_THAT OPEN BOOK._
Toby Tolman, keeper of the light at Black Rocks, sat by the kitchen
stove in this lighthouse on the frothing, stony rim of the sea. He
liked the seclusion of this kitchen in the strong rock tower. He liked
to hear the steady beating of the clock--"tick, tick, tick, tick." He
liked the feeling, too, of the warm fire, and especially on this cool,
windy day. True it was August, but then the wind was blowing from the
north-west as if from an ice-floe up in Alaska, and the air was chilly.
As he glanced out of either of the two windows--the deep recessed
windows in the kitchen--he saw a cold, angry sea broken up into little
waves, each seeming to carry a white snow-flake of the size of the crest
of the wave. The distant ships, too, had a cold look, as if they also
were snowflakes.
"A cool day," thought the light-keeper; "and the fire feels good."
While he was in the kitchen Dave was up in the watch-room, hunting in
the little library for a history he meant to read, in accordance with a
plan suggested by the keeper, "a little every day, and to keep at it."
Mr. Tolman had a book in his lap--"The best book in the world," he said
to himself. It was his big-print Bible, and especially did he rejoice
in that sense of protection, its promises give on days like this, when
he heard the wind rushing and storming at the window, suggestive of the
wild tempests that might blow any hour.
Just this moment the keeper was not reading. He was thinking, and the
Bible was the occasion of his meditation about Dave Fletcher.
"I don't see Dave reading his Bible much," he said to himself; "and I
don't believe he cares very much about prayer--acts that way, at any
rate. I should like to help him; but how?"
He called Dave before his mind, this brown-haired, blue-eyed boy, with
his quiet manners and methods, but, as the keeper put it, "loaded with a
lot of grit."
"Yes, I should like to help that boy," continued the keeper in his
thoughts. "I would like to influence him to be a Christian; but how, I
wonder? He is one of that kind of self-reliant chaps you feel that he
had rather find out a thing himself than be told of it. He doesn't want
me, I know, to tell him all the time about his duty, and yet--yet--I
should like to influence him, and I wonder how?"
Of course, there was one's example first of all.
"Try to do what I can here," thought the keeper. "I might speak to him,
though I don't want to run the thing into the ground. Well, I shall be
guided."
The thought came to him, "Now there is a bit of a thing I can do which
certainly won't do harm."
The thought was just to leave his Bible open on the kitchen table.
"Perhaps he may see a verse," thought the keeper, "and it will set him
to thinking."
After that on the table would lie the keeper's Bible turned back to some
impressive chapter. Dave would have been uneasy if in contact with some
styles of religion, but such a kindly natured, sunny, generous, and
tolerant soul as Toby Tolman he could not find disagreeable. Toby's
religion was never obtrusive, never unpleasantly in the way of people;
though always prominent, out in open sight, it was the prominence of the
sunshine, of a bird's happy singing, of nature on a spring morning.
Dave felt it, but he was a silent lad over important subjects. He was
different from his sister Annie. If her soul were stirred by any
profound emotion, she must in some way give expression to it. Dave,
though, would look very serious and continue silent. His mother, who
knew him so well, said that Dave felt most when he said the least, and
the hours of his greatest stillness were to her the surest signs of an
intense activity within.
"Dave is fullest when he seems to be emptiest," Mrs. Fletcher would say.
Because now-a-days at the light he would often have long seasons of
silence, was it any sign of mental occupation?
"I don't think I understand that boy yet," was Toby Tolman's thought.
"He is thinking about something, I know."
It was a day near the close of Dave's stay at the lighthouse that the
keeper said in the morning,--"Beautiful day! Everything just as calm!
It seems as if it would stay so always, but it won't."
How the sea might rock and roar in twenty-four hours! The lighthouse
was very peaceful. The morning's work was despatched promptly, and the
tower was very quiet. With any rocking, roaring sea would come a change
in the life of the tower. There would be hurrying feet, and the
fog-signal would shriek out its sharp, piercing warning.
The flow of life in nature, though, out on the sea, up in the sky, was
undisturbed all that day, and in the tower of the fog-signal the
machinery stirred not, while the light breeze playing around the mouth
of the fog-trumpets aroused no answering blast. It was peaceful on the
sea and in the tower. And yet in the light-keeper's own bosom it seemed
that afternoon as if an ocean tempest had been evoked and was suddenly
raging. About three Dave, who chanced to be in the storeroom of the
tower, heard a voice outside.
"There's some one down at the foot of the ladder," thought Dave. "I
will see who it is."
He went to the door of the signal-tower and looked down.
"Ho! that you, Timothy? Coming back?" said Dave.
Down in a boat lightly resting on the smooth, glassy water was Toby
Tolman's assistant, Timothy Waters. Dave knew that Timothy was coming
back very soon, and he thought that Timothy might have concluded to
anticipate the date appointed for his return and resume work now.
"Not just yet," replied Timothy. "Get the cap'n soon as you can. I
won't come up. Spry, please."
The keeper was quickly at the door.
"What's wanted, Timothy? Coming up, are you not?"
"Wish I could, cap'n, but I want to take you to town. Your--is--very--"
The sea heaved just then sufficiently to disturb the speaker's balance
and also to interfere with his message. There he stood, trying to
steady himself by the help of the mooring-rope and then looking up
again.
"What? who?" asked the keeper.
"Why, your granddarter May, cap'n," replied Timothy. "She is very sick.
They don't know that she will live. She has been begging to see you,
and if you could come a few hours I will get you back again all right
afterwards."
"I will be with you right off." The keeper turned to Dave: "You heard
that. It's ugly news. Now if I go, can't you light up and watch till
half-past eight? I'll be back, sure. Don't worry. It will be a quiet
night; no sign just yet of any change in the weather."
"Oh yes, Mr. Tolman; that is all right. You go. I would if I were you.
I will look after things. I can handle them."
"I think you can; and I shall be obleeged to you. My, my! this is
sudden. Wasn't looking for May's sickness."
He was quickly in the boat with Timothy Waters; and then Dave watched
the two men pulling stoutly on their oars and making quick progress
landward. The boat turned the corner of a bluff projecting into the
harbour and disappeared. Dave stepped back into the lighthouse, and sat
down beside the kitchen stove. It was very peaceful there. The clock
ticked as usual on the wall; and on the table, lying open, as if laid
down a moment ago by the keeper, was his Bible. Dave glanced at the
opened pages a moment. As his eyes slipped down the line of verses he
noticed such assurances as these:--
"He that dwelleth in the secret place of the Most High shall abide under
the shadow of the Almighty.... Thou shalt not be afraid for the terror
by night.... For he shall give his angels charge over thee, to keep thee
in all thy ways. They shall bear thee up in their hands, lest thou dash
thy foot against a stone."
He lingered a moment looking at these passages, and then turned away.
"I will go upstairs," he said, "into the lantern, and make sure that
everything is ready for the lighting at sunset. That's sudden about May
Tolman," he began to reflect. "Why, I seem to see her going up and down
these stairs the day she was here, so full of life."
He could hear her voice; he could see her black, glowing eyes, that had
a peculiar fascination for Dave.
"Sorry," he said. "That's real sudden. Things do happen quick in this
life sometimes."
Dave felt unusually sober that day. If he had told all his thoughts to
any one, he would have confessed to a singular soberness of feeling for
some time.
He had been shut up for several weeks with a man whose religion, without
any pretence, any show, and any peculiarities, controlled his life, and
came prominently to the surface in everything. Dave felt his sister's
religious influence at home; but there were influences interfering with
it and partly neutralizing it. Dave Fletcher's mother was too busy, she
assured herself, to attend to religion; and Dave's father declared--also
to himself--that he did not "feel the need of it." "I am as good as my
neighbours; and I guess that will do," he said. He quoted in his
thoughts Dave's lack of interest, saying, "There is Dave, good boy; and
he takes his father's view of things."
But here at the lighthouse Dave declared that he was "cornered." Here
was a simple, humble, unselfish life living in communion with his
heavenly Father, bringing that presence down to that lonely tower in the
sea, and filling it, and surrounding the boy who was the light-keeper's
companion. No neutralizing associations here.
"It sets me to thinking," declared Dave, as he climbed the successive
stairways to the lantern the afternoon of the keeper's absence. "And
May Tolman's sickness--that is sudden. Nothing is certain. Well, we
must just look after matters right around us. One can't give his
thoughts to all these possibilities of accident. I'll just remember
that I am a keeper of a lighthouse."
Keeper of a lighthouse! The moment he uttered this thought to himself
there settled down upon his shoulders a new and serious weight of
responsibility. He began to realize that for several hours he must carry
the burden of a keeper's duties. He must look after the fog-signal, if
a dusky veil of mist should suddenly be dropped from the sky and curtain
off both the sea and the land. If there should be any accident upon the
sea in the neighbourhood of the lighthouse, where the keeper might be
expected to give any aid, Dave must render that help. When night came,
or sunset rather, he must light the lamp in the lantern, and he must
watch it, and see that for the sake of the many vessels upon the sea
this light burned with steady lustre. Upon just a boy's shoulders how
heavy a care seemed to be pressing down!
"I can stand it," he said, in pride and confidence. The very pressure of
the responsibility aroused within him a corresponding measure of
strength. However, it did not lessen the shadow of that sober thinking
in which he often walked nowadays.
"I'll take that history I am reading," he said on his return from the
lantern, "and get over a good number of pages to-day."
He read until supper-time, but somehow his thoughts did not seem to stay
on his book. They were like birds on the telegraph wires along the
railroad track--flying off and then alighting again, only to lift their
wings and beat the air in another flight.
"A long afternoon!" he said finally, laying down his book. "I am glad
it is tea-time."
How lonely the kitchen began to seem! The rattle of his knife and fork,
the clink of his spoon, the occasional clatter of dishes, usually such
pleasant sounds to a hungry man, now sounded lonely and harsh.
"Don't like eating by myself," declared Dave. "Glad tea is over. Wonder
when Mr. Tolman will be here?" He looked at the clock and said, "I
believe he thought he should be back by half-past eight. I wonder how
May Tolman is getting along. Poor girl!"
The sun seemed that night a longer time than usual in setting, as if it
were an invalid, and there must be a very deliberate and lengthy
bundling up in yellow blankets.
"At last the sun is about going down," said Dave. He was now up in the
lantern, match in hand. He looked off through the broad windows of
glass upon the surface of the sea, growing calmer and more shining in
the west; but in the east its lustre had faded out, and there was a
great expanse of dull, heavy, lead-like shades. Two fishing-boats were
creeping into harbour. The surf on the bar rolled lazily, as if it
would like to go to sleep, even as the sun. A schooner was creeping
along the channel, its sails hanging in loose, flapping folds.
"There goes the sun!" thought Dave, watching the disappearance of the
last embers of its fires below a blue hill. He turned with relief to
the lamp, removed its chimney, kindled its wick, replaced the chimney,
and then carefully adjusted the flame.
"There--that is done! Now do your duty, and burn all right," was Dave's
direction. Rising, he looked away, and saw that in other lighthouses
their keepers had kindled guiding tapers, burning slender and silvery in
the still lingering daylight.
"Everything here is all right, I believe," said Dave, looking about the
lantern. "Holloa! what is that up there in the corner? A cobweb?
Guess I must take it down. Don't want the window to have that thing up
there. Can't reach it. I will get a little box down in the watch-room.
That will elevate me."
When he had brought the box, standing on it he saw that the web was on
the outside of the lantern, and he went without to remove the film from
the glass.
"There!" he said, reaching up to the corner of the window as he stood on
the box. "Come down here. Don't have cobwebs on the windows of this
lantern."
He now turned about, and chanced to face the tall red pipes projecting
from the roof of the signal-tower with their trumpet-shaped mouths.
"Is one of those pipes damaged?" wondered Dave. "Afraid so. I must take
a sharper look at that."
At the foot of the railing of the parapet he placed the box, and from
that elevation, leaning his arms on the railing, inspected as closely as
he could the fog-signal. This parapet for timorous people was an ugly
spot. When the wind blew hard it was not easy to maintain one's footing
outside the lantern. One could cling to the railing, which was firm, but
it consisted only of an iron bar resting on upright iron rods three feet
apart. There was no danger of a fence-break, but the gaps between the
iron rods were wide and ugly, and if one should chance to drop on the
smooth stone floor and just tip a little--over--toward--the--edge--ugh!
One did not like to think of that fall down--down--into the sea--perhaps
upon the Black Rocks when the tide was out. Toby Tolman had told Dave
that for a long time he did not care to go near the rail about the
lantern and stand there a while, as it made him "nervous;' but he had
ceased to be a "land-lubber," and could now face, sailor-like in
confidence, any quarter of the sea and sky, just clinging to that little
rail. Dave had felt pleased with his steadiness of nerve when he found
he could look over that rail and then down upon the whirling sea without
very much trepidation.
"Shouldn't like to have a dizzy fit when I was looking over," he said.
"No danger, though."
He repeated this as he now stood on the box planted at the foot of one
of the iron supports of the rail, and continuing to rest his arms on the
rail, inspected closely, as already said, the fog-signal. Suddenly his
arms slipped, and over the horrible edge of that narrow little railing
he found himself going. Sometimes we compress years into moments
apparently. We go back, we go forward, we gather it all up into the
thought of a very brief now. But oh, how vivid!--like all the electric
force in a great mass of cloud concentrated in one dazzling, blinding
lightning-stroke. As Dave felt that his body was sliding over that rail,
he seemed to realize where he had been in the past. He thought of his
parents--his home--Uncle Ferguson at Shipton--how it was that he came to
the lighthouse, and then he seemed to realize vividly his situation
there in the lighthouse: that he was there as the responsible keeper
just then; that the safety of many vessels at sea all relied on the
thoroughness of his watch; and yet he was sliding over that rail, going
down toward the waves, the rocks--he dared not look toward them! He
could see only this one thing between him and death: beneath his hands
was an iron support of the railing. There was no other object he could
grasp for three feet on each side of him. It is true there was the
granite rim of this lantern-deck, so called sometimes, but he could not
grasp it. His hands would slide over it. Just that iron stanchion was
his hope, and as he was sinking down he convulsively clutched at it,
caught it, clung to it--shutting his eyes as if blinded. He dared not
look anywhere until he felt that his grasp was sure, and then he somehow
worked himself back, up, over the railing, and the whole of his body was
on the lantern-deck again. He crawled into the lantern, shut the door,
and threw himself on the floor weak as a baby.
"Horrible!" was his one word. There he lay thinking. What if he had
gone down into that yawning pit of the sea! When would they have found
his body? Horrible! horrible! When he was steady enough he slowly
crept down the stairs. He entered the kitchen. It had seemed as if
everything threatened to fall when he was in danger of going down into
the sea--lantern, watch-room, lighthouse--all into the merciless sea.
But here was the kitchen. No change here. It was so quiet, so restful.
A lamp burned on the table. The fire murmured in the stove. The clock
sang its cheerful little tune of a single note. And there was the old
light-keeper's Bible. It still lay open, its pages shining in the
lamp-light, and there were the promises of the psalm Dave had already
noticed. What did it say? "They shall bear thee up in their hands,
lest at any time thou dash thy foot against a stone."
Dave started. Up on the high lantern-deck had any mighty angel stepped
between him and death, lifting him back on the floor of stone? Who
could say it was not so? Dave sat down in a chair, and then bowed his
head and rested it on the table. Here was God, the kindest, dearest
being in the universe, Dave's great Father, from whose arms he had been
turning away, trying to avoid them; and now, up on the lofty parapet,
they had been held out, restraining him, saving him.
"Oh, I can't go on this way any longer," thought Dave. "And I _won't_,
either! If God will only have me--will only--"
He fell on his knees. What he whispered to God he never could recall.
He only knew that he felt very sorry that he had been neglecting
God--pushing away the arms reached out to him and feeling after him. He
murmured something about gratitude, something about forgiveness. Then
he was conscious of a surrender, of sliding down--not into a horrible
pit from the lighthouse parapet, but into arms tender yet strong, that
went about him, that bore him up, that held him. How long he stayed
there he knew not. Some time he arose, and went upstairs to see if the
lantern were all right. Its light burned steadily, vividly, hopefully.
He looked out on the lantern-deck. There was the box still on the floor.
With a shudder he took it in and went downstairs again. Then he prayed
once more, and said aloud the words, "They shall bear thee up in their
hands, lest at any time thou dash thy foot against a stone." He was so
thankful for this night's deliverance, so sorry for his forgetfulness of
God in the long past! He rose to read again. He heard a step at last
in the passage-way between the fog-signal tower and the lighthouse,--a
heavy, echoing step, now in the tank-room, then on the stairway to the
kitchen.
Dave sprang up to meet the keeper, and he held the lamp in the shadowy
stairway.
"Glad to see you, Mr. Tolman."
"Same to you. Here I am, all right, you see. Glad I went."
"How is May?"
"Better. Yes, thank God, she is better. There was a sudden change, and
the doctor has hope. She has been in a pretty hard place, but I think
she is out of it."
"Good! That's the way I feel myself."
"What!" The light-keeper looked at Dave for an explanation, but Dave
was silent. He could not tell everything at once, or even a little
to-night. The keeper went to the table, saying to himself, "He meant
May when he said that. Ah!" he thought, "my book is turned round.
Guess Dave has been reading this. Good! I thought he would get to it
some time."
That was a very peaceful night whose hush was on the great sea, on the
surf gently rolling along the bar, and in the lighthouse tower. The
deepest peace was in Dave Fletcher's soul.
Dave's stay at the lighthouse was exceedingly brief after this event in
his life.
"I am really sorry to have you go," said Toby Tolman the day that Dave
left. "I shall miss you. I will take you up to town, as Timothy has
come back."
Dave received his pay from Timothy, for whom he had acted as substitute,
and then with the keeper left the lighthouse.
The journey to Shipton over, Dave quickly walked to Uncle Ferguson's,
and was welcomed warmly.