The Cruise of the Shining Light. Duncan Norman
pass the anxious inspection without needing a whisk behind, or, it may be, here and there, a touch of my uncle’s thick finger, which seemed, somehow, infinitely tender at that moment.
“I’m wantin’ ye, Dannie,” says he, “t’ look like a gentleman the day. They’ll be a thing come t’ pass, come a day.”
There invariably came a thing to pass–a singular thing, which I conceived to be the object of these pilgrimages; being this: that when in the course of our peregrinations we came to the crossing of King Street with Water he would never fail to pause, tap-tap a particular stone of the walk, and break into muttered imprecations, continuing until folk stared and heads were put out of the windows. In so far as one might discern, there was nothing in that busy neighborhood to excite the ill-temper of any man; but at such times, as though courting the curious remark he attracted, my uncle’s staff would strike the pavement with an angry pat, his head wag and nod, his eyes malevolently flash, and he would then so hasten his steps that ’twas no easy matter to keep pace with him, until, once past, he would again turn placid and slow.
“There you haves it, Dannie!” he would chuckle. “There you haves it!”
’Twas all a mystery.
My uncle must once get very drunk at St. John’s–this for a day and a night, during which I must not leave my quarters. These were times of terror–and of loneliness: for it seemed to my childish mind that when my uncle was drunk I had no friend at all. But ’twas all plain sailing afterwards–a sober, cheerful guardian, restless to be off to Twist Tickle. My uncle would buy new outfits for me at the shops, arrange the regular shipment of such delicacies as the St. John’s markets afforded according to the season, seek gifts with which to delight and profit me, gather the news of fashion, lie in wait for dropped hints as to the manners and customs of gentlemen, procure his allowance of whiskey for the six months to come: in every way providing for my happiness and well-being and for such meagre comfort as he would allow himself.
Then off to Twist Tickle: and glad we were of it when the Lake got beyond the narrows and the big, clean, clear-aired sea lay ahead!
VI
THE FEET OF CHILDREN
Once of a still night at Twist Tickle (when I was grown to be eleven) my uncle abandoned his bottle and came betimes to my room to make sure that I was snug in my sleep. ’Twas fall weather without, the first chill and frosty menace of winter abroad: clear, windless, with all the stars that ever shone a-twinkle in the far velvet depths of the sky beyond the low window of my room. I had drawn wide the curtains to let the companionable lights come in: to stare, too, into the vast pool of shadows, which was the sea, unquiet and sombre beneath the serenity and twinkling splendor of the night. Thus I lay awake, high on the pillows, tucked to my chin: but feigned a restful slumber when I caught the sigh and downcast tread of his coming.
“Dannie,” he whispered, “is you awake?”
I made no answer.
“Ah, Dannie, isn’t you?”
Still I would not heed him.
“I wisht you was,” he sighed, “for I’m wonderful lonely the night, lad, an’ wantin’ t’ talk a spell.”
’Twas like a child’s beseeching. I was awake at once–wide awake for him: moved by the wistfulness of this appeal to some perception of his need.
“An’ is you comfortable, Dannie, lyin’ there in your own little bed?”
“Ay, sir.”
“An’ happy?”
“Grand, sir!” said I.
He crept softly to my bed. “You don’t mind?” he whispered. I drew my feet away to make room. He sat down, and for a moment patted me with the tenderness of a woman. “You don’t mind?” he ventured again, in diffidence. I did not mind (but would not tell him so); nay, so far was I from any objection that I glowed with content in this assurance of loving protection from the ills of the world. “No?” said he. “I’m glad o’ that: for I’m so wonderful old an’ lonely, an’ you’re sort o’ all I got, Dannie, t’ fondle. ’Tis pleasant t’ touch a thing that’s young an’ not yet smirched by sin an’ trouble. ’Tis some sort o’ cure for the souls o’ broken folk, I’m thinkin’. An’ you don’t mind? I’m glad o’ that. You’re gettin’ so wonderful old yourself, Dannie, that I was a bit afeared. A baby yesterday an’ a man the morrow! You’re near growed up. ’Leven year old!” with a wry smile, in which was no pride, but only poignant regret. “You’re near growed up.” Presently he withdrew a little. “Ay,” said he, gently; “you is housed an’ clad an’ fed. So much I’ve managed well enough.” He paused–distraught, his brows bent, his hand passing aimlessly over the scars and gray stubble of his head. “You’re happy, Dannie?” he asked, looking up. “Come, now, is you sure? You’d not be makin’ game o’ the old man, would you, Dannie? You’d not tell un you was when you wasn’t, would you? Is you sure you’re happy? An’ you’re glad, is you, t’ be livin’ all alone at Twist Tickle with a ol’ feller like Nick Top?”
“Wonderful happy, sir,” I answered, used to the question, free and prompt in response; “happy, sir–with you.”
“An’ you is sure?”
I was sure.
“I’m glad o’ that,” he continued, but with no relief of the anxious gloom upon his face. “I’m glad you is comfortable an’ happy. I ’low,” said he, “that poor Tom Callaway would like t’ get word of it. Poor Tom! Poor ol’ Tom! Lord love you, lad! he was your father: an’ he loved you well–all too well. I ’low he’d be wonderful glad just t’ know that you was comfortable an’ happy–an’ good. You is good, isn’t you? Oh, I knows you is! An’ I wisht Tom Callaway could know. I wisht he could: for I ’low ’twould perk un up a bit, in the place he’s to, t’ get wind of it that his little Dannie was happy with ol’ Nick Top. He’ve a good deal t’ bear, I’m thinkin’, where he’s to; an’ ’twould give un something t’ distract his mind if he knowed you was doin’ well. But, Dannie, lad,” he pursued, with a lively little flash of interest, “they’s a queer thing about that. Now, lad, mark you! ’tis easy enough t’ send messages Aloft; but when it comes t’ gettin’ a line or two o’ comfort t’ the poor damned folk Below, they’s no mortal way that I ever heared tell on. Prayer,” says he, “wings aloft, far beyond the stars, t’ the ear o’ God Hisself; an’ I wisht–oh, I wisht–they was the same sort o’ telegraph wire t’ hell! For,” said he, sadly, “I’ve got some news that I’d kind o’ like t’ send.”
I could not help him.
“I’m tired!” he complained, with a quick-drawn sigh. “I’m all wore out; an’ I wisht I could tell Tom Callaway.”
I, too, sighed.
“But I ’low,” was my uncle’s woe-begone conclusion, “that that there poor ol’ Tom Callaway ’ll just have t’ wait till I sees un.”
’Twas with a start of horror that I surmised the whereabouts of my father’s soul.
We were but newly come from St. John’s: a long sojourn in the water-side tap-rooms–a dissipation protracted beyond the habit (and will) of my uncle. I had wearied, and had wondered, but had found no explanation. There was a time when the rage and stagger of his intoxicated day had been exceeded past my remembrance and to my terror. I forgave him the terror: I did, I am sure! there was no fright or humiliation the maimed ape could put upon me but I would freely forgive, remembering his unfailing affection. ’Twas all plain now: the course of his rascality had not run smooth. I divined it; and I wished, I recall, lying there in the light of the untroubled stars, that I might give of myself–of the ease and placid outlook he preserved for me–some help to his distress and melancholy. But I was a child: no more than a child–unwise, unhelpful, in a lad’s way vaguely feeling the need of me from whom no service was due: having intuitive discernment, but no grown tact and wisdom. That he was scarred, two-fingered, wooden-legged, a servant of the bottle, was apart: and why not?