The Cruise of the Shining Light Part 44

She seemed now to command herself with a resolution of which tender maids like Judith should not be capable: 'tis too l.u.s.ty and harsh a thing. I stood in awe of it. "Dannie," says she, "do you go home. I'll follow an I can. And if I do not come afore long, do you tell un to think that I spend the night with the wife of Moses Shoos. You may kiss me, Dannie, lad," says she, "an you cares t' do it."

I did care: but dared not.

"I'm wishin' for it," says she.

"But," I protested, "is you sure 'tis right?"

"'Tis quite right," she answered. "G.o.d understands."

"I'd be glad," says I.

"You may kiss me, then."

I kissed her. 'Tis a thing I regret: 'twas a kiss so lacking in earnest protraction--so without warmth and vigor. 'Twas the merest brushing of her cheek. I wish I had kissed her, like a man, in the fulness of desire I felt; but I was bound, in the last light of that day, to John Cather, in knightly honor.

"'Twas very nice," says she. "I wisht you'd do it again."

I did.

"Thank you, Dannie," she whispered.

"Judith!" I cried. "Judith! For shame, to thank me!"

"And now," says she, "you'll be off on the road. You'll make haste, will you not? And you'll think, will you not, that I spend the night with Mrs. Shoos? You'll not fret, Dannie: I'd grieve to think that you fretted. I'd not have you, for all the world, trouble about me. Not you," she repeated, her voice falling. "Not you, Dannie--dear. You'll be off, now," she urged, "for 'tis long past time for tea. And you'll tell un all, will you not, that I talked o' spendin' the night with Mrs. Moses Shoos at Whisper Cove?"

"An you wish it, Judith."

"Good-night!"

I pressed away....

When I came to our house on the neck of land by the Lost Soul, I turned at the threshold to survey the weather. I might have saved myself the pains and puzzle of that regard. The print of sea and sky was foreign: I could make nothing of it. 'Twas a quiet sea, breaking, in crooning lullaby, upon the rocks below my bedroom window. It portended no disturbance: I might sleep, thinks I, with the soft whispering to lull me, being willing for the magic shoes of sleep to take me far away from this agony as never man was before. The wind was blowing from the west: but not in gusts--a sailing breeze for the timid. I was glad that there was no venomous intention in the wind: 'twas a mild and dependable wind, grateful to such as fared easterly in the night. I wished that all men might fare that way, in the favoring breeze, but knew well enough that the purposes of men are contrary, the one to the other, making fair winds of foul, and foul of fair, so that there was no telling, of any event, whatever the apparent nature of it, whether sinister or benign, the preponderance of woe or happiness issuing from it. Over all a tender sky, spread with soft stretches of cloud, and set, in its uttermost depths, with stars. 'Twas dark enough now for the stars to shine, making the most of the moon's absence, which soon would rise. Star upon star: a mult.i.tude of serenely companionable lights, so twinkling and knowing, so slyly sure of the ultimate resolution of all the doubts and pains and perplexities of the sons of men! But still there was abroad an oppression: a forewarning, in untimely heat and strain, of disastrous weather. 'Twas that I felt when I turned from the contemplation of the stars to go within, that I might without improper delay inform our maid-servant of Judith's intention.

Then I joined my uncle....

XXIV

JOHN CATHER'S FATE

'Twas with a start that I realized the lateness of the hour. Time for liquor! 'Twas hard to believe. My uncle sat with his bottle and gla.s.s and little brown jug. The gla.s.s was empty and innocent of dregs; the stopper was still tight in the bottle, the jug br.i.m.m.i.n.g with clear water from our spring. He had himself fetched them from the pantry, it seemed, and was now awaiting, with genial patience, the arrival of company to give an air of conviviality to the evening's indulgence. I caught him in a smiling muse, his eye on the tip of his wooden leg; he was sailed, it seemed, to a clime of feeling far off from the stress out of which I had come. There was no question: I was not interrogated upon the lapse of the crew, as he called John Cather and Judy and me, from the politeness of attendance at dinner, which, indeed, he seemed to have forgotten in a train of agreeable recollections. He was in a humor as serene and cheerfully voluble as ever I met with in my life; and when he had bade me join him at the table to pour his first dram, he fell to on the narrative of some adventure, humorously occurring, off the Funks, long, long ago, in the days of his boyhood. I did not attend, nor did I pour the dram: being for the time deeply occupied with reflections upon the square, black bottle on the table before me--the cure of moods my uncle had ever maintained it would work.

I got up resolved.

"Where you goin', Dannie?" says my uncle, his voice all at once vacant of cheerfulness.

"To the pantry, sir," I answered.

"Ah!" says he. "Is it ginger-ale, Dannie?"

"No, sir."

"That's good," says he, blankly; "that's very good. For Judy," he added, "is fell into the habit o' tipplin' by day, an' the ginger-ale is all runned out."

I persevered on my way to the pantry.

"Dannie!" he called.

I turned.

"Is you quite sure, lad," he asked, with an anxious rubbing of his stubble of gray beard, "that 'tisn't ginger-ale?"

"I'm wanting a gla.s.s, sir," I replied, testily. "I see but one on the table."

"Ah!" he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed. "A gla.s.s!"

I returned with the gla.s.s.

"Dannie," says my uncle, feigning a relief he dared not entertain, "you was wantin' a drop o' water, wasn't you?" He pushed the little brown jug towards me. "I _'lowed_ 'twas water," says he, hopefully, "when you up an' spoke about gettin' a gla.s.s from the pantry." He urged the jug in my direction. "Ay," he repeated, not hopefully now at all, but in a whisper more like despair, "I jus' _'lowed_ 'twas a drop o' water."

The jug remained in its place.

"Dannie," he entreated, with a thick forefinger still urging the jug on its course, "you is thirsty, I _knows_ you is!"

I would not touch the jug.

"You been havin' any trouble, shipmate?" he gently asked.

"Yes, sir," I groaned. "Trouble, G.o.d knows!"

"Along o' Judy?"

'Twas along o' Judy.

"A drop o' water," says he, setting the gla.s.s almost within my hand, "will do you good."

'Twas so anxiously spoken that my courage failed me. I splashed water into the gla.s.s and swallowed it.

"That's good," says he; "that's very good."

I pushed the gla.s.s away with contempt for its virtue of comfort; and I laughed, I think, in a disagreeable way, so that the old man, unused to manifestations as harsh and irreligious as this, started in dismay.

"Good," he echoed, staring, unconvinced and without hope; "that's very good."