Quietly passed the days, the weeks, the months, in the lonely tower
on the rock fronting the Atlantic surge. Winter came, and folded it
in a white mantle, and decked it with frost-jewels. Like a pillar
of ice, the tower shone in the keen brilliance of the northern sun;
but within was always summer, the summer of perfect peace and
contentment. To the child Star, winter was always a season of great
delight; for Captain January had little to occupy him out-of-doors,
and could devote much of his time to her. So there were long,
delightful “jack-knife times,” as Star called them, when the Captain
sat fashioning all sorts of wonderful trifles with his magic knife,
the child sitting at his elbow and watching him with happy eyes. There
were “story times,” instituted years before, as soon as Star had
learned to sew on patchwork; for as for sewing _without_ a story to
listen to, “_that_,” said Star, “is against my nature, Daddy. And
you don't want me to do things that are against my nature, do you?”
So whenever the squares of gay calico came out, and the golden head
bent to and fro over them, like a paradise bird hovering over a bed
of gaudy flowers, the story came out, too, between puffs of the pipe,
while the fire crackled a cheery accompaniment, sputtering defiance
to the wind that whistled outside. Some tale of the southern seas,
and the wild tropic islands, of coral reefs and pearl-fisheries,
sharks and devil-fish; or else a whaling story, fresh and breezy as
the north, full of icebergs, and seal-hunts over the cracking floes,
polar bears, and all the wild delights of whale-fishing.
Then, on fine days (and oh, but the days are fine, in these glorious
northern winters!) there was much joy to be had out-of-doors. For
there was a spot in the little meadow,--once of gold-flecked emerald,
now of spotless pearl,--a spot where the ground “tilted,” to use
Star's expression, suddenly down to a tiny hollow, where a fairy
spring bubbled out of the rock into a fairy lake. In summer, Star
rather despised this lake, which was, truth to tell, only twenty feet
long and ten feet wide. It was very nice for Imogen to drink from
and to stand in on hot days, and it did many lovely things in the
way of reflecting blue skies and fleecy clouds and delicate traceries
of leaf and bough; but as water, it seemed a very trifling thing to
a child who had the whole sweep of the Atlantic to fill her eyes,
and who had the breakers for her playfellows and gossips.
But in winter, matters were different. All the laughing lips of
ripples, all the white tossing crests of waves, must content
themselves with the ice-bound rocks, till spring should bring them
their child-comrade again; and the little sheet of dark crystal in
the hollow of the meadow had things all its own way, and mirrored
back her bright face every day. The little red sled, launched at the
top of the “tilt,” came skimming down the slope, and shot like an
arrow over the smooth ice, kept always clear of snow by the Captain's
ever-busy hands; or else, when tired of coasting, the child would
plant her small feet wide apart, and slide, and run, and slide again,
till the pond could have cracked with pleasure, if such a thing had
been in accordance with its principles.
But of all the joyous hours, none was more welcome to the child than
that after the simple supper was cleared away and the room “redded
up.” Then, while fire and lamplight made their merriest cheer, the
table was drawn up to the warmest spot; Star took her place upon
Captain January's knee, and the two heads, the silver one and the
golden, bent in absorbed interest over “Willum Shakespeare” or the
Good Book.
Generally the Captain read aloud, but sometimes they read the parts
in turn; and again sometimes the child would break off, and recite
whole passages alone, with a fire and pathos which might have been
that of Maid Marjorie, swaying at her childish will the heart of Sir
Walter and his friends.
So quietly, in the unbroken peace which love brightened into joy,
the winter passed.
At Christmas, they had, as usual, a visit from the faithful Bob, who
brought all his many pockets full of candy and oranges and all manner
of “truck,” as he called it, for Missy Star. Also he brought a letter
and a box directed only to “Captain January's Star.” The letter, which
the child opened with wondering eagerness, being the first she had
ever received, was from Mrs. Morton. It was full of tender and loving
words, wishes for Christmas cheer and New Year blessing, and with
it was a photograph of the beautiful face, with its soft and tender
eyes, which Star remembered so well. On the back was written, “For
Little Star, from Aunt Isabel.” And the box? Why, that was quite as
wonderful in its way. For it contained a most beautiful pipe for the
Captain, of sweet brier-wood, mounted in silver; and oh! oh! such
a doll! Other children have seen such dolls, but Star never had; a
blue-eyed waxen beauty, with fringed lashes that opened and shut,
rose-leaf cheeks, and fabulous wealth of silky flaxen curls. Also
it had a blue velvet-frock, and its underclothing was a wonder to
behold; and the box was full of other frocks and garments.
Star took the doll in her arms with delighted awe, and seemed for
a few moments absorbed in her new treasure. Presently, however, a
shadow crossed her bright face. She glanced at Bob and the Captain,
and seeing that they were both engaged in busy talk, she quietly went
up to her own room, carrying the doll with her. Here she did a strange
thing. She crossed the room to the corner where Mrs. Neptune sat,
with her back rigid, protesting against circumstances, and set the
radiant stranger down beside her; then, with her hands clasped behind
her, and brows bent, she considered the pair long and attentively.
Truly they were a strange contrast: the delicate, glowing, velvet-clad
doll, and the battered old wooden image, with eyes of snail-shells
and hair of brown sea-moss. But when Star had finished her scrutiny,
she took the beautiful doll, and buried it deep under velvets and
satins at the very bottom of the great chest. This done, she kissed
Mrs. Neptune solemnly, and proceeded to adorn her with a gorgeous
Eastern scarf, the very gayest her treasure-house could afford.
Meanwhile, in the room below, the talk went on, grave and earnest.
Troubled it was, too, on one side; for though the Captain sat quietly
in his chair, and spoke in his usual cheerful voice, Bob Peet's rough
tones were harsh and broken, and he rose from his place once or twice
and moved uneasily about the room.
“Cap'n,” he said, “'tain't so. Don't tell me! Strong man--hearty--live
twenty years yet--like's not thirty! Uncle o' mine--Punksquid--hundred
and three--peart's chicken.”
Captain January puffed at his pipe in silence for some minutes. “Bob,”
he said, presently, “it ain't always as it's given to a man to know
his time. I've allers thought I should take it particular kind if
it 'corded with the Lord's views to let me know when He was ready
for me. And now that He _has_ let me know, and moreover has set my
mind that easy about the child that it's a pleasure to think of, why,
it ain't likely I shall take it anyway _but_ kind. Thankin' you all
the same, Bob, as have been a good mate to me, and as I sha'n't forget
wherever I am. But see now!” he added, hastily, hearing a sound in
the room above. “You understand, Bob; I h'ist that signal, as it might
be to-morrow, and I keep her flyin' night and day. And so long as
you see her flyin', you says, 'Cap'n's all right so far!' you says.
But you keep a sharp lookout; and if some mornin' you don't see her,
you says, 'Sailin' orders!' you says, and then you calls Cap'n Nazro,
as never failed in a kindness yet, nor ain't likely to, to take the
wheel, and you put for this island. And Cap'n Nazro he takes the
_Huntress_ in, and then goes straightway and sends a telegraft to
the lady and gentleman, sayin' as Cap'n January has sailin' orders,
and they please to come and take the child, as lawfully to them
belongs. And you, Bob,--” the old man's steady voice faltered a
little, as he laid his hand on the other's arm,--“you'll do all you
can, well I know. For she'll take it hard, ye see. She has that depth
o' love in her little heart, and never nobody _to_ love 'cept me since
she were a baby, that she'll take it cruel hard. But the Lord'll have
her in mind! He'll have her in mind! and you'll stand by, Bob, and
bear a hand till the lady and gentleman come.”
Bob Peet held out his honest brown hand, and the two men shook hands
with a certain solemnity; but before either of them could speak again,
Star came singing down the stairs, and summoned them both to play
at ball with oranges.
And so it came to pass that a little blue signal was hoisted at the
top of the white tower, and fluttered there bravely in sun and wind.
And every time the _Huntress_ went thundering by (which was twice
a week at this season instead of every day), Bob Peet looked out
anxiously from the wheel-house window, and seeing the little banner,
took cheer, and rubbed his hands and said, “Cap'n's all right so far!”
And Captain January, whenever there came the clutch and stab at his
heart, and the struggle for breath, which he had felt for the first
time that September day (but ah! how many times since, and with what
increasing persistence!) would creep to the stairway beside which
hung the signal lines, and lay his hand on them, and wait: then, when
the spasm passed, would pass his hand across his face and humbly say,
“Whenever it seems right, Lord! A step nearer! and Thou havin' the
child in mind,” and so go cheerfully about his work again.
There were not many more steps to take. Spring came, and the little
meadow was green again. Robins and bluebirds fluttered above the great
pine-tree, and swallows built their nests under the eaves of the tower
itself. The child Star sang with the birds, and danced with the
dancing leaves, all unconscious of what was coming; but the old
Captain's steps grew slower and heavier, day by day, and the cheery
voice grew feeble, and lost its hearty ring, though never its
cheeriness. “I'll set here in the porch, Jewel Bright,” he would say,
when the child begged him to come for a scramble on the rocks. “I
think I'll jest set here, where I can see ye an' hear to ye. I'm
gittin' lazy, Star Light; that's the truth. Yer old Daddy's gittin'
lazy, and it's comf'tabler settin' here in the sun, than scramblin'
round the rocks.”
And Star would fling herself on his neck, and scold and caress him,
and then go off with a half-sense of disappointment to her play. Very,
very careful Captain January had to be, lest the child should suspect
that which he was determined to keep from her to the last. Sometimes
he half thought she must suspect, so tender was she in these days;
so thoughtful, so mindful of his lightest wish. But “'tis only the
woman growin' up in her,” he decided; and looking back, he remembered
that she had not once broken his pipe (as she had been used to do
every three or four weeks, in her sudden rages) since last September.
At last there came a day when the Captain did not even go out to the
porch. It was a lovely May morning, bright and soft, with wreaths
of silvery fog floating up from the blue water, and much sweet sound
of singing birds and lapping waves in the air. Making some pretence
of work at his carpenter's bench, the old man sent Star out to loose
the cow and lead her to the water; and when she was gone, he tottered
to his old chair and sat down heavily. There was no pain now, only
a strange numbness, a creeping coldness, a ringing in the ears. If
it might “seem right” to let him wait till the _Huntress_ came by!
“It's nearly time,” he said, half aloud. “Nearly time, and 'twould
be easier for the child.”
At this moment, through the open doorway, came the silver sound of
Star's voice. “But I don't think there can be any harm in my just
telling you a little about it, Imogen. And the floor is the paved
work of a sapphire: sapphire is a stone, just like the water over
there, in the bluest place, and oh! so clear and bright, Daddy says.
He saw one once. And there will be most beautiful music, Imogen. Oh!
you can't think what lovely music Daddy Captain will play on a harp.
I know he will, 'cause he will be a spirit of just men made perfect:
and that will be a _great_ thing, Imogen; for he has never known how
to play on anything before: and--” Ah! the sweet, childish prattle!
but already it was growing faint upon the old man's ears.
“Star Bright!” he called; and the dancing shape came flying, and stood
on tiptoe in the doorway. Steady, now, January! keep your voice
steady, if there is any will left in you. Keep your head turned a
little away, lest there be any change in your face, yet not turned
enough to make her wonder. “Star Bright,” said Captain January, “it's
about--time--for the _Huntress_--to be along, isn't it?”
“Yes, Daddy,” said the child; “she's just in sight now. Shall I go
down and wave to Bob as he goes by?”
“Yes, Honeysuckle,” said the old man. “And--and wait to see if he
comes ashore. I think--likely--Bob'll come ashore to-day. He was goin'
to bring--somethin'--for me. Is there a squall comin' up, Jewel
Bright?”
“A squall, Daddy?” said the child, wondering. “Why, there isn't a
cloud in the sky.”
“Jes' so!” said Captain January. “I--only jist asked. Good-bye, Star
Bright.”
“Dear Daddy! Good-bye!” cried the child, and she sped away over the
rocks.
So dark! and not a cloud in the sky. If he might have looked once
more, with those fast-darkening eyes, at the little blessed face which
held all the world in it! if he could call her back now, and kiss
her once more, and hold her little hand--No! no! steady, January!
steady now, and stand by!
Quite dark now. But that does not matter. No need of light for what
is now to be done. Slowly the old man raises himself; feels for the
wall, creeps along beside it. Here is the line. Is there any strength
left in that benumbed arm? Yes! “For the child, dear Lord, and Thou
helpin' me, as ever has been!”
Down comes the signal, and the old man creeps back to his chair again,
and composes himself decently, with reverent, folded hands, and head
bowed in waiting. “'He holdeth the waters in the hollow of His hand.
Behold, He taketh up the isles as a very little thing.' Amen! so be
it!”
Wave, little Star! wave your little blue apron from the rocks, and
laugh and clap your hands for pleasure, as the ripples from the
steamer's bow break in snowy foam at your feet. Bend to your oar,
Bob Peet, and send your little black boat flying over the water as
she never flew before! and press on, friendly _Huntress_, to your
port, whence the winged message may speed on its way to the stately
lady with the tender eyes, who waits for tidings in her distant home.
For Captain January's last voyage is over, and he is already in the
haven where he would be.
THE END.