The Cruise of the Shining Light

“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 circumstance. ’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 God had in passing touched it into such beauty as the love of children may create of the meanest features of our kind. His glass 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 glass. “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 hell, 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 glass 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 pricked 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.”

“Damn the lad!” was the prompt response. “I wish he were dead.”

My uncle laughed.

“Dead!” the stranger repeated. “Dead, Top! And you, too–you hound!”

’Twas an anathema spoken in wrath and hatred.

“I’m thinkin’,” says my uncle, “that ye’re an unkind man.”

The stranger growled.

“Save your temper, man,” my uncle admonished. “Ye’ll need the last rag of it afore the night’s by.”

The man cried out against the threat.

“I’m tellin’ ye,” says my uncle–and I heard his broad hand come with a meaning clap on the stranger’s shoulder–“that ye’ll be wakin’ the lad.”

“The lad! the lad!” the stranger whined. “Is there nothing in the world for you, Top, but that club-footed young whelp?”

I heard it! I heard the words! My door was ajar–my room at the head of the stair–my ears wide and anxious. I heard the words! There was no mistaking what this intruder said. “The club-footed young whelp!” says he. “Is there nothing in the world for you, Top, but that club-footed young whelp?” He said it–I remember that he said it–and to this day, when I am grown beyond the years of childish sensitiveness, I resent the jibe.

“Nothing,” my uncle answered. “Nothing in the world, sir,” he repeated, lovingly, as I thought, “but only that poor club-footed child!”

Sir? ’Twas a queer way to address, thinks I, this man of doubtful quality. Sir? I could not make it out.

“You sentimental fool!”

“Nay, sir,” my uncle rejoined, with spirit. “An they’s a fool in the company, ’tis yourself. I’ve that from the lad, sir, that you goes lacking–ay, an’ will go, t’ the grave!”

“And what, Top,” the stranger sneered, “may this thing be?”