# She's All the World to Me/Chapter 18

CHAPTER XVIII.
SHE'S ALL THE WORLD TO ME.
When the crew of the Ben-my-Chree had recovered from their first consternation on seeing the body of Kisseck rise to the surface and shoot away like a spectre boat, they hoisted sail and stood once more out to sea. The gentle breeze filled the canvas, and for half an hour ​the jib lay over the side, while the fishing-boat scudded along like a startled bird.
The sun rose over the land, a thin gauze obscuring it. The red light flashed and died away as if the wind were the sunshine. The haggard faces of the men caught at moments a lurid glow from it. In the west a mass of bluish cloud rested a little while on the horizon, and then passed into a nimbus of gray rain-cloud that floated above it. Such was the dawn and sunrise of a fateful day.
They were sailing north; they had no haven in their view. But Peel was behind them. Think what home is to the fisherman who goes down into the great deep. Then know that to them home could be all this no longer. The silvery voices of girls, the innocent prattle of little children, the welcome of wife, the glowing hearth—these were theirs no more. Then belly out, brave sail, and back off with a noise like thunder; let the blocks creak, and the ropes strain. Anywhere, anywhere, away from the withering reproach of the crime of one and the guilt of all.
But they were standing only two miles off Jurby Point when once more the wind fell to a dead calm. The men looked into each other's faces. Here was the work of fate. There was to be no flying away; God meant them to die on these waters. The sail flapped idly; they furled it, and the boat drifted south.
Then one after one sat down on the deck, helpless and hopeless. Hours went by. The day wore on. A passing breath sometimes stirred the waters, and again all around was dumb, dead, pulseless peace. Hearing only ​the faint flap of the rippling tide, they drifted, drifted, drifted.
Then they thought of home once more, and now with other feelings. Death was before them—slow, sure, relentless death. There was to be no jugglery. Let it be death at home rather than death on this desert sea. Anything, anything but this blind end—this dumb end; this dying bit by bit on still waters. To see the darkness come again and the sun rise afresh, and once more the sun sink and the darkness deepen, and still to lie there with nothing around but the changeless sea, and nothing above but the empty sky, and only the eye of God upon them, while the winds and the waters lay in His avenging hand. Let it rather be death—swift death, just death—there where their crime was attempted, and one black deed was done.
Thus despair took hold of them and drove all fear away. Each hard man, with despair seated on his rugged face, longed, like a sick child, to lay his head in the lap of home.
"What's it saying?" muttered the old man Quilleash, "'A green hill when far away; bare, bare when it is near.'"
It was some vague sense of their hopelessness that was floating through the old man's mind as he recalled the pathetic Manx proverb. The others looked down at the deck with a stony stare.
Danny still lay forward. When the speck that had glided along the waters could be seen no more, he had turned and gazed in silence towards the eastern light and the distant shores of morning. If madness be the ​symbol on earth of the tortures of the damned, Danny had then a few hours' blessed respite. He saw calmly what he had done and why he had done it. "Surely, God is just," he thought: "surely He will not condemn me; surely, surely not." Then, amid surging inward tears, which his eyes refused to shed, the simple lad tried to recall the good words that he had heard in the course of his poor, neglected, battered life. One after one they came back to him, most of them from some far-away and hazy dream-world, strangely bright with the vision of a face that looked fondly upon him, and even kissed him tenderly. "Gentle Jesus!" and "Now I lay me down to sleep"—he could remember them both pretty well, and their simple words went up with the supplicatory ardor of his great grown heart to the sky on which his longing eyes were bent.
The thought of Mona intertwined itself with the yearning hope of pardon and peace. It sustained him now to think of her. She became part of his scheme of penitence. His love for her was to redeem him in the Father's eye. He was to take it to the foot of God's white throne, and when his guilt came up for judgment he was to lay it meekly there and look up into the good Father's face. God had sent him his great love, and it was not for his harm that he had sent it.
Then a film overspread his sight, and when he awoke he knew that he had slept. He had seen Mona in a dream. There was a happy thought in her face. She loved and was beloved. Everything about her spoke of peace. All her troubles were gone forever. No, not that either. In her eyes was the reflection of his own ​face, and sometimes it made them sad. At the memory of this the dried-up well of Danny's own eyes moistened at last to tears.
The cold, thick winter day was far worn towards sunset. Not a breath of wind was stirring. Gilded by the sun's rays, the waters to the west made a floor of bleared red. The fishing-boat had drifted nearly ten miles to the south. If she should drift two miles more she must float into the south–easterly current that flows under Contrary Head. The crew lay half-frozen on the deck. No one cared to go below. All was still around them, and silence was in their midst. At last a man lifted his head, and asked if any one could say what had become of Christian. No one knew. Old Quilleash thought he must have come by some mischief, and perhaps be captured or even dead. It was only the general hopelessness of their hearts that gave a ready consent to this view of the possibilities. Then they talked of Christian as if he were no longer a living man.
"He didn't want to be in it, didn't the young masther," said one.
"Did you see how he was for criss-crossin' and putting up obstacles at every turn?" said another.
"That was nothin' to the way he was glad when we saw the lad's fire over the Lockjaw, and had to make a slant for it and leave the thing not done."
"Aw, well, well," said Quilleash, "it was poor Bill that's gone, God help him, that led the young masther into the shoal water. What's it sayin'?—'Black as is the raven, he'll get a partner;' but Bill, poor chap, he must be for makin' a raven out of a dove." ​"God won't be hard on the masther. No, no, God'll never be hard on a good heart because it keeps company with a bad head."
"It'll be Bill, poor chap, that'll have to stand for it when the big days comes," said Davy Cain.
"No, not that anyway. Still, for sure, it's every herring must hang by his own gill. Aw, yes, man," said Tommy Tear.
"Poor Masher Christian," said Quilleash, "I remember him since he was a baby in his mother's arms—and a fine lady, too. And when he grew up it was, 'How are you, Billy Quilleash?' And when he came straight from Oxford College, and all the larning at him, and the fine English tongue, and all to that, it was, 'And how are you to-day, Billy?' 'I'm middlin' to-day, Masther Christian.' Aw, yes, yes, a tender heart at him anyhow, and no pride at all, at all."
The old man's memories were not thrilling to narrate, but they brought the tears to his eyes, and he brushed them away with his sleeve.
They were now drifting past Peel, two miles from the coast. It was Christmas–eve. Old Quilleash thought of this, and they talked of Christmas–eves gone by, and of what happy days there had been. This was too tender a chord, and they were soon silent once more. Then, while the waters lay cold and clear and still, and the sun was sinking in the west, there came floating to them from the land through the breathless air the sound of church-bells. It was the last drop in their cup. The rude men could bear up no longer. More than one dropped his head on to his knees and sobbed aloud. ​Then Quilleash, in a husky voice, and coarsely, as if ashamed of the impulse, said, "Some one pray, will you?" "Ay," said another. "Ay," said a third. But no one prayed.
"You, Billy," said one. The old man had never known a prayer.
"You, Davy." Davy shook his head. None could pray.
All lay quiet as death around them. Only the faint sound of the bells was borne to them as a mellow whisper.
Then Danny rose silently to his feet. No one had thought of asking him. With that longing look in his big eyes, he turned to the land and began to sing. He was thinking of Mona. All his soul was going out to her. She was his anchor, his hope, his prayer. The lad's voice, laden with tears, floated away over the great waters. This was what he sang:
"Her brow is like the snaw-drift, Her neck is like the swan, Her face it is the fairest That e'er the sun shone on; That e'er the sun shone on.
"And she's a' the world to me; And for bonnie Annie Laurie I'd lay me doon and dee."
The boy's eyes were bright with a radiant brightness, and glistening tears ran down his face in gracious drops like dew. The men hung their heads and were mute. ​All at once there came a breath of wind. At first it was as soft as an angel's whisper. Then it grew stronger and ruffled the sea. Every man lifted his eyes and looked at his mates. Each was struggling with a painful idea that perhaps he was the victim of a delusion of the sense. But the chill breath of the wind was indeed among them. "Isn't it beginning to puff up from the sou'-west?" asked one, in a hoarse whisper.
At that Davy Cain jumped to his feet. The idea of the supernatural had already gone from him, at least. "Now for the sheets, and to make sail," he cried.
As mate formerly, Davy constituted himself skipper now.
One after one the men got up and bustled about. Their limbs were well–nigh frozen stiff.
"Heave hearty, men; heave and away."
All was stir and animation in an instant. Pulling at the ropes, the men had begun to laugh—yes, with their husky, grating, tear-drowned voices even to laugh.
"Bear a hand, men. We're drifting fast into the down-stream to Contrary," cried Davy.
Then a gruesome sense of the ludicrous took hold of him. It was the swift reaction from solemn thoughts.
"Lay on, Quilleash, my man. Why, you're going about like a brewing-pan. What are your arms for, eh?"
The old fellow's eyes, that had been dim with tears a moment ago, glistened with grisly mischief.
"Who hasn't heard that a Manxman's arms are three legs?" he said, with a hungry smile.
How the men laughed! What humor there was now in the haggard old saw! ​"Where are you for, Davy?" cried one.
"Scotland—Shetlands," answered Davy, indefinitely.
"Hooraa! Bold fellow. Ha, ha, ha, he."
"I've been there before to-day, Davy," said Quilleash; "they're all poor men there; but it's right kind they are. Aw, yes, it's safe and well we'll be when we're there. What's it sayin'?—'When one poor man helps another poor man, God laughs.'"
How they worked! In two minutes mainsail and mizzen were up, and they filled away and stood out. But they had drifted into the down-stream, though they knew it not as yet.
From the shores of death they had sailed somehow into the waters of life. Hope was theirs once more.
They began to talk of what had caused the wind. "It was the blessed St. Patrick," said Killip. St. Patrick was the patron saint of that sea, and Killip was a Catholic and more than half an Irishman.
"St. Patrick be———," cried Davy Cain, with a scornful laugh. They got to high words, and at length almost to blows.
Old Quilleash had been at the tiller. His grisly face had grown ghastly again. "Drop it, men," he cried, in a voice of fear. "Look yander! D'ye see what's coming?"
The men looked toward the west. The long, thin cloud which Danny knew as the cat's-tail was scudding fast in the line of their starboard quarter.
"Make all snug," cried Davy.
A storm was coming. It was very near; in ten minutes it was upon them. It was a terrific tempest, ​and they knew now that they were in the down-stream.
The men stared once more into each others' faces. Their quips were gone; their hopeful spirits had broken down.
"God, it's running a ten knots' tide," shouted Quilleash.
"And we're driving before it—dead on for Peel," answered Davy, with an appalling look of fear toward the west, where the wind was seen to be churning the long waves into foam.
Danny saw it all, but there was no agony in his face and no cry of dread on his lips. "I think at whiles I'd like to die in a big sea like that." His despair was courage now.