THE WILD ROCKS AGAIN.
HOME! home to the Wild Rocks, to the sea and the sky! Away, fast as
flying feet might go, from the walls that shut out life and light, that
stifled heart and soul! Since the sin was sinned in vain; since she
must be turned away with shame, if she did not go of her own accord,
and that quickly; since with her the little brother, for whose dear
sake she had planned the sin, must be sent too, to share the shame, and
lose all the help and happiness that lay before him if he might but
stay; oh! and above all, above all, since he, the little cherished one,
had turned his face from her and clung to the new friends, who could
give so much, while she had nothing but her great love; since all these
things were, home to the Wild Rocks, praying for the flight of a bird,
speeding straight, with the steps of a child who had learned to run
with the hares and the mountain sheep. Many turned to look at the girl,
but none sought to stop her. Rather people stood aside, as for the
flight of an arrow, feeling the passage of some dire need that would
not be stayed nor questioned. Home! home to the Wild Rocks!
Captain Ezekiel and his mate, making all ready for the homeward
voyage, never noticed the slight figure that hovered about the wharf,
slipping behind a corner or a barrel when they turned their faces that
way, venturing nearer when they set them toward the sea. When they
hoisted the sail, they never saw a shadow that flitted past them,
a slender shape that passed noiseless as a bird, and slipped down
the narrow stairs of the little cabin, and was gone. There were no
passengers that day, or none that the captain knew of. He sailed out of
the harbour on an easy wind, and for some hours the schooner made good
headway, running lightly in a smooth sea; but at twilight the breeze
dropped away, and soon the vessel lay rolling on a sea of purple glass,
shot with golden lights. “Ain’t goin’ to have a quick chance this
time, Elmer!” said the captain; and Elmer, aloft, at work on the gaff
topsail, grunted, with his knife between his teeth, and agreed with the
captain.
The purple faded into gray, softened into black velvet, with stars
trailing their slender lines of gold across. The sea breathed deep
and gently, and the schooner rolled slowly on its broad bosom, making
little progress forward. The captain and Elmer brought out their
store of ship biscuit and corned beef, and made coffee in the little
forecastle, and, while they were busy over these matters, the same
light shape came softly up the stairs, and, passing forward, hid
itself among the rigging and piles of rope. Once some small object was
displaced, and Captain Ezekiel raised his head at the sound.
“Did you hear anythin’ movin’ forrard there, Elmer?”
“Cat!” said Elmer, raising a mug of coffee to his lips.
“So ’tis!” assented the captain. “Caught a rat, likely, and got her
supper. Well now, ain’t this awful moderate? I don’t call this no kind
of a chance. You better go to bed, Elmer, when you’ve got them dishes
done up.”
Elmer burrowed in the little cabin, and slept like a woodchuck. The
lonely watcher in the bow saw the captain’s sturdy figure standing at
the wheel, turning the spokes from time to time, smoking his pipe with
calm, regular puffs, studying sky and sea with patient inquiry. It grew
cold, and the dew gathered thick, and dripped from rope and spar. Isla
hardly felt the cold. She was breathing the sea air, her own air, once
more, and the good boat was under her, and she was going home,—but
going alone. She had been so shaken and torn with fear and pain these
many months, her life and strength had gone so entirely into the
part she was playing, the goal she must reach, that now there seemed
nothing in life so good as this, to sit quiet, with no one to see her
or speak to her, rising and falling with that slow, calm breathing of
the waters, as her own sea-gulls loved to fall and rise. To-morrow, the
awaking again to pain and loneliness, and the thought of what she had
lost forever; tonight, rest; rest, with no thought nor feeling, only
the sight of the quiet sea dimpling and lapping below, the quiet sky
bending above. Rest!
She must have slept at last, for she was roused by cheerful voices, and
came to herself with a start. The dawn was breaking pale and clear, the
stars still shining; the east was tender with rose color; below the
faint, sweet glow lay a band of green, cold and pure as chrysoprase;
and against this green towered a great black rock.
“Half-past three!” said the captain, looking at his watch, as he
climbed down into the boat which Elmer held ready against the side.
“Longest chance I ever had, save and except one. Reckon we shall have
to rout out the folks to get us some breakfast,—my good land! what’s
that?”
The good boat was staunch, but that was a perilous moment, for both men
started to their feet when Isla’s light figure dropped down, and sank
with one motion into the bow.
“Who—who are ye?” asked the captain, in a stout voice which quavered
strangely. “Are ye a livin’ woman? Say quick, before I heave ye out o’
here.”
“Oh, Captain Ezekiel, it is Isla! Isla Heron! Take me home, will you?
Home to the island. I am never going away again.”
“And when we come to the beach,” said the captain, telling about it
afterwards, “and I was just thinkin’ how I would get the poor child
home to my house and get her warm, and then mebbe she’d feel like
tellin’ me where she come from and all about it,—I was just thinkin’,
when out she jumps like a flash, and says, ‘Thank you, captain!’ that
pretty way she had, and she was gone, up and out over the rocks,
quicker’n any bird I ever saw fly.”
Up and over the rocks! Oh, the good rocks, gray and black, with their
clinging lichens of orange and russet! Oh, the friendly touch of them
on her feet as she ran! The beach, with its white shell-sand disfigured
by heads and entrails of fish, had no charm to stay the girl for an
instant. The rocks drew her. Over them, away and away, round the point
where the cliff nodded outward; there was home, and rest, and peace.
The light broadened and brightened, the sea turned from gray to blue
again, the grass shimmered in green and gold, for it was buttercup
time. Isla stopped now and again to lay her hand on some well-known
stone, to greet an old tree that had been her friend ever since she
could remember. The ravens were still asleep, were they? Lazy old
ravens; how she would startle them! But they would see that she came
alone. She moaned, and ran on the faster.
Past the Dead Valley now. They were sleeping, too, the old
mammoths,—they had never missed her, had never known how she dreamed of
them, how she longed for them. The sea knew; it murmured and sang to
her, telling her over and over again, how glad it was to see her home
again. Now, only one more point to round, and she was home indeed. The
strip of white sand where Jacob had slept that last time she ever left
him till now, the roll of seaweed that marked the boundary line; then
through the swampy bit, and up into the little green glade, where the
cottage clung to the wall of the sheltering cliff behind it. Isla stood
and looked where her home should be, and saw a heap of ashes, gray as
the rock behind them, with charred beams scattered here and there.