The Cruise of the Shining Light Part 21

We had found her on the hills that morning.

"She've come t' die all of a suddent. 'Tis another of her spells. Oh, Lord! she've come t' die."

There was no solemnity in this outer room.

"She've woful need o' salvation," Aunt Esther pattered. "She's doomed, lad, an she doesn't repent. Parson Stump ought t' be fetched t' work on she."

There was grief--somewhere there was grief. I heard a sob; it came from a child's breast. And there followed, then, some strange, rambling words of comfort in Elizabeth's voice--a plea, it was, to never mind. Again a sob--Judith's grief.

"'Tis Judith," Aunt Esther sighed. "She've gone an' give way."

The child's heart would break!

"Mother always 'lowed, Dannie," Moses whispered, "that they ought t'

be a parson handy--when It come."

'Twas beyond the power of the fool to manage: who was now a fool, indeed--white and s.h.i.+vering in this Presence. I would fetch the parson, said I--and moved right willingly and in haste upon the errand. Aunt Esther followed me beyond the threshold. She caught my arm with such a grasp that I was brought up in surprise. We stood in the wind and rain. The light from the kitchen fell through the doorway into the black night. Aunt Esther's lean, brown face, as the lamp betrayed, was working with eager and shameless curiosity. They had wondered, these women of Whisper Cove, overlong and without patience, to know what they wished to know but could not discover. "She've been wantin' Skipper Nicholas," says she. "She've been callin' for Skipper Nicholas. She've been singin' out, Dannie, like a wretch in tarture.

Tell un t' come. She've been wantin' un sore. She've a thing on her mind. Tell un not t' fail. 'Tis something she've t' tell un. 'I wants Skipper Nicholas!' says she. 'Fetch Nicholas! I wants a word with he afore I die.' Hist!" Aunt Esther added, as though imparting some delight, "I 'low 'tis the secret."

I asked her concerning this secret.

"It haves t' do," says she, "with Judith."

"An' what's that?"

She whispered.

"For shame!" I cried.

"Ay, but," says she, "you isn't a woman!"

"'Tis gossips' employment, woman!"

"'Tis a woman's wish t' know," she answered.

The thing concerned Judith: I was angered....

And now the door was shut in my face. 'Twas opened--closed again. The fool fled past me to his own place--scared off by the footsteps of Death, in the way of all fools. I was in haste--all at once--upon the road from Whisper Cove to Twist Tickle in a screaming gale of wind and rain. I was in Judith's service: I made haste. 'Twas a rough road, as I have said--a road scrambling among forsaken hills, a path made by chance, narrow and crooked, wind-swept or walled by reaching alders and spruce limbs, which were wet and cold and heavy with the drip of the gale. Ah, but was I not whipped on that night by the dark and the sweeping rain and the wind on the black hills and the approach of death? I was whipped on, indeed! The road was perverse to hurrying feet: 'twas ill going for a crooked foot; but I ran--splas.h.i.+ng through the puddles, stumbling over protruding rock, crawling over the hills--an unpitying course. Why did the woman cry out for my uncle?

What would she confide? Was it, indeed, but the name of the man? Was it not more vital to Judith's welfare, imperatively demanding disclosure? I hastened. Was my uncle at home? For Elizabeth's peace at this dread pa.s.s I hoped he had won through the gale. In rising anxiety I ran faster. I tripped upon a root and went tumbling down Lovers'

Hill, coming to in a muddy torrent from Tom Tulk's Head. Thereafter--a hundred paces--I caught sight of the lights of the Twist Tickle meeting-house. They glowed warm and bright in the scowling night that encompa.s.sed me....

'Twas district-meeting time at Twist Tickle. The parsons of our Bay were gathered to devise many kindnesses for our folk--the salvation of souls and the nourishment of bodies and the praise of the G.o.d of us all. 'Twas in sincerity they came--there's no disputing it--and in loving-kindness, however ingenuously, they sought our welfare. When I came from the unkind night into the light and warmth of that plain temple, Parson Lute, of Yellow Tail Tickle, whom I knew and loved, was seeking to persuade the shepherds of our souls that the spread of saving grace might surely be accomplished, from Toad Point to the Scarlet Woman's Head, by means of unmitigated doctrine and more artful discourse. He was a youngish man, threadbare and puckered of garment--a quivering little aggregation of bones and blood-vessels, with a lean, lipless, high-cheeked face, its pale surface splashed with freckles; green eyes, red-rimmed, the lashes spa.r.s.e and white; wide, restless nostrils. "Brethren," said he, with a snap of the teeth, his bony hand clinched and shaking above his gigantic head, "con-_vict_ 'em! Anyhow. In any way. By any means. _Save_ 'em! That's what we want in the church. Beloved," he proceeded, his voice dropping to a hissing whisper, "save 'em. _Con_-vict 'em!" His head shot forward; 'twas a red, bristly head, with the hair growing low on the brow, like the spruce of an overhanging cliff. "It's the only _way_,"

he concluded, "to save 'em!" He sat down. "I'm hungry for souls!" he shouted from his seat, as an afterthought; and 'twas plain he would have said more had not a spasmodic cough put an end to his ecstasy.

"Praise G.o.d!" they said.

"'Low I got a cold," Parson Lute gasped, his voice changed now by the weakness of an ailing man.

I feared to interrupt; but still must boldly knock.

"One moment, brethren!" Parson Stump apologized. "Ah, Daniel!" he cried; "is that you? What's amiss, boy? You've no trouble, have you?

And your uncle--eh? you've no trouble, boy, have you?" The brethren waited in silence while he tripped lightly over the worn cocoanut matting to the rear--perturbed, a little frown of impatience and bewilderment gathering between his eyes. The tails of his s.h.i.+ny black coat brushed the varnished pine pews, whereto, every Sunday, the simple folk of our harbor repaired in faith. Presently he tripped back again. The frown of bewilderment was deeper now--the perturbation turned anxious. For a moment he paused before the brethren. "Very awkward," said he, at last. "Really, I'm very sorry." He scratched his head, fore and aft--bit his lip. "I'm called to Whisper Cove," he explained, pulling at his nose. "I'm sorry to interrupt the business of the meeting, just at this time, but I do not see how it can be got around. I s'pose we'd better adjourn until such a time as I--"

The chairman would hear of no adjournment.

"But," Parson Stump complained, "I'm the secretary!"

"We'll go right on, brother."

"I can't very well _stay_, brethren," said Parson Stump, chagrined.

"It's a case of--of--of spiritual consolation."

"Ah!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Parson Lute.

"And I--"

"Now, Brother Wile," the chairman interrupted, "we're ready to hear _you_."

"One moment," said Parson Lute, rising. He struggled to suppress his cough. "Excuse me," he gasped. And, "I don't quite see, brethren,"

he proceeded, "how this meeting can get along without the services of Brother Stump. It seems to me that this meeting _needs_ Brother Stump. I am of opinion that Brother Stump owes it to the cause in general, and to the clergy of this district in particular, to report this discussion to the conference. It is my conviction, brethren, that Brother Stump--by his indefatigable industry, by his thorough acquaintance with the matters under discussion, by his spiritual insight into problems of this character, by his talent for expression--ought to be present through the whole of this discussion, in its entirety, and ought to present the views of this body to the conference _in person_." And, "Look here, Brother Stump," he concluded, turning, "why can't _I_ make this call for you?"

"Well, of course, you _could_, Brother Lute," Parson Stump admitted, his face beginning to clear, "but really I--"

"Oh, come now, brother!"

"Brother Lute," said Parson Stump, with sincere affection, "I don't like to think of you on the road to Whisper Cove to-night. I tell you, it--it--goes against the grain. You're not well, brother. You're not well at all. And it's a long way--and there's a gale of wind and rain outside--"

"Come, come, now!"

"A _dirty_ night," Parson Stump mused.

"But it's the Lord's business!"

"Of course," Parson Stump yielded, "if you _would_ be so kind, I--"

Parson Lute's face brightened. "Very well," said he. "It's all settled. Now, may I have a word with you? I'll need some pointers." To the five brethren: "One moment, brethren!"

They moved towards the rear, and came to rest, heads close, within my hearing. Parson Lute put his arm over Parson Stump's shoulder. "Now,"

said he, briskly, rubbing his hands in a business-like way, "pointers, brother--pointers!"

"Yes, yes, brother!" Parson Stump agreed. "Well, you'll find my oil-skins hanging in the hall. Mrs. Stump will give you the lantern--"

"No, no! I don't mean that. Who is this person? Man or woman?"

"Maid," said Parson Stump.