Part 38 (1/2)

”Then come another gust, a blindin', blindin', blindin'. 'He'll weather it! He'll weather it!' George Olver kep' a mutterin', but his teeth was set; his eyes shot through me like a tiger's--them two was brothers, and more'n brothers, always. But when thar' come a half lull so't we could see, and we looked out and seen him risin' on the wave, grippin' that other one, in spite o' hope I scurse believed my eyes, and what a shout they sent up from that boat!

”Ay, thar' they was, for sure, but--G.o.d, how fur away! Not much for common weather, but then they looked as fur to me as 'arth from heaven.

Ef we could reach 'em afore the next sweel come; and every man, it seemed as though he put his livin' soul into his arms. 'Pull! pull!' says George, and seemed to git the strength of seven, but still we went too slow. We missed _him_ at the oar. And _he_, he was the strongest swimmer that I ever knowed, but who could live in the like o' that? We pulled for life or death, and that brave head kep' risin' on the wave.

”Ef we could 'a' had another minute afore the next sweel come! George Olver felt it. He sent the rope out with a giant's throw. Then it was all and more than we could do to held the boat ag'in the wind. It come so fast ye scurse could see them next ye in the boat. 'He's grappled it!

he's thar'! he's thar'! says they, and when they pulled it in, thar' was that other one belt fast, and only him.

”G.o.d knows! I calk'late he made sure o' the other first, and thar' wa'n't jest the breath's time left for him, blinded so sudden maybe, and fell death faint. I've knowed it be so with the strongest; no wonder thar'; the wonder was in what he done. He was the strongest swimmer that I ever knowed, the strongest and the fearlessest!

”George Olver never'll be content. He would 'a' gone in after _him_. We'd be'n driv' a furlong back, I reckon, and every mark was lost. It 'ud be'n naught but to swaller him, too. He lost his sense. We had to holt him back. He raved thar', like a madman. It blew a bitter spell, longest of all, and when it helt a bit so we could take our bearin's some'at, what hope! What hope!

”But poor George, of a suddint he grew quiet as a lamb, and set a lookin'

out, with his hand light on the oar, as ef 'twas pleasant weather, and he could see _him_ ridin' in thar' easy on the wave; and his eyes was fur off and smilin', but they looked as though they died.

”Mebbe--I know no more.

”We found him arterwards. Thar' wa'n't no mark nor stain on him. You think I talk dry-eyed. Go you and look at him. Somehow it don't leave ary breath for cryin'. It's like as ef he knowed. It's more than quietness, seemin' to say, for all he loved his life and fou't so hard out thar', ter lose his own at last--givin' or losin', he never missed o'

naught! he never missed o' naught!

”I can't tell what's the thought comes nighest to ye when we look at him.

I hain't got high enough for that, but I can tell ye what's the furderest--weepin' and sorrowin'. Since I seen him and my little Bessie fell asleep, please G.o.d I die a half so trustful or so brave, I make no fear o' death!”

The Captain sighed a long, ecstatic sigh and rose, the after-glow still s.h.i.+ning on his face. In pa.s.sing through the room, he pressed something softly into my hand.

”We found it in the breast-pocket of his coat, teacher,” he said. ”The coat lay in the bottom o' the boat, and was soaked with brine. It had your name on't.”

When I unfolded it, it was the little star-fish the Cradlebow had showed me, days before, still folded close in its delicate vine wreath.

CHAPTER XX.

GEORGE OLVER'S ORATION.

The Wallencampers gathered at the Ark, singing a calm and high farewell to earth, that alone was meet for the untroubled lips of that silent singer in their midst.

They gathered at the Ark. No other place seemed to them sacred enough for such a meeting, now; no other place dear enough for the celebration of such a solemn, long farewell.

Over the threshold, where he had come so often bounding in his life, they brought the dead; there was the same strange look of exaltation on their faces that I had noticed while Captain Sartell told the story of the storm; stricken and white, the poor faces, yet touched with some daring, unutterable hope--so clear a message they read on that wondrously still and reconciled face, so without fear the dead lips spoke to them.

To me, the message was one of infinite pathos and rebuke, speaking of a heroism beyond my poor conception, of a height of glory of which I had not dreamed.

”Farewell, forevermore,” the fathomless far voice murmured to my despair, and slowly and repeatedly; ”Farewell, forevermore. I am beyond the need of your poor love.”

And my heart turned to stone, with all the pa.s.sionate, pure sorrow that might have been, the tears in which I might have found relief.

Grandma Keeler's sacred ”keepin' rooms” were opened wide for the reception of this guest, yet the suns.h.i.+ne stole in with a hallowed light, the entering breeze sighed low and softly. The children, always present, were, on this occasion, attentively still.

There were no external signs of woe for the poor Wallencampers to a.s.sume; they made no mad demonstrations of their grief; the suffering and the wonder were too deep.

Lydia--they all knew how she had loved this son. When they returned from their perilous quest in the storm, the first words Captain Sartell said were; ”Who must go up now, and break Lyddy's heart?”