A SEARCHING PARTY.
It was nearing midnight and the huge lamp in the tower above the cliff
was mechanically swinging in its great iron frame, hurling its beacon
rays far out to sea, slowly, rythmically turning. For a brief moment the
Outer Ledge was revealed, deserted and surf washed, then the almost even
roll of waves were illumined, their white crests flashing in the dazzle
of light, to be again engulfed in darkness. Slowly the lamp turned toward
the town, where the three lanterns, two red and one white, still burned
on the end of the wharf to guide a homeward belated fisherman, then the
little fleet of fishing boats and the cask-like buoy were for a moment
revealed. The summer colony of boarded-up cabins was next illumined; too
the low, rambling inn that would not be opened for many months; then
again the wide path of light swung out to sea and started once more on
its circling sweep that would continue until dawn.
It was the custom of Captain Ezra to waken at midnight to be sure that
the mechanism of the lamp was in perfect order. He was just descending
the spiral stairway after a visit of inspection when there came an
imperative pounding without.
Shags, sleeping outside of Rilla's door, heard it and leaped to his feet
with an ominous growl.
The girl, startled from slumber, sprang from her bed and dressed quickly.
She had often done this before when a crashing thunder storm had awakened
her, and she wanted to be on watch with her grand-dad. Her first
conscious thought had been that the expected equinoctial storms had come,
but when the knocking continued and a man's voice called, "Cap'n Ezra,
quick! Open the hatch," a new fear clutched at the heart of the girl.
Perhaps the summons had something to do with Gene Beavers, the lad from
the city. She had not been able the evening before to hail him from the
top of the cliff, but surely he could have kept warm if he wrapped well
in the sail cloth, and there had been food enough in the basket for two
days at least.
Muriel was soon hurrying down the short flight of stairs that led from
her small room above the kitchen. Her grand-dad had already flung the
door wide open and there Rilla saw several longshoremen in slickers and
sou'westers, who were carrying lanterns. Doctor Winslow was in the lead,
and his white, drawn face plainly told how great his anxiety had been.
"Lem, ol' pal, what's gone wrong?" Captain Ezra inquired. He drew the
physician, who had been a friend of his boyhood, into the kitchen, which
was still warm, as the fire in the stove had but recently died down and a
few embers were burning.
"Ez," Doctor Winslow began, when the men had entered and closed the door,
"have you seen a young boy, a chap about eighteen, sailing anywhere near
Windy Island today? You've heard me speak of Dan Beavers, who was a
college mate of mine. Well, this is his son. He came to Tunkett to try to
regain his strength after a serious illness. Truth is, he ought not to
have attempted to sail a boat alone. I wouldn't have permitted it if I
had been at home, but I had several calls to make across the marshes, and
when I go there I make a day of it."
The old sea captain was shaking his grizzled head as his friend talked.
"No, Lem," he replied when the other paused. "I reckon yer off'n yer
bearin's, I ain't sighted a city chap cruisin' 'round in these waters,
not since the colony closed, but, for onct, I wish I had, bein' as it's
some-un b'longin' to yo', mate."
A cry from Rilla caused them all to turn and look at her as she stood in
the open stair door. Running to Doctor Winslow, she caught his hand.
"Uncle Lem," she said, "I know where he is, if it's a lad named Gene
Beavers that yo're wantin'."
Then, seeing the inquiring expression on the face of Captain Ezra, she
hurried on to explain: "His boat was wrecked, Grand-dad, that's how he
come to be here, but I didn't dare to tell yo', yo're that sot agin city
chaps. I didn't do anythin' that yo' wouldn't want me to, Grand-dad. I
didn't go near the cave where he was, not once in all the afternoon. Yo'
know I didn't, for I stayed right with yo' a-mendin' the net."
"I figger yo' did the best yo' could, fust mate," the old man replied; "I
cal'late it's me that's bungled matters, makin' yo' skeered to come and
tell things straight out. But like's not we'll find the boy sleepin' in
the cave. Don't let's hang out distress signals till we're sure we're
goin' to sink." As he talked he put on his slicker and cap, as the night
wind was cold. Then, taking a lighted lantern, Cap'n Ezra, after bidding
Rilla to liven up the fire and put the kettle on, opened the door and led
the way to the top of the cliff. Making a trumpet of his hands, he
shouted: "Ho, there, down below! Yo're wanted up on deck."
Then they waited, listening, but the crashing of the surf was all that
they heard. One of the younger men who was used to scaling cliffs,
however steep, climbed down to the ledge and held his lantern so that the
small cave was illumined. After a moment's scrutiny he called up to the
anxious group: "Empty as an ol' clam shell. Nothin' in there but a box
an' a sail cloth that's spread out flat an' concealin' nobody."
When Muriel heard the men returning, she threw open the door and her
eager glance scanned the group, hoping to find among them her new friend,
Gene Beavers. "He wa'n't thar, fust mate," the old sea captain said
gloomily, "an' I figger it's all my fault for bein' so tarnal sot agin
city chaps. I reckoned, one bein' a scoundrel, they all was, like's not."
Then, turning to Doctor Winslow, he added with spirit: "Lem, we won't
give up yit. We'll throw out a drag net if need be. I'm goin' along,
wherever yo' cruise to. Rilly gal can tend to the light for a spell. I
couldn't rest easy if I wa'n't tryin' to help locate the lad. The heft of
this trouble comes from me being so tarnal sot about things."
The physician placed a hand on his friend's shoulder. "Look here, Ez," he
said, "neither you nor Rilla are to blame. The lad has not used good
judgment, but older men than he is have failed in that, now and then. You
mustn't come with us. A heavy fog is rolling in and you might be needed
any moment right here at the light. Some ship may send in a distress
signal and Rilla is only a little girl, after all, only fifteen, and we
mustn't ask her to assume so serious a responsibility."
While the physician was talking, the girl whom he had called "little" was
pouring the tea she had made into four heavy cups and one of these she
took to Doctor Winslow, saying, "Uncle Lem, drink this, please do, 'fore
you go out agin into the wet fog, an', too, thar's a cup for each of
you."
The men seemed glad for the warmth of the beverage and then, when the
cups had been drained, they started out, calling back that they would
swing the red lanterns in a circle three times from the end of the town
wharf if Gene Beavers was found that night.
When they were gone, Rilla removed her grandfather's slicker and he sank
down in his armchair and buried his face in his hands.
Muriel stood at his side, her arm about his neck, not knowing what to
say.
Reaching up, the old man clasped the girl's hand in his big brown one as
he said: "Rilly gal, I figger yer ma was right, arter all. 'Dad,' says
she, many's the time, 'it's hate that brings the sorrow an' trouble to
the world an' it's love that brings in the happiness.' Like's not my
little gal'd be livin' now if I'd tried seein' things _her_ way; if I'd
welcomed the man she wanted to marry, 'stead of hatin' him an' turnin'
him out. He went, when I tol' him to, an' he took my gal. I reckon it's
that same sort o' hate that's fetched this trouble to my ol' messmate,
Lem Winslow. I'm done wi' it, Rilly gal, done wi' hate, though I figger
mos' likely it's too late."
Muriel felt a hot tear splash on her hand. Pressing her fresh young cheek
against the leathery one, she implored, "Don' be talkin' that way! How's
it too late, Grand-dad? We'll begin all over, shall we, yo' an' me; we'll
begin lovin' and not hate anyone at all, shall we, Grand-dad?"
The old man did not reply, but he held the girl's hand in a tighter
clasp. Then rising and going to the window, he stood for a moment looking
out into the darkness, waiting until the circling light would reveal the
dory containing the three men.
"That fog is so tarnal thick, they're like to lose their bearin's an'
thar'd be no savin' 'em if they got drug into the surf at the pint."
Then, after a moment of intense thought, the old man whirled, his face
set with a new determination. "Rilly gal, I'm goin' to do it," he cried.
"I'd oughtn't to, but I'll take the chance." Then, noting the inquiring
expression of the girl's face, the old man explained: "I'm a-goin' to
hold the big lamp so 'twill shine steady toward town till they get into
port. The Outer Ledge'll have to stay dark for a spell. It's a big
chance. I'd ought not to take it, but, by giggers, I'm goin' to!"