The Isle of Seven Moons/Chapter 5
CHAPTER V
THE LIGHT
Sally's toes beat an impatient tattoo. There was such a vasty depth under that blue coat. A large pitcher of milk, a goodly portion of quivering currant jelly, one snow-white wheaten loaf, another of golden-brown gingerbread—but at last even the Captain was satisfied.
Then a whisk, and the blue willow ware dishes were on the freshly-papered shelves.
"Sixteen knots an hour," he was grunting. Did he suspect! All-of-a-flutter she tried to read. Seven-fifteen, seven-thirty, the old clock chimed, then a quarter to eight.
No, thank Heaven, he couldn't for there, with the eight strokes, he was puffing up the stairs, she dutifully after him.
She leaned out of the window and listened. The crickets were making fiddles of themselves as usual; the tree-frogs were in full chime, like far-off sleigh-bells; and—snap—a board creaked in the walk! But there they were, at last—the trumpets of Jericho, coming full blast from her father's window.
Swiftly she climbed over the sill and clambered down the trellis, crushing the honey-suckle until it gave forth a sweeter fragrance.
Then the old gate clucked "good luck" behind them, and they stole down the street under the elms whose very shadows seemed kindly and protecting. Through the leaves the little slice of moon kept pace with them.
But all she said was:
"Well, I'm here, Ben."
And he:
"Thank you for coming, Sally."
There was that shyness of youth that kept them silent, but her hand fluttered into the curve of his arm, and the nearness was very sweet.
Now the houses were a little further apart, and they could hear the murmur of the breakers on the beach. They reached its white slope, and the murmur deepened to a musical thunder. A moment they stood in awe at the scene—a little in awe of each other.
Then Sally broke the spell. "I'll beat you to the next rock," she called, and taking off her Tam o' shanter, her hair flying free in the breeze, she dashed over the shingle.
He gained on her, but she reached it a little ahead, when suddenly she slipped on a moss-covered boulder, and he caught her in his arms.
A moment she trembled in them, then, half-frightened at the commingled beating, withdrew.
And again they were silent till they reached the great rock.
Above them the great white eye of the Lighthouse turned and turned as it had for so many years, now lighting up the expanse of the ocean, again leaving it in darkness.
Now it was he that broke the happy silence.
"I can't stand it, Sally," he said.
"Stand what, Ben?"
"Being kept away from you, and seeing—that"—he caught himself, he'd say that to his face.
"It isn't my fault, Ben. See what I've done for you tonight. If Father finds out, I don't know what will happen."
She looked up at the white, circling eye.
"Oh, Ben, look at the poor sea bird, flying against the Light."
Then even steady, prosaic Ben grew poetic, such magic has Love.
"You're the light, Sally, and I'm the wandering bird."
She shivered a little, suddenly seeing many things, such as the daughters of a race of sailors see in their frightened dreams—visions of storms and broken ships and men. She trembled and he put his arm around her.
She had not known her own heart, perhaps she did not fully know it now. But the spell of youth and the night was on her—and the spell of his presence. The protection of his arm, too, was comforting, so when, his voice a little thick and husky with feeling, he asked: "Sally, will you wait for me?" her heart stood still for one fleeting second, then she answered timidly:
"Yes, Ben."
He kissed the black hair tenderly, then the lips—the shy sweet kiss of first love.
Then they walked home under the stars.
And the lone figure that had been watching them rose from the shadow of the rocks and sauntered toward the deserted shack.