ERIE OF THE LIGHT-HOUSE
Through the summer night, Hinter, astride a rangy roan, rode the ten
mile trail that lay between the foot of Rond Eau and the light-house.
On his left the giant pines stood with sharp points clearly defined
against the starlight like the bayonet-fixed guns of a sleeping army;
to his right swept dwarf cedars and stunted oaks and beyond them the
bay marshes, with weaving fire-flies shimmering like star-dust close
above them.
It was a lonely trail but Hinter had ridden it often. He knew that
in the shadows lurked wild things which resented his intrusion of
their retreat; that later, when the night grew old, timber-wolves
would voice their protest, and fierce-eyed lynx, tufted ears flat and
fangs bared in hatred, would look down upon him from overhanging
branch of tree. But behind him stalked protection in the form of two
great dogs against which no wolf or cat had ever waged successful
warfare. Besides, there was the heavy "40-40" revolver in his belt.
"Two Great Danes and a 'bull-dog' should be protection enough for any
man," he would laugh to Landon, the light-house keeper, when the
latter shook his head doubtfully over Hinter's foolhardiness in
riding this lone night trail. And Landon, whose asthma made talking
difficult for him, would say no more, realizing that it was useless.
The light-house keeper, who lived with his daughter in a comfortable
house on the extreme end of the Point, had always been glad to
welcome Hinter to his isolated loneliness. With an invalid's
self-centeredness, he believed that it was to relieve the monotony of
his existence that this man paid him periodical visits. He did not
dream that his daughter, Erie, named after the lake, whose blue lay
deep in her eyes and whose moods were of herself a part, was the real
attraction which drew Hinter to their home. Indeed it would have
taken a much more astute observer than the man who had been keeper of
the light for more than thirty years to have observed this. Never by
look, word or sign had Hinter shown that in this slender,
golden-haired girl, whose laughter was the sweetest note in the
world--this girl who could trim a sail in biting gale and swim the
wide, deep channel when tempest angered it to clutching
under-currents--was more to him than just a glad, natural product of
her world. Always his manner towards her had been one of kindly
respect. In time she grew ashamed of the distrust she had on first
acquaintance intuitively felt for him. He was good to her father and
considerate of her. He talked interestingly of the big outside world
and described the cities he had visited. Her father liked him and
always looked forward to his visits, and with a sick man's petulance
grumbled if Hinter failed to come on his regular nights.
"He's a fine man, Erie," he would say to is daughter, "and well off,
too. I'd like to see you married to a man like Hinter before I go.
Ever since your Ma died, I've been worried about leavin' you behind."
"But I am going to marry Frank, Daddy," the girl would say softly.
"Hey? Oh, all right, all right. Stanhope's a fine youngster, but
poor, poor."
He would lapse into silence, sucking his pipe, and watching Erie
putting away the supper-dishes.
"He'll never find the Scroggie will," he would speak again. "He'll
always be poor."
"But, Daddy," the girl would laugh, "we love each other. We are
happy and real happiness is worth more than money, isn't it, dear?"
"Aye," he would answer. "Your mother and I were happy in that way.
But she was taken away and all I had in her place was heart
loneliness--but for you." Then she would kiss him softly and,
stealing about her household tasks, sing him to fitful sleep as she
moved quietly about the room.
Tonight as Hinter rode through the pine-scented gloom the light-house
keeper sat in his big chair beside the window that looked upon the
lake. Spent from a trying fit of coughing, his nerves crying for the
rest which was denied him, the sick man had gazed across to where the
shuttle of sunset was weaving its fabric of changing colors upon sky
and water. But he had not seen those glad lights; had not heard the
cries of the haven-seeking gulls or the soft plaintive notes of the
night birds from the Point forest. The lights had flashed and
departed unseen, the wild calls had been voiced and sunk to silence
unheard, because a tenderer light, which had belonged to this, his
own hour, had vanished; a sweeter song than even night birds could
voice had been stilled--the light in his Erie's eyes and the low
notes from her glad heart.
He knew why. She had told him. God, Destiny, Fate, had come between
her and the man she loved. The man had lost more than life in
playing the part of a man. He was blind! Behind him were only
memories that could not be buried. Before him only darkness,
bleakness, despair. And he had done an heroic thing in giving her
up. Helpless, powerless to support her, what else was there for him
to do? So, in his love for her, he had dug a grave and in it buried
Hope and all that God in His wise ordinance had allowed him to live
and feel. And they had kissed and parted, kneeling beside this
grave, cold lips to cold lips, broken heart to broken heart. It was
the kiss on the cross which each must carry.
So much had she told him, and the light had gone from her eyes, the
song from her lips.
The sick man sank lower in his chair, his face working, his heart
crying the same pleading cry as cried the heart of Rachel of old for
her children--a cry understood only by the heart in which it was
born--and God.
And so Hinter found him there before the window in the gloom, his
thin hands clutching the arms of his chair, his white face sunk on
his breast. "Landon, old friend, asleep?" he asked softly. No
answer. Hinter struck a match and lit the lamp on the table. Then
he touched the sleeper's arm; still he did not stir.
Alarmed, Hinter drew the big chair about so that the light would fall
on the sick man's face. Slowly Landon opened his eyes. He struggled
erect and attempted to speak, but a fit of coughing assailed him and
robbed him of breath.
From his pocket Hinter drew a flat bottle and poured a portion of its
contents into a glass. Gently raising the emaciated form to a more
comfortable position, he held the glass to the blue lips. Under the
stimulant of the brandy Landon rallied.
"Thanks," he whispered. Then, hospitality his first thought, he
motioned towards a chair. Hinter sat down.
"Worse than usual tonight, isn't it?" he asked in kindly tones.
"Yes, asthma's that way--eases off--then comes back--hits you
sudden." He glanced at the bottle. Hinter, understanding, poured
him out another portion.
"It seems to be the only thing that helps," gasped Landon as he
swallowed the draught.
Hinter nodded. "Not a bad medicine if rightly used," he said. He
filled his pipe, lit it, and passed the tobacco-pouch to Landon. He
was watching the door leading to the inner room.
"Erie out in her boat?" he asked, casually. "I don't hear her voice,
or her whistle."
"She's out on the bay," answered the father and lapsed again into
brooding silence.
Hinter waited. At length Landon roused from his musings. "My
heart's heavy for her," he said, "and heavy for the young man who
loves her. You've heard, of course. News of the like spreads
quickly."
"Yes, I've heard." Hinter rose abruptly and strode to the window
overlooking the bay. A full moon was lifting above the pines. In
its silvery track a tiny sail was beating harborward.
After a time he turned and walked back slowly to where the sick man
sat. "Mr. Landon," he said, gravely, "I love your daughter. With
your permission I would make her my wife. Wait," as the older man
attempted to speak. "Hear what I have to say. I have endeavored to
be honorable. Never by word or look have I given her to understand
what my feelings are toward her. For Stanhope, the man who was brave
and strong enough to give her up, I have always had the deepest
respect; and now, knowing the price he has paid, I honor him. He was
far more worthy of your daughter than I am. But now, as all is over
between them, I would do my best to make her happy."
"That I know well," spoke the father eagerly. "Ever since my clutch
on life has been weakenin' I've worried at the thought that perhaps I
may leave her unprovided for. You have lifted the load, my friend.
I will speak to Erie and place your proposal of marriage before her.
She's a good girl; she'll be guided by her father in the matter."
Hinter gravely thanked him. "I would advise that you say nothing for
a time," he said. "She is high-spirited, loyal to the core. She is
suffering. Time will assist us; we will wait. I shall visit you
oftener than heretofore, but until I think the moment expedient say
nothing to her."
A light step sounded on the gravel; the door opened and Erie entered.
She was dressed in white. The damp bay-breeze had kissed the golden
hair to shimmering life but there were shadows beneath the violet
eyes, a dreary pathos about the unsmiling mouth.
She placed a cold little hand in the eager one which Hinter extended
to her and her fleeting glance left him to fasten on the sick man in
the arm chair.
"Daddy," she cried, running over to kneel beside him. "It was
selfish of me to leave you alone."
"I've had our good friend Hinter for company, girlie," said her
father, stroking the damp curls.
Erie flashed their visitor a look of gratitude. "It is good of you
to come to him," she said. "He always looks forward to your visits,
and grows quite fretful if you are late." She smiled and patted the
father's hand. "The east wind's bad for the cough but tomorrow
you'll be as good as ever, won't you, Daddy?"
Landon did not reply. He simply pressed the girl's cold hand.
Hinter caught the look of suffering in her eyes as she arose and
passed into the outer room. When she returned she carried a heavy,
wicker-bound can.
"My lamps need filling," she explained. "No, please don't come," as
Hinter made to take the can from her, "I would rather you stayed with
him."
He bowed, and his eyes followed her from the room. "What a wonderful
creature she is," he thought.
"Hinton," Landon's weak voice broke in on his thoughts, "you haven't
given me the neighborhood news. Have they found out who robbed the
store yet?"
"No," answered Hinter, resuming his seat, "I believe not. Some were
disposed to think that the shoremen had a hand in the robbery but I
don't think so."
"Why don't you? The Sand-sharkers aren't above doin' it, are they?"
"Well, I don't say that they are. That job was not done by any
amateurs, though. The men who broke into Spencer's store were old
hands at the game. I was at the store and had a look over it. I've
seen the work of professional burglars before. These fellows made a
clean sweep and left not a single clew. Still, I made my own
deductions. I can't tell you more until I have proved my suspicions
correct. Hush!" he warned, "she's coming. I must be hitting the
trail for the Settlement."
As Hinter picked up his hat Erie entered and the light words he was
about to speak died on his lips at sight of the girl's stricken face.
"You are tired," he said, in deep concern. "The work of tending the
lights alone is too much for you. Why not let me send someone from
the Settlement to help you, at least until your father is strong
enough to take up his end of the work again?"
She shook her head. "The work is not hard and I love it," she
answered. "After the lights are lit I have nothing to do. Daddy's
asthma will not let him sleep, so he sits in his big chair all night
and keeps his eye on the light while I sleep. Then when the sun
sucks up the mists from bay and lake he is able to get his sleep.
So, you see," smiling bravely, "we get along splendidly."
Hinter held out his hand. "Well, good night, Miss Erie," he said.
"I'll be up again soon, with some books for you."
"But you mustn't go without having a cup of tea and a bite to eat,"
she protested. "Please sit down and I'll have it ready in a minute."
He shook his head. "Not tonight, thanks. You're tired, and I've a
long ride before me. Next time I come we'll have tea," he promised
as he turned to shake hands with Landon.
"Your guardians are with you I suppose?" said Erie, as he turned to
go.
He laughed, "Sphinx and Dexter, you mean? Yes, they are out in the
stable with my horse. By the way, they didn't see you last time we
were here, and they seemed to feel pretty badly about it. Would you
mind stepping outside and speaking a word to them?" he asked. "They
are very fond of you, you know."
She shivered. "And I'm very fond of them, only," she added as she
followed him to the door, "I never know whether they want to eat me
up or caress me."
"You won't forget to come back again soon, Hinter?" called the sick
man. "It does me a sight of good to see you and get the news from
the Settlement."
"I'll return soon," Hinter promised. "Don't worry about anything. A
speedy recovery--and good night."
A full moon was veiling lake and bay in sheen of silvery whiteness as
Hinter and Erie went out into the August night. Eastward the long
pine covered Point swept a dark line against the grey, shadowy
rush-lands. Somewhere among the hidden ponds mallards and grey ducks
were quacking contentedly as they fed. A swamp coon raised his
almost human cry as he crept the sandy shores in search of the frogs
whose tanging notes boomed from the boglands.
Man and girl paused for a little time on the strip of white sand to
drink in the beauty of the night and the sounds of its wild life.
Then Hinter stepped to the stable and opened the door. "Come boys,"
he commanded and the two great dogs came bounding out to leap upon
him with whines of welcome, then on to where the girl stood, waiting,
half eagerly, half frightened.
"Gently now," Hinter cautioned, and they threw themselves at her
feet, massive heads on outstretched paws, deep-set eyes raised to her
face. She bent and placed a hand on the head of each.
"Surely," she said, "they are not as ferocious as they are said to
be?"
Hinter knit his brows. "I'm afraid they are," he answered. "But my
friends are their friends, you see. There is only one other person
besides yourself and myself who can do what you are doing now,
though."
She looked up quickly. "And may I ask who that is?"
"Certainly; it's young Billy Wilson. You know--the lad who is always
roaming the woods."
"Yes," she said softly. "I know him perhaps better than most folks
do. I am not surprised that he can handle these dogs, Mr. Hinter."
He glanced at her closely, struck by the odd note in her voice. "He
seems a manly little chap," he said. "I must get to know him better."
"You may succeed," she replied, "but I'm afraid you would have to
know Billy a long time to know him well."
She bent and gave the dogs a farewell pat; then moved like the spirit
of the moonlight to the house. "Good night," she called softly from
the doorway.
"Good night," he echoed.
Five minutes later he was riding the two-mile strip of sand between
the light-house and the pines, the Great Danes close behind. When he
reached the timber he reined in to look back over his shoulder at the
tall white tower with its ever-sweeping, glowing eye. Then, with a
sigh, he rode forward and passed into the darkness of the trees.
Half way down the trail he dismounted and, after hitching his horse
to a tree and commanding his dogs to stand guard, plunged into the
thickly-growing pines on the right of the path.
Half an hour later he came out upon the lake shore. Quickly he
scraped together a pile of drift wood. He applied a match to it and
as fire leaped up stood frowning across the water. Then, as an
answering light flashed from some distance out in the lake, he sighed
in relief and seating himself on the sand lit his pipe. After a time
the sound of oars fell on his ears. A boat scraped on the beach.
Two men stepped from it and approached the fire.