The Cruise of the Shining Light

You must know that by my uncle’s severe direction I must never fail to appear at table in the evening save in the perfection of cleanliness as to face and hands and nails and teeth. “For what,” says he, “have Skipper Chesterfield t’ say on that p’int–underlined by Sir Harry? Volume II., page 24. A list o’ the ornamental accomplishments. ‘T’ be extremely clean in your person.’ There you haves it–underlined by Sir Harry!” He would examine me keenly, every nail and tooth of me, accepting neither excuse nor apology, and would never sit with me until I had passed inspection. In the beginning, ’twas my uncle’s hand, laid upon me in virtuous chastisement, that persuaded me of the propriety of this genteel conduct; but presently, when I was grown used to the thing, ’twas fair impossible for me to approach the meat, in times of peace with place and weather, confronting no peril, hardship, laborious need, or discomfort, before this particular ornamental accomplishment had been indubitably achieved with satisfaction to my uncle and to myself.

My uncle had, moreover, righteously compelled, with precisely similar tactics as to the employment of his right hand, an attire in harmony with the cleanliness of my person. “For what,” says he, “have bully ol’ Skipper Chesterfield t’ say on that there little p’int? What have that there fashionable ol’ gentleman t’ hold–underlined by Sir Harry? Volume II, page 24. ‘A list o’ the ornamental accomplishments (without which no man livin’ can either please or rise in the world), which hitherto I fear ye wants,’” quotes he, most glibly, “‘an’ which only require your care an’ attention t’ possess.’ Volume II., page 24. ‘An’ perfeckly well dressed, accordin’ t’ the fashion, be that what it will.’ There you haves it,” says he, “an’ underlined by Sir Harry hisself!” ’Twas a boresome thing, to be sure, as a lad of eleven, to come from boyish occupations to this maidenly concern for appearances: but now, when I am grown older, ’tis a delight to escape the sweat and uniform of the day’s work; and I am grateful to the broad hand that scorched my childish parts to teach me the value and pleasures of gentility.

At the same time, as you may believe, I was taught a manner of entering, in the way, by the hints of Sir Harry and the philosophy of the noble Lord Chesterfield, of a gentleman. It had to do with squared shoulders, the lift of the head, a strut, a proud and contemptuous glance. Many a night, as a child, when I fair fainted of vacancy and the steam and smell of salt pork was an agony hardly to be endured, I must prance in and out, to please my fastidious uncle, while he sat critical by the fire–in the unspeakable detachment of critics from the pressing needs (for example) of a man’s stomach–and indulged his artistic perceptions to their completest satisfaction. He would watch me from his easy-chair by the fire as though ’twere the most delectable occupation the mind of man might devise: leaning forward in absorption, his ailing timber comfortably bestowed, his great head cocked, like a canary-bird’s, his little eyes watchful and sparkling.

“Once again, Dannie,” says he. “Head throwed higher, lad. An’ ye might use yer chest a bit more.”

Into the hall and back again.

“Fair,” says he. “I’ll not deny that ye’re doin’ better. But Sir Harry, lad,” says he, concerned, with a rub at his weathered nose, “uses more chest. Head high, lad; shoulders back, chest out. Come now! An’ a mite more chest.”

This time at a large swagger.

“Very good,” says he, in a qualified way. “But could ye not scowl t’ more purpose?”

’Twas fair heroic to indulge him–with the room full of the smell of browned meat. But, says I, desperately, “I’ll try, sir.”

“Jus’ you think, Dannie,” says he, “that that there ol’ rockin’-chair with the tidy is a belted knight o’ the realm. Come now! Leave me see how ye’d deal with he. An’ a mite more chest, Dannie, if ye’re able.”

A withering stare for the rocking-chair–superior to the point of impudence–and a blank look for the unfortunate assemblage of furniture.

“Good!” cries my uncle. “Ecod! but I never knowed Sir Harry t’ do it better. That there belted rockin’-chair o’ the realm, Dannie, would swear you was a lord! An’ now, lad,” says he, fondly smiling, “ye may feed.”5

This watchful cultivation, continuing through years, had flowered in a pretty swagger, as you may well believe. In all my progress to this day I have not observed a more genteelly insolent carriage than that which memory gives to the lad that was I. I have now no regret: for when I am abroad, at times, for the health and pleasure of us all, ’tis a not ungrateful thing, not unamusing, to be reminded, by the deferential service and regard this ill-suited manner wins for the outport man that I am, of those days when my fond uncle taught me to scowl and strut and cry, “What the devil d’ye mean, sir!” to impress my quality upon the saucy world. But when Judith came into our care–when first she sat with us at table, crushed, as a blossom, by the Hand that seems unkind: shy, tender-spirited, alien to our ways–’twas with a tragical shock I realized the appearance of high station my uncle’s misguided effort and affection had stamped me with.

She sat with my uncle in the steerage; and she was lovely, very gentle and lovely, I recall, sitting there, with exquisitely dropping grace, under the lamp–in the shower of soft, yellow light: by which her tawny hair was set aglow, and the shadows, lying below her great, blue eyes, were deepened, in sympathy with her appealing grief. Came, then, this Dannie Callaway, in his London clothes, arrived direct per S.S. Cathian: came this enamoured young fellow, with his educated stare, his legs (good and bad) long-trousered for the first time in his life, his fingers sparkling, his neck collared and his wrists unimpeachably cuffed, his chest “used” in such a way as never, God knows! had it swelled before. ’Twas with no desire to indulge his uncle that he had managed these adornments. Indeed not! ’Twas a wish, growing within his heart, to compass a winning and distinguished appearance in the presence of the maid he loved.

By this magnificence the maid was abashed.

“Hello!” says I, as I swaggered past the steerage.

There was no response.

“Is you happy, child,” says I, catching the trick of the thing from my uncle, “along o’ ol’ Nick Top an’ me an’ John Cather?”

My tutor laughed.

“Eh, Judy?” says I.

The maid’s glance was fallen in embarrassment upon her plate.

“Dannie,” says my uncle, severely, “ye better get under way with your feedin’.”

The which, being at once hungry and obedient, I did: but presently, looking up, caught the poor maid unself-conscious. She no longer grieved–no longer sat sad and listless in her place. She was peering greedily into the cabin, as my uncle was wont to do, her slim, white neck something stretched and twisted (it seemed) to round a spreading cluster of buttercups. ’Twas a moving thing to observe. ’Twas not a shocking thing; ’twas a thing melting to the heart–’twas a thing, befalling with a maid, at once to provide a lad with chivalrous opportunity. The eyes were the great, blue eyes of Judith–grave, wide eyes, which, beneficently touching a lad, won reverent devotion, flushed the heart with zeal for righteousness. They were Judith’s eyes, the same, as ever, in infinite depth of shadow, like the round sky at night, the same in light, like the stars that shine therein, the same in black-lashed mystery, like the firmament God made with His own hand. But still ’twas with a most marvellously gluttonous glance that she eyed the roast of fresh meat on the table before me. ’Twas no matter to me, to be sure! for a lad’s love is not so easily alienated: ’tis an actual thing–not depending upon a neurotic idealization: therefore not to be disillusioned by these natural appearances.

“Judy,” says I, most genially, “is you ever tasted roast veal?”

She was much abashed.

“Is you never,” I repeated, “tasted roast veal?”

“No, sir,” she whispered.

“‘Sir!’” cries I, astounded. “‘Sir!’” I gasped. “Maid,” says I, now in wrathful amazement forgetting her afflicted state, “is you lost your senses?”

“N-n-no, sir,” she stammered.

“For shame!” I scolded. “T’ call me so!”

“Daniel,” my uncle interjected, “volume II., page 24. ‘A distinguished politeness o’ manners.’”

By this my tutor was vastly amused, and delightedly watched us, his twinkling glance leaping from face to face.

“I’ll not have it, Judy!” I warned her. “You’ll vex me sore an you does it again.”

The maid would not look up.

“Volume II., page 25,” my uncle chided. “Underlined by Sir Harry. ‘An’ this address an’ manner should be exceedin’ly respeckful.’”

“Judy!” I implored.

She ignored me.

“An you calls me that again, maid,” I threatened, in a rage, “you’ll be sorry for it. I’ll–”

“Holy Scripture!” roared my uncle, reaching for his staff. “‘Spare the rod and spoil the child.’”

I was not to be stopped by this. ’Twas an occasion too promising in disaster. She had sirred me like a house-maid. Sir? ’Twas past believing. That Judith should be so overcome by fine feathers and a roosterly strut! ’Twas shocking to discover the effect of my uncle’s teaching. It seemed to me that the maid must at once be dissuaded from this attitude of inferiority or my solid hope would change into a dream. Inferiority? She must have no such fancy! Fixed within her mind ’twould inevitably involve us in some catastrophe of feeling. The torrent of my wrath and supplication went tumbling on: there was no staying it. My uncle’s hand fell short of his staff; he sat stiff and agape with astonished admiration: perceiving which, my tutor laughed until my hot words were fair extinguished in the noise he made. By this my uncle was set laughing: whence the infection spread to me. And then Judith peeped at me through the cluster of buttercups with the ghost of a roguish twinkle.

“I’ll call you Dannie,” says she, slyly–“t’ save you the lickin’!”

“Daniel,” cries my uncle, delighted, “one slug-shot. Box with the star t’ the box with the cross. Judy,” says he, “move aft alongside o’ that there roast veal!”

’Twas the beginning and end of this seeming difference of station…

John Cather took us in hand to profit us. ’Twas in the learning he had–’twas in every genteel accomplishment he had himself mastered in the wise world he came from–that we were instructed. I would have Judy for school-fellow: nor would I be denied–not I! ’Twas the plan I made when first I knew John Cather’s business in our house: else, thinks I, ’twould be a mean, poor match we should make of it in the end. I would have her: and there, says I, with a toss and a stamp, to my uncle’s delight, was an end of it! It came about in this way that we three spent the days together in agreeable employment: three young, unknowing souls–two lads and a maid. In civil weather, ’twas in the sunlight and breeze of the hills, ’twas in shady hollows, ’twas on the warm, dry rocks, which the breakers could not reach, ’twas on the brink of the cliff, that Cather taught us, leaving off to play, by my uncle’s command, when we were tired of study; and when the wind blew with rain, or fog got the world all a-drip, or the task was incongruous with sunshine and fresh air (like multiplication), ’twas within doors that the lesson proceeded–in my library, which my uncle had luxuriously outfitted for me, when still I was an infant, against this very time.

“John Cather,” says I, one day, “you’ve a wonderful tongue in your head.”

’Twas on the cliff of Tom Tulk’s Head. We had climbed the last slope hand in hand, with Judith between, and were now stretched out on the brink, resting in the cool blue wind from the sea.

“A nimble tongue, Dannie,” he replied, “I’ll admit.”

“A wonderful tongue!” I repeated. “John Cather,” I exclaimed, in envious admiration, “you’ve managed t’ tell Judy in ten thousand ways that she’s pretty.”

Judith blushed.

“I wisht,” says I, “that I was so clever as that.”

“I know still another way,” said he.

“Ay; an’ a hundred more!”

“Another,” said he, softly, turning to Judith, who would not look at him. “Shall I tell you, Judith?”

She shook her head.

“No?” said he. “Why not?”

The answer was in a whisper–given while the maid’s hot face was still turned away. “I’m not wantin’ you to,” she said.

“Do, maid!” I besought her.

“I’m not wantin’ him to.”

“’Tis your eyes, I’ll be bound!” said I. “’Twill be so clever that you’ll be glad to hear.”

“But I’m not wantin’ him to,” she persisted.

My tutor smiled indulgently–but with a pitiful little trace of hurt remaining. ’Twas as though he must suffer the rebuff with no offended question. In the maid ’twas surely a wilful and bewildering thing to deny him. I could not make it out: but wished, in the breeze and sunlight of that day, that the wound had not been dealt. ’Twas an unkind thing in Judith, thinks I; ’twas a thing most cruel–thus to coquette with the friendship of John Cather.

“Ah, Judy,” I pleaded, “leave un have his way!”

She picked at the moss.

“Will ye not, maid?”

“I’m afraid!” she whispered in my ear.

“An’ you’d stop for that!” I chided, not knowing what she meant: as how should a lad?

It seemed she would.

“’Tis an unkind thing,” says I, “t’ treat John Cather so. He’ve been good,” says I, “t’ you, Judy.”

“Dannie!” she wailed.

“Don’t, Dannie!” Cather entreated.

“I’d have ye listen, Judy,” said I, in earnest, kind reproach, “t’ what John Cather says. I’d have ye heed his words. I’d have ye care for him.” Being then a lad, unsophisticated in the wayward, mercilessly selfish passion of love, ignorant of the unmitigated savagery of the thing, I said more than that, in my folly. “I’d have ye love John Cather,” says I, “as ye love me.” ’Tis a curious thing to look back upon. That I should snarl the threads of our destinies! ’Tis an innocency hard to credit. But yet John Cather and I had no sensitive intuition to warn us. How should we–being men? ’Twas for Judith to perceive the inevitable catastrophe; ’twas for the maid, not misled by reason, schooled by feeling into the very perfection of wisdom, to control and direct the smouldering passion of John Cather and me in the way she would, according to the power God gives, in infinite understanding of the hearts of men, to a maid to wield. “I’d have ye love John Cather,” says I, “as ye love me.” It may be that a lad loves his friend more than any other. “I’d have ye t’ know, Judy,” says I, gently, “that John Cather’s my friend. I’d have ye t’ know–”

“Dannie,” Cather interrupted, putting an affectionate hand on my shoulder, “you don’t know what you’re saying.”

Judith turned.

“I do, John Cather,” says I. “I knows full well.”

Judith’s eyes, grown all at once wide and grave, looked with wonder into mine. I was made uneasy–and cocked my head, in bewilderment and alarm. ’Twas a glance that searched me deep. What was this? And why the warning? There was more than warning. ’Twas pain I found in Judith’s great, blue eyes. What had grieved her? ’Twas reproach, too–and a flash of doubt. I could not read the riddle of it. Indeed, my heart began to beat in sheer fright, for the reproach and doubt vanished, even as I stared, and I confronted a sparkling anger. But presently, as often happened with that maid, tears flushed her eyes, and the long-lashed lids fell, like a curtain, upon her grief: whereupon she turned away, troubled, to peer at the sea, breaking far below, and would not look at me again. We watched her, John Cather and I, for an anxious space, while she sat brooding disconsolate at the edge of the cliff, a sweep of cloudless sky beyond. The slender, sweetly childish figure–with the tawny hair, I recall, all aglow with sunlight–filled the little world of our thought and vision. There was a patch of moss and rock, the green and gray of our land–there was Judith–there was an infinitude of blue space. John Cather’s glance was frankly warm; ’twas a glance proceeding from clear, brave, guileless eyes–springing from a limpid soul within. It caressed the maid, in a fashion, thinks I, most brotherly. My heart warmed to the man; and I wondered that Judith should be unkind to him who was our friend.

’Twas a mystery.

“You will not listen, Judith?” he asked. “’Tis a very pretty thing I want to say.”

Judith shook her head.

A flash of amusement crossed his face. “Please do!” he coaxed.

“No!”

“I’m quite proud of it,” says he, with a laugh in his fine eyes. He leaned forward a little, and made as if to touch her, but withdrew his hand. “I did not know,” says he, “that I was so clever. I have it all ready. I have every word in place. I’d like to say it–for my own pleasure, if not for yours. I think it would be a pity to let the pretty words waste themselves unsaid. I–I–hope you’ll listen. I–I–really hope you will. And you will not?”

“No!” she cried, sharply. “No, no!”

“Why not?”

“No!” she repeated; and she slipped her hand into mine, and hid them both snugly in the folds of her gown, where John Cather could not see. “God wouldn’t like it, John Cather,” says she, her little teeth all bare, her eyes aflash with indignation, her long fingers so closely entwined with mine that I wondered. “He wouldn’t ’low it,” says she, “an He knowed.”

I looked at John Cather in vague alarm.

XVII

RUM AND RUIN

In these days at Twist Tickle, his perturbation passed, my uncle was most blithe: for the Shining Light was made all ready for sea, with but an anchor to slip, sails to raise, for flight from an army of St. John’s constables; and we were a pleasant company, well fallen in together, in a world of fall weather. And, says he, if the conduct of a damned little Chesterfieldian young gentleman was a labor t’ manage, actin’ accordin’ t’ that there fashionable ol’ lord of the realm, by advice o’ Sir Harry, whatever the lad in the case, whether good or bad, why, then, a maid o’ the place, ecod! was but a pastime t’ rear, an’ there, says he, you had it! ’Twas at night, when he was come in from the sea, and the catch was split, and we sat with him over his rum, that he beamed most widely. He would come cheerily stumping from his mean quarters above, clad in the best of his water-side slops, all ironed and brushed, his great face glossy from soap and water, his hair dripping; and he would fall into the arms of his great-chair by the fire with a genial grunt of satisfaction, turning presently to regard us, John Cather and Judy and me, with a grin so wide and sparkling and benevolently indulgent and affectionate–with an aspect so patriarchal–that our hearts would glow and our faces responsively shine.

“Up with un, Dannie!” says he.

I would lift the ailing bit of timber to the stool with gingerly caution.

“Easy, lad!” groans he. “Ouch! All ship-shape,” says he. “Is you got the little brown jug o’ water?”

’Twould surely be there.

“Green pastures!” says he, so radiantly red, from his bristling gray stubble of hair to the folds of his chin, that I was reminded of a glowing coal. “There you haves it, Dannie!” cries he. “I knowed they was some truth in that there psa’m. Green pastures! ‘He maketh me t’ lie down in green pastures.’ Them ol’ bullies was wise as owls… Pass the bottle, Judy. Thank ’e, maid. Ye’re a wonderful maid t’ blush, thank God! for they’s nothin’ so pretty as that. I’m a old, old man, Judy; but t’ this day, maid, ’tis fair painful t’ keep from kissin’ red cheeks, whenever I sees un. Judy,” says he, with a wag, his hand on the bottle, “I’d rather be tempted by mermaids or angels–I cares not which–than by a mortal maid’s red cheeks! ’Twould be wonderful easy,” says he, “t’ resist a angel… Green pastures! Eh, Dannie, b’y? Times is changed, isn’t they? Not like it used t’ be, when you an’ me sot here alone t’ drink, an’ you was on’y a wee little lad. I wisht ye was a wee little lad again, Dannie; but Lord love us!” cries he, indignant with the paradox, “when ye was a wee little lad I wisht ye was growed. An’ there you haves it!” says he, dolefully. “There you haves it!.. I ’low, Dannie,” says he, anxiously, his bottle halted in mid-air, “that you’d best pour it out. I’m a sight too happy, the night,” says he, “t’ be trusted with a bottle.”

’Tis like he would have gone sober to bed had I not been there to measure his allowance.

“Ye’re not so wonderful free with the liquor,” he pouted, “as ye used t’ be.”

’Twas Judy who had put me up to it.

“Ye might be a drop more free!” my uncle accused.

’Twas reproachful–and hurt me sore. That I should deny my uncle who had never denied me! I blamed the woman. ’Tis marvellous how this frailty persists. That Judith, Twist Tickle born, should deliberately introduce the antagonism–should cause my uncle to suffer, me to regret! ’Twas hard to forgive the maid her indiscretion. I was hurt: for, being a lad, not a maid of subtle perceptions, I would not have my uncle go lacking that which comforted his distress and melancholy. Faith! but I had myself been looking forward with a thirsty gullet to the day–drawn near, as I thought–when I should like a man drink hard liquor with him in the glow of our fire: as, indeed, had he, by frank confession, indiscreetly made when he was grown horrified or wroth with my intemperance with ginger-ale.

“God save ye, Dannie!” he would expostulate, most heartily, most piously; “but I wisht ye’d overcome the bilge-water habit.”

I would ignore him.

“’Tis on’y a matter o’ will,” says he. “’Tis nothin’ more than that. An’ I’m fair ashamed,” he groaned, in sincere emotion, “to think ye’re shackled, hand an’ foot, to a bottle o’ ginger-ale. For shame, lad–t’ come t’ such a pass.” He was honest in his expostulation; ’twas no laughing matter–’twas an anxiously grave concern for my welfare. He disapproved of the beverage–having never tasted it. “You,” cries he, with a pout and puff of scorn, “an’ your bilge-water! In irons with a bottle o’ ginger-ale! Could ye but see yourself, Dannie, ye’d quit quick enough. ’Tis a ridiculous picture ye make–you an’ your bottle. ’Twould not be hard t’ give it up, lad,” he would plead. “Ye’ll manage it, Dannie, an ye’d but put your mind to it. Ye’d be nervous, I’ve no doubt, for a spell. But what’s that? Eh, what’s that–ag’in your health?”

I would sip my ginger-ale unheeding.

“An’ what about Chesterfield?” says he.

“I’ll have another bottle, sir,” says I.

“Lord love us!” he would complain, in such distress that I wish I had not troubled him with this passion. “Ye’re fair bound t’ ruin your constitution with drink.”

Pop went the cork.

“An’ here’s me” says he, in disgusted chagrin, “tryin’ t’ make a gentleman out o’ ye!”

Ah, well! ’twas now a mean, poor lookout for the cosey conviviality I had all my life promised myself with my uncle. Since the years when late o’ nights I occupied the arms and broad knee of Cap’n Jack Large at the Anchor and Chain–with a steaming comfort within and a rainy wind blowing outside–my uncle and I had dwelt upon the time when I might drink hard liquor with him like a man. ’Twould be grand, says my uncle, to sit o’ cold nights, when I was got big, with a bottle o’ Long Tom between. A man grown–a man grown able for his bottle! For him, I fancy, ’twas a vision of successful achievement and the reward of it. Lord love us! says he, but the talk o’ them times would be lovely. The very thought of it, says he–the thought o’ Dannie Callaway grown big and manly and helpfully companionable–fair warmed him with delight. But now, at Twist Tickle, with the strong, sly hands of Judith upon our ways, with her grave eyes watching, now commending, now reproaching, ’twas a new future that confronted us. Ay, but that maid, dwelling responsibly with us men, touched us closely with control! ’Twas a sharp eye here, a sly eye there, a word, a twitch of her red lips, a lift of the brow and dark lashes–and a new ordering of our lives. ’Tis marvellous how she did it: but that she managed us into better habits, by the magic mysteriously natural to a maid, I have neither the wish nor the will to gainsay. I grieved that she should deprive my uncle of his comfort; but being a lad, devoted, I would not add one drop to my uncle’s glass, while Judith sat under the lamp, red-cheeked in the heat of the fire, her great eyes wishful to approve, her mind most captivatingly engaged, as I knew, with the will of God, which was her own, dear heart! though she did not know it.