"It makes no difference," said Captain Dutton, stubbornly. "She's been a good mother to me, an' she's in a bad fix. The doctor's got to be fetched, that's all."
In his rough, good-hearted way the Captain loved his mother as he loved nothing else.
"Ef she should die, I want her to know somehow as I tried to do my duty by her last of all. And, Huldy"—laying his hand on the girl's shoulder—"I ain't concerned but what she'll be took care on as fur as you can do it, child. It's hard lines to leave a young one like you here with such terrible trouble, but there's no help for it. I'll fetch the doctor soon as I kin—leastways 'fore the sun drops. No sailor kin say as ever Kyle Dutton missed lightin' the beacon wi' the last ray o' sunshine, or turnin' off lamps as the sun stepped 'crost the horizon. Livin', I'll be here in time for that, Huldy."
He nodded and went away.
Huldah shivered as she glanced down at the motionless figure on the couch below. Maybe she would be left thus utterly alone for hours—for days. Her breath came hurriedly. It seemed to her more than she could bear. Frantically she forced open the window, and, thrusting her head through, shouted herself hoarse in a vain effort to make Captain Dutton hear her above the roaring of the sea. The boat, tossed from wave to wave, plunged further and further away.
And it was but a few hours ago that Huldah had wished she might have an opportunity to do some great heroic deed. Now she said to herself: "You were a pitiful coward then, Huldah Deane. You brave enough to go in a life-boat to save drowning folks! You deserve to be nothing better than a fish-hawk. Because Dame Dutton lies ill yonder, and the Captain puts off to fetch a doctor, is that any reason why you should go into spasms of fright? For shame! Remember what father told you that day he sailed away never to come back any more: 'Do your duty always, Huldah.' Isn't it your duty now, foolish girl, to get right down from here and see to poor Mrs. Dutton?"
Closing the window, she descended from her perch to renew her exertions for the relief of the poor dame. But toil as she might, nothing she could do would change the fixed attitude, or calm the quick-drawn breath that told of bitter suffering.
Presently the day began to wane. The clouds ranged themselves in solid masses, and darkness and storm besieged the sea-girt tower. Crossing to the clock in the corner, she scanned its face. "Five o'clock! So late? Why, the sun is down in less than half an hour, and the Captain will lose his place if the beacon is not lighted by sundown. But what can I do? It's the order, he says, that women and children sha'n't have anything to do with the lights."
One moment she stood with tightly compressed lips. Then a brave, resolute smile parted her lips.
"Well, I'm hardly a child, I suppose, but neither am I a woman. Ships may be lost if the beacon is not lit." Then lighting the lantern the Captain always used, she hung it on her arm, and after one more look at the sick woman, left the chamber.