Silver Shoal Light/Chapter 2
CHAPTER II
"FROM THE PERILS OF THE SEA"
THE Lydia, Cap'n 'Bijah's naptha-launch, drove her blunt bows vigorously through little slapping waves.
"They're right cur'ous folks out to the Light," explained the Captain, his arm on the tiller. "They ain't noways like the folks around these pa'ts, ner yet they bean't like the hotel folks, nuther. Pemberley's the name, Jim Pemberley. He's be'n keepin' the light more 'n four year now, an' yet thar ain't a man in Quimpawg knows anythin' 'bout whar he come from ner nawthin'. But he's a right pleasant-spoken feller to everybody. He knows his job inside out, but it don't seem's though 't was the place he belongs. A real sweet wife he's got, too, out on that air desolated rock-heap. An' the Skipper! Wal, he can't be beat!"
The Lydia skirted the gray shore, and Quimpaug was soon lost behind a rise in the coast. Westward the bay wound inland, toward Tewksville, and Town, and the disturbing Mr. Sinclair, Joan reflected unwillingly. In the opposite direction the space of water widened until the southern shore looked blue and undefined across its expanse, and right before there was nothing but the great and misty reaches of the sea.
The Cap'n jerked a brown thumb toward the point.
"Thar's the Reef," he told Joan; "them's all rocks, jest awash at high tide. Then thar's a piece o' shoal water—sand and such—makin' out aways. It's a bad place fer ships comin' out. The Light ain't so much needed coast-wise as 't is fer the Bay. An' thar 't is now," he added, pointing again.
Joan, who had been gazing resignedly at the slipping shore—a somber mass of rough rock and dark, wind-blown bay-bushes—looked outward as the Cap'n spoke. Just at the end of the point, where the coastline turned to sweep northward, there was a tumble of white water on hidden ledges, and beyond, across a calmer reach, Silver Shoal Light.
The stout whitewashed walls were set upon bare rock, and from the seaward corner of the house a light-tower rose above a steep gray roof. Away from the door, ledges shelved gently to the shoal, but deep water fingered the foot of the tower, lapping at the weed-fringed foundation. Though afterglow still touched the white walls, the light was already lit, pale in the half-dusk and shining faintly, like an early star. While the launch swung nearer, Joan marked details—the great fog-bell beneath a pent-roof, a weathered bench under green-shuttered windows, a tangle of bright flowers blooming sturdily in painted boxes.
Cap'n 'Bijah shook his head.
"They're cur'ous, like I said," he mused. "Now look at that!" He indicated a trim little sail-boat moored near the landing. "That's his'n, an' he can sail her, too! Bought her dirt cheap from an ole feller I know an' spent half his fust winter tinkerin' at her in his little boathouse thar. An' look at her! 'Sides makin' her sea-wo'thy, he made her handsome. Wa'n't never no keeper on Silver Shoal but what was satisfied with the boats the Service guv 'em. That dory yonder's a lighthouse boat, an' no call fer another, seem's so; but he's one that has his way, an' most gen'ally 't is a good way, fer 's I can see."
The Lydia's blunt nose bumped the landing, and Cap'n 'Bijah shouted "Ahoy, thar!" The house-door opened at once, and a woman stood outlined against the orange light within.
"Is that you, Cap'n 'Bijah!" she called. "Do you want to see my husband? He's up in the lantern, but I'll fetch him."
Then she saw Joan and came down to the pier, looking inquiringly at Captain Dawson.
"I ain't got no business with the Keeper," he drawled, "but I took the liberty, Mis' Pemberley, of bringin' you out a pore young lady that ain't got nowhars to sleep. The hotel couldn't hev her, an' none o' the Quimpawg folks could, an' I guess she thought mebbe she'd hev to sleep on a lobster-pot." He gave a rumbly chuckle. "But you know how I allus says, 'Never too late to mend,' an' I thought mebbe you'd take her in. I ain't much up on the Rules an' Reg'lations, but I reckoned you could figger on her like she was a shipwrecked reffygee, or suthin'. Mis' Pemberley, Miss Kirklan'. Miss Kirklan', Mis' Pemberley."
The lightkeeper's wife tossed a wisp of dark hair out of her eyes and shook hands with Joan, while Cap'n 'Bijah gathered up the bag expectantly.
"You poor person!" she said. "What a sad plight! Of course you may stay. Why, the Rules tell us that it's our bounden duty to 'assist persons in distress,' besides which we can invite you as our guest to spend a night at Silver Shoal."
Joan, who had felt herself at the edge of another shattered hope, breathed a rather pathetic sigh of relief. Her heart had sunk at the sudden menace of "Rules and Regulations."
"Have you had any supper?" her hostess inquired as they went up the landing.
"Nothing since noon; a sort of sandwich and some pale coffee at Tewksville Junction."
"Tewksville! Heavens!" cried Mrs. Pemberley with fervor. "Come in and have some food at once!" She took the bag from Cap'n 'Bijah, who vanished into the dusk, content.
Joan looked about her curiously as they entered the lighthouse. She did not know exactly what to expect of its interior,—something between a farm-kitchen and a boat-house, she fancied. The door opened directly into the main room, which was low-ceiled and white-panelled, its square-paned windows deep set in the thickness of the stone walls. A settle stood before the small fireplace and bookshelves filled the space between the northern windows. Lamplight winked on the well-polished brass of a barometer hanging against the wall and on the bright fittings of a telescope on a shelf beneath. A smooth old iron-bound sea-chest stood below, and blue braid rugs covered the floor.
But Joan was most of all aware of delicious-looking food spread upon the round, lamplit table. Mrs. Pemberley led her firmly past, however.
"I'll take you up to your room now," she said. "When you come down I'll have another place laid, and I hope that you'll soon forget Tewksville Junction."
She pushed aside a blue curtain as she spoke. Behind it steep, narrow stairs, with a knotted rope against the wall for balustrade, led straight from the living-room to a little square landing. Mrs. Pemberley opened a white door at the right and lit a candle. Its little yellow tongue wavered and then shot up clear and strong, lighting the plastered walls of the tiny room, the white bed, and the curtains which snapped out briskly in the fresh wind from the water. A clean salt smell pervaded everything.
Joan sighed contentedly as she took off her coat.
"All this is too good to be true," she said. "How kind you are!"
"Staying at that hotel would be bad enough," said Mrs. Pemberley, "but I suppose not being able to stay there might be even worse! I think there's soap in that big clam-shell," she added as she withdrew.
Out in the darkness a homing tug tooted a deep-voiced signal to her barges. Joan blew out the candle and stood at the window looking over the dim water. The lights of the tow slipped quietly through the dusk and veered toward the bay. As the tug rounded the point her port and starboard lights glowed out suddenly, like jewels. Joan could hear the faint beat of a screw above the sound of lapping water under the window. She gazed out a moment longer at the darkening sky; then, turning, she felt for the knotted cord and went downstairs.
As she entered the living-room a tall, tawny-haired, brown-faced person rose from the settle.
"That's my husband," said Mrs. Pemberley with a comprehensive wave of her hand, as she set a blue bake-dish upon the table. "And come and eat these crabs before their ardor cools. Don't you think you'd better light a fire, Jim? It's growing frigid."
"Perhaps I'd better," said Jim, who had gripped Joan's hand with a clasp that made her wince. "We've still some of the Thomas J. left. I'll burn a bit more to-night, as this is a special occasion."
"The Thomas J. was a schooner," explained Mrs. Pemberley, as they sat down. "She came ashore one winter night in a storm. The owners saved all they could, and we've been burning the rest, on and off, ever since. She was the Thomas J. Haskell in full. Why do tugs and schooners have such dismal names?"
"The Bella S. was another," said Pemberley; "Cap'n 'Bijah's famous craft. Have you heard the tale, Miss Kirkland?"
"A hint of it," said Joan.
"Well, you'll hear the whole yarn, if you continue your acquaintance with the Cap'n, so I won't spoil it for you," said Pemberley. "But those fishermen have the most wonderful names of all for their tubs—everything from the Parthenon to the June-Bug. There's one called the Adjo Grace, and I really saw a boat to-day with Caller Lilly painted boldly across her stern."
"Caller Herring would be more appropriate," said Mrs. Pemberley. "Do have another biscuit, Miss Kirkland."
"By the way, Elspeth," said Jim, "we saw a launch named Psyche the other day, and first Garth called it the Fizzy, and then the Pish, and then the Seech, and finally gave it up altogether. It did look rather queer; it was divided by the stern-post, like this: Psy—Che." He sketched it in the air with his finger. "But my own boat is the Ailouros, and at least that's better than some of 'em."
"Why—" said Joan. "Ailouros; that's Greek. Doesn't it mean 'a cat'?"
"Well," said Pemberley, with a twinkle, "it's a cat-boat, you see. And we call the skiff Cymba, because it's just a 'little boat.'"
Joan, leaning back in the settle after supper, announced that she was perfectly happy.
"And you've been so good to me, coming to my rescue like this," she said.
Pemberley, who stood looking into the night, closed the outer door and returned to the fire.
"The Rules and Regulations say, in part," he observed, "that it shall be the duty of lightkeepers to 'assist in saving life and property from the perils of the sea.' I don't know how we can fit you into that class exactly, unless we consider 'Bijah's old tub as a peril, which would scarcely figure plausibly in my 'Record.' No; you're an invited guest. If Elspeth didn't invite you properly at the beginning, I hereby do so now."
Joan bowed an acknowledgment.
"The only thing, then, that disturbs my peace of mind is to-morrow," she sighed. "I was so stupid not to write to the Harbor View House beforehand. In fact, I was extremely stupid to come at all. And that's one of the reasons why I don't want to go back to town. I don't know exactly what to do."
"Put out the lamp, Jim," said his wife. "It's much jollier that way; then we can see the nice blue and green flames. There ought to be a lot to-night, with that copper strip." Then she turned to Joan. "Why don't you stay here?" she asked.
"At the lighthouse?" Joan said rather blankly.
"Yes, why not?" said Jim, putting another fragment of the Thomas J. on the fire. He stood up and dusted his hands.
"Let's see, what is it that the Harbor View House offers? 'Boating, Sea-bathing, Fishing, Tennis, and other Invigorating Sports,' if I remember rightly. We can provide all those things except the tennis, which presents difficulties; as for the 'other invigorating sports'"—he struck an attitude—"those are our specialty! A short pleasant sail from boat-landing and post-office! And the famous 'Prospect of Quimpaug Harbor (including the unequalled view of lobster-pots, et cetera) sinks to insignificance beside the outlook from the top of my tower."
"Jim's ridiculous," said his wife; "but really, why don't you?"
Joan looked across the hearth at these surprising people. The fire lit Elspeth's sea-blue woollen dress; it shone into her sea-blue eyes. Pemberley stood leaning across the back of his wife's chair. A rebellious lock of tawny hair hung over his forehead and he was smiling whimsically. The driftwood fire sputtered and chuckled contentedly, and through the half-open window came the sound of the long swell against the rocks.
"If I thought you really meant it!" Joan said. "Oh, I know that I could rest and rest here. I do believe that the Harbor View House would have driven me frantic. Might I stay, truly? For just a little while, a week?"
"Why not?" said Elspeth. "Jim, can't it be arranged?"
"I'll write to the Inspector to-night," Pemberley replied. "He's a good old friend, personal and official; he'll see to it."
"We can sail in to-morrow with the Ailouros," said Elspeth, "and get your trunk."
"I don't deserve this," murmured Joan. "I was such a foolish hasty person."
"As Cap'n 'Bijah would remark," observed Pemberley, puffing at his pipe, "'I allus says: Ye never kin tell of a Friday how the wind's a-goin' to blow next week.'"
As Joan lay in bed listening to the suck and wash of the water about the walls below her window, she reviewed the happenings of the day. It seemed months since she had left town on that tiresome train. How desperate she had felt when all the doors of Quimpaug were shut to her! She was very glad now that they had been shut, for if she had not come of necessity to the Light, she would in all probability have returned to town the next morning. It would have been rather humiliating if she had happened to encounter Mr. Sinclair. But now there was a week in which to rest and make new plans; perhaps she might even stay longer, if it could be arranged. She liked the Pemberleys and they puzzled her. Lightkeepers who put puns in Greek and Latin upon their boats are not common; nor do lightkeepers' wives usually dress in blue gowns with silver clasps at the throat and serve delicious food in real "Willow Pattern" plates. Cap'n 'Bijah was right in saying that they were "noways like the folks around these pa'ts," and Joan gave up trying to account for them.
She found another cause for contentment. Apparently there were no children at the Light, and she had seen no fewer than seven at the hotel during her brief glimpse of it. "All shrieking at once!" reflected Joan. "I could never have stood it." She did not like children. Indeed, that was another of Mr. Robert Sinclair's accusations. He had tried to tell her about a small newsboy with whom he had talked at the street corner and of the child's real charm.
"He couldn't be charming," Joan had said. "I believe I've never seen a nice child. I don't like them."
"But this was such a very fine little chap," Sinclair had protested. "He had a bad leg, too. I think it was rather plucky of him."
"That makes it much worse,—whole children are quite annoying enough."
Sinclair had shaken his head very seriously.
"I think that sums it up," he had said. "Because all those other things I spoke of are included in not liking children. I like them just because they are children."
"And I dislike them because they're children," she had answered.
Lying in her quiet bedroom Joan rather regretted having said some of these things, but she was nevertheless well content that there were no young Pemberleys at Silver Shoal Light. Half asleep, she heard the opposite door open softly and Mrs. Pemberley's voice say:
"I wonder what he'll think, Jim?"
"Who'll think—what—?" murmured Joan as her eyes closed.