The Cruise of the Shining Light Part 41

Upon this misguided mission we were gone abroad two years and a fortnight (deducting one day): and pursuing it we travelled far. And we came to magnificent cities, and beheld the places and things that are written of in books, and ate of curious foods, and observed many sorts of people and singular customs, and fell in with strange companions, and sojourned in many houses; but from the spectacle of the world I caught no delight, nor won a lesson, nor gained in anything, save, it may be, in knowledge of the book of my own heart.

As we went our way in new paths, my mind dwelt continually with Judith, whom I loved; the vision of her face, wistful and most fair in the mirage of Twist Tickle, and the illusion of her voice, whispering from the vacant world, were the realities of these wanderings--the people and palaces a fantasy. Of this I said nothing to John Cather, who was himself cast down by some obscure ailment of the spirit, so that I would not add to his melancholy with my love-sickness, but rather sought by cheerful behavior to mitigate the circ.u.mstances of his sighs, which I managed not at all. And having journeyed far in this unhappy wise, we came again to the s.p.a.cious sea and sky and clean air of Twist Tickle, where Judith was with my uncle on the neck of land by the Lost Soul, and the world returned to its familiar guise of coast and ocean and free winds, and the _s.h.i.+ning Light_, once more sc.r.a.ped and refitted against the contingencies of my presence, awaited the ultimate event in the placid waters of Old Wives' Cove....

Judith was grown to womanly age and ways and perfected in every maidenly attraction. When she came shyly from the shadows of the house into the glowing sunset and spring weather of our landing, I stopped, amazed, in the gravelled walk of our garden, because of the incredible beauty of the maid, now first revealed in bloom, and because of her modesty, which was yet slyly aglint with coquetry, and because of the tender gravity of her years, disclosed in the first poignant search of the soul I had brought back from my long journeying. I thought, I recall, at the moment of our meeting, that laboring in a mood of highest exaltation G.o.d had of the common clay fas.h.i.+oned a glory of person unsuspected of the eager, evil world out of which I had come: I rejoiced, I know, that He had in this bleak remoteness hidden it from the eyes of the world. I fancied as she came--'twas all in a flash--that into this rare creation He had breathed a spirit harmonious with the afflatus of its conception.

And being thus overcome and preoccupied, I left the maid's coy lips escape me, but kissed her long, slender-fingered hand, which she withdrew, at once, to give to John Cather, who was most warm and voluble in greeting. I was by this hurt; but John Cather was differently affected: it seemed he did not care. He must be off to the hills, says he, and he must go alone, instantly, at the peril of his composure, to dwell with his mind, says he, upon the thoughts that most elevated and gratified him. I watched him off upon the Whisper Cove road with improper satisfaction, for, thinks I, most ungenerously, I might now, without the embarra.s.sment of his presence, which she had hitherto rejected, possess Judith's lips; but the maid was shy and perverse, and would have none of it, apprising me sweetly of her determination.

By this I was again offended.

"Judy," says my uncle, when we were within, "fetch the bottle. Fetch the bottle, maid!" cries he; "for 'tis surely an occasion."

Judith went to the pantry.

"Dannie," my uncle inquired, leaning eagerly close when she was gone from the room, "is ye been good?"

'Twas a question put in anxious doubt: I hesitated--wondering whether or not I had been good.

"Isn't ye?" says he. "Ye'll tell _me_, won't ye? I'll love ye none the less for the evil ye've done."

Still I could not answer.

"I've been wantin' t' know," says he, his three-fingered fist softly beating the table, shaking in an intense agitation of suspense. "I've been waitin' an' waitin' for months--jus' t' hear ye say!"

I was conscious of no evil accomplished.

"Ye've a eye, Dannie!" says he.

I exposed my soul.

"That's good," says he, emphatically; "that's very good. I 'low I've fetched ye up very well."

Judith came with the bottle and little brown jug: she had displaced me from this occupation.

"O' course," says my uncle, in somewhat doubtful and ungenerous invitation, "ye'll be havin' a little darn ol' rum with a ol'

s.h.i.+pmate. Ye've doubtless learned manners abroad," says he.

'Twas a delight to hear the fond fellow tempt me against his will: I smiled.

"Jus' a little darn, Dannie," he repeated, but in no convivial way.

"Jus' a little nip--with a ol' s.h.i.+pmate?"

I laughed most heartily to see Judith's sisterly concern for me.

"A wee drop?" my uncle insisted, more confidently.

"I'm not used to it, sir," says I.

"That's good," he declared; "that's very good. Give the devil his due, Dannie: I've fetched ye up very well."

'Twas with delight he challenged a disputation....

After this ceremony I sat with Judith on the peak of the Lost Soul. My uncle paced the gravelled walk, in the gathering dusk below, whence, by an ancient courtesy, he might benignantly spy upon the love-making.

We were definite against the lingering twilight: I smiled to catch the old man pausing in the path with legs spread wide and glowing face upturned. But I had no smile for the maid, poor child! nor any word to say, save only to express a tenderness it seemed she would not hear.

'Twas very still in the world: there was no wind stirring, no ripple upon the darkening water, no step on the roads, no creak of oar-withe, no call or cry or laugh of humankind, no echo anywhere; and the sunset clouds trooped up from the rim of the sea with ominous stealth, throwing off their garments of light as they came, advancing, grim and gray, upon the shadowy coast. Across the droch, lifted high above the maid and me, his slender figure black against the pale-green sky, stood John Cather on the brink of Tom Tulk's cliff, with arms extended in some ecstasy to the smouldering western fire. A star twinkled serenely in the depths of s.p.a.ce beyond, seeming, in the mystery of that time, to be set above his forehead; and I was pleased to fancy, I recall, that 'twas a symbol and omen of his n.o.bility. Thus the maid and I: thus we four folk, who played the simple comedy--unknowing, every one, in the departing twilight of that day.

I reproached the maid. "Judith," says I, "you've little enough, it seems, to say to me."

"There is nothing," she murmured, "for a maid to say."

"There is much," I chided, "for a man to hear."

"Never a word, Dannie, lad," she repeated, "that a maid may tell."

I turned away.

"There is a word," says she, her voice fallen low and very sweet, soft as the evening light about us, "that a lad might speak."

"And what's that, Judith?"

"'Tis a riddle," she answered; "and I fear, poor child!" says she, compa.s.sionately, "that you'll find it hard to rede."

'Twas unkind, I thought, to play with me.

"Ah, Dannie, child!" she sighed, a bit wounded and rebuffed, it seems to me now, for she smiled in a way more sad and tenderly reproachful than anything, as she looked away, in a muse, to the fading colors in the west. "Ah, Dannie," she repeated, her face grown grave and wistful, "you've come back the same as you went away. Ye've come back," says she, with a brief little chuckle of gratification, "jus'

the same!"

I thrust out my foot: she would not look at it.

"The self-same Dannie," says she, her eyes steadfastly averted.

"I've _not_!" I cried, indignantly. That the maid should so flout my new, proud walk! 'Twas a bitter reward: I remembered the long agony I had suffered to please her. "I've _not_ come back the same," says I.

"I've come back changed. Have you not seen my foot?" I demanded.

"Look, maid!" I beat the rock in a pa.s.sion with that new foot of mine--straight and sound and capable for labor as the feet of other men. It had all been done for her--all borne to win the love I had thought withheld, or stopped from fullest giving, because of this miserable deformity. A maid is a maid, I had known--won as maids are won. "Look at it!" cries I. "Is it the same as it was? Is it crooked any more? Is it the foot of a man or a cripple?" She would not look: but smiled into my eyes--with a mist of tears gathering within her own. "No," I complained; "you will not look. You would not look when I walked up the path. I wanted you to look; but you would not. You would not look when I put my foot on the table before your very eyes. My uncle looked, and praised me; but you would not look." 'Twas a frenzy of indignation I had worked myself into by this time. I could not see, any more, the silent glow of sunset color, the brooding shadows, the rising ma.s.ses of cloud, darkening as they came: I have, indeed, forgotten, and strangely so, the appearance of sea and sky at that moment. "You would not look," I accused the maid, "when I leaped the brook. I leaped the brook as other men may leap it; but you would not look. You would not look when I climbed the hill. Who helped you up the Lost Soul turn? Was it I? Never before did I do it. All my life I have crawled that path. Was it the club-footed young whelp who helped you?" I demanded. "Was it that crawling, staggering, limping travesty of the strength of men? But you do not care," I complained. "You do not care about my foot at all! Oh, Judith," I wailed, in uttermost agony, "you do not care!"

I knew, then, looking far away into the sea and cloud of the world, that the night was near.

"No," says she.

"Judith!" I implored. "Judith ... Judith!"

"No," says she, "I cannot care."

"Just _say_ you do," I pleaded, "to save me pain."

"I will not tell you otherwise."