IX.
_THAT OPEN BOOK._
Toby Tolman, keeper of the light at Black Rocks, sat by the kitchenstove in this lighthouse on the frothing, stony rim of the sea. Heliked the seclusion of this kitchen in the strong rock tower. He likedto hear the steady beating of the clock--"tick, tick, tick, tick." Heliked the feeling, too, of the warm fire, and especially on this cool,windy day. True it was August, but then the wind was blowing from thenorth-west as if from an ice-floe up in Alaska, and the air was chilly.As he glanced out of either of the two windows--the deep recessedwindows in the kitchen--he saw a cold, angry sea broken up into littlewaves, each seeming to carry a white snow-flake of the size of the crestof the wave. The distant ships, too, had a cold look, as if they alsowere snowflakes.
"A cool day," thought the light-keeper; "and the fire feels good."
While he was in the kitchen Dave was up in the watch-room, hunting inthe little library for a history he meant to read, in accordance with aplan suggested by the keeper, "a little every day, and to keep at it."
Mr. Tolman had a book in his lap--"The best book in the world," he saidto himself. It was his big-print Bible, and especially did he rejoicein that sense of protection, its promises give on days like this, whenhe heard the wind rushing and storming at the window, suggestive of thewild tempests that might blow any hour.
Just this moment the keeper was not reading. He was thinking, and theBible was the occasion of his meditation about Dave Fletcher.
"I don't see Dave reading his Bible much," he said to himself; "and Idon't believe he cares very much about prayer--acts that way, at anyrate. I should like to help him; but how?"
He called Dave before his mind, this brown-haired, blue-eyed boy, withhis quiet manners and methods, but, as the keeper put it, "loaded with alot of grit."
"Yes, I should like to help that boy," continued the keeper in histhoughts. "I would like to influence him to be a Christian; but how, Iwonder? He is one of that kind of self-reliant chaps you feel that hehad rather find out a thing himself than be told of it. He doesn't wantme, I know, to tell him all the time about his duty, and yet--yet--Ishould like to influence him, and I wonder how?"
Of course, there was one's example first of all.
"Try to do what I can here," thought the keeper. "I might speak to him,though I don't want to run the thing into the ground. Well, I shall beguided."
The thought came to him, "Now there is a bit of a thing I can do whichcertainly won't do harm."
The thought was just to leave his Bible open on the kitchen table.
"Perhaps he may see a verse," thought the keeper, "and it will set himto thinking."
After that on the table would lie the keeper's Bible turned back to someimpressive chapter. Dave would have been uneasy if in contact with somestyles of religion, but such a kindly natured, sunny, generous, andtolerant soul as Toby Tolman he could not find disagreeable. Toby'sreligion was never obtrusive, never unpleasantly in the way of people;though always prominent, out in open sight, it was the prominence of thesunshine, of a bird's happy singing, of nature on a spring morning.Dave felt it, but he was a silent lad over important subjects. He wasdifferent from his sister Annie. If her soul were stirred by anyprofound emotion, she must in some way give expression to it. Dave,though, would look very serious and continue silent. His mother, whoknew him so well, said that Dave felt most when he said the least, andthe hours of his greatest stillness were to her the surest signs of anintense activity within.
"Dave is fullest when he seems to be emptiest," Mrs. Fletcher would say.Because now-a-days at the light he would often have long seasons ofsilence, was it any sign of mental occupation?
"I don't think I understand that boy yet," was Toby Tolman's thought."He is thinking about something, I know."
It was a day near the close of Dave's stay at the lighthouse that thekeeper said in the morning,--"Beautiful day! Everything just as calm!It seems as if it would stay so always, but it won't."
How the sea might rock and roar in twenty-four hours! The lighthousewas very peaceful. The morning's work was despatched promptly, and thetower was very quiet. With any rocking, roaring sea would come a changein the life of the tower. There would be hurrying feet, and thefog-signal would shriek out its sharp, piercing warning.
The flow of life in nature, though, out on the sea, up in the sky, wasundisturbed all that day, and in the tower of the fog-signal themachinery stirred not, while the light breeze playing around the mouthof the fog-trumpets aroused no answering blast. It was peaceful on thesea and in the tower. And yet in the light-keeper's own bosom it seemedthat afternoon as if an ocean tempest had been evoked and was suddenlyraging. About three Dave, who chanced to be in the storeroom of thetower, heard a voice outside.
"There's some one down at the foot of the ladder," thought Dave. "Iwill see who it is."
He went to the door of the signal-tower and looked down.
"Ho! that you, Timothy? Coming back?" said Dave.
Down in a boat lightly resting on the smooth, glassy water was TobyTolman's assistant, Timothy Waters. Dave knew that Timothy was comingback very soon, and he thought that Timothy might have concluded toanticipate the date appointed for his return and resume work now.
"Not just yet," replied Timothy. "Get the cap'n soon as you can. Iwon't come up. Spry, please."
The keeper was quickly at the door.
"What's wanted, Timothy? Coming up, are you not?"
"Wish I could, cap'n, but I want to take you to town. Your--is--very--"
The sea heaved just then sufficiently to disturb the speaker's balanceand also to interfere with his message. There he stood, trying tosteady himself by the help of the mooring-rope and then looking upagain.
"What? who?" asked the keeper.
"Why, your granddarter May, cap'n," replied Timothy. "She is very sick.They don't know that she will live. She has been begging to see you,and if you could come a few hours I will get you back again all rightafterwards."
"I will be with you right off." The keeper turned to Dave: "You heardthat. It's ugly news. Now if I go, can't you light up and watch tillhalf-past eight? I'll be back, sure. Don't worry. It will be a quietnight; no sign just yet of any change in the weather."
"Oh yes, Mr. Tolman; that is all right. You go. I would if I were you.I will look after things. I can handle them."
"I think you can; and I shall be obleeged to you. My, my! this issudden. Wasn't looking for May's sickness."
He was quickly in the boat with Timothy Waters; and then Dave watchedthe two men pulling stoutly on their oars and making quick progresslandward. The boat turned the corner of a bluff projecting into theharbour and disappeared. Dave stepped back into the lighthouse, and satdown beside the kitchen stove. It was very peaceful there. The clockticked as usual on the wall; and on the table, lying open, as if laiddown a moment ago by the keeper, was his Bible. Dave glanced at theopened pages a moment. As his eyes slipped down the line of verses henoticed such assurances as these:--
"He that dwelleth in the secret place of the Most High shall abide underthe shadow of the Almighty.... Thou shalt not be afraid for the terrorby night.... For he shall give his angels charge over thee, to keep theein all thy ways. They shall bear thee up in their hands, lest thou dashthy foot against a stone."
He lingered a moment looking at these passages, and then turned away.
"I will go upstairs," he said, "into the lantern, and make sure thateverything is ready for the lighting at sunset. That's sudden about MayTolman," he began to reflect. "Why, I seem to see her going up and downthese stairs the day she was here, so full of life."
He could hear her voice; he could see her black, glowing eyes, that hada peculiar fascination for Dave.
"Sorry," he said. "That's real sudden. Things do happen quick in thislife sometimes."
Dave felt unusually sober that day. If he had told all
his thoughts toany one, he would have confessed to a singular soberness of feeling forsome time.
He had been shut up for several weeks with a man whose religion, withoutany pretence, any show, and any peculiarities, controlled his life, andcame prominently to the surface in everything. Dave felt his sister'sreligious influence at home; but there were influences interfering withit and partly neutralizing it. Dave Fletcher's mother was too busy, sheassured herself, to attend to religion; and Dave's father declared--alsoto himself--that he did not "feel the need of it." "I am as good as myneighbours; and I guess that will do," he said. He quoted in histhoughts Dave's lack of interest, saying, "There is Dave, good boy; andhe takes his father's view of things."
But here at the lighthouse Dave declared that he was "cornered." Herewas a simple, humble, unselfish life living in communion with hisheavenly Father, bringing that presence down to that lonely tower in thesea, and filling it, and surrounding the boy who was the light-keeper'scompanion. No neutralizing associations here.
"It sets me to thinking," declared Dave, as he climbed the successivestairways to the lantern the afternoon of the keeper's absence. "AndMay Tolman's sickness--that is sudden. Nothing is certain. Well, wemust just look after matters right around us. One can't give histhoughts to all these possibilities of accident. I'll just rememberthat I am a keeper of a lighthouse."
Keeper of a lighthouse! The moment he uttered this thought to himselfthere settled down upon his shoulders a new and serious weight ofresponsibility. He began to realize that for several hours he must carrythe burden of a keeper's duties. He must look after the fog-signal, ifa dusky veil of mist should suddenly be dropped from the sky and curtainoff both the sea and the land. If there should be any accident upon thesea in the neighbourhood of the lighthouse, where the keeper might beexpected to give any aid, Dave must render that help. When night came,or sunset rather, he must light the lamp in the lantern, and he mustwatch it, and see that for the sake of the many vessels upon the seathis light burned with steady lustre. Upon just a boy's shoulders howheavy a care seemed to be pressing down!
"I can stand it," he said, in pride and confidence. The very pressure ofthe responsibility aroused within him a corresponding measure ofstrength. However, it did not lessen the shadow of that sober thinkingin which he often walked nowadays.
"I'll take that history I am reading," he said on his return from thelantern, "and get over a good number of pages to-day."
He read until supper-time, but somehow his thoughts did not seem to stayon his book. They were like birds on the telegraph wires along therailroad track--flying off and then alighting again, only to lift theirwings and beat the air in another flight.
"A long afternoon!" he said finally, laying down his book. "I am gladit is tea-time."
How lonely the kitchen began to seem! The rattle of his knife and fork,the clink of his spoon, the occasional clatter of dishes, usually suchpleasant sounds to a hungry man, now sounded lonely and harsh.
"Don't like eating by myself," declared Dave. "Glad tea is over. Wonderwhen Mr. Tolman will be here?" He looked at the clock and said, "Ibelieve he thought he should be back by half-past eight. I wonder howMay Tolman is getting along. Poor girl!"
The sun seemed that night a longer time than usual in setting, as if itwere an invalid, and there must be a very deliberate and lengthybundling up in yellow blankets.
"At last the sun is about going down," said Dave. He was now up in thelantern, match in hand. He looked off through the broad windows ofglass upon the surface of the sea, growing calmer and more shining inthe west; but in the east its lustre had faded out, and there was agreat expanse of dull, heavy, lead-like shades. Two fishing-boats werecreeping into harbour. The surf on the bar rolled lazily, as if itwould like to go to sleep, even as the sun. A schooner was creepingalong the channel, its sails hanging in loose, flapping folds.
"There goes the sun!" thought Dave, watching the disappearance of thelast embers of its fires below a blue hill. He turned with relief tothe lamp, removed its chimney, kindled its wick, replaced the chimney,and then carefully adjusted the flame.
"There--that is done! Now do your duty, and burn all right," was Dave'sdirection. Rising, he looked away, and saw that in other lighthousestheir keepers had kindled guiding tapers, burning slender and silvery inthe still lingering daylight.
"Everything here is all right, I believe," said Dave, looking about thelantern. "Holloa! what is that up there in the corner? A cobweb?Guess I must take it down. Don't want the window to have that thing upthere. Can't reach it. I will get a little box down in the watch-room.That will elevate me."
When he had brought the box, standing on it he saw that the web was onthe outside of the lantern, and he went without to remove the film fromthe glass.
"There!" he said, reaching up to the corner of the window as he stood onthe box. "Come down here. Don't have cobwebs on the windows of thislantern."
He now turned about, and chanced to face the tall red pipes projectingfrom the roof of the signal-tower with their trumpet-shaped mouths.
"Is one of those pipes damaged?" wondered Dave. "Afraid so. I must takea sharper look at that."
At the foot of the railing of the parapet he placed the box, and fromthat elevation, leaning his arms on the railing, inspected as closely ashe could the fog-signal. This parapet for timorous people was an uglyspot. When the wind blew hard it was not easy to maintain one's footingoutside the lantern. One could cling to the railing, which was firm, butit consisted only of an iron bar resting on upright iron rods three feetapart. There was no danger of a fence-break, but the gaps between theiron rods were wide and ugly, and if one should chance to drop on thesmooth stone floor and just tip a little--over--toward--the--edge--ugh!One did not like to think of that fall down--down--into the sea--perhapsupon the Black Rocks when the tide was out. Toby Tolman had told Davethat for a long time he did not care to go near the rail about thelantern and stand there a while, as it made him "nervous;' but he hadceased to be a "land-lubber," and could now face, sailor-like inconfidence, any quarter of the sea and sky, just clinging to that littlerail. Dave had felt pleased with his steadiness of nerve when he foundhe could look over that rail and then down upon the whirling sea withoutvery much trepidation.
"Shouldn't like to have a dizzy fit when I was looking over," he said."No danger, though."
He repeated this as he now stood on the box planted at the foot of oneof the iron supports of the rail, and continuing to rest his arms on therail, inspected closely, as already said, the fog-signal. Suddenly hisarms slipped, and over the horrible edge of that narrow little railinghe found himself going. Sometimes we compress years into momentsapparently. We go back, we go forward, we gather it all up into thethought of a very brief now. But oh, how vivid!--like all the electricforce in a great mass of cloud concentrated in one dazzling, blindinglightning-stroke. As Dave felt that his body was sliding over that rail,he seemed to realize where he had been in the past. He thought of hisparents--his home--Uncle Ferguson at Shipton--how it was that he came tothe lighthouse, and then he seemed to realize vividly his situationthere in the lighthouse: that he was there as the responsible keeperjust then; that the safety of many vessels at sea all relied on thethoroughness of his watch; and yet he was sliding over that rail, goingdown toward the waves, the rocks--he dared not look toward them! Hecould see only this one thing between him and death: beneath his handswas an iron support of the railing. There was no other object he couldgrasp for three feet on each side of him. It is true there was thegranite rim of this lantern-deck, so called sometimes, but he could notgrasp it. His hands would slide over it. Just that iron stanchion washis hope, and as he was sinking down he convulsively clutched at it,caught it, clung to it--shutting his eyes as if blinded. He dared notlook anywhere until he felt that his grasp was sure, and then he somehowworked himself back, up, over the railing, and the whole of his body wason the lantern-deck again. He crawled into the lantern
, shut the door,and threw himself on the floor weak as a baby.
"Horrible!" was his one word. There he lay thinking. What if he hadgone down into that yawning pit of the sea! When would they have foundhis body? Horrible! horrible! When he was steady enough he slowlycrept down the stairs. He entered the kitchen. It had seemed as ifeverything threatened to fall when he was in danger of going down intothe sea--lantern, watch-room, lighthouse--all into the merciless sea.But here was the kitchen. No change here. It was so quiet, so restful.A lamp burned on the table. The fire murmured in the stove. The clocksang its cheerful little tune of a single note. And there was the oldlight-keeper's Bible. It still lay open, its pages shining in thelamp-light, and there were the promises of the psalm Dave had alreadynoticed. What did it say? "They shall bear thee up in their hands,lest at any time thou dash thy foot against a stone."
Dave started. Up on the high lantern-deck had any mighty angel steppedbetween him and death, lifting him back on the floor of stone? Whocould say it was not so? Dave sat down in a chair, and then bowed hishead and rested it on the table. Here was God, the kindest, dearestbeing in the universe, Dave's great Father, from whose arms he had beenturning away, trying to avoid them; and now, up on the lofty parapet,they had been held out, restraining him, saving him.
"Oh, I can't go on this way any longer," thought Dave. "And I _won't_,either! If God will only have me--will only--"
He fell on his knees. What he whispered to God he never could recall.He only knew that he felt very sorry that he had been neglectingGod--pushing away the arms reached out to him and feeling after him. Hemurmured something about gratitude, something about forgiveness. Thenhe was conscious of a surrender, of sliding down--not into a horriblepit from the lighthouse parapet, but into arms tender yet strong, thatwent about him, that bore him up, that held him. How long he stayedthere he knew not. Some time he arose, and went upstairs to see if thelantern were all right. Its light burned steadily, vividly, hopefully.He looked out on the lantern-deck. There was the box still on the floor.With a shudder he took it in and went downstairs again. Then he prayedonce more, and said aloud the words, "They shall bear thee up in theirhands, lest at any time thou dash thy foot against a stone." He was sothankful for this night's deliverance, so sorry for his forgetfulness ofGod in the long past! He rose to read again. He heard a step at lastin the passage-way between the fog-signal tower and the lighthouse,--aheavy, echoing step, now in the tank-room, then on the stairway to thekitchen.
Dave sprang up to meet the keeper, and he held the lamp in the shadowystairway.
"Glad to see you, Mr. Tolman."
"Same to you. Here I am, all right, you see. Glad I went."
"How is May?"
"Better. Yes, thank God, she is better. There was a sudden change, andthe doctor has hope. She has been in a pretty hard place, but I thinkshe is out of it."
"Good! That's the way I feel myself."
"What!" The light-keeper looked at Dave for an explanation, but Davewas silent. He could not tell everything at once, or even a littleto-night. The keeper went to the table, saying to himself, "He meantMay when he said that. Ah!" he thought, "my book is turned round.Guess Dave has been reading this. Good! I thought he would get to itsome time."
That was a very peaceful night whose hush was on the great sea, on thesurf gently rolling along the bar, and in the lighthouse tower. Thedeepest peace was in Dave Fletcher's soul.
Dave's stay at the lighthouse was exceedingly brief after this event inhis life.
"I am really sorry to have you go," said Toby Tolman the day that Daveleft. "I shall miss you. I will take you up to town, as Timothy hascome back."
Dave received his pay from Timothy, for whom he had acted as substitute,and then with the keeper left the lighthouse.
The journey to Shipton over, Dave quickly walked to Uncle Ferguson's,and was welcomed warmly.