The Cruise of the Shining Light - Norman Duncan (phonics reading books txt) 📗

Hossie rejoiced in its escape. I wondered if it continued in pitiable age or had returned to youth--to strength for action and wish for love. I wondered, with the passionate curiosity of a lad, as I watched the procession of simple folk disperse, far off, to supper and to the kisses of children, if the spirit of old Tom Hossie had rather sail the seas he had sailed and love the maids of our land or dwell in the brightest glory painted for us by the prophets. I could, then, being a lad, conceive no happier world than that in which I moved, no joy aside from its people and sea and sunlight, no rest apart from the mortal love of Judith; but, now, grown older, I fancy that the spirit of old Tom Hossie, wise with age and vastly weary of the labor and troublous delights of life, hungered and thirsted for death.

The church bell broke upon this morbid meditation.

"Hark!" says Moses. "'Tis the first bell."

'Twas a melodious call to worship--throbbing sweetly across the placid water of our harbor, beating on, liquidly vibrant, to rouse the resting hills of Twin Islands.

"You'll be off, Moses?"

"Ay," says he; "for mother always 'lowed 'twas good for a man t' go t' church, an' I couldn't do nothin', Dannie, that mother wouldn't like. I seem, lad, t' hear her callin', in that bell. 'Come--dear!' says she, 'Come--dear! Come--dear!' Tis like she used t' call me from the door. 'Come, dear,' says she; 'you'll never be hurt,' says she, 'when you're within with me.' So I 'low I'll go t' church, Dannie, where mother would have me be. 'You don't _need_ t' leave the parson scare you, Moses,' says she; 'all you got t' do, dear,' says she, 'is t' remember that your mother loves you. You're so easy to scare, poor lad!' says she; 'but never forget _that_' says she, 'an' you'll never be feared o' God. In fair weather,' says she, 'a man may need no Hand t' guide un; but in times o' trouble,' says she, 'he've jus' got t' have a God. I found that out,' says she, 'jus' afore you was born an' jus' after I knowed you was a fool. So I 'low, Moses,' says she, 'you'd best go t' church an' make friends with God, for then,' says she, 'you'll not feel mean t' call upon Him when the evil days comes. In times o' trouble,' says mother, 'a man jus' can't help singin' out for aid. An' 'tis a mean, poor man,' says she, 'that goes beggin' to a Stranger.' Hark t' the bell, Dannie! Does you not hear it? Does you not hear it call the folk t' come?"

'Twas still ringing its tender invitation.

"'Tis jus' like the voice o' mother," said the fool of Twist Tickle. "Like when she used t' call me from the door. 'Come, dear!' says she. Hark, Dannie! Hear her voice? 'Come--dear! Come--dear! Come--dear!'"

God help me! but I heard no voice....

* * * * *


Well, now, my uncle was in no genial humor while the work on the _Shining Light_ was under way: for from our house, at twilight, when he paced the gravelled path, he could spy the punts come in from the grounds, gunwale laden, every one. 'Twas a poor lookout, said he, for a man with thirty quintal in his stage and the season passing; and he would, by lamplight, with many sighs and much impatient fuming, overhaul his accounts, as he said. 'Tis a mystery to me to this day how he managed it. I've no inkling of the system--nor capacity to guess it out. 'Twas all done with six round tin boxes and many sorts of shot; and he would drop a shot here and drop a shot there, and empty a box and fill one, and withdraw shot from the bags to drop in the boxes, and pick shot from the boxes to stow away in the bags, all being done in noisy exasperation, which would give way, presently, to despair, whereupon he would revive, drop shot with renewed vigor, counting aloud, the while, upon his seven fingers, until, in the end, he would come out of the engagement grimly triumphant. When, however, the _Shining Light_ was ready for sea, with but an anchor to ship for flight, he cast his accounts for the last time, and returned to his accustomed composure and gentle manner with us all.

I lingered with him over his liquor that night; and I marked, when I moved his lamp near, that he was older than he had been.

"You're all wore out, sir," said I.

"No, Dannie," he answered; "but I'm troubled."

I put his glass within reach. For a long time he disregarded it: but sat disconsolate, staring vacantly at the floor, fallen into some hopeless muse. I turned away; and in a moment, when I looked again, I found his eyes bent upon me, as if in anxious appraisement of my quality.

"Ye _will_ stand by," he cried, "will ye not?"

"I will!" I swore, in instant response.

"Whatever comes t' your knowledge?"

"Whatever comes!"

He held his glass aloft--laughed in delighted defiance--tossed off the liquor. "Ecod!" cries he, most heartily; "'tis you an' me, ol' shipmate, ag'in the world! Twelve year ago," says he, "since you an' me got under way on this here little cruise in the _Shining Light_. 'Twas you an' me then. 'Tis you an' me now. 'Twill be you an' me t' the end o' the v'y'ge. Here's t' fair winds or foul! Here's t' the ship an' the crew! Here's t' you an' here's t' me! Here's t' harbor for our souls!"

'Twas inspiring. I had never known the like to come from my uncle. 'Twas a thrilling toast. I wished I had a glass.

"For it may be, lad," says my uncle, "that we'll have t' put t' sea!"

But for many a month thereafter the _Shining Light_ lay at anchor where then she swung. No brass buttons came ashore from the mail-boat: no gray stranger intruded upon our peace. Life flowed quietly in new courses: in new courses, to be sure, with Judith and John Cather come into our house, but still serenely, as of old. The _Shining Light_ rose and fell, day by day, with the tides of that summer, kept ready for our flight. In the end, she put to sea; but 'twas not in the way my uncle had foreseen. 'Twas not in flight; 'twas in pursuit. 'Twas a thing infinitely more anxious and momentous. 'Twas a thing that meant much more than life or death. In these distant days--from my chair, here, in our old house--by the window of my room--I look out upon the water of Old Wives' Cove, whence the _Shining Light_ has for many years been missing; and I remember the time she slipped her anchor and ran to sea with the night coming down and a gale of wind blowing lustily up from the gray northeast.


XVI

GREEN PASTURES: AN INTERLUDE

In all this time Judith dwelt with us by the Lost Soul. When my uncle fetched her from Whisper Cove, he gravely gave her into the care of our maid-servant, long ago widowed by the sea, who had gone childless all her life, and was now come to the desolate years, when she would sit alone and wistful at twilight, staring out into the empty world, where only hopelessly deepening shadows were, until 'twas long past time to light the lamp. In the child that was I she had found no ease or recompense, because of the mystery concerning me, which in its implication of wickedness revolted her, and because of my uncle's regulation of her demeanor in my presence, which tolerated no affectionate display; but when Judith came, orphaned and ill-nourished, the woman sat no longer in moods at evening, but busied herself in motherly service of the child, reawakened in the spirit. 'Twas thus to a watchful, willing guardianship, most tenderly maternal in solicitude and self-sacrifice, that Judith was brought by wise old Nick Top of Twist Tickle.

My uncle would have no misunderstanding.

"Uncle Nick," says I, "you'll be havin' a chair set for Judy in the cabin?"

"No, lad," he answered; "not for little Judy."

I expostulated most vigorously.

"Dannie, lad," said he, with a gravity that left me no stomach for argument, "the maid goes steerage along o' me. This here little matter o' Judy," he added, gently, "belongs t' me. I'm not makin' a lady o' she. She haves nothin' t' do--nothin' t' do, thank God!--with what's gone afore."

There was no word to say.

"An ye're wantin' t' have Judy t' dinner, by times," he continued, winking a genial understanding of my love-lorn condition, "I 'low it might be managed by a clever hand."

I asked him the way.

"Slug-shot," says he.

'Twas the merest hint.

"Remove," says he, darkly, "one slug-shot from the box with the star, an' drop it," says he, his left eye closed again, "in the box with the cross."

And there I had it!

* * * * *


You must know that by my uncle's severe direction I must never fail to appear at table in the evening save in the perfection of cleanliness as to face and hands and nails and teeth. "For what," says he, "have Skipper Chesterfield t' say on that p'int--underlined by Sir Harry? Volume II., page 24. A list o' the ornamental accomplishments. '_T' be extremely clean in your person._' There you haves it--underlined by Sir Harry!" He would examine me keenly, every nail and tooth of me, accepting neither excuse nor apology, and would never sit with me until I had passed inspection. In the beginning, 'twas my uncle's hand, laid upon me in virtuous chastisement, that persuaded me of the propriety of this genteel conduct; but presently, when I was grown used to the thing, 'twas fair impossible for me to approach the meat, in times of peace with place and weather, confronting no peril, hardship, laborious need, or discomfort, before this particular ornamental accomplishment had been indubitably achieved with satisfaction to my uncle and to myself.

My uncle had, moreover, righteously compelled, with precisely similar tactics as to the employment of his right hand, an attire in harmony with the cleanliness of my person. "For what," says he, "have bully ol' Skipper Chesterfield t' say on that there little p'int? What have that there fashionable ol' gentleman t' hold--underlined by Sir Harry? Volume II, page 24. 'A list o' the ornamental accomplishments (without which no man livin' can either please or rise in the world), which hitherto I fear ye wants,'" quotes he, most glibly, "'an' which only require your care an' attention t' possess.' Volume II., page 24. '_An' perfeckly well dressed, accordin' t' the fashion, be that what it will._' There you haves it," says he, "an' underlined by Sir Harry hisself!" 'Twas a boresome thing, to be sure, as a lad of eleven, to come from boyish occupations to this maidenly concern for appearances: but now, when I am