Part 26 (1/2)
”It would seem a pity,” Miss Stella said, ”for him to give up and go down.”
”By George, he must not,--he shall not!” said the old sailor. ”You want me to do something for him? Out with it, my lady!”
”Yes. I want you to invest, not in diamond stars, Captain, but in Jack Farley's medal. I was to negotiate the sale, you know.”
”Yes, yes! And you warned me you were going to fleece me; so go on,--go on! What is the boy's--what is your price?” asked the Captain.
”A pension,” said Miss Stella, softly, ”the pension you would give Jack Farley--if he were here to claim it,--just the little pension an old sailor would ask for his last watch below. It will hold the little nest under the eaves that Danny calls home for the old aunt that he loves; it will steady the young wings for their flight to the stars; it will keep the young heart brave and pure and warm as only love and home can.”
”You're right,--you're right,--you're always right, dear lady! If old Jack were here, I'd pension him, as you say, and fling in a little extra for his grog and his pipe. Old Jack could have counted on me for four or five hundred a year. But a st.u.r.dy, strapping young chap like yours is worth a dozen groggy old salts. So name your figure, my lady. I have money to burn, as you say. Name your figure, dear lady, and I'll invest in your boy.”
”Old Jack's pension, then, Captain Carleton,--old Jack's pension for Aunt Winnie and Dan,--old Jack's pension, and nothing more.”
”It's theirs,” was the hearty answer,--”or, rather, it's yours, my dear lady!”
”Oh, no, no, no!” she disclaimed. ”The generous gift is all your own, dear friend,--all your own. And it will be repaid. Dan and his good old aunt may have no words to thank you, to bless you; but some day” (and the glad voice grew softer, sweeter),--”some day when life's long voyage is over for you, Captain, and the log-book is open to the Master's gaze--”
”It will be a tough showing,” interrupted the old man, gruffly,--”a tough showing through and through.”
”Oh, no, no, no!” she said gently. ”One entry, I am sure, will clear many a page, dear friend. One entry will give you safe anchorage--harbor rights; for has not the Master Himself said, 'As long as you did it to one of these My least brethren, you did it to Me'?”
XXV.--GOING HOME.
”We're to be off to-morrow,” said Brother Bart, a little sadly. ”And, though it will be a blessed thing to get back in the holy peace of St.
Andrew's, with the boys all safe and sound--which is a mercy I couldn't expect,--to say nothing of laddie's father being drawn out of his wanderings into the grace of G.o.d, I'm sore-hearted at leaving Killykinick.
You've been very good to us, Jeroboam,--both you and your brother, who is a deal wiser than at first sight you'd think. You've been true friends both in light and darkness; and may G.o.d reward you and bring you to the true faith! That will be my prayer for you night and day.--And now you're to pack up, boys, and get all your things together; for it's Father Regan's orders that we are to come back home.”
”Where is _our_ home, daddy?” asked Freddy, with lively interest. ”For we can have a real true home now, can't we?”
”I hope so, my boy.” They were out on the smooth stretch of beach, where daddy, growing strong and well fast, spent most of his time, stretched out in one of Great-uncle Joe's cus.h.i.+ony chairs; while Roy and Rex crouched contentedly at his feet, or broke into wild frolic with Freddy on the rocks or in the sea. ”I hope so; though I'm afraid I don't know much about making a home, my little Boy Blue!”
”Oh, don't you, daddy?” said Freddy, ruefully. ”I have always wanted a home so much,--a real true home, with curtains and carpets, and pictures on the walls, and a real fire that snaps and blazes.”
”Yes, I heard you say that before,” answered his father, softly. ”I think it was that little talk on the boat that brought me down, where I could take a peep at my homeless little boy again; though I was afraid Captain Jeb would find me out if I ventured to Killykinick. I was just making up my mind to risk it and go over, when this fever caught me.”
”But why--were you hiding, daddy? Why did you stay away so long?”
”Life had grown very black for me; and I didn't want to make it black for you, Freddy. I lost faith and hope and love when I lost your mother. I couldn't settle down to a bare, lonely life without her. I felt I must be free,--free to wander where I willed. It was all wrong,--all wrong, Freddy. But daddy was in darkness, without any guiding star. So I left you to Uncle Tom, gave up my name, my home, and broke loose like a s.h.i.+p without rudder or sail. And where it led me, where you found me, you know.”
”Ah, yes!” Freddy laid his soft young cheek against his father's. ”It was all wrong. But now you have come back; and everything is right again, Uncle Tom says; and we'll have a real home together. He said that, too, before he went away,--you and I would have a home, daddy.”
”We'll try,” replied daddy, cheerfully. ”With you and the dogs together, Freddy, we'll try. We'll get the house and the cus.h.i.+ons and the carpets, and do our best.”
Going home! Dan was thinking of it, too, a little sadly, as somewhat later he stood on the stretch of rocks, looking out at the fading west. He was going home to ”give up.” Only yesterday morning a brief scrawl from Pete Patterson had informed him he would be ready for business next week, and Dan must come back with an answer--”Yes” or ”No.” So it was good-bye to St. Andrew's for Dan to-night; good-bye to all his hopes and dreams to-morrow. Something seemed to rise in Dan's throat at the thought.
To-morrow he must go back, a college boy no longer, but to Pete Patterson's wagon and Pete Patterson's shop.
And while he stood there alone, watching the deepening shadows gather over rock and reef and shoal where he had spent such happy days, there came a sudden burst of glad music over the waters, and around the bending sh.o.r.e of Killykinick came a fairy vision: ”The Polly,” fluttering with gay pennants, jewelled in colored light from stem to stern; ”The Polly,” laden with a crowd of merrymakers in most hilarious mood, coming on a farewell feast in charge of three white-capped and white-coated waiters; ”The Polly,” that swept triumphantly to the mended wharf (where the ”Sary Ann”