The Isle of Seven Moons/Chapter 22
CHAPTER XXII
JOURNEY'S END IN ?
Dawn came one moment, a silvery grey mystery, and the very next, it seemed to the girl watching it on deck, an ecstacy of rose that flushed the whole palpitating East; then a flood of rippling golden fire that fringed the mountain tops and palms, and smote the waters until one wondered why hill and vale and sea did not burst into song. But it was a song in colour, without notes or words—glorious, triumphant!
Under the spell the girl stood as motionless as the carven figurehead on the prow beneath her. Her dark eyes expanded to the beauty of the morning, her cheeks mirrored its flush.
But only for fleeting moments can we stand upon the mountain tops. The black eyes fell to the strip of sand. No life was visible except the wild sea-birds wading in the foam. No one save the sailors of the watch were on deck. Why didn't Cap'n Harve come up! Why should he sleep on this morning of all mornings! There was a very reason able unreason in her vexation.
Well he should have his alarm clock. She turned and struck, as viciously as such a sweet-natured maiden could, not three but thirteen bells! "Clang, clang, clang," rang the brazen notes over the water, startling the wild sea fowl into curious, circling flight around the topmasts, and frightening the long-legged herons from their fishing by the water's edge.
Disturbed at this unseaworthy distortion of time, the hands and Cap'n Harve came tumbling on deck, half-dressed, like firemen after an alarm, only reversing the direction of their flight.
"Here, here, what's up—somebody three sheets in the wind, striking thirteen bells?" the skipper's voice boomed out.
"What's the matter with you, Uncle Harve, don't you know"
"To be sure, my dear, I ought to be ashamed of myself."
"But hurry, Uncle Harve, hurry, tell 'em to lower the boat!"
He tried to restrain her.
"Better get a bite of breakfast first. Cook's coming from the galley now."
But she stamped her foot on deck, again a little viciously for Sally. "No, siree! Not a mouthful till we go ashore."
It was nothing but rank mutiny. Still there are times when even a self-respecting skipper may surrender. A boat's crew manned the oars, the boat dropped from the davits to the water and sped towards shore, each of Sally's one hundred and nine pounds as tense as a coxswain's in a New London race.
They beached the craft, and the girl leapt on the sand. Up and down its almost perfect curve the black eyes swept, then watched the break in the palm-grove.
It was an archway leading into a green paradise. But the girl did not drink in the loveliness which she could see beyond. Her trembling eyes were thirsting for another sight—that of a youth about five feet nine or thereabouts; in wide-bottomed sailor's trousers; with body a trifle square-built but very straight; a little deliberate in speech and thought, but very sure in each; a clear-shaven face, also a little square at chin and temples—with the rough red and tan of the open on it; and honest, never-shrinking blue eyes, holding just the right measure of devotion and boldness to win and keep the heart of a girl.
Fitting him perfectly, was a homely, old-fashioned name by which she had often called him in those moments that verged as near on tenderness as shy young lovers ever dare, the restraint making more precious the slightest gesture or word of affection. "Ben True-Blue" it was, and that the trembling lips uttered now, as she stood on the sand, straight and graceful as a young silver-birch in spring, and trembling like that, too.
But instead of the picture which her memory painted, through the archway came a swarthy savage—at best a figure semi-civilized bare of leg and girt about the trunks and thighs with an untanned skin. He was shaggy-bearded and burnt to a coppery-brown. Over his back hung a crude bow, and from his arms two braces of wild birds. On his shoulder swayed a giant macaw of many brilliant colours, and at his heels trotted an odd half-tamed little animal, a cross between a ground-hog and a prairie-dog.
Evidently the barbarian-hunter had been called from his chase, after a plunge in some silver spring in the cool of the morning. Perhaps he had been disturbed by the ringing echoes of the thirteen ship bells which Sally's determined hand had struck, and so had hurried down from the hills to the beach to see … a ship riding at anchor in the bay, sailors cautiously exploring the underbrush, and on the shore—so still she stood—the statue of some Northern nymph!
Had he gotten to that? Was he seeing things? No, the zephyr from the waters curled the blue skirt about the slender ankles. She swayed! It was not plaster or any cold image of iron or wood, but fashioned of warm human flesh.
And the bronzed savage, with the skin and slain wild birds, in turn became as motionless as the graceful trunks of the palms that framed his picturesque figure.
Suddenly his voice rang out, perhaps a little strange from the long silences, but not in uncouth gutturals, just in honest down east Yankee.
"You—you've come!"
At the cry her hands flew out, then clutched spasmodically and flew to her breast as if something stifled her. She rocked a little where she stood, for the reaction was too violent. It required such a swift adjustment to see in the bizarre figure the clean-cut sailor-boy who had clasped her in his arms under Salthaven Light.
But before he had run three paces towards her, something within told her that all was well. The swift readjustment was made. The arms flew out, shaking a little, but waiting to fold him to her heart. Had he looked as uncouth as a South Sea cannibal, he could have rested his head there. That voice was enough, and beyond the tangled beard, and swarthy skin, and savage dress, the eyes leapt to hers, as blue and brave and winning as of old. It was her Ben, her boy!
In this ever-shifting old world, with its countless partings and reunions, there are many sorts of journeys' ends—and lovers meetings. In the reverberating train-shed, on the subway stairs, on the rose-covered porch, or the commonplace corners of the ugly city, Heaven revisits earth and angels hover lightly in the air when severed hearts beat together again. But the thrill and joy of all are weak compared to that of a castaway sailor and his lass, on the shining sands of an unknown isle in an uncharted sea.
•••••••
The old boy and girl shyness had taken wing. Young as they were, in trouble and sorrow they had attained the heart s full stature. The unsatisfied yearnings of the past quickened to fulfilment in a long embrace, and at last the meeting of the lips.
Then the head sunk a little lower, the slender, blue serge arms around the bare, brown shoulders, the waving black strands against the auburn of his unkempt beard. He stroked the curls tenderly, while she quivered to him, half-sobbing.
"Thank God! You've come." He spoke with difficulty, partly because of a heart too full, and partly because speech was so unaccustomed a thing.
"It's been pretty long, dear. How you stood it, I can't see."
"I did begin to think I'd never see you again. But I couldn't let myself think that."
She looked up at his eyes, for the beard was still strange. But all she could say now was:
"My dear, my dear!"
Then she almost broke down. Forgive her, for she had stood up so sturdily through it all. Again he stroked the dark hair.
"But, sweetheart, it's worth the waiting."
There was agreement in her answering kiss. A life may have its sorrows and yet be very fortunate, if it has had its big moments. But that lot which does not number some among its memories, no matter how free from care and smooth the path, is indeed a tragedy.