Nautilus Part 7

What did it mean, when a person could not sleep?

There was a man in an old book there at the house, and he was wicked, and he never could sleep, never at all. The things he had done came and sat on him, and they were hot, like coals, and the heat went through to his heart and burned it. Would it be so with him, if he should go away in the "Nautilus," and forget--or try to forget--the old man who had n.o.body to love him? Not that Mr. Sc.r.a.per wanted to be loved yet, at all; but--but he might, some time, when his legs had gone to sleep, and then--

Sometimes, when a person could not sleep, it meant that he was going to die. Suppose one were to die now, and go to heaven, and they said to one, "How was Mr. Sc.r.a.per when you came away?" and one had to say, "I ran away and left him this evening, and I don't know how he is, or whether he is alive or dead--for sometimes old people die just like that, dropping down in their chairs--what would they say to one? Perhaps the old man had dropped down now, this very night, from anger at his being away when he should have done the ch.o.r.es". He saw Mr. Sc.r.a.per sitting in his arm-chair, cold and dead, with the rats running over the floor at his feet, because he, John, had not set the trap. A scream rose to his lips, but he choked it back; and sitting up in desperation, drew aside the red curtains and looked out.

The cabin lay dim and quiet before him. A lantern hung in the middle, turned low, and by its light he could see the shelves, with their s.h.i.+ning rows of sh.e.l.ls, and the gla.s.s counter with the sea-jewelry.

Directly opposite him, only the narrow s.p.a.ce of the cabin between, lay the Skipper in his bunk, sleeping peacefully. The wild fear died away in the child's heart as he saw the calmness and repose of the stalwart figure. One arm was thrown out; the strong, shapely hand lay with the palm open toward him, and there was infinite cheer and hospitality in the att.i.tude. In the dim light the Skipper's features looked less firm and more kind; yet they were always kind. It was not possible that this was a bad man, a stealer of children, a pilferer of old men's cupboards.

If one could think that he had been playing all the time, making believe, just as a person did one's self; but John had never known any grown people who could make believe; they had either forgotten, or else they were ashamed of the knowledge. Once, it was true, he had persuaded Mr. Bill Hen Pike to be Plymouth Rock, when he wanted to land in the "Mayflower;" but just as the landing was about to be effected, Mrs. Pike had called wrathfully from the house, and the rock sprang up and shambled off without even a word of apology or excuse. So grown people did not understand these things, probably; and yet,--yet if it had been play, what glorious times one could have, with a real creese, and a real schooner, and everything delightful in the world!

How could he be bad and look like that? The child bent forward and strained his eyes on the sleeping face. So quiet, so strong, so gentle!

He tried putting other faces beside it, for he saw faces well, this boy, and remembered what he had seen. He tried Mr. Sc.r.a.per's face, with the ugly blink to the red eyes, and the two wrinkles between the eyes, and the little nest of spiteful ones that came about his mouth when he was going to be angry; even when he slept--the old gentleman--his hands were clenched tight--how different from that open palm, with its silent welcome!--and his lips pursed up tight. No! no! that was not a pleasant picture! Well, there was Lena! she was pleasant to look at, surely! Her hair was like silver, and her eyes blue and soft, though they could be sharp, too. But, somehow, when her face was brought here beside the Skipper's, it looked foolish and empty, and her pretty smile had nothing to say except to bid one look and see how pretty she was, and how becoming blue was to her; and--and, altogether, she would not do at all.

Mr. Bill Hen, then, who was always kind to him, and quite often, when.

Mrs. Pike was not near, would give him a checkerberry lozenge. Mr. Bill Hen's face was good-natured, to be sure, but oh, how coa.r.s.e and red and stupid it was beside the fine dark sleeping mask! Why did people look so different, and more when they were asleep than any other time? Did one's soul come out and kind of play about, and light up the person's face; and if so, was it not evident that the Skipper _was_ a good man? and that perhaps things were really different in his country, and they had other kinds of Ten Commandments, and--no, but right was right, and it didn't make any difference about countries in that sort of thing. You knew that yourself, because you felt it in your stomach when you did bad things; perhaps when one grew older, one's stomach did not feel so quickly. And, anyhow, if that was true about the soul, how do you suppose a person's own soul would make his face look if he was running away from the things he ought to do, and going to play with monkeys and see the wonders of the world? The boy wondered what he was looking like at the present moment, and summoned up the image of a frightful picture of a devil in another of those old books into which he was forever peeping at odd times. Did they miss him now, the old books in the garret, because he had not come up to wish them good-night and take a look at some of the best pictures before he went to bed? Was he likely to turn into a devil when he died, do you suppose?

How still it was, and how queer his eyes felt! But he could not lie down, for then he would be alone again, and the things would come and sit on him; it was good to sit up and look at the Skipper, and wonder--and wonder--

A gleam, faint and red, shot from a sh.e.l.l in the farther corner,--a splendid creature, scarlet and pale green, with horns that gave it a singularly knowing look. He almost thought it nodded to him; and hark!

was that a tiny voice speaking, calling him by name?

"Come away, little boy!" said the voice. "Come away to the south, where the water is blue always, and storms come rarely, rarely! There, under the water, my brothers and sisters wait to see you, and with them their friends, the lovely ones, of whom you have dreamed all your life. There, on beds of sea-moss, they lie, and the rainbow is dull beside them.

Flowers are there, and stars, and bells that wave softly without sound.

For one fair thing that the man, our master, told you of, we have a thousand to show you. What does he know, a man, whose eyes are already half-shut? But you are a child, and for you all things shall be opened under the ocean, and you shall see the treasures of it, and the wonders; and you shall grow wise, wise, so that men shall look up to you, and shall say, 'Where did he gain his knowledge?' And your friend shall be with you, oh yes, for he knows the way, if he cannot see all the things that will meet your eyes! And you and he together shall sail--shall sail, through waters green as chrysoprase; and all the sea-creatures shall learn to know you and love you. You shall learn where the sea-otter makes his nest, in the leaves of the giant sea-weed, where they stretch along the water, full sixty feet long, as the Skipper told you. The 'Nautilus' will be there, too: not a clumsy wooden mountain, like this in which we lie prisoned, but the creature itself, the fairy thing of pearl and silver! Look! here lies his sh.e.l.l, and you find it lovely; but like us, it is dim and dead for want of the life within it.

"Come away, and let us be sailing, sailing over seas of gold! And when you are weary of the top of the waves, down you shall sink with us through the clear green water, and the night will fall like a soft dream, and the moon-fish, with its disk of silver, shall gleam beside you to light the dimness that yet is never dark; and you shall go down, down, down--"

And about this time it must have been that the little boy went down, for when the morning broke, the Skipper found him, fast asleep, and smiling as he slept.

CHAPTER IX.

FAMILY MATTERS.

"Well," said Mr. Bill Hen, "I only want to put it to you, you understand. Intelligent man like you, no need for me to do more than put it to you. There's the child, and there's the old man, and they 'pear to have got separated. I don't want to be understood as implying anything, not anything in the living world; but there's where it is, you see. And me being a justice of the peace, and sworn, you observe, to--well, I'm sure you will see for yourself the position I'm placed in. Point is, you seemed consid'able interested in the child, as one may say. Nothing strange in that,--nice little boy! would interest an Injin chief, if he had any human feelin' in him. But _bein'_ a justice of the peace, you see,--well, Mr. Sc.r.a.per has sent me to make inquiries, and no offence in the world, I trust--no _insult_, you understand, if I jest--well, all about it--do you know where in thunder the child is?"

Mr. Bill Hen, standing on the bank, delivered himself of these remarks with infinite confusion, perspiring freely, and wiping his face with a duster, which he had brought by mistake instead of a handkerchief. He looked piteously at the Skipper, who stood leaning over the side, cheerfully inscrutable, clad in spotless white, and smoking a long cigar.

"The child?" the Skipper repeated, thoughtfully. "You allude to the boy called John, Senor Pike; yes, I had that suppose. Now, sir, the day before this, you tell me that this child is not well placed by that old gentleman Sc.r.a.per; that the old man is cruel, is base, is a skin-the-flint, shortly. You tell me this, and I make reply to you that there are powers more high than this old person, who have of that child charge. How, if those powers had delivered to me the child? how then, I ask you, Senor Pike?"

Mr. Bill Hen wiped his brow again and gasped feebly. "'Tis as I thought!" he said. "You've got the child aboard."

The Skipper nodded, and blew rings from his cigar. "I have the child,"

he repeated, "aboard. What will you in this case do, Senor? I propose to take him with me away, to make of him a sailor, to care for him as my son. You think well of this; you have been kind to the child always, as he tell me? You are glad to have him remove from the slavery of this old fish, yes?" He smiled, and bent his dark eyes on his unhappy visitor.

Mr. Bill Hen writhed upon the hook. "There--there's truth in what you say," he admitted, at length, after seeking counsel in vain from his red bandanna. "There's truth in what you say, I aint denyin' that. But what I look at, you see, is my duty. You may have your idees of duty, and I may have mine; and I'm a justice of the peace, and I don't see anything for it but to ask you to give up that child to his lawful guardeen, as has sent me for him."

A pause ensued, during which Franci sauntered to the side with easy grace. "Shall I put a knife into him, Patron?" he asked, indicating Mr.

Bill Hen with a careless nod. "How well he would stick, eh? The fatness of his person! It is but to say the word, Patron."

Mr. Bill Hen recoiled with a look of horror, and prepared for instant flight; but the Skipper's gesture rea.s.sured him. "Franci, look if there is a whale on the larboard bow!" said the latter.

"Perfectly, Patron!" replied Franci, withdrawing with his most courtly bow. "When I say that no one will be killed at all in this cursed place, and I shall break my heart! but as you will."

Again there was a pause, while Mr. Bill Hen wondered if this were a floating lunatic asylum or a nest of pirates, that had come so easily up their quiet river and turned the world topsy-turvy. At length--"Your force, Senor Pike," the Skipper said, "I perceive it not, for to take away this child. Have you the milizia--what you call soldiers, police--have you them summoned and concealed behind the rocks, as in the theatres of Havana? I see no one but your one self. Surely you have no thought to take the child of your own force from me?"

Mr. Bill Hen gasped again. "Look here!" he broke out at last. "What kind of man are you, anyway? you aint no kind that we're used to in these parts, so now I tell you! When a man hears what is law in this part of the world, he gives in, as is right and proper, to that law and that--and--and in short to them sentiments. Are you going to stand out against the law, and keep that child? and who give you a right to do for that child? I suppose I can ask that question, if you are a grandee, or whatever you are. Who give you a right, I ask?"

"Who shall say?" replied the Skipper. "Perhaps--" He said no more, but raised his hand with a gesture that was solemn enough; and Mr. Bill Hen Pike decided that he was beyond doubt a madman. But now the Skipper dropped his tone and att.i.tude of smiling ease, and, throwing away his cigar, stood upright. "Enough, Senor!" he said. "You are a good man, but you have not the courage. Now, you shall see Colorado." He turned toward the cabin and called: "Colorado, my son, come to me!" Then, after a pause, "He sleeps yet. Rento, bring to me the child!" Rento, who had been hovering near, lending a careful ear to all that was said, now vanished, and reappeared, bearing the boy John in his arms. The child was but newly awake, and was still rubbing his eyes and looking about him in bewilderment.

"Colorado, the Senor Pike, already well known to you!" said the Skipper, with a graceful wave of the hand. "Your guardian, the old gentleman Sc.r.a.per, desires of our company at breakfast. How then, son of mine?

Shall we go, or shall I keep you here, and bid Sir Sc.r.a.per find his way to the devil, which will be for him little difficult?" He smiled on the boy, and took his hand with a caressing gesture.

Little John heaved a great sigh, and the cares of the world floated from him like a summer cloud. "Oh, I knew it!" he cried, smiling joyously up into his friend's face. "I knew it all the time, or almost all! You never meant anything but fun, did you? and we will go back, won't we? And we shall feel all right inside, and things will not sit--I--I mean nothing will feel bad any more. I--I can't say all I mean," he added, rather lamely, "because I had thoughts in the night; but we will go now, you and I, you and I!"

As they approached the gate, John stopped a moment, and looked up at his companion. "Would you mind holding my hand?" he asked. "I am all right in my mind, but I think I am rather queer in my legs; I think I should feel better if I held the hand of--of somebody who wasn't little, or--or weak."

Oh, the strong, cordial pressure of the big, brown hand! how it sent warmth and cheer and courage through the little quivering frame! John was all right in his mind, as he said, but his body felt already the stinging blows of the cane, his ears rang already with the burning words of rage and spite.

"But it is the inside that matters!" said John, aloud; and he shut his eyes and went into the house.

"Good-morning, gentleman," the Skipper began, always at his courteous ease.

"I have to ask your forgiveness, that I carry off yesterday our young friend here. You were not at house, I desired greatly of his company; I have the ways of the sea, waiting not too long for the things I like; briefly, I take him away. That I bear the blame of this is my desire.

And now, shall we pleasantly converse, ha?"

He seated himself, drew the boy between his knees, and looked Mr.

Sc.r.a.per squarely in the eyes. Now, Mr. Sc.r.a.per did not like to be looked at in this manner; he s.h.i.+fted on his chair, and his mouth, which had been opened to pour out a flood of angry speech, closed with a spiteful snap, and then opened, and then closed again.

The Skipper observed these fish-like snappings with grave attention. At length,--

"Who are you, I should like to know?" the old man cried in an angry twitter.

"Why in--why do you come meddling here, and carrying off boys from their lawful guardeens, and talking folderol, and raising Ned generally? I've seen skippers before, but I never heered of no such actions as these, never in my days! Why, no one here so much as knows your name; and here you seem to own the hull village, all of a sudden. You, John," he added, with a savage snarl, "you go about your business, and I'll see to you afterwards. I reckon you won't go out again without leave for one while!"

The child started obediently, but the strong hand held him fast.

"Quiet, Colorado," said the Skipper. "Quiet, my son! Time enough for the work, plenty time! I desire you here now, see you." Then he turned once more to the old man.

"You have, I already say, a beautiful name, Sir Sc.r.a.per," he said with cheerful interest. "Endymion! a fine name, truly--of poetry, of moonlight and beauty; you have had great joy of that name, I cannot doubt?"

"What's my name to you, I should like to know?" retorted Mr. Sc.r.a.per, with acrimony. "This aint the first time you've took up my name, and I'll thank you to leave it alone! You let go that boy, or I'll let you know more 'n you knew before."

"Perfectly!" said the Skipper. "Attend but a moment, dear sir. Let us pursue for a moment thoughts of poetry! Such a name as Endymion proves a poetic fancy in the giver of it; at a guess, this was your lady mother, now probably with the saints, and if others so fortunate as to belong to your family, surely this excellent lady would have given to them, also, names of soul, of poetry! If there was a sister, for example, would she be named Susan? No! Jane? Never! Find me then a name! Come! at a venture. Zen.o.bia? Aha! what say you?"