"But look here," he went on, more cheerful. "As I was telling her just
now, a month from yesterday's our fourth anniversary, and I'm going to
take her ashore for the day and give her a holiday--new hat and
everything. A girl wants a mite of excitement now and then, Ray."
There it was again, that "girl." It gave me the fidgets, sir. I had to
do something about it. It's close quarters for last names in a light,
and I'd taken to calling him Uncle Matt soon after I came. Now, when I
was at table that noon I spoke over to where she was standing by the
stove, getting him another help of chowder.
"I guess I'll have some, too, _Aunt_ Anna," said I, matter of fact.
She never said a word nor gave a sign--just stood there kind of
round-shouldered, dipping the chowder. And that night at prayers I
hitched my chair around the table, with its back the other way.
You get awful lazy in a lighthouse, some ways. No matter how much
tinkering you've got, there's still a lot of time and there's such
a thing as too much reading. The changes in weather get monotonous,
too, by and by; the light burns the same on a thick night as it
does on a fair one. Of course there's the ships, north-bound,
south-bound--wind-jammers, freighters, passenger-boats full of
people. In the watches at night you can see their lights go by, and
wonder what they are, how they're laden, where they'll fetch up,
and all. I used to do that almost every evening when it was my first
watch, sitting out on the walk-around up there with my legs hanging
over the edge and my chin propped on the railing--lazy. The Boston
boat was the prettiest to see, with her three tiers of port-holes
lit, like a string of pearls wrapped round and round a woman's
neck--well away, too, for the ledge must have made a couple of
hundred fathoms off the Light, like a white dog-tooth of a breaker,
even on the darkest night.
Well, I was lolling there one night, as I say, watching the Boston boat
go by, not thinking of anything special, when I heard the door on the
other side of the tower open and footsteps coming around to me.
By and by I nodded toward the boat and passed the remark that she was
fetching in uncommon close to-night. No answer. I made nothing of that,
for oftentimes Fedderson wouldn't answer, and after I'd watched the
lights crawling on through the dark a spell, just to make conversation I
said I guessed there'd be a bit of weather before long.
"I've noticed," said I, "when there's weather coming on, and the wind in
the northeast, you can hear the orchestra playing aboard of her just
over there. I make it out now. Do you?"
"Yes. Oh--yes--! _I hear it all right!_"
You can imagine I started. It wasn't him, but _her_.
And there was something in the way she said that speech,
sir--something--well--unnatural. Like a hungry animal snapping
at a person's hand.
I turned and looked at her sidewise. She was standing by the railing,
leaning a little outward, the top of her from the waist picked out
bright by the lens behind her. I didn't know what in the world to say,
and yet I had a feeling I ought not to sit there mum.
"I wonder," said I, "what that captain's thinking of, fetching in so
handy to-night. It's no way. I tell you, if 'twasn't for this light,
she'd go to work and pile up on the ledge some thick night----"
She turned at that and stared straight into the lens. I didn't like the
look of her face. Somehow, with its edges cut hard all around and its
two eyes closed down to slits, like a cat's, it made a kind of mask.
"And then," I went on, uneasy enough--"and then where'd all their music
be of a sudden, and their goings-on and their singing----"
"And dancing!" She clipped me off so quick it took my breath.
"D-d-dancing?" said I.
"That's dance-music," said she. She was looking at the boat again.
"How do you know?" I felt I had to keep on talking.
Well, sir--she laughed. I looked at her. She had on a shawl of some
stuff or other that shined in the light; she had it pulled tight around
her with her two hands in front at her breast, and I saw her shoulders
swaying in tune.
"How do I _know_?" she cried. Then she laughed again, the same kind of a
laugh. It was queer, sir, to see her, and to hear her. She turned, as
quick as that, and leaned toward me. "Don't you know how to dance, Ray?"
said she.
"N-no," I managed, and I was going to say "_Aunt Anna_," but the thing
choked in my throat.
I tell you she was looking square at me all the time with her two eyes
and moving with the music as if she didn't know it. By heavens, sir, it
came over me of a sudden that she wasn't so bad-looking, after all. I
guess I must have sounded like a fool.
"You--you see," said I, "she's cleared the rip there now, and the
music's gone. You--you hear?"
"Yes," said she, turning back slow. "That's where it stops every
night--night after night--it stops just there--at the rip."
When she spoke again her voice was different. I never heard the like of
it, thin and taut as a thread. It made me shiver, sir.
"I hate 'em!" That's what she said. "I hate 'em all. I'd like to see 'em
dead. I'd love to see 'em torn apart on the rocks, night after night. I
could bathe my hands in their blood, night after night."
And do you know, sir, I saw it with my own eyes, her hands moving in
each other above the rail. But it was her voice, though. I didn't know
what to do, or what to say, so I poked my head through the railing and
looked down at the water. I don't think I'm a coward, sir, but it was
like a cold--ice-cold--hand, taking hold of my beating heart.
When I looked up finally, she was gone. By and by I went in and had a
look at the lamp, hardly knowing what I was about. Then, seeing by my
watch it was time for the old man to come on duty, I started to go
below. In the Seven Brothers, you understand, the stair goes down in a
spiral through a well against the south wall and first there's the door
to the keeper's room and then you come to another, and that's the
living-room, and then down to the store-room. And at night, if you don't
carry a lantern, it's as black as the pit.
Well, down I went, sliding my hand along the rail, and as usual I
stopped to give a rap on the keeper's door, in case he was taking a nap
after supper. Sometimes he did.
I stood there, blind as a bat, with my mind still up on the walk-around.
There was no answer to my knock. I hadn't expected any. Just from habit,
and with my right foot already hanging down for the next step, I reached
out to give the door one more tap for luck.
Do you know, sir, my hand didn't fetch up on anything. The door had been
there a second before, and now the door wasn't there. My hand just went
on going through the dark, on and on, and I didn't seem to have sense or
power enough to stop it. There didn't seem any air in the well to
breathe, and my ears were drumming to the surf--that's how scared I was.
And then my hand touched the flesh of a face, and something in the dark
said, "Oh!" no louder than a sigh.
Next thing I knew, sir, I was down in the living-room, warm and
yellow-lit, with Fedderson cocking his head at me across the table,
where he was at that eternal Jacob's-ladder of his.
"What's the matter, Ray?" said he. "Lord's sake, Ray!"
"Nothing," said I. Then I think I told him I was sick. That night I
wrote a letter to A.L. Peters, the grain-dealer in Duxbury, asking for a
job--even though it wouldn't go ashore for a couple of weeks, just the
writing of it made me feel better.
It's hard to tell you how those two weeks went by. I don't know why, but
I felt like hiding in a corner all the time. I had to come to meals, but
I didn't look at her, though, not once, unless it was by accident.
Fedderson thought I was still ailing and nagged me to death with advice
and so on. One thing I took care not to do, I can tell you, and that was
to knock on his door till I'd made certain he wasn't below in the
living-room--though I was tempted to.
Yes, sir; that's a queer thing, and I wouldn't tell you if I hadn't set
out to give you the truth. Night after night, stopping there on the
landing in that black pit, the air gone out of my lungs and the surf
drumming in my ears and sweat standing cold on my neck--and one hand
lifting up in the air--God forgive me, sir! Maybe I did wrong not to
look at her more, drooping about her work in her gingham apron, with her
hair stringing.
When the Inspector came off with the tender, that time, I told him I
was through. That's when he took the dislike to me, I guess, for he
looked at me kind of sneering and said, soft as I was, I'd have to put
up with it till next relief. And then, said he, there'd be a whole
house-cleaning at Seven Brothers, because he'd gotten Fedderson the
berth at Kingdom Come. And with that he slapped the old man on the back.
I wish you could have seen Fedderson, sir. He sat down on my cot as if
his knees had given 'way. Happy? You'd think he'd be happy, with all his
dreams come true. Yes, he was happy, beaming all over--for a minute.
Then, sir, he began to shrivel up. It was like seeing a man cut down in
his prime before your eyes. He began to wag his head.
"No," said he. "No, no; it's not for such as me. I'm good enough for
Seven Brothers, and that's all, Mr. Bayliss. That's all."
And for all the Inspector could say, that's what he stuck to. He'd
figured himself a martyr so many years, nursed that injustice like a
mother with her first-born, sir; and now in his old age, so to speak,
they weren't to rob him of it. Fedderson was going to wear out his life
in a second-class light, and folks would talk--that was his idea. I
heard him hailing down as the tender was casting off:
"See you to-morrow, Mr. Bayliss. Yep. Coming ashore with the wife for a
spree. Anniversary. Yep."
But he didn't sound much like a spree. They _had_, robbed him, partly,
after all. I wondered what _she_ thought about it. I didn't know till
night. She didn't show up to supper, which Fedderson and I got
ourselves--had a headache, be said. It was my early watch. I went and
lit up and came back to read a spell. He was finishing off the
Jacob's-ladder, and thoughtful, like a man that's lost a treasure. Once
or twice I caught him looking about the room on the sly. It was
pathetic, sir.
Going up the second time, I stepped out on the walk-around to have a
look at things. She was there on the seaward side, wrapped in that silky
thing. A fair sea was running across the ledge and it was coming on a
little thick--not too thick. Off to the right the Boston boat was
blowing, _whroom-whroom!_ Creeping up on us, quarter-speed. There was
another fellow behind her, and a fisherman's conch farther offshore.
I don't know why, but I stopped beside her and leaned on the rail. She
didn't appear to notice me, one way or another. We stood and we stood,
listening to the whistles, and the longer we stood the more it got on my
nerves, her not noticing me. I suppose she'd been too much on my mind
lately. I began to be put out. I scraped my feet. I coughed. By and by I
said out loud:
"Look here, I guess I better get out the fog-horn and give those fellows
a toot."
"Why?" said she, without moving her head--calm as that.
"_Why?_" It gave me a turn, sir. For a minute I stared at her. "Why?
Because if she don't pick up this light before very many minutes she'll
be too close in to wear--tide'll have her on the rocks--that's why!"
I couldn't see her face, but I could see one of her silk shoulders lift
a little, like a shrug. And there I kept on staring at her, a dumb one,
sure enough. I know what brought me to was hearing the Boston boat's
three sharp toots as she picked up the light--mad as anything--and swung
her helm a-port. I turned away from her, sweat stringing down my face,
and walked around to the door. It was just as well, too, for the
feed-pipe was plugged in the lamp and the wicks were popping. She'd have
been out in another five minutes, sir.
When I'd finished, I saw that woman standing in the doorway. Her eyes
were bright. I had a horror of her, sir, a living horror.
"If only the light had been out," said she, low and sweet.
"God forgive you," said I. "You don't know what you're saying."
She went down the stair into the well, winding out of sight, and as long
as I could see her, her eyes were watching mine. When I went, myself,
after a few minutes, she was waiting for me on that first landing,
standing still in the dark. She took hold of my hand, though I tried to
get it away.
"Good-by," said she in my ear.
"Good-by?" said I. I didn't understand.
"You heard what he said to-day--about Kingdom Come? Be it so--on his own
head. I'll never come back here. Once I set foot ashore--I've got
friends in Brightonboro, Ray."
I got away from her and started on down. But I stopped. "Brightonboro?"
I whispered back. "Why do you tell _me_?" My throat was raw to the
words, like a sore.
"So you'd know," said she.
Well, sir, I saw them off next morning, down that new Jacob's-ladder
into the dinghy-boat, her in a dress of blue velvet and him in his best
cutaway and derby--rowing away, smaller and smaller, the two of them.
And then I went back and sat on my cot, leaving the door open and the
ladder still hanging down the wall, along with the boat-falls.
I don't know whether it was relief, or what. I suppose I must have been
worked up even more than I'd thought those past weeks, for now it was
all over I was like a rag. I got down on my knees, sir, and prayed to
God for the salvation of my soul, and when I got up and climbed to the
living-room it was half past twelve by the clock. There was rain on the
windows and the sea was running blue-black under the sun. I'd sat there
all that time not knowing there was a squall.
It was funny; the glass stood high, but those black squalls kept coming
and going all afternoon, while I was at work up in the light-room. And I
worked hard, to keep myself busy. First thing I knew it was five, and no
sign of the boat yet. It began to get dim and kind of purplish-gray over
the land. The sun was down. I lit up, made everything snug, and got out
the night-glasses to have another look for that boat. He'd said he
intended to get back before five. No sign. And then, standing there, it
came over me that of course he wouldn't be coming off--he'd be hunting
_her_, poor old fool. It looked like I had to stand two men's watches
that night.
Never mind. I felt like myself again, even if I hadn't had any dinner or
supper. Pride came to me that night on the walk-around, watching the
boats go by--little boats, big boats, the Boston boat with all her
pearls and her dance-music. They couldn't see me; they didn't know who I
was; but to the last of them, they depended on _me_. They say a man must
be born again. Well, I was born again. I breathed deep in the wind.
Dawn broke hard and red as a dying coal. I put out the light and started
to go below. Born again; yes, sir. I felt so good I whistled in the
well, and when I came to the first door on the stair I reached out in
the dark to give it a rap for luck. And then, sir, the hair prickled all
over my scalp, when I found my hand just going on and on through the
air, the same as it had gone once before, and all of a sudden I wanted
to yell, because I thought I was going to touch flesh. It's funny what
their just forgetting to close their door did to me, isn't it?
Well, I reached for the latch and pulled it to with a bang and ran down
as if a ghost was after me. I got up some coffee and bread and bacon for
breakfast. I drank the coffee. But somehow I couldn't eat, all along of
that open door. The light in the room was blood. I got to thinking. I
thought how she'd talked about those men, women, and children on the
rocks, and how she'd made to bathe her hands over the rail. I almost
jumped out of my chair then; it seemed for a wink she was there beside
the stove watching me with that queer half-smile--really, I seemed to
see her for a flash across the red table-cloth in the red light of dawn.
"Look here!" said I to myself, sharp enough; and then I gave myself a
good laugh and went below. There I took a look out of the door, which
was still open, with the ladder hanging down. I made sure to see the
poor old fool come pulling around the point before very long now.
My boots were hurting a little, and, taking them off, I lay down on the
cot to rest, and somehow I went to sleep. I had horrible dreams. I saw
her again standing in that blood-red kitchen, and she seemed to be
washing her hands, and the surf on the ledge was whining up the tower,
louder and louder all the time, and what it whined was, "Night after
night--night after night." What woke me was cold water in my face.
The store-room was in gloom. That scared me at first; I thought night
had come, and remembered the light. But then I saw the gloom was of a
storm. The floor was shining wet, and the water in my face was spray,
flung up through the open door. When I ran to close it, it almost made
me dizzy to see the gray-and-white breakers marching past. The land was
gone; the sky shut down heavy overhead; there was a piece of wreckage on
the back of a swell, and the Jacob's-ladder was carried clean away. How
that sea had picked up so quick I can't think. I looked at my watch and
it wasn't four in the afternoon yet.
When I closed the door, sir, it was almost dark in the store-room. I'd
never been in the Light before in a gale of wind. I wondered why I was
shivering so, till I found it was the floor below me shivering, and the
walls and stair. Horrible crunchings and grindings ran away up the
tower, and now and then there was a great thud somewhere, like a
cannon-shot in a cave. I tell you, sir, I was alone, and I was in a
mortal fright for a minute or so. And yet I had to get myself together.
There was the light up there not tended to, and an early dark coming on
and a heavy night and all, and I had to go. And I had to pass that door.
You'll say it's foolish, sir, and maybe it _was_ foolish. Maybe it was
because I hadn't eaten. But I began thinking of that door up there the
minute I set foot on the stair, and all the way up through that howling
dark well I dreaded to pass it. I told myself I wouldn't stop. I didn't
stop. I felt the landing underfoot and I went on, four steps, five--and
then I couldn't. I turned and went back. I put out my hand and it went
on into nothing. That door, sir, was open again.
I left it be; I went on up to the light-room and set to work. It was
Bedlam there, sir, screeching Bedlam, but I took no notice. I kept my
eyes down. I trimmed those seven wicks, sir, as neat as ever they were
trimmed; I polished the brass till it shone, and I dusted the lens. It
wasn't till that was done that I let myself look back to see who it was
standing there, half out of sight in the well. It was her, sir.
"Where'd you come from?" I asked. I remember my voice was sharp.
"Up Jacob's-ladder," said she, and hers was like the syrup of flowers.