowards and fools. But Peter’s neither coward nor fool, I reckon. Fleck’s gone, and his wife’s as content as can be.”

“Fleck’s wife’s not like me,” cried Bessie, “and Fleck’s not like my Peter. Oh! if any harm comes to him, what shall I do?”

“What harm’s to come to him?” asked the man, with a gruff kindness. “He’s as safe there as here, and safer may be, if you reckon on the lifeboats. We men can’t be shut up in safety-boxes, Bessie Blake. Men must work, and not be too nice about danger. But you keep your mind on the lifeboats, if any storm comes up; and the ‘Dolphin’ is all right as long as this weather lasts.”

Bessie returned home somewhat comforted. There were always cowards that flinch at the last moment, she thought; and she felt proud that her husband was no coward. It had been his name for having a high spirit that had first won her love; and she knew in her inmost heart that if she once suspected him of being a coward, both respect and love would die away. Yet she felt terribly lonely and desolate as she entered her home again. The morning sun was breaking redly through the mist, and she saw the masts of many vessels looming through it; but the ‘Dolphin’ was far away by this time. Nannie was seated at the window, with her quiet calm little face turned towards the river.

“Mother,” she said, in her childish voice, as Bessie stood over her, gazing sadly down upon the treacherous waters, “Uncle Victor told me God holds the sea in his great strong hand, like me holding this tiny, tiny drop of water.”

She had made a hollow of her small soft hand, and as she opened it Bessie saw a drop of water lying in the little dimple.

“And, mother,” she went on, “if there came a great big storm, and the wind blew hard, God could shut up his hand, and take care of father’s ship, like me taking care of this tiny drop of water.”

“Ay; he could,” cried Bessie, hiding her tearful face on the child’s curly head.

“That’s my little sea,” said Nannie, “and I won’t let any big storm come to it. Uncle Victor said God will take care of him and father.”

“But maybe God will take them to heaven,” sobbed Bessie.

“Won’t they be happy there?” asked the child. “Isn’t God there? And Jesus--isn’t he in heaven?”

“But we sha’n’t be there,” answered Bessie; “you and me. We shall have to wait here a long, long while, and never have them home again.”

“But we’ll go there, too,” said Nannie. “Uncle Victor says Jesus loves us so, he wants us to go and live with him; and we’ll all go some day, mother.”

“If we could only go together,” said Bessie, with a sigh. But she felt comforted. Her little girl’s happy, peaceful face seemed to soothe her strangely. Even the sight of the small folded hands, holding the drop of water so carefully, calmed her troubled spirit. Yes; it was true. Peter and Victor were safe in the hollow of God’s hand. She could not sing yet; but over and over again Bessie whispered to herself, when her eye fell upon Nannie, sitting quietly in the sunny window:--

“This, this is the God we adore, Our faithful, unchangeable Friend; Whose love is as great as his power, And neither knows measure nor end.”