Part 15 (2/2)
”But I must--I must.”
”No, you're not--and you must not. Here.” She had taken the bewaxed and beribboned package from her little handbag. It was addressed to ”Guy Villard, Esq., Villard Manor, Chatham County, Ga.”
”But who is he?”
”Who is he? Who are you?”
”Guy Blaise.”
”No, you're not. Open it and read. Or wait, let me read it.”
And it is true that not till then did I suspect. I thought that I might have been his son, or the son of some wild friend, born of a marriage on the West Coast or other foreign parts. But of this thing I never had a suspicion.
I was the baby boy picked up in the wreckage of the burning s.h.i.+p. There were the marriage certificates of my father and mother, and the t.i.tle deeds to the Villard estate. It had been a great temptation--he the next of kin, my father's cousin, and no one knowing. And he, too, feared the strange blood. But watching my growth, he had come to love me, and wanted me to love him, and feared my contempt if I should learn. All this was explained in a letter in a small envelope, written recently and hastily. Together, s.h.i.+ela and I, we finished the reading of it:
Though I'm not so sure now that you shouldn't thank me for withholding your inheritance until the quality of your manhood was a.s.sured. It is true that I imperilled your mortal body a score of times, but through fifty-score weeks I nurtured your immortal soul, Guy.
And now I am going back to that sea wherein I expect to find rest at the last, and let my friends make no mourning over it, Guy. 'Tis a beautiful clean grave, no mould nor crawling worms there. But if it be that the sea will have none of me, and the metalled war-dogs drive me, and spar-shattered and hull-battered I make a run of it to harbor in my old age, I shall come in full confidence of a mooring under your roof, Guy. And who knows that I won't be worth my salt there?
You have won her, Guy. I knew you would from that night in Momba when you sat in the stern sheets and laughed. 'Twas in your laugh that night, though you did not suspect it. But I know. The tides of youth were surging in you. Beauty, wit, and courage--with these in any man I will measure sword; but the tides of youth are of eternal power.
I should like to dance your children on my knee, Guy, and lull the songs of the sea into their little ears. I've a fine collection by now, Guy--you've no idea--ringing chanties to get a s.h.i.+p under way, and roaring staves of the High Barbaree, ballads of the gale, and lullabies of west winds and summer nights. And your children, Guy, will grow up none the less brave gentlemen and fine ladies for the strengthening salt of the sea in their blood and the clearing whiff of the gale in their brains. So a fair, fair Trade to you and s.h.i.+ela--the fair warm Trades which kiss even as they bear us on--and do not forget the tides of youth are flooding for you. Take them and let them bear you on to happiness and wisdom.
I felt weak and dizzy, but I rose to my feet and started down the hill.
s.h.i.+ela caught me and held me. ”Look!” She was pointing out to sea.
[Ill.u.s.tration: There she was, the _Dancing Bess_, holding a taut bowline to the eastward. And there were the two frigates, but they might as well have been chasing a star]
There she was, the _Dancing Bess_, holding a taut bowline to the eastward. And there were the two frigates, but they might as well have been chasing a star.
”Look!” She handed me the gla.s.ses. I looked and saw her ensign dipping.
I took off my hat and waved it, hoping that with his long gla.s.s he could see. He must have seen, for the ensign dipped three times again, and from the long-tom in her waist shot out a puff of smoke. We waited for the sound of it. It came.
Farewell that meant. I watched her till her great foresail was no larger than a toy s.h.i.+p's. Then I sat down and cried, and had no care that the negro slave and servant, Ubbo, saw me.
Mr. Cunningham came and sat beside me. ”Guy,” he said, ”don't worry about him. He'll come through all right. He has great qualities in him.”
”He's good, too--too good to me.”
”Great and good,” exclaimed s.h.i.+ela. ”He could love and was lovable. And what's all your greatness to that?”
It may be that she who knew him least understood him best. She was crying too.
When her great square foresails were no more than a gull's wing on the hazy horizon we waved her a last salute. Then we made our way to the creek and sailed up Back River, past Savannah, and on to Villard Landing. And hand in hand s.h.i.+ela and I walked up between the row of moss-hung cypress trees to the manor-house and--Home.
Don Quixote Kieran, Pump-Man
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