The Coxswains Bride | Page 8

my old mother's house. Don't tell who invites
'em, or anything about it, an' ask as many as like to come-- the shed's
big enough to hold 'em all. Only be sure to make 'em understand that
they'll get no drink stronger than coffee an' tea. If they can't enjoy
themselves on that, they may go to the grog-shop, but they needn't
come to me. My mother will be there, and she'll keep 'em in order!"
"What!" exclaimed Slag, with a look of slight surprise. "Your mother!
Her what's bin bed-ridden for years, an' hasn't got no legs at all--
leastwise not to speak of?"
"Just so, lad. We'll lift her in, bed an' all. Now you be off to the bow.
Oars out, lads; stand by the halyards!"
They were by that time close to the pier-head, where the people were
shouting and cheering, some of them even weeping, and waving hats,
'kerchiefs, sticks, and umbrellas, almost wild with joy at seeing so
many fellow-creatures rescued from the maw of the hungry sea.

The first man who leaped out when the lifeboat touched the pier was
the coxswain, dripping, dirty, and dishevelled.
"Bless you, my gallant fellow!" exclaimed an irrepressible old
enthusiast, stepping forward and attempting to grasp the coxswain's
hand.
But Bob Massey, brushing past him, ran along the pier, leaped a fence,
and sprang up the steep path that led to the cliffs, over the top of which
he was finally seen to bound and disappear.
"Poor fellow!" exclaimed the irrepressible enthusiast, looking aghast at
Slag, "exposure and excitement have driven him mad!"
"Looks like it!" replied Slag, with a quiet grin, as he stooped to assist
the widow and little Lizzie to land, while ready hands were
out-stretched to aid and congratulate the old grandfather, and the rest of
the rescued people.
The coxswain ran--ay, he ran as he had been wont to run when he was a
wild little fisher-boy--regardless alike of appearances and consequences.
The clock of the village steeple told him that the appointed hour had
almost arrived. Two miles was a long way to run in heavy woollen
garments and sea-boots, all soaked in sea-water. But Bob was young,
and strong, and active, and--you understand the rest, good reader!
The church had purposely been selected at that distance from the
village to prevent Bob's comrades from knowing anything about the
wedding until it should be over. It was a somewhat strange fancy, but
the coxswain was a man who, having taken a fancy, was not easily
turned from it.
In order to her being got comfortably ready in good time, Nellie Carr
had slept the night before at the house of an uncle, who was a farmer,
and lived near the church. The house was in a sheltered hollow, so that
the bride was scarcely aware of the gale that had been blowing so
fiercely out at sea. Besides, being much taken up with
cousin-bridesmaids and other matters, the thought of the lifeboat never

once entered her pretty head.
At the appointed hour, arrayed in all the splendour of a fisherman's
bride, she was led to the church, but no bridegroom was there!
"He won't be long. He's never late," whispered a bridesmaid to anxious
Nellie.
Minutes flew by, and Nellie became alarmed. The clergyman also
looked perplexed.
"Something must have happened," said the farmer-uncle,
apologetically.
Watches were consulted and compared.
At that moment a heavy rapid tread was heard outside. Another
moment, and Bob Massey sprang into the church, panting, flushed,
dirty, wet, wild, and, withal, grandly savage.
"Nellie!" he exclaimed, stopping short, with a joyful gaze of admiration,
for he had never seen her so like an angel before.
"Bob!" she cried in alarm, for she had never before seen him so like a
reprobate.
"Young man," began the clergyman, sternly, but he got no further; for,
without paying any attention to him whatever, Bob strode forward and
seized Nellie's hands.
"I dursen't kiss ye, Nell, for I'm all wet; but I hadn't one moment to
change. Bin out all night i' the lifeboat an' saved over thirty souls. The
Brentley boat's done as much. I'm ashamed, sir," he added, turning to
the clergyman, "for comin' here like this; but I couldn't help it. I hope
there's nothin' in Scriptur' agin' a man bein' spliced in wet toggery?"
Whether the clergyman consulted his Cruden's Concordance with a
view to clear up that theological question, we have never been able to
ascertain; but it is abundantly clear that he did not allow the coxswain's

condition to interfere with the ceremony, for in the Greyton Journal, of
next day, there appeared a paragraph to the following effect:
"The marriage of Robert Massey, the heroic coxswain of our lifeboat,
(which, with all its peculiar attendant circumstances,