"The winds and the waves of ocean,
Had they a merry time?
Didst thou hear from those lofty chambers
The harp and the minstrel's rhyme?
"The winds and the waves of ocean,
They rested quietly;
But I heard on the gale a sound of wail,
And tears came to mine eye."
Longfellow.
Scene: A prettily-furnished room in a building that forms part and
parcel of a lighthouse, on a small lonely island on the coast. The
island is little else save a sea-girt rock, though on one green side of
it some sheep are grazing. Effie and Leonard standing by the window,
gazing silently and somewhat sadly over the sea.
Effie (_speaks_). "It is nearly a month, Leonard, since Captain Bland
sailed away and left us here. I wonder if he will ever, ever come
back."
_Leonard_. "Oh! I am quite sure he will, unless--"
_Effie_. "Yes, unless his ship is wrecked, and he is drowned, and poor
papa never, never knows where we are."
_Leonard_ (laughing). "Why, Eff, what a long face you pull! It is
always `ever ever' or `never never' with you. Now I dreamt last night
he would return in a week, and I'm sure he'll come. No use looking out
of the window any longer to-night, Eff. The sun is just going down, and
the sea-birds are all going to roost in the cliffs beneath the window.
And it is time for the great lamps to be lit. Come on, Eff; let us go
up with old Grindlay."
Effie checked a sigh, cut it in two, as it were, and turned it into a
laugh, and next minute both were out on the grass among the sheep, and
gazing up at the whitewashed tower, which seemed so very tall to them.
"Ahoy-oy-oy!" sang Leonard, with one hand to his mouth in true sailor
fashion. "Are you up there, old shipmate?"
"Ay, lad, ay," a cheery voice returned. "Come up and bring missie."
They were pattering up the stone stairs next minute, and soon arrived
panting and breathless at the lamp room.
Old Grindlay was there, and had already lit up, and by-and-bye, when
darkness fell, the gleam from the great lamps would shine far over the
sea, and be seen perhaps by many a ship homeward bound from distant
lands. It was very still and quiet up here, only the wind sighing round
the roof, the occasional shriek and mournful scream of some sea-bird,
and the boom of the dark waters breaking lazily on the rocks beneath.
Old Grindlay sat on a little stool waiting for his son to come and keep
watch, the two men, with old Grindlay's "old woman," as he called his
wife, being all that dwelt on the island, and no boats ever visited it
except about once a month.
Old Grindlay was kindly-hearted, but terribly ugly. As he sat there
winking and blinking at the light, he looked more like a gnome than a
human being. His son's step was heard on the stone stairs at last, and,
preceded by a cloud of tobacco smoke, he presently appeared. He was a
far more cheerful-looking being than his father, but Leonard and Effie
liked the latter better.
"Come, my dears," said the little gnome, "let us toddle."
"Keep the lights bright, Harry lad; I think it's going to blow."
Down the long stairs they went, and away into the house. The supper was
laid in the old-fashioned kitchen, and cheerful it looked; for though it
was July a bit of fire was burning on the hearth. It was wreckage they
used for fuel here, and every bit of wood could have told a sorrowful,
perhaps even tragic story, had it been able to speak.
"Something tells me, children," said old Mrs Grindlay, as she cleared
away the remains of the supper, "that you will not be long here. Hark
to the sound of the rising wind! God save all at sea to-night!"
"Amen," said the gnome.
"Amen," said Leonard and Effie in one breath.
"Gather close round the fire now, children, and let us feel thankful to
the Great Father that we are well and safe."
The old woman began knitting as she spoke, the gnome replenished the
fire with a few more pieces of wreck to drive the cold sea air out of
the chimney. Then he lit his pipe, and sat down in his favourite
corner.
After a pause, during which nothing was heard but the roar of the rising
wind and the solemn boom of the waves, and the steady tick of an old
clock that wagged the time away in a corner,--
"Why," said Effie, "do you think we'll soon go?"
"I cannot tell you," replied the old lady, and her stocking wires
clicked faster and faster. "We folks who live for years and years in
the midst of the sea, have warnings of coming events that shore folks
could never understand. But the house won't seem the same, Effie, when
you and Leonard are gone away--heigho!"
"Well," said Effie, "I'll be so sorry to go, and yet so glad."
"Tell us a story," said Leonard, "and change the subject. Hush! what
was that?"
A wild and mournful scream it was, and sounded close under the window.
"That is a cry we often hear," said the old lighthouse keeper, "always
before a storm, sometimes before a wreck. It's a bird, I suppose, or
maybe a mermaid. Do I believe in them? I do. I'll tell you a strange
dream I had once upon a time, though I don't think it could have been a
dream."