The Cruise of the Shining Light

“He’s savin’ her soul,” said William Buttle’s wife.

They were interested, these wives, in the operation; they resented disturbance.

“Well,” Aunt Esther retorted, “I ’low, anyhow, he don’t know much about heart-trouble.”

Parson Lute, unconscious of this watchful observation, frankly sighed. The hearts of men, I know, contain no love more sweet and valuable than that which animated his desire. He mused for an interval. “Do you know the portion of the wicked?” he asked, in loving-kindness, without harshness whatsoever.

“Yes, sir.”

“What is it?”

It seemed she would appease him. She was ingratiating, now, with smile and answer. “Hell, sir,” she answered.

“Are you prepared for the change?”

’Twas a familiar question, no doubt. Elizabeth’s conversion had been diligently sought. But the lean face of Parson Lute, and the fear of what he might do, and the solemn quality of his voice, and his sincere and simple desire seemed so to impress Elizabeth that she was startled into new attention.

“Yes, sir,” she said.

It appeared to puzzle Parson Lute. He had been otherwise informed by Parson Stump. The woman was not in a state of grace.

“You have cast yourself upon the mercy of God?” he asked.

“No, sir.”

“Then how, my daughter, can you say that you are prepared?”

There was no answer.

“You have made your peace with an offended God?”

“No, sir.”

“But you say that you are prepared?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You have repented of your sin?”

“No, sir.”

Parson Lute turned impatient. “And yet,” he demanded, “you expect to go to heaven?”

“No, sir.”

“What!” cried Parson Lute.

“No, sir,” she said.

Parson Lute was incredulous. “To hell?” he asked.

“Eh?”

“To hell?”

Elizabeth hesitated. By some direct and primitively human way her benighted mind had reached its determination. But still she hesitated–frightened somewhat, it may be, by the conventionality of Whisper Cove and Twist Tickle.

“Yes, sir,” said she. “Most men goes there.”

“But you,” said he, in amaze, “are not a man!”

“Judith’s father were,” she answered; “an’ I’m wantin’–oh, I’m wantin’–t’ see un once again!”

The five wives of Whisper Cove gasped…

The outer door was flung open. Came a rush of wind–the noise and wet and lusty stirring of the night. It broke harshly in upon us; ’twas a crashing discord of might and wrath and cruel indifference–a mocking of this small tragedy. The door was sharply closed against the gale. I heard the wheeze and tread of my uncle in the kitchen. He entered–his broad face grave and anxious and grieved–but instantly fled, though I beckoned; for Parson Lute, overcome, it may be, by the impiety of Elizabeth, was upon his knees, fervently praying that the misguided soul might yet by some miraculous manifestation of grace be restored to propriety of view and of feeling. ’Twas a heartfelt prayer offered in faith, according to the enlightenment of the man–a confession of ignorance, a plea of human weakness, a humble, anxious cry for divine guidance that the woman might be plucked as a brand from the burning, to the glory of the Lord God Most Tender and Most High. Came, in the midst of it, a furious outburst; the wind rose–achieved its utmost pitch of power. I looked out: Whisper Cove, low between the black barriers, was churned white; and beyond–concealed by the night–the sea ran tumultuously. ’Twas a big, screaming wind, blowing in from the sea, unopposed by tree or hill. The cottage trembled to the gusts; the timbers complained; the lamp fluttered in the draught. Great waves, rolling in from the open, were broken on the rocks of Whisper Cove. Rain and spray, driven by the gale, drummed on the roof and rattled like hail on the window. And above this angry clamor of wind and sea rose the wailing, importunate prayer for the leading of the God of us all…

When the parson had got to his feet again, Aunt Esther All diffidently touched his elbow. “Nicholas have come, sir,” said she.

“Nicholas?”

“Ay; the man she’ve sent for.”

Elizabeth caught the news. “I wants un,” she wheezed. “Go ’way, parson! I wants a word along o’ Nicholas all alone.”

“She’ve a secret, sir,” Aunt Esther whispered.

Judith moved towards the door; but the parson beckoned her back, and she stood doubtfully.

“Mister Top! Mister Top!” Elizabeth called, desperate to help herself, to whom no heed was given.

In the fury of the gale–the rush past of wind and rain–the failing voice was lost.

“I ’low,” Aunt Esther warned, “’twould be wise, sir–”

“Have the man wait in the kitchen.”

Elizabeth lay helplessly whimpering.

“But, sir,” Aunt Esther protested, “she’ve–”

“Have the man wait in the kitchen,” the parson impatiently repeated. “There is no time now for these worldly arrangements. No, no!” said he. “There is no time. The woman must be convicted!” He was changed: despondency had vanished–humility gone with it. In the eye of the man–the gesture–the risen voice–appeared some high authority to overawe us. He had the habit of authority, as have all parsons; but there was now some compelling, supernatural addition to weaken us. We did not dare oppose him, not one of us–not my uncle, whose head had been intruded, but was now at once withdrawn. The parson had come out of his prayer, it seemed, refreshed and inspired; he had remembered, it may be, that the child was the obstacle–the child whom Elizabeth would not slight to save her soul. “The woman must be saved,” said he. “She must be saved!” he cried, striking his fist into his palm, his body all tense, his teeth snapped shut, his voice strident. “The Lord is mighty and merciful–a forgiving God.” ’Twas an appeal (he looked far past the whitewashed rafters and the moving darkness of the night); ’twas a returning appeal–a little failure of faith, I think. “The Lord has heard me,” he declared, doggedly. “He has not turned away. The woman must–she shall– be saved!”

“Ay, but,” Aunt Esther expostulated; “she’ve been sort o’ wantin’ t’ tell–”

The parson’s green eyes were all at once bent in a penetrating way upon Aunt Esther; and she backed away, biting at her nails–daring no further protest.

“Judith, my child,” said the parson, “do you go to the kitchen.”