The Cruise of the Shining Light

“Turn your face this way,” said Parson Lute.

She laughed.

“This way,” said Parson Lute.

“Go ’way!” Elizabeth laughed. “Go on with you!” She hid her flaming face. “You didn’t ought t’ see me in bed!” she gasped. “Go ’way!”

“My child,” said Parson Lute, patiently, “turn your face this way.”

She would not. “Go ’way!” said she.

“This way!” Parson Lute repeated.

It had been a quiet, slow command, not to go unheeded. The five women of Whisper Cove stiffened with amazement. Here, indeed, was a masterful parson! Parson Stump had failed; but not this parson–not this parson, who could command in the name of the Lord! They exchanged glances–exchanged nudges. Elizabeth’s laughter ceased. All the women of Whisper Cove waited breathless. There was silence; the commotion was all outside–wind and rain and breakers, a far-off passion, apart from the poor comedy within. The only sound in the room was the wheezing of the girl on the bed. Elizabeth turned; her brows were drawn, her eyes angry. Aunt Esther All, from her place at the foot of the bed, heard the ominous wheeze of her breath and observed the labor of her heart; and she was concerned, and nudged William Buttle’s wife, who would not heed her.

“’Tis not good for her,” Aunt Esther whispered.

“You leave me be!” Elizabeth complained.

Parson Lute took her hand.

“You quit that!” said Elizabeth.

“Hush, daughter,” the parson pleaded.

Into the interval of silence a gust of rain intruded.

“Have Nicholas come?” Elizabeth asked. “Haven’t he come yet?”

Aunt Esther shook her head.

“I wants un,” said Elizabeth, “when he’ve come.”

The parson began now soothingly to stroke the great, rough hand he held; but at once Elizabeth broke into bashful laughter, and he dropped it–and frowned.

“Woman,” he cried, in distress, “don’t you know that you are dying?”

Elizabeth’s glance ran to Judith, who rose, but sat again, wringing her hands. The mother turned once more to the parson; ’twas an apathetic gaze, fixed upon his restless nostrils.

“How is it with your soul?” he asked.

’Twas a word spoken most graciously, in the perfection of pious desire, of reverence, of passionate concern for the future of souls; but yet Elizabeth’s glance moved swiftly to the parson’s eyes, in a rage, and instantly shifted to his red hair, where it remained, fascinated.

“Are you trusting in your Saviour’s love?”

I accuse myself for speaking, in this bold way, of the unhappy question; but yet, why not? for ’twas asked in purest anxiety, in the way of Parson Lute, whom all children loved.

“Are you clinging,” says he, “to the Cross?”

Elizabeth listlessly stared at the rafters.

“Have you laid hold on the only Hope of escape?”

The child Judith–whose grief was my same agony–sobbed heart-brokenly.

“Judith!” Elizabeth called, her apathy vanished. “Poor little Judith!”

“No, my daughter,” the parson gently protested. “This is not the time,” said he. “Turn your heart away from these earthly affections,” he pleaded, his voice fallen to an earnest whisper. “Oh, daughter, fix your eyes upon the Cross!”

Elizabeth was sullen. “I wants Judith,” she complained.

“You have no time, now, my daughter, to think of these perishing human ties.”

“I wants Judith!”

“Mere earthly affection, daughter! ‘And if a man’–”

“An’ Judith,” the woman persisted, “wants me!”

“Nay,” the parson softly chided. He was kind–patient with her infirmity. ’Twas the way of Parson Lute. With gentleness, with a tactful humoring, he would yet win her attention. But, “Oh,” he implored, as though overcome by a flooding realization of the nature and awful responsibility of his mission, “can you not think of your soul?”

“Judith, dear!”

The child arose.

“No!” said the parson, quietly. “No, child!”

The wind shook the house to its crazy foundations and drove the crest of a breaker against the panes.

“I wants t’ tell she, parson!” Elizabeth wailed. “An I wants she–jus’ wants she–anyhow–jus’ for love!”

“Presently, daughter; not now.”

“She–she’s my child!”

“Presently, daughter.”

Judith wept again.

“Sir!” Elizabeth gasped–bewildered, terrified.

“Not now, daughter.”

All the anger and complaint had gone out of Elizabeth’s eyes; they were now filled with wonder and apprehension. Flashes of intelligence appeared and failed and came again. It seemed to me, who watched, that in some desperate way, with her broken mind, she tried to solve the mystery of this refusal. Then ’twas as though some delusion–some terror of her benighted state–seized upon her: alarm changed to despair; she rose in bed, but put her hand to her heart and fell back.

“He better stop it!” Aunt Esther All muttered.

The four wives of Whisper Cove bitterly murmured against her.