Killykinick by Mary T. Waggaman (ebook reader 8 inch .txt) 📕

with the victrola singing its merriest boat song, and snowy handkerchiefs fluttering gay farewells, Miss Stella was borne triumphantly away. It was to be an all-day cruise. Great hampers, packed with everything good to eat and drink, were stored below; and "The Polly" spread her wings and took a wide flight to sea, turning back only when the shadows began to deepen over the water, and the stars to peep from the violet sky. The young people were a trifle tired; Polly had fallen asleep on a pile of cushions, while the girls from Shelter Cove sang college songs.

In the stern, Captain Carleton had found his way to Miss Stella's side. She was leaning on the taffrail, listening to the singing, her white fleecy wrap falling around her like a cloud.

"You look your name to-night," said the Captain: "Stella,--a star. By George, you were a star to me when the sky looked pretty black! I was thinking of that yesterday when some Eastern chap came along with a lot of diamonds for sale. I don't know much about such folderols, but there was one piece--a star--that I'd like to give you, if you would take it and wear it in remembrance of a rough old fellow who can't speak all he feels."

"Ah, Captain Carleton,--Captain Carleton!" laughed the lady softly. "Take care! That Eastern chap was fooling you, I'm sure."

"Not at all,--not at all!" was the quick reply. "I got an expert's opinion. The star is worth the thousand dollars he asked."

"A thousand dollars,--a thousand dollars!" repeated Miss Stella, in dismay. "And you would give me a thousand dollar star? Why, you must have money to burn, indeed!"

"Well, I suppose I have," was the answer,--"much more than a lonely old fellow of sixty odd, without chick or child will ever need. Will you take the star, dear lady nurse?"

"No," said Miss Stella, gently; "though I thank you for your generous thought of me, my good friend. But I have a better and a wiser investment for you. Have you forgotten this?" She took Dan's medal from the bag on her wrist.

"By George, I _did_ forget it!" said the old man. "Somehow, it slipped my memory completely in our pleasant hurry. Poor Jack Farley's medal! You've found the chap that owns it, you say?"

"Yes," was the answer--"a brave, sturdy, honest little chap, who stood by your poor old friend in his last lonely days, and helped him in his last lonely cruise, and took the medal from his dying hands as the last and only legacy he had to give. Would you consider him Jack Farley's heir, Captain Carleton?"

"Most certainly I would," was the rejoinder.

"Then make him his heir," she said softly.

"Eh!--what? I don't understand," muttered the old gentleman.

Then Miss Stella explained. It was such an explanation as only gentle speakers like Miss Stella can make. She told about bright, brave, plucky Dan and Aunt Winnie, of the scholarship at St. Andrew's and of the Little Sisters of the Poor. She told of the attic home over the Mulligans' for which Aunt Winnie was "pining," and of the dreams that Dan dreamed.

"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 sturdy, 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 God, 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 God 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 cushiony 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 ship 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 cushions 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 shore 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" was slowly recuperating from her damages, in a fresh coat of paint and brand-new mainsail), and took undisputed possession of Killykinick.

"I just had to come and say good-bye," declared Miss Polly; "and dad said I could make a party of it, if Marraine would take us in charge. And so we're to have a real, _real_ last good time."

Then all sat down on the moonlit sands; and the victrola played its gayest tunes, and the white-capped waiters served good things that quite equalled Polly's last party. And when that was nearly over, and the guests were still snapping the French "kisses" and cracking sugar-shelled nuts, Dan found Miss Stella, who had been chatting with her late patient most of the evening, standing at his side. Perhaps it was the moonlight, but he thought he had never seen her look so lovely. Her eyes were like stars, and there was a soft rose-flush on her cheek, and the smile on her sweet lips seemed to kindle her whole face into radiance.

"Come sit down on the rocks beside me, Danny,--Miss Winnie's Danny. I've got some news for you."

"News for me?" Danny lifted his eyes; and Miss Stella saw that, in spite of all the fun and frolic around him, they looked strangely sad and dull.

"You're not having a good time to-night, are you?" she asked softly.

"Yes, I am--or at least I'm trying," said Dan, stoutly. "It was surely nice of you all to give us this send off. But--but, you see, I can't help