The Cruise of the Shining Light Part 20

I was content.

"You isn't upsot, is you, by the capers o' my ol' s.h.i.+pmate?"

I answered as he wished. "No, sir," said I.

"Oh no," says he; "no need o' bein' upsot by _that_ ol' bully. He've wonderful queer ways, I'll not deny, but ye're not in the way o'

knowin', Dannie, that he've not a good heart. I 'low ye'll maybe take to un, lad--when you comes t' know un better. I hopes ye will. I hopes ye'll find it easy t' deal with un. They's no need _now_ o' bein'

upsot; oh my, no! But, Dannie, an I was you," says he, a bit hopelessly, "times bein' what they is, an' life uncertain--an I was you, lad--afore I went t' sleep I--I--I 'low I'd overhaul that there twenty-third psa'm!"

He went away then....

XII

NEED O' HASTE

When I awoke 'twas to a gray morning. The wind had fallen to half a gale for stout craft--continuing in the east, the rain gone out of it. Fog had come upon the islands at dawn; 'twas now everywhere settled thick--the hills lost to sight, the harbor water black and illimitable, the world all soggy and m.u.f.fled. There was a great noise of breakers upon the seaward rocks. A high sea running without (they said); but yet my uncle had manned a trap-skiff at dawn (said they) to put a stranger across to Topmast Point. A gentleman 'twas (said they)--a gray little man with a red mole at the tip of his nose, who had lain the night patiently enough at Skipper Eli Flack's, but must be off at break o' day, come what might, to board the outside boat for St. John's at Topmast Harbor. He had gone in high good-humor; crackin' off along o' Skipper Nick (said Eli) like he'd knowed un all his life. An' Nick? why, ecod! Nick was crackin'

off, too. Never _knowed_ such crackin' off atween strangers. You could hear the crew laughin' clear t' the narrows. 'Twould be a lovely cruise! Rough pa.s.sage, t' be sure; but Nick could take a skiff through _that_! An' Nick would _drive_ her, ecod! you'd see ol' Nick wing it back through the narrows afore the night was down if the wind held easterly. _He'd_ be the b'y t' put she to it!

I scanned the sky and sea.

"Ay," quoth Eli, of the gale; "she haven't spit out all she've got.

She quit in a temper, at dawn," says he, "an' she'll be back afore night t' ease her mind."

'Twas a dismal prospect for my uncle.

"But 'twould be a clever gale at flirtin'," Eli added, for my comfort, "that could delude an' overcome ol' Nick!"

My tutor would go walking upon the roads and heads of our harbor (said he) to learn of this new world into which he had come in the dark.

'Twas gray and windy and dripping on the hills; but I led him (though his flimsy protection against the weather liked me not) over the Whisper Cove road to the cliffs of Tom Tulk's Head, diligently exercising, as we went, for my profit and his befitting entertainment, all the Chesterfieldian phrases 'twas in me to recall. 'Twas easy to perceive his delight in this manner of speech: 'twas a thing so manifest, indeed, such was the exuberance of his laughter and so often did he clap me on the back, that I was fairly abashed by the triumph, and could not for the life of me continue, but must descend, for lack of spirit, to the common tongue of our folk, which did him well enough, after all, it seemed. It pleased him mightily to be set on the crest and brink of that great cliff, high in the mist, the gray wind blowing by, the black sea careering from an ambush of fog to break in wrathful a.s.sault upon the grim rocks below. 'Twas amazing: the slender figure drawn in glee to breast the gale, the long arms opened to the wind, the rapt, dark face, the flas.h.i.+ng eyes, the deep, eager breaths like sighs of rapture. A rhapsody: the rush and growl and frown of the world (said he)--the sombre colors, the veil of mist, the everlasting hills, rising in serenity above the turmoil and evanescent rage. To this I listened in wonder. I had not for myself discovered these beauties; but thereafter, because of this teaching, I kept watch.

Came, then, out of the mist, Judith, upon accustomed business.

"Dannie, lad," she asked me, not shy of the stranger, because of woful anxiety, "you've not seed my mother hereabouts, is you?"

I grieved that I had not.

"She've been gone," said Judith, with a helpless glance, sweeping the sombre, veiled hills, "since afore dawn. I waked at dawn, Dannie, an'

she were gone from the bed--an' I isn't been able t' find she, somehow. She've wandered off--she've wandered off again--in her way."

I would help, said I.

"You're kind, Dannie," said she. "Ay, G.o.d's sake, lad! you're wondrous kind--t' me."

My tutor tipped the sad little face, as though by right and propriety admitted long ago, and for a moment looked unabashed into Judith's eyes--an engaging glance, it seemed, for Judith was left unresisting and untroubled by it. They were eyes, now, speaking anxious fear and weariness and motherly concern, the brows drawn, the tragic little shadows, lying below, very wide and blue.

"You are a pretty child," said my tutor, presently; "you have very beautiful eyes, have you not? But you knew it long ago, of course," he added, smiling in a way most captivating, "didn't you?"

"No, sir."

I remember the day--the mist and wind and clamoring sea and solemn hills, the dour, ill-tempered world wherein we were, our days as gra.s.s (saith the psalmist). Ay, an' 'tis so. I remember the day: the wet moss underfoot; the cold wind, blowing as it listed; the petulant sea, wreaking an ancient enmity, old and to continue beyond our span of feeling; the great hills of Twin Islands hid in mist, but yet watching us; the clammy fog embracing us, three young, unknowing souls. I shall not forget--cannot forget--the moment of that first meeting of the maid Judith with John Cather. 'Twas a sombre day, as he had said--ay, a troubled sea, a gray, cold, sodden earth!

"And has n.o.body told you that you were pretty?" my tutor ran on, in pleasant banter.

She would not answer; but shyly, in sweet self-consciousness, looked down.

"No?" he insisted.

She was too shy of him to say.

"Not even one?" he persisted, tipping up the blus.h.i.+ng little face.

"Not even one?"

I thought it very bold.

"Come, now," says he. "There is a boy. You are so very pretty, you know. You are so very, very pretty. There must be a boy--a sweetheart.

Surely there is at least one lad of taste at Twist Tickle. There is a sweetheart; there must be a sweetheart. I spell it with a D!" cries he, triumphantly, detecting the horrified glance that pa.s.sed between Judy and me. And he clapped me on the back, and stroked Judith's tawny hair, his hand bold, winning; and he laughed most heartily. "His name," says he, "is Daniel!"

"Yes, sir," said Judith, quite frankly.

My tutor laughed again; and I was glad that he did--in that kind way.

I was glad--'twas a flush of warm feeling--that my tutor and Judith were at once upon terms of understanding. I was glad that Judith smiled, glad that she looked again, with favor, in interested speculation, into the dark eyes which smiled back at her again. I would have them friends--'twas according to my plan....

At mid-day the wrath of the sea began to fail. The racing lop, the eager, fuming crests--a black-and-white confusion beneath the quiet, gray fog--subsided into reasonableness. 'Twas wild enough, wind and sea, beyond the tickle rocks; but still 'twas fis.h.i.+ng weather and water for the courageous.

The fool of Twist Tickle came to our gate. "Mother always 'lowed,"

says he, "that when a man _could_ he _ought_ t'; an' mother knowed."

"You're never bound out, Moses!"

"Well," he drawled, "mother always 'lowed that when a man _could_ pick up a scattered fish an' _wouldn't_, he were a mean sort o' coward."

"An' you'll be takin' _me_?"

"I was 'lowin'," he answered, "that us _might_ get out an' back an us tried."

'Twas a brave prospect. Beyond the tickle in a gale o wind! 'Twas irresistible--to be accomplished with the fool of Twist Tickle and his clever punt. I left the pottering Cather to put s.h.i.+p-shape his cabin (as he now called it) for himself--a rainy-day occupation for aliens.

In high delight I put out with Moses Shoos to the Off-and-On grounds.

Man's work, this! 'Twas hard sailing for a hook-and-line punt--the reel and rush and splash of it--but an employment the most engaging.

'Twas worse fis.h.i.+ng in the toss and smother of the grounds; but 'twas a thrilling reward when the catch came flopping overside--the spoil of a doughty foray. We fished a clean half-quintal; then, late in the day, a rising wind caught us napping in h.e.l.l Alley. It came on to blow from the east with fury. There was no beating up to the tickle in the teeth of it; 'twas a task beyond the little punt, drive her to it as we would. When dusk came--dusk fast turning the fog black--the fool turned tail and wisely ran for Whisper Cove. 'Twas dark when we moored the punt to the stage-head: a black night come again, blowing wildly with rain--great gusts of wind thres.h.i.+ng the trees above, screaming from cliff to cliff. There were lights at Judith's: 'twas straightway in our minds to ask a cup of tea in her kitchen; but when we came near the door 'twas to the discovery of company moving in and out.

There were women in the kitchen.

"'Tis Judith's mother, Dannie," Aunt Esther All whispered. "'Tis on'y she. 'Tis on'y Elizabeth."