Two evenings later, Ken confronted his sister at the foot of the stairs as she came down from seeing Kirk to bed.
"Where," said Ken, "is your Braille slate?"
"What,"said Felicia, "do you want with a Braille slate, if I may ask?"
"You mayn't," said Ken, conclusively.
"But it makes a difference," Phil argued. "If you want to write Braille with it,--which seems unlikely,--I'll consider. But if you want it to prop open the door with, or crack nuts on, or something, you can't have it."
"I can think of lots better things to crack nuts on than a Braille slate," said Ken. "I want to use it for its rightful purpose. Come now, my girl, out with it!"
"Wish you luck," said Felicia, going to the educational shelf; "here it is."
Ken eyed it mistrustfully--a slab of wood, crossed by a movable metal strip which was pierced with many small, square openings. "Also," said Ken, "the alphabet of the language."
"American Uncontracted, or Revised, Grade One and a Half?" Phil asked airily.
"They sound equally bad, but if there's any choice, give me the easiest. Sounds like geological survey stuff."
Phil rummaged again, and brought to light an alphabet which she had made for herself in her early Braille days.
"And the paper and stuff you use," Ken demanded.
"Here,take everything!" cried Felicia, thrusting out handfuls of irrelevant books and papers. "Stop asking for things in dribbles."
Ken settled himself at the table, scowled at the embossed alphabet, and then clamped a piece of the heavy paper into the slate. He grasped the little punch firmly, and, with a manner vigorous, if not defiant, he set to work.
"You just poke holes in the paper through the squares, eh, and they turn into humps?"
"The squares don't turn into humps; the holes do. Don't whack so hard."
There was silence for a short time, broken only by Ken's mutterings and the click of the stylus. Felicia looked up, then gazed meditatively across the table at the enterprise.
"Is it for a Hebrew person?" she inquired gently.
"Hebrew?"Ken said; "I should rather say not. Why?"
"You're writing it backward--like Yiddish."
"I'm doing it from left to right, which is the way one usually writes," said Ken, in a superior tone. "You're looking at it upside-down. You're twisted."
"The holes," said Felicia, mildly, "in order to become readable humps on the other side, have to be punched right to left."
"Oh!" said Ken. After a moment of thought he exclaimed, somewhat indignant: "You mean to say, then, that you have to reverse the positions of all these blooming dots, besides writing 'em backward?"
"Yes."
"You have to read 'em one way, and write 'em another, and remember 'emboth?"
"You do."
"And--and Kirk does that?"
"Yes; and he knows Revised, Grade One and a Half, too, and our alphabet besides, and embossed music, a little, and arithmetic, and--"
"Don't," said Ken. "It makes a fellow feel cheap."
With which he removed the paper and clamped in a fresh sheet. The work progressed silently; Ken occasionally gnashed his teeth and tore away the paper, but after a time the mistakes grew fewer, and Felicia, looking across at her brother's brown, handsome face, found it tranquil and sober, an earnest absorption in his gray eyes and a gently whimsical smile about his mouth. She knew of whom he was thinking, and smiled tenderly herself as she watched his big hand plod systematically and doggedly across the unfamiliar way. Bedtime found Ken elated and exhibiting to his sister several neatly embossed sheets of paper.
"'All day my--' " read Felicia.
"Murder!" cried Ken. "I forgot you could read the stuff! Go to bed, go to bed! "
At a rather early hour the next morning, Felicia was awakened by the stealthy approach to her bedside of a small and cautious figure in pajamas. It stood quite still beside the bed, listening to find out whether or not she was asleep. She spread her arms noiselessly, and then flung them about the pajamaed one. When the confusion of kisses, hugs, and birthday greetings had subsided, and Kirk was tucked under the quilt, he said:
"Now see me a story."
"But I can't--not like Ken," Felicia protested.
"Oh,Phil!" Kirk said in a tone of withering reproach. "Silly! A birthday special one, please."
Felicia thought for some time; then she said:
"It's not very nice, but it's a sort of birthday one. It's called The Nine Gifts."
"One for each year," said Kirk, wriggling comfortably.
"Exactly. Once upon a time there was a nice person who lived in an old house on a hill. One autumn day was his birthday, but he wasn't thinking of any gifts, because there could be no one to give him anything, and he was quite poor--as far as gold and silver went. So he was feeling just a little sad, because people like to have gifts. He came downstairs and unlocked his door, and opened it to the beautiful young day all strung with dew--"
"Could he see it?" asked Kirk.
"No," said Felicia, "he couldn't."
"Then itwasme."
"We-e-ll," said his sister, "possibly. But when he opened the door, in came the wind, all as fresh and dewy as a dawn-wind can be. It ruffled up his hair, and fluttered the curtains at the windows, and ran all about the room. Then it said:
"'I am the wind. I give you the breath of the dawn, and the first sigh of the waking fields and hedge-rows, and the cool stillness of the forest that is always awake. Take my birthday kiss upon your forehead!'
"And that was the First Gift. The person was quite surprised, but he was very much pleased, too. He went out and brought in some bread and milk for his breakfast, and then he went to get some water at the well. There was a gentle, delicious warmth all about in the air, and a far-off, round voice said:
"'I am the sun. I wrap you in a glowing mantle of warmth and light. I make the earth grow and sing for you. It is I who wake the dawn-wind and the birds. Take my warm kiss on your upturned face.' "And that was the Second Gift. The person thanked the sun very much, and went in, with his heart all warmed, to eat his breakfast. As he sat eating, in at the window came all manner of little sounds--twitterings and sighings and warblings and rustlings, and all the little voices said together:
"'We are the sounds of the open. We are the birds in the russet meadow, and the whispering of the orchard trees, the cheep of the crickets in the long grass, and the whole humming, throbbing voice of out-of-doors. Take our kiss upon your waiting senses.'
"That was the Third Gift. The person ran out at the door to thank the little sounds, when what should meet him but a host of the most delicious scents!
"'We are the smell of the tawny grass, and the good tang of the wood-smoke. We are the fragrance of ripening apples in the orchard, and honeysuckle over the wall. We are the clean, cool, mellowing atmosphere of September. Breathe our sweetness!'
"That was the Fourth Gift. To be sure, the nice person was quite overwhelmed by this time, for he never had expected such a thing. As he stooped to thank the delicious scents, he touched a little clump of asters by the door-stone.
"'Greeting!' they piped. 'We are the flowers. We are the asters by the door, and burnished goldenrod in the orchard; trumpeting honeysuckle on the fence, sumach burning by the roadside, juicy milkweed by the gate. Take our cool, green kiss on your gentle fingers!'
"He stroked their little purple heads, and flung himself down beside them for a moment, to thank them. As he did so, a big, warm voice came from beneath him:
"'I am the earth. I am the cool clasp of the tall grass by the gate. I am the crispness of the heath-grass on the upland. I will rock you to sleep on my great, grass-carpeted breast. I will give you rest and security. Take my great kiss on your body.'
"That was the Sixth Gift. Dear me! the person was delighted. He lay with his cheek to the good earth's heart, thanking it, when a big gusty voice came swinging out of the east.
"'I am the sea. I give you the sound of water about the boat's bow, and the cry of the gulls; the wet, salt smack of me, the damp fog on your face, and the call out into the wide places.'
"The person jumped up and turned his face to the blue glint of the bay, and thanked the sea for the Seventh Gift. Then he went into the house to tidy up the hearth. As he came into the room, a queer, gentle, melodious voice, which seemed to come from the organ, said:
"'I am Music. I hold the key to enchantment. It is I who will sum up for you all the other gifts and make them mine--and yours. Take my kiss within your soul.'
"And that was the Eighth Gift," Felicia paused.
"But the ninth?" Kirk whispered.
"I'm trying to think of it."
Kirk clapped his hands suddenly.
"Iknow what it was!" he cried. "Don't you? Oh,don'tyou, Phil?"
"No, I don't. What was it?"
"Shall I finish?" Kirk asked.
"Please do."
"And the person said, 'Thank you,' to the organ," Kirk proceeded gleefully; "and then in the door what should stand but a beautiful lady. Andshesaid: 'I'm your sister FeliciaHappiness.' Andthatwas the most best gift ofall!"
"Naughty person!" said Felicia. "After all those really nice gifts! But--but if you will have it that, she said, 'Take my kiss upon your heart of hearts.' Oh, Kirk--darling--I love you!"
Flowers twined Kirk's chair at the breakfast table--golden honeysuckle, a sweet, second blooming, and clematis from the Maestro's hedge. Kirk hung above it, touching, admiring, breathing the sweetness of the honeysuckle; aware, also, of many others of the Nine Gifts already perceptible about the room. But his fingers encountered, as he reached for his spoon, a number of more substantial presents stacked beside his plate. There was the green jersey which Felicia had been knitting at privately for some time. He hauled it on over his head at once, and emerged from its embrace into his sister's. There was, too, a model boat, quite beautifully rigged and fitted, the painstaking care with which it was fashioned testifying to the fact that Ken had not been quite so forgetful of his brother's approaching birthday as he had seemed to be. "She's called theCelestine," said Ken, as Kirk's fingers sought out rapturously the details of the schooner. "It's painted on her stern. She's not rigged according to Hoyle, I'm afraid; I was rather shaky about some of it."
"She has a flag," Kirk crowed delightedly. "Two of 'em! And a little anchor--and--" he became more excited as he found each thing: "oh, Ken!"
There was another gift--a flat one. A book of five or six short stories and poems that Kirk had loved best to hear his sister read--all written out in Braille for him in many of Felicia's spare hours. Now he could read them himself, when Phil had no time to give him. Breakfast was quite neglected; the cereal grew cold. Kirk, who had not, indeed, expected so much as the nine gifts of Phil's tale, was quite overcome by these things, which his brother and sister had feared were little enough. There was one thing more--some sheets of paper covered with Braille characters, tucked beside Kirk's plate.
"That's Ken's handiwork," Felicia said, hastily disclaiming any finger in the enterprise. "I don't knowwhatyou may find!"
"It 's perfectly all right, now," Ken protested. "You'll see! You can read it, can't you, Kirk?"
Kirk was frowning and laughing at once.
"It's a little bit funny," he said. "But I didn't know you could do it at all. Oh, listen to it!"
He declaimed this, with some pauses:
"TO MY RELATIVE, K. S."While I am at my watery workAll up and down the bay,I think about my brother KirkA million times a day."All day my job seems play to me,My duties they are light,Because I know I'm going to seeMy brother Kirk that night."I ponder over, at my biz,How nice he is(That smile of his!),And eke his cheerful, open phiz."And also I am proud of him,I sing the praises loud of him,And all the wondering multitudeAt once exclaims: 'Gee Whiz!'"It seems this relative of mineIs going to have a fête.They tell me that he'll now be nine,Instead of half-past eight.How simply fine!We'll dance and dine!We'll pass the foaming bowl of wine!And here's our toast(We proudly boast.There isn't any need to urge us):Hip, Hip, Hooray for Kirkleigh Sturgis!"
Ken gave the three cheers promptly, and then said: "That one's silly. The other's the way I really feel. Oh, don't read it aloud!"
Kirk, who had opened his mouth to begin the next page, closed it again, and followed the lines of Braille silently. This is what he read:
"At eight o'clock on the day you were born, I found a fairy under a thorn; He looked at me hard, he looked at me queerly, And he said, 'Ah, Ken, you shall love him dearly.'
"I was then myself but a wee small lad,But I well remember the look that he had;And I thought that his words came wondrous true,For whom could I love more dear than you?"To-day at dawn I was out alone,I found a wee fairy beside a stone;And he said, as he looked at me, far above him,'Ah, Ken, you have only begun to love him!'"
There could be no possible answer to this but a rush from Kirk and an onslaught of hugs, from which it was long before Ken could disentangle himself.
"Oh, what have I done!" Ken cried. "Yes, of course I mean it, silly! But do, do have a care--we're all mixed up with the marmalade and the oatmeal, as it is!"
Ken had proclaimed the day a half-holiday for himself, but Kirk was to go with him on the morning trip, and Phil, too, if she wanted to go. She did want, so Applegate Farm was locked up, and three radiant Sturgises walked the warm, white ribbon of Winterbottom Road to theDutchman. Kirk was allowed to steer the boat, under constant orders from Ken, who compared the wake to an inebriated corkscrew. He also caught a fish over the stern, while Ken was loading up at Bayside. Then, to crown the day's delight, under the door at Applegate, when they returned, was thrust a silver-edged note from the Maestro, inviting them all to supper at his house, in honor of the occasion.
The Maestro's house wore always a mantle of gentle aloofness, like something forgotten among its over-grown garden paths. To Kirk, it was a place under a spell; to the others, who could see its grave, vine-covered, outer walls and its dim interior crowded with strange and wonderful things, it seemed a lodging place for memories, among which the Maestro moved as if he himself were living a remembered dream.
On this rich September afternoon, they found him standing on the upper terrace, waiting for them. He took Kirk's hand, offered his arm gallantly to Felicia, and they all entered the high-studded hall, where the firelight, reaching rosy shafts from the library, played catch-as-catch-can with the shadows.
Supper, a little later, was served in the dining-room--the first meal that the Sturgises had eaten there. Tall candles burned in taller silver candlesticks; their light flowed gently across the gleaming cloth, touched the Maestro's white hair, and lost itself timidly in the dim area outside the table. Kirk was enthroned in a big carved chair at the foot of the table, very grave and happy, with a candle at either side.
"A fit shrine for devotion," murmured the Maestro, looking across at him, and then, turning, busied himself vigorously with the carving.
It was a quite wonderful supper--banquet would have been a more fitting name for it, the Sturgises thought. For such food was not seen on the little table at Applegate Farm. And there was raspberry wine, in which to drink Kirk's health, and the Maestro stood up and made a beautiful speech. There was also a cake, with nine candles flaring bravely,--no one had ever before thought to give Kirk a birthday cake with candles that he could not see, and he was deeply impressed.
And after it was all over, they gathered content about the library fire, and the Maestro went to the piano.
"Kirk," he said quietly, "I have no very exciting present for you. But once, long ago, I made a song for a child on his birthday. He was just as old as you. He has no longer any need of it--so I give it, my dear, to you. It is the greatest gift I have to give."
In the silence that followed, there crept into the firelit room the star-clear notes of a little prelude. Then the Maestro sang softly:
"Roses in the moonlight,To-night all thine,Pale in the shade, and brightIn the star-shine;Roses and lilies white,Dear child of mine!My heart I give to thee,This day all thine;At thy feet let it be--It is the signOf all thou art to me,Dear child--"
But the poor Maestro could not finish the verse. He swung about on the piano-stool, trying to frame a laughing apology. Kirk went to him instantly, both hands outstretched in his haste. His fingers found the Maestro's bowed shoulders; his arms went tight about the Maestro's neck. In his passionately whispered confidence the old gentleman must have found solace, for he presently smiled,--a real smile,--and then still keeping Kirk beside him, began playing a sonata. Ken and Felicia, sunk unobtrusively in the big chairs at the hearth, were each aware of a subtle kindredship between these two at the piano--a something which they could not altogether understand.
"He brings out a side of Kirk that we don't know about," Felicia thought. "It must be the music. Oh, what music!"
It was difficult to leave a place of such divine sounds, but Kirk's bedtime was long past, and the moon stood high and cold above the Maestro's garden.
"Is it shining on all the empty pools and things?" Kirk asked, at the hedge.
"Yes, and on the meadow, and the silver roof of Applegate Farm," Phil told him.
"'Roses in the moonlight, to-night all thine,'" Kirk sang dreamily.
"Do you mean to say you can sing it so soon?" Ken gasped.
"He ran away in the moonlight," Kirk murmured. "Away to sea. Would you, Ken?"
"Not if I had a father like the Maestro, and a brother like you," said Ken, fitting the key to the door of Applegate Farm.
A very few days after Kirk had begun on his new year, he and Felicia went into Asquam to collect a few things of which the farm-house stood in need. For there had been a hint that Mrs. Sturgis might soon leave Hilltop, and Felicia was determined that Applegate Farm should wear its best face for her mother, who did not, as yet, even know of its existence. A great many little things, which Felicia had long been meaning to buy, now seemed to find a legitimate hour for their purchase. So she and Kirk went the round of the Asquam Utility Emporium, B. B. Jones Co., and the Beacon Light Store, from each of which places of business they emerged with another package.
"I told Ken we'd meet him at the boat," Felicia said, "so we might as well walk over there now, and all come home together. Oh, how thick the fog is!"
"Is it?" Kirk said. "Oh, yes, there goes the siren."
"I can hardly see theDutchman, it's so white at the end of the pier. Ken isn't there; he must have gone with Hop to see about something."
"Let 's wait in the boat," Kirk suggested. "I love the gluggy way it sounds, and the way it sloshes up and down."
They put the bundles on the wharf and climbed into the boat. The water slapped vigorously against its side, for the tide was running, and above, a wraith-like gull occasionally dropped one creaking, querulous cry.
"Goodness!" Felicia exclaimed, "with all our shopping, I forgot the groceries! I'll run back. I'll not be a minute. Tell Ken when he comes." She scrambled up the steps and ran down the pier, calling back to Kirk: "Stay just where you are!"
There were more people in the grocery store than Felicia had ever seen there, for it was near the closing hour. She was obliged to wait much longer than she had expected. When she returned to the wharf, Ken was not in sight. Neither was theFlying Dutchman.
"How queer!" Phil thought. "Ken must have taken her out. How funny of him; they knew I was coming right back."
She sat down on a pile-head and began humming to herself as she counted over her packages and added up her expenditure. She looked up presently, and saw Ken walking toward her. He was alone. Even then, it was a whole second before there came over her a hideous, sickening rush of fear.
She flew to meet him. "Where 's the boat--Ken, where's the boat?"
"The boat? I left her temporarily tied up. What's the mat--" At that moment he saw the empty gray water at the pier head. Two breathless voices spoke together:
"Where's Kirk?"
"He was in the boat," Felicia gasped hoarsely. "I ran back after the groceries."
Ken was at the end of the wharf in one agonized leap. In another second he had the frayed, wet end of rope in his hand.
"That salvaged line!" he said. "Phil, couldn't youseethat only her stern line was made fast? I left her half-moored till I came back. That rope was rotten, and it got jammed in here and chafed till it parted."
"It's my fault," Felicia breathed.
"Mine," Ken snapped. "Oh, my heavens! look at the fog!"
"And the tide?" Felicia hardly dared ask.
"Going out--to sea."
A blank, hideous silence followed, broken only by the reiterated warning of the dismal siren at the lighthouse.
"It's like looking for a needle in a haystack. A boat would have to comb every foot of the bay in this fog, and night's coming. How long have you been gone?"
Felicia looked at her watch. She was astonished to find it had been over half an hour.
"Heaven knows where the boat could have got to in half an hour," Ken muttered, "with this tide. And the wind's going to sea, too."
Felicia shook him wildly by the arm. "Do you realize--Kirk's in that boat!" she moaned. "Kirk'sinthat boat--do you realize it?"
Ken tore himself free.
"No, I don't want to realize it," he said in a harsh, high voice. "Get back to the house, Phil! You can't do anything. I'm going to the harbor master now--I'm going everywhere. I may not be back to-night." He gave her a little push, "Go, Phil."
But he ran after her. "Poor old Phil--mustn't worry," he said gently. "Get back to the farm before it's dark and have it all cheerful for us when we come in--Kirk and I."
And then he plunged into the reek, and Felicia heard the quick beat of his steps die away down the wharf.
The harbor master was prompt in action, but not encouraging. He got off with Ken in his power boat in surprisingly short order. The coast guard, who had received a very urgent telephone message, launched the surf-boat, and tried vainly to pierce the blank wall of fog--now darkening to twilight--with their big searchlight. Lanterns, lost at once in the murk, began to issue from wharf-houses as men started on foot up the shore of the bay.
Ken, in the little hopeless motor-boat, sat straining his eyes beyond the dripping bow, till he saw nothing but flashes of light that did not exist. TheFlying Dutchman--theFlying Dutchman--why had he not known that she must be a boat of ill omen? Joe Pasquale--drowned in February. "We got him, but we never did find his boat"--"cur'ous tide-racks 'round here--cur'ous tide-racks."
The harbor master was really saying that now, as he had said it before. Yes, the tide ran cruelly fast beside the boat, black and swirling and deep. A gaunt something loomed into the light of the lantern, and made Ken's heart leap. It was only a can-buoy, lifting lonely to the swell.
Far off, the siren raised its mourning voice.
Ken stumbled into the open door of Applegate Farm at three the next morning. Felicia was asleep in a chair by the cold ashes of the fire. A guttering candle burned on the table. She woke instantly and stared at him with wide eyes.
"What is it?" she said, and then sprang up. "Alone?"
"Yes," Ken said. "Not yet. I'm going back in a little while. I wanted to tell you how everybody is working, and all."
She ran to bring him something to eat, while he flung himself down before the hearth, dead tired.
"The fog's still down heavy," he said, when she came back. "The coast guard's been out all night. There are men on shore, too, and some other little boats."
"But the tide was running out," Phil said. "He's gone. Kirk's--gone, Ken!"
"No," Ken said, between his teeth. "No, Phil. Oh, no, no!". He got up and shook himself. "Go to bed, now, andsleep. The idea of sitting up with a beastly cold candle!"
He kissed her abruptly and unexpectedly and stalked out at the door, a weary, disheveled figure, in the first pale, fog-burdened gleam of dawn.
It was some time after theFlying Dutchmanparted her one insufficient mooring-rope before Kirk realized that the sound of the water about her had changed from a slap to a gliding ripple. There was no longer the short tug and lurch as she pulled at her painter and fell back; there was no longer the tide sound about the gaunt piles of the wharf. Kirk, a little apprehensive, stumbled aft and felt for the stern-line. It gave in his hand, and the slack, wet length of it flew suddenly aboard, smacking his face with its cold and slimy end. He knew, then, what had happened, but he felt sure that the boat must still be very near the wharf--perhaps drifting up to the rocky shore between the piers. He clutched the gunwale and shouted: "Ken! Oh, Ken!" He did not know that he was shouting in exactly the wrong direction, and the wind carried his voice even farther from shore. His voice sounded much less loud than he had expected. He tried calling Felicia's name, but it seemed even less resonant than Ken's. He stopped calling, and stood listening. Nothing but the far-off fog-siren, and the gulls' faint cries overhead. The wind was blowing fresher against his cheek, for the boat was in mid-channel by this time. The fog clung close about him; he could feel it on the gunwale, wet under his hands; it gathered on his hair and trickled down his forehead. The broken rope slid suddenly off the stern sheets and twined itself clammily about his bare knee. He started violently, and then picked it off with a shiver.
The slack length of it flew suddenly aboard
The lighthouse siren, though still distant, sounded nearer, which meant that the boat was drifting seaward. Kirk realized that, all at once, and gave up his shouting altogether. He sat down in the bottom of the boat, clasped his knees, and tried to think. But it was not easy to think. He had never in his life wanted so much toseeas he did now. It was so different, being alone in the dark, or being in it with Ken or Felicia or the Maestro on the kind, warm, friendly land. He remembered quite well how the Maestro had said: "The sea is a tyrant. Those she claims, she never releases."
The sea's voice hissed along the side of the boat, now,--the voice of a monster ready to leap aboard,--and he couldn't see to defend himself! He flung his arms out wildly into his eternal night, and then burst suddenly into tears. He cried for some time, but it was the thought of Ken which made him stop. Ken would have said, "Isn't there enough salt water around here already, without such a mess of tears?"
That was a good idea--to think about Ken. He was such a definite, solid, comforting thing to think about. Kirk almost forgot the stretch of cold gray water that lay between them now. It wasn't sensible to cry, anyway. It made your head buzzy, and your throat ache. Also, afterward, it made you hungry. Kirk decided that it was unwise to do anything at this particular moment which would make him hungry. Then he remembered the hardtack which Ken kept in the bow locker to refresh himself with during trips. Kirk fumbled for the button of the locker, and found it and the hardtack. He counted them; there were six. He put five of them back and nibbled the other carefully, to make it last as long as possible.
The air was more chill, now. Kirk decided that it must be night, though he didn't feel sleepy. He crawled under the tarpaulin which Ken kept to cover the trunks in foul weather. In doing so, he bumped against the engine. There was another maddening thing! A good, competent engine, sitting complacently in the middle of the boat, and he not able to start it! But even if he had known how to run it, he reflected that he couldn't steer the boat. So he lay still under the tarpaulin, which was dry, as well as warm, and tried to think of all sorts of pleasant things. Felicia had told him, when she gave him the green sweater on his birthday, that a hug and kiss were knit in with each stitch of it, and that when he wore it he must think of her love holding him close. It held him close now; he could feel the smooth soft loop of her hair as she bent down to say good-night; he could hear her sing, "Do-do, p'tit frère."
That was a good idea--to sing! He clasped his hands nonchalantly behind his head, and began the first thing that came to his mind:
"Roses in the moonlightTo-night all thine,Pale in the shade--"
But he did not finish. For the wind's voice was stronger, and the waves drowned the little tune, so lonely there in the midst of the empty water. Kirk cried himself to sleep, after all.
He could not even tell when the night gave way to cold day-break, for the fog cloaked everything from the sun's waking warmth. It might have been a week or a month that he had drifted on in theFlying Dutchman--it certainly seemed as long as a month. But he had eaten only two biscuits and was not yet starved, so he knew that it could not be even so much as a week. But he did not try to sing now. He was too cold, and he was very thirsty. He crouched under the tarpaulin, and presently he ate another hardtack biscuit. He could not hear the lighthouse fog-signal at all, now, and the waves were much bigger under the boat. They lifted her up, swung her motionless for a moment, and then let her slide giddily into the trough of another sea. "Even if I reached a desert island," Kirk thought mournfully, "I don't know what I'd do. People catch turkles and shoot at parrots and things, but they can see what they're doing."
The boat rolled on, and Kirk began to feel quite wretchedly sick, and thirstier than ever. He lay flat under the tarpaulin and tried to count minutes. Sixty, quite fast--that was one minute. Had he counted two minutes, now, or was it three? Then he found himself counting on and on--a hundred and fifty-one, a hundred and fifty-two.
"I wish I'd hurry up and die," said poor Kirk out loud.
Then his darkness grew more dark, for he could no longer think straight. There was nothing but long swirling waves of dizziness and a rushing sound.
"Phil," Kirk tried to say. "Mother."
At about this time, Ken was standing in the government wireless station, a good many miles from Asquam. He had besieged an astonished young operator early in the morning, and had implored him to call every ship at sea within reach. Now, in the afternoon, he was back again, to find out whether any replies had come.
"No boat sighted," all the hurrying steamers had replied. "Fog down heavy. Will keep look-out."
Ken had really given up all hope, long before. Yet--could he ever give up hope, so long as life lasted? Such strange things had happened--Most of all, he could not let Phil give up. Yet he knew that he could not keep on with this pace much longer--no sleep, and virtually no food. But then, if he gave up the search, if he left a single thing undone while there was still a chance, could he ever bear himself again? He sat in a chair at the wireless station, looking dully at the jumping blue spark.
"Keep on with it, please," he said. "I'm going out in a boat again."
"The fog's lifting, I think," said the operator.
"Oh, thank the Lord!" groaned Ken. "It was that--the not being able tosee."
Yes--Kirk had felt that, too.
At Applegate Farm, Felicia wandered from room to room like a shadow, mechanically doing little tasks that lay to her hand. She was alone in her distress; they had not yet told the Maestro of this disaster, for they knew he would share their grief. Felicia caught the sound of a faint jingling from without, and moved slowly to the gate, where Mr. Hobart was putting the mail into the box. She opened her mother's letter listlessly as she walked back to the house, and sat down upon the door-step to read it--perhaps it would take her mind for a moment, this odd, unconscious letter, addressed even to a house which no longer sheltered them. But the letter smote her with new terror.
"Oh, if you only knew, my dear, dear chicks, what it will be to escape this kindly imprisonment--what it will mean to see you all again! I can hardly wait to come up the dear old familiar path to 24 Westover Street and hug you all--I'll hug Ken, even if he hates it, and Kirk, my most precious baby! They tell me I must be very careful still, but I know that the sight of you will be all that I need for the finishing remedy. So expect me, then, by the 12.05 on Wednesday, and good-by till then, my own dears."
Felicia sat on the door-stone, transfixed. Her mother coming home, on Wednesday--so much sooner than they had expected! She did not even know of the new house; and if she were to come to a home without Kirk--if there were never to be Kirk! Almost a week remained before Wednesday; how could she be put off? What if the week went by without hope; no hope, ever? Felicia sat there for hours, till the sun of late afternoon broke through the fog at last, and the mellow fields began one by one to reappear, reaching into the hazy distance. Felicia rose and went slowly into the house. On top of the organ lay the book of stories and poems she had written out in Braille for Kirk. It lay open, as he had left it, and she glanced at the page.
"When the voices of children are heard on the green,And laughing is heard on the hill,My heart is at rest within my breast,And everything else is still.Then come home, my children, the sun is gone down,And the dews of the night arise.'"
Felicia gave up the struggle with her grief. Leaving the door of Applegate Farm wide, she fled blindly to the Maestro. He was playing to himself and smiling when she crept into the library, but he stopped instantly when he saw her face. Before she could help herself, she had told him everything, thrust her mother's letter into his hand, and then gave way to the tears she had fought so long. The Maestro made no sign nor motion. His lips tightened, and his eyes blazed suddenly, but that was all.
He was all solicitude for Felicia. She must not think of going back to the empty farm-house. He arranged a most comfortable little supper beside the fire, and even made her smile, with his eager talk, all ringing with hope and encouragement. And finally he put her in charge of his sympathetic little housekeeper, who tucked her up in a great, dark, soft bed.
Left alone in the library, the Maestro paced unsteadily up and down. "It is the sea that takes them!" he whispered. "It took my son; now it has taken one whom I loved as my son."
He sank down upon the piano-stool and gazed at the sheet of music on the music-rack. It was Kirk's last exercise, written out carefully in the embossed type that the Maestro had been at such pains to learn and teach. Something like a sob shook the old musician. He raised clenched, trembling fists above his head, and brought them down, a shattering blow, upon the keyboard. Then he sat still, his face buried in his arms on the shaken piano. Felicia, lying stiff and wide-eyed in the great bed above, heard the crash of the hideous discord, and shuddered. She had been trying to remember the stately, comforting words of the prayer for those in peril on the sea, but now, frightened, she buried her face in the pillow.
"Oh, dear God," she faltered. "You--You must bring him back--Youmust!"
"He's a deader," said one of the men, pulling off his watch-cap.
"No, he ain't," said another. "He's warm."
"But look at his eyes," said the first. "They ain't right."
"Where's the old man?" inquired one.
"Skipper's taking a watch below, arter the fog; don't yer go knockin' him up now, Joe."
"Wait till the mate comes. Thunder, why don't yer wrop somep'n round the kid, you loon?"
The big schooner was getting under way again. The mate's voice spoke sharply to the helmsman.
"Helm up--steady. Nothing off--stead-y."
Then he left the quarter-deck and strode rapidly down to the little group amidships. He was a tall man, with a brown, angular face, and deep-set, rather melancholy, blue eyes. His black hair was just beginning to gray above his temples, and several lines, caused more by thought than age, scored his lean face.
"What have we picked up, here, anyway?" he demanded. "Stand off, and let me look."
There was not much to see--a child in a green jersey, with blown, damp hair and a white face.
"You tink he's dead?" A big Swede asked the question.
The mate plunged a quick hand inside the green sweater.
"No, he's not. But he's blind. Get out with that stuff, Jolak, what d'ye think this is? Get me some brandy, somebody."
Jolak retired with the pickled cabbage he had offered as a restorative. No one looked to see where the brandy came from on a ship where none was supposed to be but in the medicine chest. It came, however, without delay, and the mate opened the flask.
"Now," he said, when he had poured some of its contents down the child's throat, and lifted him from the deck, "let me through."
The first thing of which Kirk was conscious was a long, swinging motion, unlike the short roll of theDutchman. There was also a complex creaking and sighing, a rustling and rattling. There was a most curious, half-disagreeable, half-fascinating smell. Kirk lay quietly on something which seemed much softer and warmer than the bottom of theFlying Dutchman, and presently he became aware of a soft strumming sound, and of a voice which sang murmurously:
"Off Cape de GatteI lost my hat,And where d'ye think I found it?In Port MahonUnder a stoneWith all the girls around it."
"I like that," said Kirk, in a small voice. "Go on."
But the singing stopped immediately, and Kirk feared that he had only dreamed it, after all. However, a large, warm hand was laid quite substantially on his forehead, and the same voice that had been singing, said:
"H'm! Thought you'd have another go at the old world, after all?"
"Where is this?" Kirk asked.
"This is the four-mast schoonerCelestine,returning from South America. I am Martin, mate of said schooner--at your service. Hungry?"
"That's funny," said Kirk; "the boat Ken gave me is called theCelestine. Andshe'sa four-masted schooner. Where's Ken?"
"I'm sorry--I don't know. Hungry?"
"I think I am," said Kirk.
Certainly the mate of theCelestinehad a most strong and comfortable arm wherewith to raise a person. He administered bread and hot condensed milk, and Kirk began to realize that he was very hungry indeed.
"Now you go to sleep," Mr. Martin advised, after his brief manner. "Warm, now?"
Yes, Kirk was quite warm and cozy, but very much bewildered, and desirous of asking a hundred questions. These the mate forbade.
"You go to sleep," he commanded.
"Then please sing another tune," Kirk said. "What was that you were playing on?"
"Violin," said Mr. Martin. "Fiddle. I was plunking it like a banjo. Now I'll play it, if you'll stop talking."
Kirk did, and the mate began to play. His music was untaught, and he himself had made up the strange airs he played. They sighed fitfully through the little cabin like the rush of wind and water without; blended with it, mingled with the hundred little voices of the ship. TheCelestineslipped on up the coast, singing softly to herself, and Kirk fell asleep with the undulating wail of the violin and the whisper of water filling his half-awakened senses.
He woke abruptly, much later, and called for Felicia suddenly; then, recollecting hazily where he was, for Mr. Martin. Hearing no sound, he was frightened, and cried out in remembered terror.
"Steady!" said the mate's voice. "What's the trouble?"
"I don't know," said Kirk. "I--I think I need to talk to somebody. There hasn't been anybody for so long."
"Well, go ahead," said the mate. "I'm in my bunk. If you think there's room enough, I'll put you in here. More sociable, rather."
There was not much room, but Kirk was so thankful to clasp a human being once more, that he did not care how narrow the quarters might be. He put his cheek against the mate's arm, and they lay silent, the man very stiff and unyielding. "The Maestro would like to hear you play," Kirk murmured. "He loves queer tunes like that. He even likes the ones I make up."
"Oh, you make up tunes, do you?"
"Little ones. But he makes wonderful ones,--and he plays wonderfully, too."
"Who?"
"The Maestro."
"Who's he?"
Kirk told him--at great length. He likewise unburdened his heart, which had been steeped so long in loneliness and terror, and recounted the wonder and beauty of Applegate Farm, and Felicia and Ken, and the model ship, and the Maestro's waiting garden, and all that went to make up his dear, familiar world, left so long ago, it seemed.
"But," he said rather mournfully, "I don't know whether I shall ever see any of them again, if we just keep on sailing and sailing. Are you going back to South America again?"
The mate laughed a little. "No," he said. "TheCelestine'sgoing to Bedford. We can't put her off her course to drop you at Asquam--harbor's no good, anyhow. My time's up when she docks. I'll take you home."
"Have you always been mate of theCelestine?" Kirk inquired.
"I have not," said Mr. Martin. "I signed aboard of her at Rio this trip, to get up into the Christian world again. I've been deckhand and seaman and mate on more vessels than I can count--in every part of the uncivilized world. I skippered one ship, even--pestilential tub that she was."
He fell silent after this speech, longer than any he had made so far.
"Then I'll get home," Kirk said. "Home. Can't we let 'em know, or anything? I suppose they've been worrying."
"I think it likely that they have," said the mate. "No, this ship's got no wireless. I'll send 'em a telegram when we dock to-morrow."
"Thank you," said Kirk. Then, after a long pause: "Oh, if you knew how awful it was out there."
"I know," said Mr. Martin.
TheCelestinewas bowling into Bedford Harbor with a fair wind. Kirk, in a reefer any number of sizes too large for him, sat on a hatch-coaming and drank in the flying wonder of the schooner's way. He was sailing on a great ship! How surprised Ken would be--and envious, too, for Ken had always longed to sail in a ship. The wind soughed in the sails and sang in the rigging, and the water flew past theCelestineand bubbled away behind her in a seething curve of foam. Mr. Martin stood looking up at the smooth, rounded shape of the main topsail, and whistling the song about the hat which he had lost and so miraculously found. He looked more than usually thoughtful and melancholy.
A fussy tug took theCelestinethe last stage of her journey, and early afternoon found her warped in to the wharf where Ken had seen her on the eve of her departure. Then, she had been waking to action at the beginning of a long cruise; now, a battered gull with gray, folded wings, she lay at the dock, pointing her bowsprit stiffly up to the dingy street where horses tramped endlessly over the cobblestones. The crew was jubilant. Some were leaving for other ships; some were going on shore leave, with months' pay unspent.
"I'm attending to this salvage, sir," said Mr. Martin, to the captain. "My folks live up Asquam way. I'll take him along with me."
Asquam's languid representative of the telegraph knocked upon the door of Applegate Farm, which was locked. Then he thrust the yellow envelope as far under the door as possible and went his way. An hour later, a tall man and a radiant small boy pushed open the gate on Winterbottom Road and walked across the yellow grass. Kirk broke away and ran toward the house, hands outflung.
"Phil! Ken!" he called jubilantly.
His face shadowed as his hands came against the unyielding door of the house.
"Phil--" he faltered.
"Perhaps they haven't the telegram," Mr. Martin said. "We'll have to wait around."
"They might be at the Maestro's," Kirk said suddenly. "Come--run quick--I'll show you the way. There's a hole in the hedge--are you too big to get through?"
"I think not," said the mate.
In the Maestro's library, Felicia leaned suddenly upon the piano. "Ken," she said, breathing hard, "something's going to happen--something!"
"What more can happen?" Ken said gently.
"But--oh, please!Dosomething--I don't know--"
"Poor child!" murmured the Maestro. "Sit here, Felicia. Help her, Ken."
"I don't need help," said Phil. "Oh, you think I'm mad, I suppose. I'm not. Ken--please go and look out--go to the house. Oh, Kirk!"
The Maestro shook his head and put a hand on Felicia's shoulder.
"Better go, Ken," he said quietly.
Kenelm stepped upon the terrace. Through the long window, which he left open behind him, a joyous voice came quite clearly to the library.
"And this is the poor empty pool that I told you about, that never has had any water in it since then--and aren't we at the terrace steps now?"
Felicia vowed afterward that she didn't faint. Yet she had no clear recollection of seeing Kirk between the time when she saw him drop the hand of the tall, strange man and run up the steps, and when they all were standing around her in the library, looking a little grave.
"Phil--Phil!" Kirk was saying then. "Oh, aren't you glad to see me atall? It's me--oh,Phil!"
His eager hands sought her face, to be sure it was she, so strange and quiet.
"Just a minute, lamb," she heard Ken say, with a hand on Kirk's shoulder. "Phil doesn't feel quite right."
Then warm, delicious life rushed over her, and she could move again and fling her trembling arms around Kirk. She and Ken and the Maestro all managed to embrace Kirk at once, so that they embraced each other, too. And Ken was not ashamed of his tears, nor was the Maestro.
The ex-mate of theCelestinestood discreetly on the terrace, whistling to himself. But he was not whistling the song about his hat. No, it was a little plaintive air, dimly familiar, Ken thought. Where had he heard it before? And why was the Maestro straightening with a stricken face, from Kirk?