Captain David began to climb the long flight of iron stairs. It was his
custom to start early, in order that he might stop upon each landing and
take a view of the land and water on his way up. As David got higher and
higher, his spirits rose in proportion. Below were duty and care; aloft
was the Light, that was his pride and glory, and the freedom of solitude
and silence!
When David began his climb--because it was the manner of the man to face
life with a song upon his lips--he hummed softly:
"I would not live alway,
No, welcome the tomb."
He paused on the first landing and took in the satisfying prospect of
his garden, edged around by summer flowers and showing a thrifty
collection of needful vegetables.
"_And only man is vile!_" panted David, starting upward, and changing
his song. By the time the third landing was reached care and anxiety
were about forgotten and the outlook upon the rippling bay was
inspiring.
"_And we put three shots in the lobster pots,
Three cheers for the witches three_"
Davy remembered only snatches of this song, but its hilarious
tunefulness appealed to his state of feeling on the third landing. David
chuckled, gurgled, and puffingly mounted higher.
"Looks like it might be a good crab season," he muttered, "an' I hope t'
gum! the city folks won't trifle with the isters out o' season.
'Brightly gleams our Father's mercy,
From His lighthouse evermore;
But to us--'"
puff, pant, groan!
"_'He gives the keepin' of the lights alon' the shore!_'" David had
reached the Light! He always timed himself to the moment. When the sun
dropped behind the Hills, David's Light took possession of the coming
night!
He stepped inside the huge lamp, rubbed an imaginary spot off the
glistening glass, turned up the wick and touched it with the ready
match. Then he came forth and eyed the westering sun. That monarch,
riding through the longest day of the year, was reluctant to give up his
power; but David was patient. With hand upon the cloth covering he bided
his time. It was a splendid sunset. Beyond the Hills the clouds were
orange-red and seemed to part in order that the round sun should have a
wide course for his royal exit. The shadows were coming up out of the
sea. David felt, rather than saw, the purpling light stealing behind
him, but he had, for the present, to do _only_ with the day.
"_There was glory over all the land_," quoted the man, "_a flood of
glory._" Then the sun was gone! On the instant the covering was snatched
away, and David's Light shone cheerily in the glory that at first obscured
it.
"Your turn will come!" comforted the keeper as if to a friend, "they'll
bless ye, come darkness!"
With that he stepped out upon the narrow balcony surrounding the tower,
to "freshen up."
From that point the dunes, dividing the ocean and the bay, seemed but
weak barriers. The sea rolled nearer and nearer.
"Thus far and no farther," whispered David reverently; "the Lord don't
need anythin' bigger than that strip o' sand to make His waters obey
His will. No mountains could be safer than them dunes when once the Lord
has set the limit. That looks like the _Comrade_ off beyond the P'int!"
he went on; "I'll take my beef without cabbage, if that ain't Janet
a-makin' for the Light, an' as late as this, too! Billy's told her 'bout
the change, an' she wouldn't wait, once she was convinced. She might
have stayed with Billy till mornin', the impatient little cuss."
The sailboat was scudding before the ocean breeze. Its white wing was
the only one upon the bay, and David watched it with a new interest.
"Comin' over t' make her fortune," he muttered, "comin' over t' help
fleece the boarders! By gum! I wonder, knowin' what Billy knows, an'
havin' the handlin' of a craft like Janet, he didn't hold the sheet rope
pretty snug as he headed her int' this harbor."
The boat made the landing without a jar. The girl sprang out, secured
the _Comrade_, then shouldered a carpet-bag, boy-fashion, and came up
the winding path toward the lighthouse. David watched her, bending over
the railing, until she passed within; then he straightened himself and
waited.
The purple gloaming came; the Light took on courage and dignity; the
stars shone timidly as if apologizing for appearing where really their
little glow was not needed. Then softly:
"Cap'n David, are you on the balcony?"
"Who be ye comin' on the government property without permission?"
growled David. Janet came out of the narrow doorway and flung her arms
around the keeper's neck.
"Cap'n Davy, I've come off to be adopted! I had to stop downstairs to
make my room ready and pay Susan Jane two weeks in advance, but I've got
business with you now. Bring out a couple of chairs, Cap'n, this is
going to be a long watch."
David paused as he went upon the errand.
"The money is what sticks, Janet. Money atween me an' Billy is a
ticklish matter. Don't lay it up agin Susan Jane, girl, the conniverin'
in money ways an' the Holy Book is all that Susan Jane has, since she
was struck."
"It's all right, Cap'n David, if it were only _my_ money! And it soon
will be, Davy; it soon will be. I've just waked up to the fact that I
ought to be helping along, instead of hanging on Cap'n Billy. Seventeen,
and only just waking up! I've come over to the gold mine, Davy, and I'm
going to do some digging for myself."
David sighed and laughed together; it was a rare combination, and one
for which he was noted. Presently he came out with the chairs. The two
put their backs to the Light. David took out his pipe, and Janet,
bracing her feet against the railing and clasping her hands behind her
head, looked up at the stars. Next to Captain Billy, this man beside her
was her truest friend.
"Goin' t' help wait at some table?" asked David between long, heartsome
puffs.
"Nope."
"Maybe, washin'?"
"Nope."
"Anythin' in mind, special?"
"Yep."
"What?"
"I'm going up to the Hills and learn to paint pictures!"
"By gum!"
"Yes. I can at least see things as they are. All I shall have to do is
to learn to handle the brushes and mix the paint."
"By gum!"
"And, Cap'n David, I know what you all think. You think me a useless
kind of girl, willing enough to hang on Cap'n Billy and take all he can
give. And I know that you think him soft and, maybe, silly, because he
hasn't been sterner with me. But you're all wrong! Cap'n Daddy and I
haven't been wasting our time. We've got awfully close to each other
while we've lived alone and had only ourselves. I've been thinking a
long time of how I could help him best. I didn't want to come over
and--and--what shall I say?--well, plunder the city folks. That's what
every one is doing. Sometimes I'm sorry for them, the city folks. It
seems like we ought to treat them more as visitors, than as ships that
have been tossed up."
"Lord!" spluttered David through his smoke; "they know how t' look after
themselves."
"Yes, and when I think of that, I'm afraid of them. They'll get
something out of us for all the money they spend. And, Davy, I don't
want them to get it out of me!"
"Get it out of you!" David struck his pipe on the railing and the sparks
fell into the night like a shower of stars. Janet nodded her head.
"Yes, get it out of me! All the same if I'm going to help make my
living, this seems the only way, so I'm going in with the rest. But I
want to choose my own path. Davy, did you ever see my mother? Of course
you did! She was pretty, but I'm a lot better looking. Cap'n Billy's
been telling me about her."
"Tellin' ye about her, all?" David asked faintly.
"Oh! I reckon not all; he was choking while he talked, and I hated to
ask him particulars. How old was I when she died, Cap'n Davy?"
"Ye warn't no age at all, child; as yer little skiff hove int' sight,
hers set sail. Ye didn't any more than hail each other in passin'."
"Oh! tell me more, Davy."
"'T was an awful night ye chose, Janet. Wind off sea, an' howlin' like
mad. Sleet an' rain minglin', an' porridge ice slammin' ont' shore!
Billy had the midnight patrol, an' fore he started out, he 'ranged that
we should keep one eye out toward his cottage,--I happened t' be on that
night,--an' if we saw a light in the lean-to winder, I was t' rouse Mrs.
Jo G. 'Long 'bout two, I saw the light, an' I made tracks for Mrs. Jo
G.'s. The wind almost knocked us down as we set out for Billy's. I
waited in the lean-to, an' Mrs. Jo G. she went int' the bedroom."
"Go on, Cap'n Davy. I wish I had known always about Mrs. Jo G. She
didn't mind the storm? Somehow I never thought of her like that."
"'T was only human, Janet, her an' yer ma was the only females at the
Station. 'Long 'bout four, Billy came a-staggerin' in. He had seen the
light shinin' in the winder. He was coated over with ice, ice hangin' to
his beard an' lashes, but Lord, how his eyes was glitterin'! I couldn't
say a blessed thin'. Gum! there wasn't a thing t' say. I just gripped
him like a looney, an' he gripped me, an' thar we stood a-starin' an'
a-staring'! 'Why don't ye go in?' I asked."
"And why didn't he?" Janet was struggling with an inclination to cry,
"why didn't he?" David, fearing he had ventured upon dangerous ground,
muttered:
"He said he couldn't! Them was his own words. Billy was always queer.
Just then Mrs. Jo G. came int' the living room. She had you--we didn't
know it then, fur ye was just a round bundle--in her arms. Mrs. Jo G.
always speaks to the p'int when she does speak," Davy continued, "an'
all she said was, 'This is all that's left, Cap'n Billy--the mother's
gone!'"
"Oh! my Cap'n!" murmured Janet; "and only to-night I have heard this!"
"Now don't take on, Janet!" David clumsily stroked the pretty head that
had found a resting place upon the iron railing. "It was because Billy
hated any takin' on that he kept mum. Him an' me an' Mrs. Jo G. we have
always acted as if nothin' unusual had happened. Ye had a stormy voyage,
child, an' Billy wanted that ye should have calm, while he was in
control."
"Oh! Cap'n Billy, my poor old Daddy! And I've been a wild, uncaring
girl, David. Never taking hold like the others! Just following Daddy
about, and being a burden! And to think it was--it was boarders that
aroused me! Oh! Davy, it makes me sick."
"Now see here, Janet!" David got up and walked twice around the little
gallery. "I ain't a-sayin' but what ye ought t' be helpin' yerself an'
takin' anxiety off o' Billy: but I do say that it ain't goin' t' ease
Billy any, if ye go gallivantin' off to the Hills with any fool notion
that good looks is goin' t' help ye."
"They always help, Cap'n David, always!" Janet's assertion came through
a muffled sob. "You mustn't think I care for my looks myself. I'd just
as soon be as peaked and blue-white as Mrs. Jo G.'s Maud, but I know
pretty looks are just so much to the good--"
"Or bad!" broke in David.
"Well, have it that way. But it is according to how you use them. I'm
going to use my good looks wisely!"
"By gum!" muttered David. This was his escape valve. When other words
failed, "by gum" eased the tension. "Ye ain't much on looks, Janet, when
ye come to that," he said presently. "Ye ain't tidy, nor tasty; ye ain't
a likely promise fur what a handy woman ought t' be. Yer powerful breezy
an' uncertain, an' yer unlike what folks is use t'."
"Davy!" Janet came in front of him and the light fell full upon her.
"Davy, you just listen and see how wise I am! Do you know why the city
folks have come to Quinton? We never, at least not many of us, saw
anything very splendid about the Hills, the dunes and the bay, now did
we?"
"The fact is, we didn't!"
"Well, these people are wild about them because they are unlike the
common things they are used to. I am like Quinton, Davy; I know it way
down in my heart. You won't catch me fixing up like city folks and
looking queer enough to turn you dizzy. Quinton and I are going to be
true to ourselves, Davy, and you'll soon see if my looks do not help!"
"By gum!" sighed David; and remembering his vow to Billy to watch over
this girl, he sighed again and ordered her below in no very gentle
voice.