The Cruise of the Shining Light Part 17

"Wonderful late," says my uncle.

"No," said I; "not late for windy nights."

"Too late for lads," says he, uneasily.

I poured his gla.s.s of rum.

"Think you, Dannie," my uncle inquired, "that he've the makin's of a fair rascal?"

"An' who?" says I, the stranger in mind.

"The tutor."

"I'm hopin' _not_!" I cried.

"Ay," says my uncle, an eye half closed; "but think you he _would_ make a rascal--with clever management?"

"'Twould never come t' pa.s.s, sir."

My uncle sipped his rum in a muse.

"Uncle Nick," I complained, "leave un be."

"'Tis a hard world, Dannie," he replied.

"Do you leave un be!" I expostulated.

My uncle ignored me. "He've a eye, Dannie," says he, immersed in villanous calculation; "he've a dark eye. I 'low it _might_ be managed."

'Twas an uncomfortable suspicion thus implanted; and 'twas an unhappy outlook disclosed--were my uncle to work his will upon the helpless fellow.

"Uncle Nick, you'll not mislead un?"

"Bein' under oath," my uncle answered, with the accent and glance of tenderest affection, "I'll keep on, Dannie, t' the end."

I poured the second dram of rum and pushed it towards him. 'Twas all hopeless to protest or seek an understanding. I loved the old man, and forgave the paradox of his rascality and loyal affection. The young man from London must take his chance, as must we all, in the fashioning hands of circ.u.mstance. 'Twas not to be conceived that his ruin was here to be wrought. My uncle's face had lost all appearance of repulsion: scar and color and swollen vein--the last mark of sin and the sea--had seemed to vanish from it; 'twas as though the finger of G.o.d had in pa.s.sing touched it into such beauty as the love of children may create of the meanest features of our kind. His gla.s.s was in his marred, toil-distorted hand; but his eyes, grown clear and sparkling and crystal-pure--as high of purpose as the eyes of such as delight in sacrifice--were bent upon the lad he had fostered to my age. I dared not--not the lad that was I--I dared not accuse him! Let the young man from London, come for the wage he got, resist, if need were to resist. I could not credit his danger--not on that night. But I see better now than then I saw.

"I 'low he'll do," said my uncle, presently, as he set down his gla.s.s.

"Ay, lad; he'll do, if I knows a eye from a eye."

"Do what?"

"Yield," he answered.

"T' what?"

"Temptation."

"Uncle Nick," I besought, "leave the man be!"

"What odds?" he answered, the shadow of gloom come upon his face. "I'm cleared for h.e.l.l, anyhow."

'Twas a thing beyond me, as many a word and wicked deed had been before. I was used to the wretched puzzle--calloused and uncaring, since through all my life I still loved the man who fostered me, and held him in esteem. We fell silent together, as often happened when my uncle tippled himself drunk at night; and my mind coursed in free flight past the seeming peril in which my tutor slept, past the roar of wind and the clamor of the sea, beyond the woes of the fool who would be married, to the cabin of the _Shining Light_, where Judith sat serene in the midst of the order she had accomplished. I remembered the sunlight and the freshening breeze upon the hills, the chirp and gentle stirring of the day, the azure sea and the far-off, tender mist, the playful breakers, flinging spray into the yellow sunshine. I remembered the companionable presence of the maid, her slender hands, her tawny hair, her sun-browned cheeks and the creamy curve of her brow, the blue and flash and fathomless depths of her eyes. I remembered the sweet, moist touch of her lips: I remembered--in that period of musing, when my uncle, fallen disconsolate in his chair, sipped his rum--the kiss that she gave me in the cabin of the _Shining Light_.

"Dannie," says my uncle, "what you thinkin' about?"

I would not tell.

"'Tis some good thing," says he. "I'd like wonderful well t' know."

I could but sigh.

"Dannie," says he, in his wisdom, "you've growed wonderful fond o'

Judy, isn't you?"

"I'm t' wed Judy," I answered.

'Twas with no unkindness--but with a sly twinkle of understanding--that he looked upon me.

"When I grows up," I added, for his comfort.

"No, no!" says he. "You'll never wed Judith. A gentleman? 'Twould scandalize Chesterfield."

"I will," said I.

"You'll _not_!" cries he, in earnest.

"But I will!"

The defiance still left him smiling. "Not accordin' t' Chesterfield,"

says he. "You'll be a gentleman, Dannie, when you grows up, an' you'll not be wantin' t' wed Judy."

"Not _wantin'_ to?"

"No, no; you'll not be wantin' to."

"Still," says I, "will I wed Judy."

"An' why?"

"Because," said I, "I've kissed her!"

My uncle would have his last gla.s.s alone (he said); and I must be off to bed and to sleep; 'twas grown late for me (said he) beyond the stretch of his conscience to endure. Lord love us! (said he) would I never be t' bed in season? Off with me--an' t' sleep with me! 'Twould be the worse for me (said he) an he caught me wakeful when he turned in. The thing had an odd look--an odd look, to be sure--for never before had the old man's conscience p.r.i.c.ked him to such fatherly consideration upon a night when the wind blew high. I extinguished the hanging lamp, smothered the smouldering coals, set his night-lamp at hand, and drowsily climbed the stairs, having given him good-night, with a hearty "Thank 'e, sir, for that there tutor!" He bawled after me an injunction against lying awake; and I should presently have gone sound asleep, worn with the excitements of the day, had I not caught ear of him on the move. 'Twas the wary tap and thump of his staff and wooden leg that instantly enlisted my attention; then a cautious fumbling at the latch of the door, a draught of night air, a thin-voiced, garrulous complaint of the weather and long waiting.

"Hist, ye fool!" says my uncle. "Ye'll wake the lad."

"d.a.m.n the lad!" was the prompt response. "I wish he were dead."