The Cruise of the Shining Light Part 13

I sniffed a change of wind as we fell in together. 'Twould presently switch to the south (I fancied); and 'twould blow high from the sou'east before the night was done. The shadows were already long; and in the west--above the hills which shut the sea from sight--the blue of mellow weather and of the day was fading. And by the lengthened shadows I was reminded that 'twas an untimely errand the fool was upon. "'Tis a queer time," said I, "t' be goin' t' Eli's. Sure, Moses, they'll be at the board!"

"Dear man! but I'm wonderful crafty, Dannie," he explained, with a sly twitch of the eye. "An they're at table, lad, with fish an' brewis sot out, I'm sure t' cotch the maid within."

"The maid?" I inquired.

"Ay, lad; 'tis a maid. I'm told they's a new baggage come t' Skipper Eli's for a bit of a cruise."

I caught a bashful flush mounting to his ears and the rumble of a chuckle in his throat.

"She've come from Tall Pine Harbor," said he, "with a cask o' liver; an' I'm told she've her heart dead sot on matrimony."

"Larry Hull's maid?"

"No, lad; 'tis not she. She've declined. Las' fall, Dannie, bein'

wind-bound in a easterly gale, I cotched she at Skipper Jonathan Stark's. No; she've declined."

"'Tis Maria Long, then," said I.

"No, lad; she've declined, too."

"Elizabeth Wutt?"

"She've declined."

"'Tis not the Widow Tootle!"

"No; _she've_ declined," he answered, dismally. "But," he added, with a sudden access of cheerfulness, "she come wonderful _near_ it. 'Twas a close call for she! She 'lowed, Dannie, that an my beard had been red she might ha' went an' done it, takin' chances with my wits. She might, says she, put up with a lack o' wit; but a beard o' proper color she must have for peace o' mind. You sees, Dannie, Sam Tootle had a red beard, an' the widow 'lowed she'd feel strange with a yellow one, bein' accustomed t' the other for twenty year. She've declined, 'tis true; but she come wonderful _near_ t' sayin the word. 'Twas quite encouragin'," he added, then sighed.

"You keep on, Moses," said I, to hearten him, "an' you'll manage it yet."

"Mother," he sighed, "used t' 'low so."

We were now come to a rise in the road, whence, looking back, I found the sky fast clouding up. 'Twas a wide view, falling between the black, jagged ma.s.ses of Pretty Willie and the Lost Soul, cast in shadow--a reach of blood-red sea, with mounting clouds at the edge of the world, into which the swollen sun had dropped, to set the wind-blown tatters in a flare of red and gold. 'Twas all a sullen black below, tinged with purple and inky blue; but high above the flame and glow of the rags of cloud there hung a mottled sky, each fleecy puff a touch of warmer color upon the pale green beyond. The last of our folk were bound in from the grounds, with the brown sails spread to a rising breeze, the fleet of tiny craft converging upon the lower-harbor tickle; presently the men would be out of the roughening sea, pulling up the harbor to the stage-heads, there to land and split the catch. Ay, a change of wind, a switch to the sou'east, with the threat of a gale with rain; 'twould blow before dark, no doubt, and 'twas now all dusky in the east, where the sky was cold and gray. Soon the lamps would be alight in the kitchens of our harbor, where the men folk, cleansed of the sweat of the sea, would sit warm and dry with their wives and rosy lads and maids, caring not a whit for the wind and rain without, since they had what they had within.

"I'm knowin' no other maid at Tall Pine Harbor," said I, "that's fit t' wed."

"'Tis a maid o' the name o' Pearl," he confided; "an' I'm told she's fair on looks."

"Pearl what, Moses?"

"I disremember, Dannie," he answered, a bit put out. "The lads told me, out there on the grounds the day, when I got wind of her bein'

here, but I've clean forgot. It won't matter, anyhow, will it, lad?

for, sure, I'm able t' _ask_."

"An' you've hopes?"

He trudged on, staring straight ahead, now silent and downcast. "Well, no, Dannie," he answered, at last, "not what you might call _hopes_.

So many, Dannie, haves declined, that I'd be s'prised t' cotch one that wouldn't slip the hook. But not havin' cast for this one, lad, I've not give up. I'm told they's no wonderful demand for the maid on accounts of temper and cross-eyes; an' so I was sort of allowin' she _might_ have a mind t' try a fool, him bein' the on'y skipper t' hand.

Mother used t' say if I kep' on she 'lowed I'd haul one out in the end: an' I 'low mother knowed. She never 'lowed I'd cotch a perf.e.c.k specimen, in p'int o' looks, for them, says she, mates accordin' t'

folly; but she did say, Dannie, that the maid I wed would come t' know me jus' the way mother knowed me, an t' love me jus' the way mother loved me, for my goodness. 'Twas kind o' mother t' think it: n.o.body else, Dannie, was ever so kind t' me. I wonder why _she_ was! Would you say, Dannie," he asked, turning anxiously, "that a cross-eyed maid _could_ be fair on looks? Not," he added, quickly, "that I'd care a wonderful sight: for mother used t' say that looks wiped off in the first washin', anyhow."

I did not answer.

"You wouldn't say, would you, lad," he went on, "that _I_ was fair on looks?"

An ungainly little man, this Moses Shoos: stout enough about the chest, where a man's strength needs lie, big-shouldered, long-armed, but scrawny and crooked in the legs and of an inconfident, stumbling gait, p.r.o.ne to halt, musing vacantly as he went. He was bravely clad upon his courtship: a suit of homespun from the _Quick as Wink_, given in fair dealing, as to quality, by Tumm, the clerk, but with reservations as to fit--everywhere (it seemed) unequal to its task, in particular at the wrists and lean shanks. His visage was in the main of a gravely philosophical cast, full at the forehead, pensive about the eyes, restless-lipped, covered upon cheeks and chin with a close, curly growth of yellow beard of a color with his hair: 'twas as though, indeed, he carried a weight of thought--of concern and helpless sympathy for the woes of folk. 'Twas set with a child's eyes: of the unfaded blue, inquiring, unafraid, innocent, pathetic, reflecting the emotion of the moment; quick, too, but in no way to shame him, to fill with tears. He spoke in a colorless drawl, with small variation of pitch: a soft, low voice, of clear timbre, with a note of melancholy insistently sounding, whatever his mood. I watched him stumble on; and I wondered concerning the love his mother had for him, who got no other love, but did not wonder that he kept her close within his heart, for here was no mystery.

"Eh, Dannie?" he reminded me, with a timid little smile, in which was yet some glint of vanity.

"Oh, ay!" I answered; "you're fair on looks."

"Ay," said he, in fine simplicity; "mother used t' say so, too. She 'lowed," he continued, "that I was a sight stronger on looks 'n any fool she ever knowed. It might have been on'y mother, but maybe not.

The lads, Dannie, out there on the grounds, is wonderful fond o'

jokin', an' _they_ says I've a power o' looks; but mother," he concluded, his voice grown caressive and reverent, "wouldn't lie."

It gave me a familiar pang--ay, it _hurt_ me sore--to feel this loving confidence vibrate upon the strings within me, and to know that the echo in my heart was but an echo, after all, distant and blurred, of the reality of love which was this fool's possession.

"An' she said that?" I asked, in poignant envy.

"Oh, ay!" he answered. "Afore she knowed I was a fool, lad, she 'lowed she had the best kid t' Twist Tickle."

"An' after?" I demanded.

"It didn't seem t' make no difference, Dannie, not a jot."

I wisht I had a mother.

"I wisht, Dannie," said he, in a break of feeling for me, "that _you_ had a mother."

"I wisht I had," said I.

"I wisht," said he, in the way of all men with mothers, as G.o.d knows why, "that you had one--just like mine."

We were come to the turn in the road, where the path descended at haphazard, over the rocks and past the pigpen, to the cottage of Eli Flack, builded snugly in a lee from the easterly gales. For a moment, in the pause, the fool of Twist Tickle let his hand rest upon my shoulder, which never before had happened in all our intercourse, but withdrew it, as though awakened from this pitying affection to a sense of his presumption, which never, G.o.d witness! did I teach him.

"Tis a grand sunset," said he. "Look, Dannie; 'tis a sunset with gates!"

'Twas so: great black gates of cloud, edged with glowing color, with the quiet and light of harbor beyond.

"With gates!" he whispered.

'Twas the fancy of a fool; nay, 'twas the fancy (as chanced his need) of some strange wisdom.

"Dannie," said he, "they's times when I sees mother's face peerin' at me from them clouds--her own dear face as 'twas afore she died. She's keepin' watch from the windows o' heaven--keepin' watch, jus' like she used t' do. You'll never tell, will you, lad? You'll not shame me, will you? They'd laugh, out there on the grounds, an you told: for they're so wonderful fond o' laughter--out there on the grounds. I lives, somehow," said he, brushing his hand in bewilderment over his eyes, "in the midst o' laughter, but have no call t' laugh. I wonder why, for mother didn't laugh; an' I wonder why _they_ laughs so much.

They'd laugh, Dannie, an you told un she was keepin' watch; an' so you will not: for I've growed, somehow, wonderful tired o' laughter--since mother died. But 'tis so: I knows 'tis so! I sees her face in the light o' sunsets--just as it used t' be. She comes t' the gate, when the black clouds arise t' hide the mystery we've no call t' know, an'

the dear Lord cares not what we fathom; an' I sees her, Dannie, from my punt, still keepin' watch upon me, just like she done from the window, afore she went an' died. She was a wonderful hand, somehow, at keepin' watch at the window. She'd watch me go an' watch me come. I've often wondered why she done it. I've wondered, Dannie, an' wondered, but never could tell why. Why, Dannie, I've knowed her t' run out, by times, an' say: 'Come, dear, 'tis time you was within. Hush, lad, never care. They'll never hurt you, dear,' says she, 'when you're within--with me.' An', Dannie, t' this day I'm feared t' look into the sky, at evening, when I've been bad, lest I sees her saddened by my deeds; but when I'm good, I'm glad t' see her face, for she smiles, lad, just like she used t' do from the window--afore they buried her."