LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXII, Issue 1936, 8 May 1880, Page 3

LITERATURE.

PRUDENCE GRAY. That’s my name, for father said there wasn’t a batter barge on the river than the Prudence, and if I was called the same ho he was sure there would never be a better girl. Poor father ! He was always very fond of mo, and my earliest rememberances are of sitting on the tiller and having a ride, when he stood there of an evening steering the barge, with the great cinnamon-red sail filled out by the wind, and the water foaming and bubbling by ns as we ran up the river toward the big city, whore the ships lay close together in dock against the wharves, emptying their loads or waiting for others before going away across the seas, I used to think our barre, which was a very small billy boy, if you know what that ia—if you don’t I mast tell you that it’s a barge built with rounded ends and low bulwarks, meant for carrying loads up rivers, but built also to bo able to go out to sea a little while, running along the coast —I used to think our barge, I say, a very, very, large ship, till I grew old enough to compare it with those that passed us going up or down the river, and then it used to seem to mo that it would be wonderfully fine to go on board one of those great shies aud go sailing away—far away —across the ocean, instead of just coasting along to Sheernesa and up the Medway, as we used to year after year, loading deep down in the water. I can’t tell you how my child-life slipped away, living with mother and father on board that barge, in a little bit of a cabin, with a tiny stove ; all I know is that I was very happy, and that I never, hardly, went ashore, and when I did I was frightened and wanted to get back ; and at last 1 seemed t"> have grown all at once into a great girl, and father and I were al- no

Yes, quite alone, for mother had left us very suddenly, and we had been ashore at Sheerness, father and I, audeamo back from the funeral and were sitting on tho cabin hatch before I could believe it was anything but a terrible dream, and that I should not wake and lintl that she was alive ones more, as blythe and cheery as ever, ready to take the tiller or a pull at a rope, the same as I did when father wanted any help. Father was a changed man after that, and as a couple of years slipped by the work on the barge fell more and more into my hands, and I used to smile to myself as I saw how big and strong they had grown. For father

grew quiet and dull day by day, and used to have a stone bottle filled whenever ho went ashore and then sit with it in the cabin till I called him to come and help me with the sail.

Not that I wanted much help, for ours was only a small barge and once started, with a fair wind, I could manage her well enough ; while we had to tack backward and forward across the river mouth, I could always lock the tiller by the rope that hung to the belaying pin, and gave it a hitch on this side, or that side, till I had brought the barge round on the other tack.

I must have passed half of my life in those days leaning back against that tiller, with its end carved to look like a great acorn, and the name of the old barge, Prudence out deep in the side. There I’d stand looking out ahead as we glided along over the smooth sea, passing a buoy here and light there, giving other barges and smacks a wide berth, and listening to the strange squealing noise of the gulls as they wheeled and hovered and swept by me, so cl.sely sometimes that I could almost have touched them with my hand. Oor barge was well known all about the mouth of the river and far up beyond the bridge ; and somehow, I don’t know how it was, the men on the different boats we passed had always a kind hail or wave of the hand for ns, as we glided by. if wo were too far off for tho friendly shout to reach us. '

Sometimes I’d run the barge pretty close to the great ships and steamers, inward and outward bound, so as to look at the ladles I saw on board, not that I cared to do so very often, because it seemed to make me sad, for the faces I looked on seemed to be so different to mine that I felt as if I was another kind of being, and it used to set me wondering and made me think j and at such times I have leaned against the tiller and dreamed and dreamed in a waking fashion of how I would like to read and write and work, as I had seen ladies sitting and reading and working on the decks of the bigs ships under the awnings ; and then I had to set my dreams aside and have a pull at the sheet or take a reef in the sail, because the wind freshened, and my dreams all passed away, I don’t think poor father meant it unkindly, but he seemed to grow more and more broken and helpless every day ; and this frightened me, and made me work to keep the barge clean and ship shape, lest the owners should come on board and see things slovenly, and find fault with father and dismiss him, and that, I knew, would break his heart. So I worked on, and in a dull, heavy way father used to thank me ; and the time glided on, till one day, as we were lying off Southend, with tho sea glassy and not wind enough to fill tho sails, I felt my cheeks begin to burn as I leaned back against the tiller, and would not turn my bead, because I could hear a boat being sculled along towards us, and I knew it was coming from the great leeboard barge lying astern.

‘He’s coming to see father,’ I said to myself at last in a choking voice ; and as a hail came I was obliged to turn, and there stood up in the little boat he was sculling, with an oar over the stern, John Grove, in his dark trousers, blue Jersey and scarlet cap; and as I saw his sunburnt face and brown arms and hands, I felt my heart beating fa it, and knew he was coming to see me.

Wo had hardly ever spoken, but I had known John Grove for years now, and we had nodded and waved to one another often and often as we had passed up and down the river

‘ Heave ns a rope, my lass,’ he said as he came close in, and I did it dreamily, and as soon as I had done so I began to pull it back, but it was too late ; ho had hitched it around the thwart of his boat, and was up over the side before I could stir j and then he stood looking down upon me, while I felt sometimes hot and sometimes cold, and as if I could not speak. ‘ Do you want to see my father ? ’ I said at last.

‘ No, my lass,’ he said, quietly, * I want to see you.’

‘Me I ’ I faltered with my face burning. 'Yes, yon, my lass,’ he said; and hia handsome brown face lit up, and ha looked so manly as he laid hia hand on my arm. ‘ Prudence, my gall,’ he said, * we’re both young yet, for I’m not six and twenty, bat I thought it was time I spoke to you. ’ ‘Spoke to me ?’ I said, with my face burning still. ‘ Yes, my lass, spoke to you, for we’ve been courting now a matter of four years. ’

‘Oh, John,’ I cried, bursting out laughing and feeling more at ease, * why, we’ve hardly spoken to one another.’ 'That’s nice,’ he said, drawing a long breath. ‘Over again.’ 1 Over again ! What V I said.

‘ Call mo John,’ he replied. ‘Well, then, John,’ I cried hastily.

‘ That’s right, Prudence ; but I was going to say, not Spoken to one another! Well, how could we, always taking our turns at the tiller as we were ? But all the same, my lass, I’ve been always a courting you, night and day, these four years, and looking out and longing for the time when the Prudence would come in eight and I could give yon a hail and get a wave of the hand back.’ I could feel the color coming into my cheeks again as I heard him speak, and knew how anxiously I had looked out for hia barge coming up or down the river; and then I began wondering what it all meant, and soon knew.

‘ Prudence, my lass,’ he said, *l’ve saved ton pounds, all my own, and our owner has just given me the command of a new barge, with as pretty a cabin in it as you’d wish to see, and so, my lass, I thought I’d ask you, so be as new we’ve been courting four years, if you wouldn’t come with me and he my wife.’ ‘ No! ’ I said, I No ! ’ and shook my head ; ‘ I belong to father, and I could not leave him—never.’ ‘ But you’ll have to some day. Prudence,’ he said, looking dreadfully downhearted and miserable. •No,’ I said, ‘I shall never leave him; he wants me more and more every day; and I must stay ’ ‘ Prudence, ’ he said sharply, ‘you ain’t playing with me, are you ? ‘ Playing with you ? 1 Yo= ; I mean you ain’t going to take up with anyone els?, and go aboard any other barge—no, no,’ he cried ‘ I won’t be so mean as to ask you that. But, Prudence, dear, some day yon may have to leave him, and when you do, will you please recollect as John Prove loves yon betterthan aught else in the wide world, and is waiting for yon to come ?’

‘Yes, John,’ I said simply. * You mean it, Prudence ? ’ he cried in delight. as he caught my hand. ‘ Yes, John ; I don’t know anybody else, and there’s no one as cares for me.’

‘ Hundreds on the river,’ he said sharply. ‘ Then I don’t care for them, John,’ I said simplv; ‘ and if you like me, and I over do—leave—oh, dear! what am I saying ?’ I sat down on the fender and covered my face with my coarse, red hands, and began to cry; but he took my hands down, and and looked long and lovingly in my face with his great, honest, brown eyes; and then he couldn’t ; speak, but seamed to choke. At last he gasped out: ‘Thanky, Prudence, thanky, I’m going away now to wait, for you’ll come to me some day, I know.’ I didn’t answer him,

* For the time may come, my lass, and when it does come, there’s the cabin of the Betsy Ann, clean painted up, and waiting for you just as her master's awaiting, too.’

He went quietly over the tide and cast off the rope, and was gone before I knew it; and I sat there in the calm afternoon and evening, sometimes crying, sometimes feeling hopeful, and with a sense of joy at my heart such as I never felt before.

And so that evening deepened into night, with the barge a quarter of a mile astern of us, and no wind coming, only the tide to help ua on our way. It must have been about ten o’clock at night when I was forward seeing to the light hoisted up to keep anything from rutin ng into us, when I beard father come stumbling up from the cabin and make as if to come forward to me.

‘Prue, ’ he cried, ‘ Prue !’ ‘ Yes, father, coming,’ I said; and then I uttered a wild shriek, and rushed toward where the boat hung astsrn by her painter, hanlded her up and climbed in; for no sooner had I answered than I heard a cry and a heavy splash, and I knew father had gone overboard, I was in the boat In a moment, and I had tho scull over the stern, paddling away in tho direction that the cry had come from; but, though I fancied in those horrible

minutes that I saw a hand stretched out of the water, asking as it were for help. I paddled out and sculled about till I was tar from our barge, and then sank down too worn out to utter moan of horror, and sob, ‘Ob, father, what shall I do?’ ‘ Is that you, Prudence ?’ said a voice. ‘Yes, John, yes,’ I cried, looking out through the darkness, out of which a boat seemed to steal till it was alongside, when John stretched out his hand and took mine. ‘Quick!’ I gasped, ‘save hi John — father —gone overboard!’ ‘ When you shrieked out, Prue ?’ ‘ Yes, yes,’ I wailed ; ‘ oh, save him ! save him !’ ‘My poor las?,’ he said, ‘that’s a good quarter of an hour ago, and the tide’s running strong. I’ve been paddling about ever since, trying to find you, for 1 went up to the barge and you were gone.’ ‘But, father,’ I wailed, ‘father—save him!’ ‘ My poor little lass, I’d jump into the water now if you bid me; but what can I do, you know. Prudence—what can I do?’ I did not answer, for I did know that he must have beea swept away before then; and I was beginning to feci that I was alone, quite alone in the world. It was quite six months after that dreadful night that one evening John come ashore from hi a barge to the cottage where 1 was staying with his mother, and had been over since he had brought me there, without seeing him to speak to, only to wave my hand to him as he sailed by That evening he came and looked wistfully at me, and said but little, and at last his time was up an: he rose to go. I walked down to his boat with him, and on the way he told me he had got leave to alter the name of his barge, and it was now called the Prudence, too ; and then without a word about the past, he was saying goodbye, when I put my hands in his and said, quietly ;

‘ John, dear, I haven’t forgot my premia 0 .’ ‘And you are alone, now. Prudence, my lass,’ he cried, eagerly. ‘ No, John, no.’ I said, softly, as the tears ran down my cheeks ; T never shall be while you live.’ ‘Never, my lass, never,’be cried. ‘And you’ll be my little wife ?’ ‘ Yes, John, yes ; I promised you ’ ‘ When I come back from this voyage ?’ ‘Yes, John, when you will, ’ I said, and with one long hand pressure we parted, and I went back to wait another month, and then I was a happy little wife. And there seemed no change, for I was once more on the river or out at sea, leaning upon the tiller and gazing straight before me. with the gulls wailing as they wheeled and dipped and skimmed or settled npon the water ; while the soft wind gently stirred the print hood that was lightly tied over my wind-ruffled hair. Only a bargeman’s young wife living on the tide was very happy ; for John often points to the great ships that pass us, with their captains in gold-laced caps, and as he does so he whispers—- ‘ Not with the best among them, Prne, not with the best; I wouldn’t even change places with a king. ’ And if he is as happy as I, dear John is right.