The Cruise of the Shining Light

My uncle would have no misunderstanding.

“Uncle Nick,” says I, “you’ll be havin’ a chair set for Judy in the cabin?”

“No, lad,” he answered; “not for little Judy.”

I expostulated most vigorously.

“Dannie, lad,” said he, with a gravity that left me no stomach for argument, “the maid goes steerage along o’ me. This here little matter o’ Judy,” he added, gently, “belongs t’ me. I’m not makin’ a lady o’ she. She haves nothin’ t’ do–nothin’ t’ do, thank God!–with what’s gone afore.”

There was no word to say.

“An ye’re wantin’ t’ have Judy t’ dinner, by times,” he continued, winking a genial understanding of my love-lorn condition, “I ’low it might be managed by a clever hand.”

I asked him the way.

“Slug-shot,” says he.

’Twas the merest hint.

“Remove,” says he, darkly, “one slug-shot from the box with the star, an’ drop it,” says he, his left eye closed again, “in the box with the cross.”

And there I had it!

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 Sir Harry Airworthy, K.C.M.G., I must forthwith explain, was that distinguished colonial statesman whose retirement to the quiet and bizarre enjoyments of life was so sincerely deplored at the time. His taste for the picturesque characters of our coast was discriminating and insatiable. ’Twas no wonder, then, that he delighted in my uncle, whose familiar companion he was in St. John’s. I never knew him, never clapped eyes on him, that I recall; he died abroad before I was grown presentable. ’Twas kind in him, I have always thought, to help my uncle in his task of transforming me, for ’twas done with no personal responsibility whatsoever in the matter, but solely of good feeling. I owed him but one grudge, and that a short-lived one, going back to the year when I was seven: ’twas by advice o’ Sir Harry that I was made to tub myself, every morning, in the water of the season, be it crusted with ice or not, with my uncle listening at the door to hear the splash and gasp.]

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–”