The Scranton tribune. [volume] (Scranton, Pa.) 1891-1910, 1897-08-07

and blamed Bobbie for the storm, as II
he had been n malevolent Jove who had
arranged 1t all maliciously beforehand.
Simply to esc5 we from her l went on
deck.
The sun had broken through the gray
wall of sky, and made the bay bril-
liant. Fishing smacks were out in
great numbers, but every eye was
fastened on large sail-boat, skimming
toward us like a great sea-bird. AS II
came nearer we saw the pilot plainly.
THE pilot on the bari" said man
near me; "the words have a pretty
sound, haven't they? 1t must be a fas-
cinating occupation to a man who loves
the water. 1t is venturesome, free
Even the money made from 1t has the
charm of uncertainty-it depends
largely on the wealth or generosity of
the men who own the yachts which the
pilot brings in. A good deal of money
is made by these fellows. Well, here's
the boat. and won't it be good to get
| ashore?"
The pilot was tall, and even in an old
blue coat and slouched hat, even with
| averted head, there was a certain dig
| nifty and elegance in his bearing. He
turned and looked up at Bobbie, max
| ing a carless, graceful motion of greet
ing.
What had happened? Was I really
awake? Had the world gone topsy-
turvey? A sudden curtain seemed to
fall over my sight, shutting out the
bay, the housetops of the town beyond,
the lighthouse-all but the tanned,
clear-cut face of the pilot, looking up
and past me. Another second and our
eyes met. i do not know what mine
said: his, strangely hard and half-de-
flant, said nothing. The pilot at the
| bar was Rufus Darrow.
His boat sped on, showing the safe
and devious windings of the channel.
| and our yacht followed. When we had
landed looked everywhere, but though
the pilots boat lay at its moorings, he
| had disappeared. AS we turned and
entered the carriage that was to take
us to the hotel, l saw a tiny house at a
short distance from the water-a bare,
| lonely place having the Spanish roof
seen everywhere in st. Augustine. In
stinctively l knew that Rufus lived
there; a voice whispered it to me.
/ do not know how that day passed.
Like an uneasy ghost, | wandered
through the patio and corridors, among
/
until at sunset I found myself but a
| stones throw from the little house
near the water. l wanted to see Rufus.
| longed, with a desire that hurt my
| heart, to stand before him, to meet his
eyes. Yet, with the feeling, there was
a curious dread. Perhaps he hated me
now. Perhaps in his chosen isolation,
he had found happiness in some simple
woman's love, had married, the world
forgetting, and by the world forgot"
| Perhaps
But all surmises vanished for the
cottage door opened, and Rufus came
down the path. His head was sunk on
| his breast and his hands were in his
| pockets. As he turned, the western
sunlight struck his eyes. Impatiently
he looked up and saw me.
All, he had kept his promise well!
He had worked. The worn, tanned
| face, the intent eyes, were not those of
the dreamer and idler / had known.
How strange is reality from the fab
ric of our dreams! I had often fancied
meeting Rufus, and what the first
words between us would be-wordS
! thrilling, strong. He only said:
How do you do, Bess?" and lifted
the slouched hat with the old, easy
|
grace.
Rufus, We meet at last" and I
scarcely knew my tones, they trembled
so.
/ held out by hand.
mo" he said, half-turning away and
| looking out to sea, mot yet. l cannot
! touch your hand until l am free. Do
| you understand? Do you know what l
| mean?" he asked, facing me passion
ately. "Soon l will be-yes, soon. l
have worked hard as pilot in the win
ter season, and during the summer I
| have been assistant lighthouse keeper;
I saved every. penny, except what was
actually needed for bread and butter.
Thank God that drudgery soon will
cnd-soOn! Listen"
He came closer. his dark. luminous
eyes compelled my gaze, and the light
from the west, rapidly changing from
crimson to violet, threw it's mystery
| around us.