"Jinny Lawless," says he. "Ol' Skipper Garge's youngest by the
third."
My glance was still inquiring.
"Ay, Dannie," he sighed; "she've declined."
"You've took a look," I inquired, "at the maids o' Long Bill Hodge o'
Sampson's Island?"
He nodded.
"An' they've--"
"_All_ declined," says he.
"Never you care, Moses," said I. "Looks or no looks, you'll find the
_Shining Light_ stand by when _she_ puts to sea."
"I'll not be aboard," says he.
"You're not so sure about that!" quoth I.
"I wouldn't ship," he drawled. "I'd never put t' sea on she: for
mother," he added, "wouldn't like t' run the risk."
"You dwell too much upon your mother," said I.
"She's all I got in the way o' women," he answered. "All I got,
Dannie--yet."
"But when you gets a wife--"
"Oh," he interrupted, "Mrs. Moses Shoos won't mind _mother_!"
"Still an' all," I gravely warned him, "'tis a foolish thing t' do."
"Well, Dannie," he drawled, in a way so plaintive that I found no
answer to his argument, "I _is_ a fool. I'm told so every day, by men
an' maids, wherever I goes; an' I jus' can't help _bein'_ foolish."
"God made you," said I.
"An' mother always 'lowed," said Moses, "that He knowed what He was up
to. An', Dannie," says he, "she always 'lowed, anyhow, that _she_ was
satisfied."
'Twas of a Sunday evening--upon the verge of twilight: with the light
of day still abroad, leaving the hills of Twin Islands clear-cut
against the blue sky, but falling aslant, casting long shadows. Came,
then, straggling from the graveyard in the valley by Thunder Head, the
folk of our harbor. 'Twas all over, it seemed; they had buried old Tom
Hossie. Moses and I sat together on the hill by Old Wives' Cove, in
the calm of the day and weather: there was no wind stirring--no drip
of oar to be heard, no noise of hammer, no laughter of children, no
cry or call of labor. They had buried old Tom Hossie, whom no peril of
that coast, savagely continuing through seventy years, had overcome or
daunted, but age had gently drawn away. I had watched them bear the
coffin by winding paths along the Tickle shore and up the hill,
stopping here to rest and there to rest, for the way was long; and
now, sitting in the yellow sunshine of that kind day, with the fool of
Twist Tickle for company, I watched them come again, their burden
deposited in the inevitable arms. I wondered if the spirit of old Tom
Hossie rejoiced in its escape. I wondered if it continued in pitiable
age or had returned to youth--to strength for action and wish for
love. I wondered, with the passionate curiosity of a lad, as I watched
the procession of simple folk disperse, far off, to supper and to the
kisses of children, if the spirit of old Tom Hossie had rather sail
the seas he had sailed and love the maids of our land or dwell in the
brightest glory painted for us by the prophets. I could, then, being a
lad, conceive no happier world than that in which I moved, no joy
aside from its people and sea and sunlight, no rest apart from the
mortal love of Judith; but, now, grown older, I fancy that the spirit
of old Tom Hossie, wise with age and vastly weary of the labor and
troublous delights of life, hungered and thirsted for death.
The church bell broke upon this morbid meditation.
"Hark!" says Moses. "'Tis the first bell."
'Twas a melodious call to worship--throbbing sweetly across the
placid water of our harbor, beating on, liquidly vibrant, to rouse the
resting hills of Twin Islands.
"You'll be off, Moses?"
"Ay," says he; "for mother always 'lowed 'twas good for a man t' go t'
church, an' I couldn't do nothin', Dannie, that mother wouldn't like.
I seem, lad, t' hear her callin', in that bell. 'Come--dear!' says
she, 'Come--dear! Come--dear!' Tis like she used t' call me from the
door. 'Come, dear,' says she; 'you'll never be hurt,' says she, 'when
you're within with me.' So I 'low I'll go t' church, Dannie, where
mother would have me be. 'You don't _need_ t' leave the parson scare
you, Moses,' says she; 'all you got t' do, dear,' says she, 'is t'
remember that your mother loves you. You're so easy to scare, poor
lad!' says she; 'but never forget _that_' says she, 'an' you'll never
be feared o' God. In fair weather,' says she, 'a man may need no Hand
t' guide un; but in times o' trouble,' says she, 'he've jus' got t'
have a God. I found that out,' says she, 'jus' afore you was born an'
jus' after I knowed you was a fool. So I 'low, Moses,' says she,
'you'd best go t' church an' make friends with God, for then,' says
she, 'you'll not feel mean t' call upon Him when the evil days comes.
In times o' trouble,' says mother, 'a man jus' can't help singin' out
for aid. An' 'tis a mean, poor man,' says she, 'that goes beggin' to a
Stranger.' Hark t' the bell, Dannie! Does you not hear it? Does you
not hear it call the folk t' come?"
'Twas still ringing its tender invitation.
"'Tis jus' like the voice o' mother," said the fool of Twist Tickle.
"Like when she used t' call me from the door. 'Come, dear!' says she.
Hark, Dannie! Hear her voice? 'Come--dear! Come--dear! Come--dear!'"
God help me! but I heard no voice....
* * * * *
Well, now, my uncle was in no genial humor while the work on the
_Shining Light_ was under way: for from our house, at twilight, when
he paced the gravelled path, he could spy the punts come in from the
grounds, gunwale laden, every one. 'Twas a poor lookout, said he, for
a man with thirty quintal in his stage and the season passing; and he
would, by lamplight, with many sighs and much impatient fuming,
overhaul his accounts, as he said. 'Tis a mystery to me to this day
how he managed it. I've no inkling of the system--nor capacity to
guess it out. 'Twas all done with six round tin boxes and many sorts
of shot; and he would drop a shot here and drop a shot there, and
empty a box and fill one, and withdraw shot from the bags to drop in
the boxes, and pick shot from the boxes to stow away in the bags, all
being done in noisy exasperation, which would give way, presently, to
despair, whereupon he would revive, drop shot with renewed vigor,
counting aloud, the while, upon his seven fingers, until, in the end,
he would come out of the engagement grimly triumphant. When, however,
the _Shining Light_ was ready for sea, with but an anchor to ship for
flight, he cast his accounts for the last time, and returned to his
accustomed composure and gentle manner with us all.
I lingered with him over his liquor that night; and I marked, when I
moved his lamp near, that he was older than he had been.
"You're all wore out, sir," said I.
"No, Dannie," he answered; "but I'm troubled."
I put his glass within reach. For a long time he disregarded it: but
sat disconsolate, staring vacantly at the floor, fallen into some
hopeless muse. I turned away; and in a moment, when I looked again, I
found his eyes bent upon me, as if in anxious appraisement of my
quality.
"Ye _will_ stand by," he cried, "will ye not?"
"I will!" I swore, in instant response.
"Whatever comes t' your knowledge?"
"Whatever comes!"
He held his glass aloft--laughed in delighted defiance--tossed off the
liquor. "Ecod!" cries he, most heartily; "'tis you an' me, ol'
shipmate, ag'in the world! Twelve year ago," says he, "since you an'
me got under way on this here little cruise in the _Shining Light_.
'Twas you an' me then. 'Tis you an' me now. 'Twill be you an' me t'
the end o' the v'y'ge. Here's t' fair winds or foul! Here's t' the
ship an' the crew! Here's t' you an' here's t' me! Here's t' harbor
for our souls!"
'Twas inspiring. I had never known the like to come from my uncle.
'Twas a thrilling toast. I wished I had a glass.
"For it may be, lad," says my uncle, "that we'll have t' put t' sea!"
But for many a month thereafter the _Shining Light_ lay at anchor
where then she swung. No brass buttons came ashore from the mail-boat:
no gray stranger intruded upon our peace. Life flowed quietly in new
courses: in new courses, to be sure, with Judith and John Cather come
into our house, but still serenely, as of old. The _Shining Light_
rose and fell, day by day, with the tides of that summer, kept ready
for our flight. In the end, she put to sea; but 'twas not in the way
my uncle had foreseen. 'Twas not in flight; 'twas in pursuit. 'Twas a
thing infinitely more anxious and momentous. 'Twas a thing that meant
much more than life or death. In these distant days--from my chair,
here, in our old house--by the window of my room--I look out upon the
water of Old Wives' Cove, whence the _Shining Light_ has for many
years been missing; and I remember the time she slipped her anchor and
ran to sea with the night coming down and a gale of wind blowing
lustily up from the gray northeast.