“Law!” Disgust was painted on her speaking face. “I knew there was all kinds of people in the world!—siwashs, and cannibals, and heathen as never had a chance—but I never knew before that there was educated white men who didn’t believe folks has got souls.” She uncramped her knees, let her feet down until they touched the floor, and rose to her full height, stretching her arms high over her head. Standing thus, she raised her face and closed her eyes, I saw her lips move.
Still maintaining her position she whispered presently:
“Even with my eyes shut—not being able to see anything—I can feel God!”
And this was Wanza—simple, ignorant Wanza! whom I aspired to teach.
We sat on the steps, side by side till sundown, waiting for the mistress of the cabin to appear. But she did not come. And in the twilight Wanza and I paddled back through the narrow lead, and parted where it joins the river. Her song floated back to me as I swept along in my canoe,—an old, old song I had often heard my father sing:
“Wait for me at heaven’s gate—Sweet Bell Mahone.”
In the east I saw the thin curve of the new moon; the departing sun had left the west purple and gold, the water was streaked with color. I heard the whistle of the thrush, and the weird, “Kildee-Kildee” of the Kildeer from the marshy shore of the lake. The hour was rich with charm. Old Indian legends leaped to my mind as the fascinating “Kildee-Kildee” note continued. I thought of myself as a little chap listening to Leather Stocking bed-time tales told to me by my father, while I lay watching with charmed eyes the shadow of the acacia tree on the opposite wall. Memories stirred. My throat tightened. Before I could grip my thoughts and turn them aside to safer channels, tears rolled down my cheeks. “Dad, Dad,” I whispered, over and over, as if he might hear me, “anything for you—anything!”
CHAPTER VI
CAPTAIN GRIF
WANZA’S father had always been an interesting personality to me. He was a portly, ponderous-speaking man, with a rubicund visage, a twinkling eye, and a jovial smile. There was a humourous twist to each sentence he turned, and this in connection with an undeniable stutter made conversation with him an unending source of joy.
He had been a sea captain in his youth. He could spin me yarns by the hour. And many a snug winter evening I had spent in the little room under the eaves of his comfortable cottage, listening to tales of the high seas, and songs of the rolling main. His room with its slanting ceiling, its built-in bunks, its nautical equipment of compass and sextant, charts and logbook and maps, smacked pleasantly of the sea; and when the wind roared in the chimney and the snow and sleet twanged on the window panes, I used to shut my eyes and fancy myself aboard the good ship Wanderer bound for the North Seas.