The Cruise of the Shining Light. Duncan Norman

moved forward, abashed, but determined.

      “But,” she continued, with an emphasis that brought me to a stop, “I ’low I better ask God, t’ make sure.”

      ’Twas the way she had in emergencies.

      “Do,” said I, dolefully.

      The God of the lad that was I–the God of his childish vision, when, in the darkness of night, he lifted his eyes in prayer, seeking the leading of a Shepherd–was a forbidding God: white, gigantic, in the shape of an old, old man, the Ancient of Days, in a flowing robe, seated scowling upon a throne, aloft on a rolling cloud, with an awful mist of darkness all roundabout. But Judith, as I knew, visualized in a more felicitous way. The God to whom she appealed was a rotund, florid old gentleman, with the briefest, most wiry of sandy whiskers upon his chops, a jolly double chin, a sunburned nose, kindly blue eyes forever opened in mild wonder (and a bit bleared by the wind), the fat figure clad in broadly checked tweed knickerbockers and a rakish cap to match, like the mad tourists who sometimes strayed our way. ’Twas this complacent, benevolent Deity that she made haste to interrogate in my behalf, unabashed by the spats and binocular, the corpulent plaid stockings and cigar, which completed his attire. She spread her feet, in the way she had at such times; and she shut her eyes, and she set her teeth, and she clinched her hands, and thus silently began to wrestle for the answer, her face all screwed, as by a taste of lemon.4

      Presently my patience was worn.

      “What news?” I inquired.

      “Hist!” she whispered. “He’s lookin’ at me through His glasses.”

      I waited an interval.

      “What now, Judy?”

      “Hist!” says she. “He’s wonderful busy makin’ up His mind. Leave Un be, Dannie!”

      ’Twas trying, indeed! I craved the kiss. Nor by watching the child’s puckered face could I win a hint to ease the suspense that rode me. Upon the will of Judith’s Lord God Almighty in tweed knickerbockers surely depended the disposition of the maid. I wished He would make haste to answer.

      “Judy, maid,” I implored, “will He never have done?”

      “You’ll be makin’ Un mad, Dannie,” she warned.

      “I can wait no longer.”

      “He’s scowlin’.”

      I wished I had not interrupted.

      “I ’low,” she reported, “He’ll shake His head in a minute.”

      ’Twas a tender way to break ill news.

      “Ay,” she sighed, opening her eyes. “He’ve gone an’ done it. I knowed it. He’ve said I hadn’t better not. I’m wonderful sorry you’ve t’ lack the kiss, Dannie. I’m wonderful sorry, Dannie,” she repeated, in a little quiver of pity, “for you!”

      She was pitiful: there’s no forgetting that compassion, its tearful concern and wistfulness. I was bewildered. More wishful beseeching must surely have softened a Deity with a sunburned nose and a double chin! Indeed, I was bewildered by this fantasy of weeping and nonsense. For the little break in her voice and the veil of tears upon her eyes I cannot account. ’Twas the way she had as a maid: and concerning this I have found it folly to speculate. Of the boundaries of sincerity and pretence within her heart I have no knowledge. There was no pretence (I think); ’twas all reality–the feigning and the feeling–for Judith walked in a confusion of the truths of life with visions. There came a time–a moment in our lives–when there was no feigning. ’Twas a kiss besought; and ’twas kiss or not, as between a man and a maid, with no Almighty in tweed knickerbockers conveniently at hand to shoulder the blame. Ah, well, Judith! the golden, mote-laden shaft which transfigured your childish loveliness into angelic glory, the encompassing shadows, the stirring of the day without, the winds of blue weather blowing upon the hills, are beauties faded long ago, the young denial a pain almost forgot. The path we trod thereafter, Judith, is a memory, too: the days and nights of all the years since in the streaming sunlight of that afternoon the lad that was I looked upon you to find the shadowy chambers of your eyes all misty with compassion.

      “Dannie,” she ventured, softly, “you’re able t’ take it.”

      “Ay–but will not.”

      “You’re wonderful strong, Dannie, an’ I’m but a maid.”

      “I’ll wrest no kisses,” said I, with a twitch of scorn, “from maids.”

      She smiled. ’Twas a passing burst of rapture, which, vanishing, left her wan and aged beyond her years.

      “No,” she whispered, but not to me, “he’d not do that. He’d not–do that! An’ I’d care little enough for the Dannie Callaway that would.”

      “You cares little enough as ’tis,” said I. “You cares nothing at all. You cares not a jot.”

      She smiled again: but now as a wilful, flirting maid. “As for carin’ for you, Dannie,” she mused, dissembling candor, “I do– an’ I don’t.”

      The unholy spell that a maid may weave! The shameless trickery of this!

      “I’ll tell you,” she added, “the morrow.”

      And she would keep me in torture!

      “There’ll be no to-morrow for we,” I flashed, in a passion. “You cares nothing for Dannie Callaway. ’Tis my foot,” I cried, stamping in rage and resentment. “’Tis my twisted foot. I’m nothin’ but a cripple!”

      She cried out at this.

      “A limpin’ cripple,” I groaned, “t’ be laughed at by all the maids o’ Twist Tickle!”

      She began now softly to weep. I moved towards the ladder–with the will to abandon her.

      “Dannie,” she called, “take the kiss.”

      I would not.

      “Take two,” she begged.

      “Maid,” said I, severely, “what about your God?”

      “Ah, but–” she began.

      “No, no!” cries I. “None o’ that, now!”

      “You’ll not listen!” she pouted.

      “’Twill never do, maid!”

      “An you’d but hear me, child,” she complained, “I’d ’splain–”

      “What about your God?”

      She turned demure–all in a flash. “I’ll ask Un,” said she, most piously. “You–you–you’ll not run off, Dannie,” she asked, faintly, “when I–I–shuts my eyes?”

      “I’ll bide here,” says I.

      “Then,” says she, “I’ll ask Un.”

      The which she did, in her peculiar way. ’Twas a ceremony scandalously brief and hurried. Once I caught (I thought) a slit in her eye–a peep-hole through which she spied upon me. Presently she looked up with a shy little grin. “God says, Dannie,” she reported, speaking with slow precision, the grin now giving place to an expression of solemnity and highest rapture, “that He ’lows He didn’t know what a fuss you’d make about a little thing like a kiss. He’ve been wonderful bothered o’ late by overwork, Dannie, an’ He’s sorry for what He done, an’ ’lows you might overlook it this time. ‘You tell Dannie, Judy,’ says He, ‘that he’ve simply no idea what a God like me haves t’ put up with. They’s a woman t’ Thunder Arm,’ says He, ‘that’s been worryin’ me night an’ day t’ keep her baby from dyin’, an’ I simply can’t make up my mind. She’ll make me mad an she doesn’t look out,’ says He, ‘an’ then I’ll kill it. An’ I’ve the heathen, Judy–all them heathen–on my mind. ’Tis enough t’ drive any God mad. An’ jus’ now,’ says He, ‘I’ve got

4

I am informed that there are strange folk who do not visualize after the manner of Judith and me. ’Tis a wonder how they conceive, at all!