25
“’Twill do un no harm, Nick,” says Cap’n Jack. “You just dose un well when you gets un back t’ the Tickle.”
“I will,” says my uncle.
He did....
And we made a jovial night of it. Cap’n Jack would not let me off his knee. Not he! He held me close and kindly; and while he yarned of the passage to my uncle, and interjected strange wishes for a wife, he whispered many things in my ear to delight me, and promised me, upon his word, a sailing from St. John’s to Spanish ports, when I was grown old enough, if only I would come in that basket of aLost Hope, which I maintained I never would do. ’Twas what my uncle was used to calling a lovely time; and, as for me, I wish I were a child again, and Cap’n Jack were come in from the rain, and my uncle tipping the bottle of Long Tom (though ’twere a scandal). Ay, indeed I do! That I were a child again, used to tap-room bottles, and that big Cap’n Jack had come in from the gale to tell me I was a brave lad in whom he found a comfort neither of the solid land nor of water-side companionship. But I did not think of Cap’n Jack that night, when my uncle had stowed me away in my bed at the hotel; but, rather, in the long, wakeful hours, through which I lay alone, I thought of Tom Bull’s question, “Where’d ye get them jools?”
I had never before been troubled––not once;26always I had worn the glittering stones without question.
“Where’d ye get them jools?”
I could not fall asleep: I repeated the twenty-third psalm, according to my teaching; but still I could not fall asleep....
27IIITHE CATECHISM AT TWIST TICKLE
Of an evening at Twist Tickle Nicholas Top would sit unstrung and wistful in his great chair by the west window, with the curtains drawn wide, there waiting, in deepening gloom and fear, for the last light to leave the world. With his head fallen upon his breast and his eyes grown fixed and tragical with far-off gazing, he would look out upon the appalling sweep of sea and rock and sky, where the sombre wonder of the dusk was working more terribly than with thunder: clouds in embers, cliffs and mist and tumbling water turning to shadows, vanishing, as though they were not. In the place of a shining world, spread familiar and open, from its paths to the golden haze of its uttermost parts, there would come the cloud and mystery and straying noises of the night, wherein lurk and peer and restlessly move whatsoever may see in the dark.
Thus would he sit oppressed while night covered the world he knew by day. And there would come up from the sea its voice; and the sea has no voice, but mysteriously touches the strings within the soul of28a man, so that the soul speaks in its own way, each soul lifting its peculiar message. For me ’twas sweet to watch the tender shadows creep upon the western fire, to see the great gray rocks dissolve, to hear the sea’s melodious whispering; but to him (it seemed) the sea spoke harshly and the night came with foreboding. In the silence and failing light of the hour, looking upon the stupendous works of the Lord, he would repeat the words of the prophet of the Lord:
“For behold the Lord will come with fire, and with his chariots like a whirlwind, to render his anger with fury, and his rebuke with the flames of fire.” And again, with his hand upon his forehead and his brows fallen hopelessly, “With his chariots like a whirlwind, to render his anger with fury, and his rebuke with the flames of fire.” Still repeating the awful words, his voice broken to a terrified whisper, “His rebuke with the flames of fire!” And in particular moods, when the prophets, however sonorous, were inadequate to his need, my uncle would have recourse to his own pithy vocabulary for terms with which to anathematize himself; but these, of course, may not be written in a book.
When the dusk was come my uncle would turn blithely from this melancholy contemplation and call for a lamp and his bottle. While I was about this business (our maid-servant would not handle the bottle lest she be damned for it), my uncle would stump the floor, making gallant efforts to whistle and trill: by this exhorting himself to a cheerful mood, so that when29I had moved his great chair to the table, with the lamp near and turned high, and had placed a stool for his wooden leg, and had set his bottle and glass and little brown jug of cold water conveniently at hand, his face would be pleasantly rippling and his eyes all a-twinkle.
“Up with un, Dannie!” says he.
’Twas his fancy that he had gout in the tip of his wooden leg. I must lift the ailing bit of timber to the stool with caution.
“Ouch!” groans he. “Easy, lad!”
’Twas now in place.
“All ship-shape an’ cheerful,” says he. “Pass the bottle.”
He would then stand me up for catechism; and to this task I would come with alacrity, and my heels would come together, and my shoulders square, and my hands go behind my back, as in the line at school. ’Twas a solemn game, whatever the form it took, whether dealing with my possessions, hopes, deportment, or what-not; and however grotesque an appearance the thing may wear, ’twas done in earnest by us both and with some real pains (when I was stupid or sleepy) to me. ’Twas the way he had, too, of teaching me that which he would have me conceive him to be––of fashioning in my heart and mind the character he would there wear. A clumsy, forecastle method, and most pathetically engaging, to be sure! but in effect unapproached: for to this day, when I know him as he was, the man he would appear to be sticks in my heart and will not be supplanted. Nor would I willingly30yield the wistful old dog’s place to a gentleman of more brilliant parts.
“Dannie, lad,” he would begin, in the manner of a visiting trustee, but yet with a little twitch and flush of embarrassment, which must be wiped away with his great bandanna handkerchief––“Dannie, lad,” he would begin, “is ol’ Nicholas Top a well-knowed figger in Newf’un’land?”
“He’s knowed,” was the response I had been taught, “from Cape Race t’ Chidley.”
“What for?”
“Standin’ by.”
So far so good; my uncle would beam upon me, as though the compliment were of my own devising, until ’twas necessary once more to wipe the smile and blush from his great wet countenance.
“Is it righteous,” says he, “t’ stand by?”
“’Tis that.”
He would now lean close with his poser: “Does it say so in the Bible? Ah ha, lad! Does it say sothere?”
“’Twas left out,” says I, having to this been scandalously taught, “by mistake!”
’Twas my uncle’s sad habit thus to solve his ethical difficulties. To a gigantic, thumb-worn Bible he would turn, the which, having sought with unsuccess until his temper was hot, he would fling back to its place, growling: “Them ol’ prophets was dunderheads, anyhow; they left out more’n they put in. Why, Dannie,” in vast disgust, “you don’t find the mention of barratry31from jib-boom t’ taffrail! An’ you mean t’ set there an’ tell me them prophets didn’t make no mistake? No, sir! I ’low they was well rope’s-ended for neglect o’ dooty when the Skipper cotched un in the other Harbor.” But if by chance, in his impatient haste, he stumbled upon some confirmation of his own philosophy, he would crow: “There you got it, Dannie! Right under the thumb o’ me! Them ol’ bullies was wise as owls.” ’Twas largely a matter of words, no doubt (my uncle being self-taught in all things); and ’tis possible that the virtue of standing by, indirectly commended, to be sure, is not specifically and in terms enjoined upon the righteous. However––
“Come, now!” says my uncle; “would you say that ol’ Nicholas Top wasfamousfor standin’ by?”
’Twas hard to remember the long response. “Well,” I must begin, in a doubtful drawl, every word and changing inflection his own, as I had been taught, “I wouldn’t goquitet’ the length o’ that. Ol’ Nicholas Top wouldn’t claim it hisself. Ol’ Nicholas Top on’y claims that he’sgoodat standin’ by. His cronies do ’low that he can’t be beat at it by ar a man in Newf’un’land; but Nicholas wouldn’t go t’ the length o’sayin’so hisself. ‘Ol’ Nick,’ says they, ‘would stand by if the ship was skippered by the devil and inbound on a fiery wind t’ the tickle t’ hell. Whatever Nick says he’lldo,’ says they, ‘is all the same asdid; an’ if he says he’ll stand by, he’ll stick, blow high or blow low, fog, ice, or reefs. “Be jiggered t’ port an’ weather!”32says he.’[1]But sure,” I must conclude, “ol’ Nicholas wouldn’t say so hisself. An’ so I wouldn’t go t’ the length o’ holdin’ that he was famous for standin’ by. Take it by an’ all, if I was wantin’ sea room, I’d stick t’well knowedan’ be done with it.”
“Co’-rect!” says my uncle, with a smack of satisfaction. “You got that long one right, Dannie. An’ now, lad,” says he, his voice turning soft and genuine in feeling, “what’s the ol’ sailorman tryin’ t’ make out o’you?”
“A gentleman.”
“An’ why?”
Then this disquieting response:
“’Tis none o’ my business.”
’Twould have been logical had he asked me: “An’, Dannie, lad, what’s a gentleman?” But this he never did; and I think, regarding the thing from this distance, that he was himself unable to frame the definition, so that, of course, I never could be taught it. But he was diligent in pursuit of this knowledge; he sat with open ears in those exclusive tap-rooms where “the big bugs t’ St. John’s” (as he called them) congregated; indeed, the little gold watch by which Skipper Tom Bull’s suspicion had been excited at the Anchor and Chain came to me immediately after the33Commissioner of This had remarked to the Commissioner of That, within my uncle’s hearing––this at the Gold Bullet over a bottle of Long Tom––that a watch of modest proportions was the watch for a gentleman to wear (my other watches had been chosen with an opposite idea). And my uncle, too (of which anon), held in high regard that somewhat questionable light of morality and deportment whom he was used to calling ol’ Skipper Chesterfield. But “What is a gentleman?” was omitted from my catechism.
“An’ is this ol’ Nicholas Top a liar?” says my uncle.
“No, sir.”
“Is he a thief?”
“No, sir.”
“Smuggler?”
“No, sir.”
“Have he ever been mixed up in burglary, murder, arson, barratry, piracy, fish stealin’, or speckalation?”
“No, sir.”
To indicate his utter detachment from personal interest in the question to follow, my uncle would wave his dilapidated hand, as though leaving me free to answer as I would, which by no means was I.
“An’ of how much,” says he, “would he rob his neighbor that he might prosper?”
’Twas now time for me to turn loud and indignant, as I had been taught. Thus: my head must shoot out in truculent fashion, my brows bend, my lips curl away from my teeth like a snarling dog’s, my eyes glare; and I must let my small body shake with explosive34rage, in imitation of my uncle, while I brought the table a thwack with all my force, shouting:
“Not a damn copper!”
“Good!” says my uncle, placidly. “You done that very well, Dannie, for a lad. You fetched out the damn quite noisy an’ agreeable. Now,” says he, “is Nicholas Top a rascal?”
’Twas here we had trouble; in the beginning, when this learning was undertaken, I must be whipped to answer as he would have me. Ay, and many a night have I gone sore to bed for my perversity, for in respect to obedience his severity was unmitigated, as with all seafaring men. But I might stand obstinate for a moment––a moment of grace. And upon the wall behind his chair, hanging in the dimmer light, was a colored print portraying a blue sea, spread with rank upon rank of accurately measured waves, each with its tiny cap of foam, stretching without diminution to the horizon, upon which was perched a full-rigged ship, a geometrical triumph; and from this vessel came by small-boat to the strand a company of accurately moulded, accurately featured, accurately tailored fellows, pulling with perfect accuracy in every respect. I shall never forget the geometrical gentleman upon that geometrically tempestuous sea, for as I stood sullen before my uncle they provided the only distraction at hand.
“Come, Daniel!” says he, in a little flare of wrath; “is he a rascal?”
“Well,” says I, defiantly, “I’ve heard un lied about.”
35
“Wrong!” roars my uncle. “Try again, sir! Is ol’ Nicholas Top a rascal?”
There was no help for it. I must say the unkind words or be thrashed for an obstinate whelp.
“A damned rascal, sir!” says I.
“Co’-rect!” cries my uncle, delighted.[2]
And now, presently, my uncle would drawl, “Well, Dannie, lad, you might ’s well measure out the other,” and when I had with care poured his last dram would send me off to bed. Sometimes he would have me say my prayers at his knee––not often––most when high winds, without rain, shook our windows and sang mournfully past the cottage, and he was unnerved by the night. “The wind’s high the night,” says he, with an anxious frown; “an’ Dannie,” says he, laying a hand upon my head, “you might ’s well overhaul that there
“‘Jesus, tender Shepherd, hear me,Bless Thy little lamb to-night,’
36
afore you turns in. ’Twill do you good, an’ ’twon’t manage t’ do me no harm.” And this done I would off to bed; but had no sooner bade him good-night, got my gruff response, and come to the foot of the stair, than, turning to say good-night again, I would find myself forgot. My uncle would be sunk dejectedly in his great chair, his scarred face drawn and woful. I see him now––under the lamp––a gray, monstrous, despairing man, a bottle beside him, the familiar things of the place in shadow. The old feeling of wonder and regret returns. I sigh––as then, a child, bound up to a lonely chamber in the night, I sighed.
“Good-night, sir!”
There was no response; but he would look in upon me on the way to bed––into the little room where I lay luxuriously, in the midst of those extravagant comforts which so strangely came to me. And more often than not he would haul this way and that upon the covers until, as though by some unhappy accident, I was awakened.
“God bless you, Dannie,” says he.
“Good-night, sir.”
’Twas all he wanted––a good wish spoken in the night. To his own bare room he would then be off, a bit uncertain (I recall) in the management of his wooden leg.
Under my window, at the foot of a short cliff which fell roughly into the open cove, as shall be told, the37sea broke. While sleep waited ’twas my habit to listen to the waves upon the rocks: in that brief and mystical interval when many truths take shape, definite and lovely, as in a mist, but are forgot before dawn stirs us, nor can be remembered. Of still moonlit nights; of windless dusks, with the swell of past storms sullenly remaining; in clammy, breathless weather; with fresh winds blowing our craft to and fro on their way in search of the fish; in blackest gales, when the men of Twist Tickle kept watch for wrecks upon the heads––forever I listened to the voice of the sea before I fell asleep. But the sea has no voice, but may only play upon the souls of men, which speak from the uttermost depths, each soul in its own way: so that the sea has a thousand voices, and listening men are tranquil or not, as may chance within them, without mystery. Never since those far-off days, when the sea took my unspoiled soul as a harp in its hands, have I been secure in the knowledge of truth, untroubled by bewilderment and anxious questions. Untroubled by love, by the fear of hell, ’twas good to be alive in a world where the sea spoke tenderly below the window of the room where sleep came bearing dreams.
And my uncle? God knows! The harp was warped, and the strings of the harp were broken and out of tune....
[1]’Twas really “damned t’ port an’ weather” my uncle would have me say; but I hesitate to set it down, lest the more gentle readers of my simple narrative think ill of the man’s dealings with a child, which I would not have them do.
’Twas really “damned t’ port an’ weather” my uncle would have me say; but I hesitate to set it down, lest the more gentle readers of my simple narrative think ill of the man’s dealings with a child, which I would not have them do.
[2]Of course, the frequent recurrence of this vulgarity in my narrative is to be regretted. No one, indeed, is more sensible of the circumstance than I. My uncle held the word in affectionate regard, and usefully employed it: ’tis the only apology I have to offer. Would it not be possible for the more delicate readers of my otherwise inoffensive narrative to elide the word? or to supply, on the spur of the moment, an acceptable equivalent, of which, I am told, there is an infinite variety? or (better still) to utter it courageously? I am for the bolder course: ’tis a discipline rich in cultural advantages. But ’tis for the reader, of course, to choose the alternative.
Of course, the frequent recurrence of this vulgarity in my narrative is to be regretted. No one, indeed, is more sensible of the circumstance than I. My uncle held the word in affectionate regard, and usefully employed it: ’tis the only apology I have to offer. Would it not be possible for the more delicate readers of my otherwise inoffensive narrative to elide the word? or to supply, on the spur of the moment, an acceptable equivalent, of which, I am told, there is an infinite variety? or (better still) to utter it courageously? I am for the bolder course: ’tis a discipline rich in cultural advantages. But ’tis for the reader, of course, to choose the alternative.
38IVON SINISTER BUSINESS
Our pilgrimages to St. John’s, occurring twice a year, were of a singular description: not only in the manner of our progress, which was unexampled, in view of our relationship and condition, but in the impenetrable character of our mission and in the air of low rascality it unfailingly wore. For many days before our departure from Twist Tickle by the outside boat, my uncle would quit the Green Bull grounds, where he fished with hook and line, would moor his punt fore and aft, and take to the bleak hills of Twin Islands, there (it seemed) to nurse some questionable design: whence at dusk he would emerge, exhausted in leg and spirit, but yet with strength to mutter obscure imprecations as he came tapping up the gravelled walk from the gate, and with the will to manage a bottle and glass in the kitchen.
“The bottle!” cries he. “Ecod! the dog’ll never scare ol’ Nick Top. Dannie, the bottle!”
While I fled for this he would sit growling by the table; but before I was well returned the humor would be vanishing, so that sometimes I guessed (but might39be mistaken) he practised this rage and profanity to play a part.
“Ol’ Nick Top,” says he, “is as saucy a dog as you’ll find in the pack!”
’Twas said with a snap.
“A saucy ol’ dog!” snarls he. “An’ Lord love ye! but he’s able t’––t’––t’bite!”
“Uncle Nick,” says I, “you’re all wore out along o’ walkin’ them hills.”
“Wore out!” cries he, an angry flash in his wide little eyes. “Mewore out?... Pass the bottle.... Ye’d never think it, lad, an ye could see me t’ St. John’s,” says he, “at the––”
The revelation came to a full stop with the tipping of the square black bottle.
“Where’s that?” says I.
“’Tis a wee water-side place, lad,” says he, with a grave wink, “where ol’ Nick Top’s the sauciest dog in the pack!”
I would pass the water for his liquor.
“An’ here,” cries he, toasting with solemn enthusiasm, “is wishin’ all water-side rascals in”––’twas now a long pull at the glass––“jail!” says he. “’Twould go agin my conscience t’ wish un worse. I really isn’t able!”
By these wanderings on the hills the slow, suspicious wits of our folk of Twist Tickle were mystified and aroused to superstitious imaginings. ’Twas inevitable that they should pry and surmise––surmising much more than they dared pry. They were never bold, however, in the presence of my uncle, whether because40of their courteous ways or because of his quick temper and sulphurous tongue, in respect to meddling, I am not able to say; but no doubt they would have troubled us a deal had my uncle even so much as admitted by the set of his eyelid (which he never would do) that there was a mystery concerning us. The lads of the place lurked upon the hills when the business went forward, continuing in desperate terror of my uncle at such times. They learned, notwithstanding their fright, that he trudged far and hard, at first smiling with the day, then muttering darkly, at last wrathfully swishing the spruce with his staff; but not one of them could follow to the discovery of the secret, whatever it might be, so that, though ’twas known the old man exchanged a genial humor for an execrable one, the why and wherefore were never honestly fathomed.
Came, at last, the day before our departure, upon which my wardrobe for the journey must be chosen from the closets and chests, inspected, scrupulously packed––this for travel, that for afternoon, this, again, for dinner––tweed and serge and velvet: raiment for all occasions, for all weathers, as though, indeed, I were to spend time with the governor of the colony. Trinkets and cravats presented pretty questions for argument, in which my uncle delighted, and would sustain with spirit, watching rather wistfully, I recall, to see my interest wax; and my interest would sometimes wax too suddenly for belief, inspired by his melancholy disappointment, so that he would dig me41in the ribs with his long forefinger and laugh at me because he had discovered my deception. My uncle was a nice observer (and diligent) of fashion, and a stickler for congruity of dress, save in the matter of rings and the like, with which, perhaps, he was in the way of too largely adorning me.
“Ye’ll be wearin’ the new Turkish outfit aboard ship, Dannie?” says he.
I would not.
“Lon’onHaberdashercome out strong,” says he, at a coax, “on Turkish outfits for seven-year-olds.”
’Twas not persuasive.
“Wonderful pop’lar across the water.”
“But,” I would protest, “I’m not likin’ the queer red cap.”
“Ah, Dannie,” says he, “I fears ye’ll never be much of a gentleman if ye’re careless o’ the fashion. Not in the fashion, out o’ the world! What have ol’ Skipper Chesterfield t’ say on that p’int? Eh, lad? What have the bully ol’ skipper t’ say––underlined by Sir Harry? A list o’ the ornamental accomplishments, volume II., page 24. ‘T’ be extremely clean in your person,’ says he, ‘an’ perfeckly well dressed, accordin’ t’ the fashion, be that what it will.’ There you haves it, lad, underlined by Sir Harry!‘Be that what it will.’But ye’re not likin’ the queer red cap, eh? Ah, well! I ’low, then, ye’ll be havin’ t’ don the kilt.”
This I would hear with relief.
“But I ’low,” growls he, “that Sir Harry an’ Skipper42Chesterfield haves the right of it: for they’re both strong on manners––if weak on morals.”
Aboard ship I was put in the cabin and commanded to bear myself like a gentleman: whereupon I was abandoned, my uncle retreating in haste and purple confusion from the plush and polish and glitter of the state-room. But he would never fail to turn at the door (or come stumping back through the passage); and now heavily oppressed by my helplessness and miserable loneliness and the regrettable circumstances of my life––feeling, it may be, some fear for me and doubt of his own wisdom––he would regard me anxiously. To this day he lingers thus in my memory: leaning forward upon his short staff, half within the bright light, half lost in shadow, upon his poor, fantastic, strangely gentle countenance an expression of tenderest solicitude, which still would break, against his will, in ripples of the liveliest admiration at my appearance and luxurious situation, but would quickly recover its quality of concern and sympathy.
“Dannie, lad,” he would prescribe, “you better overhaul the twenty-third psa’m afore turnin’ in.”
To this I would promise.
“‘The Lard is my shepherd,’” says he. “‘I shall not want.’ Say it twice,” says he, as if two doses were more salutary than one, “an’ you’ll feel better in the mornin’.”
To this a doleful assent.
“An’ ye’ll make good use o’ your time with the gentlefolk, Dannie?” says he. “Keep watch on ’em,43lad, an’ ye’ll l’arn a wonderful lot about manners. ‘List o’ the necessary ornamental accomplishments (without which no man livin’ can either please or rise in the world), which hitherto I fear ye want,’” quotes he, most glibly, “‘an’ which only require your care an’ attention t’ possess.’ Volume II., page 24. ‘A distinguished politeness o’ manners an’ address, which common-sense, observation, good company, an’ imitation will give ye if ye will accept it.’ There you haves it, Dannie––underlined by Sir Harry! Ye got the sense, ye got the eye, an’ here’s the company. Lord love ye, Dannie, the Commissioner o’ Lands is aboard with his lady! No less! An’ I’ve heared tell of a Yankee millionaire cruisin’ these parts. They’ll be wonderful handy for practice. Lay alongside, Dannie––an’ imitate the distinguished politeness: for ol’ Skipper Chesterfield cracks up imitation an’ practice most wonderful high!”
The jangle of the bell in the engine-room would now interrupt him. The mail was aboard: the ship bound out.
“An’ Dannie,” says my uncle, feeling in haste for the great handkerchief (to blow his nose, you may be sure), “I’m not able t’thinko’ you bein’ lonely. I’m for’ard in the steerage, lad––just call that t’ mind. An’ if ye find no cure in that, why, lad”––in a squall of affectionate feeling, his regard for gentility quite vanished––“sink me an’ that damn ol’ Chesterfield overside, an’ overhaul the twenty-third psa’m!”
“Ay, sir.”
44
“You is safe enough, lad; for, Dannie––”
’Twas in the imperative tone, and I must instantly and sharply attend.
––“I’m for’ard, standin’ by!”
He would then take himself off to the steerage for good; and ’twas desperately lonely for me, aboard the big ship, tossing by night and day through the rough waters of our coast.
45VTAP-TAP ON THE PAVEMENT
My uncle would not have speech with me again, lest his rough look and ways endanger the social advantages he conceived me to enjoy in the cabin, but from the lower deck would keep sly watch upon me, and, unobserved of others, would with the red bandanna handkerchief flash me messages of affection and encouragement, to which I must not for the life of me respond. Soon, however, ’twas my turn to peer and wish; for, perceiving at last that I was not ill (the weather being fair), and that I had engaged the companionship of gentlefolk––they were quick enough, indeed, these St. John’s folk and spying wanderers, to attach themselves to the mystery of old Nick Top’s child––my uncle would devote himself to his own concerns with unhappy result.
The manner of his days of preparation upon the hills of Twin Islands would return: the ill temper and cunning and evil secretiveness, joined now with the hang-dog air he habitually wore in the city. And these distressful appearances would by day and night increase, as we passed the Funks, came to Bonavist’ Bay, left46the Bacalieu light behind and rounded the Brandy Rocks, until, instead of a rotund, twinkling old sea-dog, with a gargoylish countenance, with which the spirit had nothing to do, there landed on the wharf at the city a swaggering, wrathy pirate, of devilish cast and temper, quick to flush and bluster, mighty in profanity, far gone in drink.
Thence to the hotel, in this wise: my uncle, being clever with his staff and wooden leg and vastly strong, would shoulder my box, make way through the gang-plank idlers and porters with great words, put me grandly in the lead, come gasping at a respectful distance behind, modelling his behavior (as he thought) after that of some flunky of nobility he had once clapped eyes on; and as we thus proceeded up the hill––a dandy in tartan kilt and velvet and a gray ape in slops––he would have a quick word of wrath for any passenger that might chance to jostle me. ’Twas a conspicuous progress, craftily designed, as, long afterwards, I learned; we were not long landed, you may be sure, before the town was aware that the mystery of Twist Tickle was once more come in by theLake: old Skipper Nicholas Top and the lad with the rings, as they called me!
Having come now to the hotel (this by night), where would be a cheerful fire awaiting us in my comfortable quarters, my uncle would unstrap my box and dispose its contents in clean and handy places, urging me the while, like a mother, to make good use of my opportunity47to observe the ways of gentlefolk, especially as practised in the dining-room of the hotel, that I might expeditiously master polite manners, which was a thing Skipper Chesterfield held most seriously in high opinion. I must thus conduct myself (he said), rather than idly brood, wishing for his company: for a silk purse was never yet made of a sow’s ear but with pain to all concerned. “An’ Dannie,” says he, jovially, when he had clapped the last drawer shut and put my nightclothes to warm at the fire, “if you was t’ tweak that there bell-pull––”
I would gladly tweak it.
“Thank ’e, Dannie,” says my uncle, gently. “It’ll be the best Jamaica––a nip afore I goes.”
In response to this would come old Elihu Wall, whom in private I loved, exaggerating every obsequious trick known to his kind to humor my uncle. I must then act my part, as I had been taught, thus: must stride to the fire, turn, spread my legs, scowl, meditatively ply a tooth-pick (alas! my groping uncle), become aware of old Elihu Wall, become haughtily conscious of my uncle, now in respectful attitude upon his foot and wooden leg; and I must scowl again, in a heavier way, as though angered by this interruption, and rub my small quarters, now heated near beyond endurance, and stare at the ceiling, and, dropping my eyes sharply upon Elihu Wall, say with a haughty sniff, a haughty curl of the lip:
“Elihu”––with a superior jerk towards my uncle––“fetch this man a dram o’ your best Jamaica!”
48
’Twas not hard to do––not hard to learn: for my uncle was unceasing in solicitous and patient instruction, diligent in observation, as he cruised in those exclusive places to which (somehow) he gained admittance for my sake and a jolly welcome for his own. And ’twas a grateful task, too, to which I heartily gave my interest, for I loved my uncle. ’Twas his way of teaching me not only the gentlemanly art of dealing with menials, as he had observed it, but, on his part, as he stood stiff and grave, the proper attitude of a servant towards his master. In these days, long distant from the first strange years of my life, I am glad that I was not wilful with him––glad that I did not obstinately resist the folly and boredom of the thing, as I was inclined to do. But, indeed, it must not be counted to me for virtue; for my uncle had a ready hand, though three fingers were missing, and to this day I remember the odd red mark it left (the thumb, forefinger, and palm), when, upon occasion, it fell upon me.
“Elihu,” says I, “fetch this man a dram o’ your best Jamaica!”
Upon the disappearance of Elihu Wall, my uncle and I would resume intimate relations.
“You done well, Dannie!” cries he, gleefully rubbing his hands. “I never knowed Sir Harry t’ do it better.”
We were both mightily proud.
“Dannie,” says he, presently, with gleeful interest, “give un a good one when he gets back. Like a gentleman, Dannie. Just t’ show un what you can do.”
49
Enter Elihu Wall.
“What the devil d’ye mean?” says I, in wrath. “Eh? What the devil d’ye mean?”
“Yes, sir,” says Elihu Wall. “Sorry, sir.Very, sir.”
“Devil take your sorrow!” says I.
I would then slip the old fellow a bit of silver, as I was bidden, and he would obsequiously depart.[3]
“You done well, Dannie!” cries my uncle again, in delight. “Lord! but ’twas grand! You done wonderful well! I never knowed Sir Harry t’ do it better. I wisht ol’ Chesterfield was here t’ see. Ecod!” he chuckles, with a rub at his nose, gazing upon me with affectionate admiration, in which was no small dash of awe, “you done it well, my lad! I’ve heard Sir Harry saymore, mark you! but I’ve never knowed un t’ do it better.More, Dannie, but t’ less purpose. Ah, Dannie,” says he, fondly, “they’s the makin’s of a gentleman inyou!”
I was pleased––to be sure!
“An’ I ’low, by an’ all,” my uncle would boast, scratching his head in high gratification, “that I’m a-fetchin’ ye up very well!”
’Twas hard on old Elihu Wall––this unearned abuse. But Elihu and I were fast friends, nevertheless: he sped many a wearisome hour for me when my uncle was upon his grim, mysterious business in the city;50and I had long ago told him that he must not grieve, whatever I said––however caustic and unkind the words––because my uncle’s whims must be humored, which was the end to be served by us both. With this assurance of good feeling, old Elihu Wall was content. He took my insolence in good part, playing the game cheerfully: knowing that the hard words were uttered without intention to wound, but only in imitation of gentlemen, from whom Elihu Wall suffered enough, Heaven knows! (as he confided to me) not to mind what I might say.
I must tell that, once, taken with pain, having overeaten myself, left alone in the hotel at St. John’s, I got out of bed and sought my uncle’s lodgings, which I was never permitted to see. ’Twas a rough search for a sick child to follow through in the night, ending by the water-side––a dismal stair, leading brokenly to a wretched room, situate over a tap-room too low for frequency by us, where women quarrelled with men. Here my uncle sat with his bottle, not yet turned in. He was amazed when I entered, but scolded me not at all; and he gave me brandy to drink, until my head swam, and took me to sleep with him, for the only time in all my life. When I awoke ’twas to disgust with the bed and room in which I lay––with the smell and dirt of the place––the poverty and sordidness, to which I was not used.
I complained of the housing my uncle had.
51
“Dannie, lad,” says my uncle, sighing unhappily, “the old man’s poor, an’ isn’t able t’ help it.”
Still I complained.
“Don’t, Dannie!” says he. “I isn’t able t’ bear it. An’ I’m wishin’ you’d never found out. The old man’s poor––wonderful poor. He’s on’y a hook-an’-line man. For God’s sake ask un no questions!”
I asked him no questions....
Every morning while at St. John’s, my uncle and I must walk the lower streets: my hand in his, when I was a child, and, presently, when I was grown into a lad, myself at his heels. Upon these occasions I must be clad and conduct myself thus and so, with utmost particularity: must be combed and brushed, and carry my head bravely, and square my shoulders, and turn out my toes, and cap my crown so that my unspeakably wilful hair, which was never clipped short, as I would have it, would appear in disarray. Never once did I pass the anxious inspection without needing a whisk behind, or, it may be, here and there, a touch of my uncle’s thick finger, which seemed, somehow, infinitely tender at that moment.
“I’m wantin’ ye, Dannie,” says he, “t’ look like a gentleman the day. They’ll be a thing come t’ pass, come a day.”
There invariably came a thing to pass––a singular thing, which I conceived to be the object of these pilgrimages; being this: that when in the course of our peregrinations we came to the crossing of King52Street with Water he would never fail to pause, tap-tap a particular stone of the walk, and break into muttered imprecations, continuing until folk stared and heads were put out of the windows. In so far as one might discern, there was nothing in that busy neighborhood to excite the ill-temper of any man; but at such times, as though courting the curious remark he attracted, my uncle’s staff would strike the pavement with an angry pat, his head wag and nod, his eyes malevolently flash, and he would then so hasten his steps that ’twas no easy matter to keep pace with him, until, once past, he would again turn placid and slow.
“There you haves it, Dannie!” he would chuckle. “There you haves it!”
’Twas all a mystery.
My uncle must once get very drunk at St. John’s––this for a day and a night, during which I must not leave my quarters. These were times of terror––and of loneliness: for it seemed to my childish mind that when my uncle was drunk I had no friend at all. But ’twas all plain sailing afterwards––a sober, cheerful guardian, restless to be off to Twist Tickle. My uncle would buy new outfits for me at the shops, arrange the regular shipment of such delicacies as the St. John’s markets afforded according to the season, seek gifts with which to delight and profit me, gather the news of fashion, lie in wait for dropped hints as to the manners and customs of gentlemen, procure his allowance53of whiskey for the six months to come: in every way providing for my happiness and well-being and for such meagre comfort as he would allow himself.
Then off to Twist Tickle: and glad we were of it when theLakegot beyond the narrows and the big, clean, clear-aired sea lay ahead!
[3]My uncle would instantly have thrashed me had I approached an oath (or any other vulgarity) in conversation upon ordinary occasions.
My uncle would instantly have thrashed me had I approached an oath (or any other vulgarity) in conversation upon ordinary occasions.
54VITHE FEET OF CHILDREN
Once of a still night at Twist Tickle (when I was grown to be eleven) my uncle abandoned his bottle and came betimes to my room to make sure that I was snug in my sleep. ’Twas fall weather without, the first chill and frosty menace of winter abroad: clear, windless, with all the stars that ever shone a-twinkle in the far velvet depths of the sky beyond the low window of my room. I had drawn wide the curtains to let the companionable lights come in: to stare, too, into the vast pool of shadows, which was the sea, unquiet and sombre beneath the serenity and twinkling splendor of the night. Thus I lay awake, high on the pillows, tucked to my chin: but feigned a restful slumber when I caught the sigh and downcast tread of his coming.
“Dannie,” he whispered, “is you awake?”
I made no answer.
“Ah, Dannie, isn’t you?”
Still I would not heed him.
“I wisht you was,” he sighed, “for I’m wonderful lonely the night, lad, an’ wantin’ t’ talk a spell.”
55
’Twas like a child’s beseeching. I was awake at once––wide awake for him: moved by the wistfulness of this appeal to some perception of his need.
“An’ is you comfortable, Dannie, lyin’ there in your own little bed?”
“Ay, sir.”
“An’ happy?”
“Grand, sir!” said I.
He crept softly to my bed. “You don’t mind?” he whispered. I drew my feet away to make room. He sat down, and for a moment patted me with the tenderness of a woman. “You don’t mind?” he ventured again, in diffidence. I did not mind (but would not tell him so); nay, so far was I from any objection that I glowed with content in this assurance of loving protection from the ills of the world. “No?” said he. “I’m glad o’ that: for I’m so wonderful old an’ lonely, an’ you’re sort o’ all I got, Dannie, t’ fondle. ’Tis pleasant t’ touch a thing that’s young an’ not yet smirched by sin an’ trouble. ’Tis some sort o’ cure for the souls o’ broken folk, I’m thinkin’. An’ you don’t mind? I’m glad o’ that. You’re gettin’ so wonderful old yourself, Dannie, that I was a bit afeared. A baby yesterday an’ a man the morrow! You’re near growed up. ’Leven year old!” with a wry smile, in which was no pride, but only poignant regret. “You’re near growed up.” Presently he withdrew a little. “Ay,” said he, gently; “you is housed an’ clad an’ fed. So much I’ve managed well enough.” He paused––distraught, his brows bent, his hand passing aimlessly56over the scars and gray stubble of his head. “You’re happy, Dannie?” he asked, looking up. “Come, now, is you sure? You’d not be makin’ game o’ the old man, would you, Dannie? You’d not tell un youwaswhen youwasn’t, would you? Is you sure you’re happy? An’ you’re glad, is you, t’ be livin’ all alone at Twist Tickle with a ol’ feller like Nick Top?”
“Wonderful happy, sir,” I answered, used to the question, free and prompt in response; “happy, sir––with you.”
“An’ you is sure?”
I was sure.
“I’m glad o’ that,” he continued, but with no relief of the anxious gloom upon his face. “I’m glad you is comfortable an’ happy. I ’low,” said he, “that poor Tom Callaway would like t’ get word of it. Poor Tom! Poor ol’ Tom! Lord love you, lad! he was your father: an’ he loved you well––all too well. I ’low he’d be wonderfulgladjust t’ know that you was comfortable an’ happy––an’ good. You is good, isn’t you? Oh, I knows you is! An’ I wisht Tom Callaway could know. I wisht he could: for I ’low ’twould perk un up a bit, in the place he’s to, t’ get wind of it that his little Dannie was happy with ol’ Nick Top. He’ve a good deal t’ bear, I’m thinkin’, where he’s to; an’ ’twould give un something t’ distract his mind if he knowed you was doin’ well. But, Dannie, lad,” he pursued, with a lively little flash of interest, “they’s a queer thing about that. Now, lad, mark you! ’tis easy enough t’ send57messages Aloft; but when it comes t’ gettin’ a line or two o’ comfort t’ the poor damned folk Below, they’s no mortal way that I ever heared tell on. Prayer,” says he, “wings aloft, far beyond the stars, t’ the ear o’ God Hisself; an’ I wisht––oh, I wisht––they was the same sort o’ telegraph wire t’ hell! For,” said he, sadly, “I’ve got some news that I’d kind o’ like t’ send.”
I could not help him.
“I’mtired!” he complained, with a quick-drawn sigh. “I’m all wore out; an’ I wisht I could tell Tom Callaway.”
I, too, sighed.
“But I ’low,” was my uncle’s woe-begone conclusion, “that that there poor ol’ Tom Callaway ’ll just have t’ wait till I sees un.”
’Twas with a start of horror that I surmised the whereabouts of my father’s soul.
We were but newly come from St. John’s: a long sojourn in the water-side tap-rooms––a dissipation protracted beyond the habit (and will) of my uncle. I had wearied, and had wondered, but had found no explanation. There was a time when the rage and stagger of his intoxicated day had been exceeded past my remembrance and to my terror. I forgave him the terror: I did, I am sure! there was no fright or humiliation the maimed ape could put upon me but I would freely forgive, remembering his unfailing affection. ’Twas all plain now: the course of his rascality had not run smooth. I divined it; and I wished, I58recall, lying there in the light of the untroubled stars, that I might give of myself––of the ease and placid outlook he preserved for me––some help to his distress and melancholy. But I was a child: no more than a child––unwise, unhelpful, in a lad’s way vaguely feeling the need of me from whom no service was due: having intuitive discernment, but no grown tact and wisdom. That he was scarred, two-fingered, wooden-legged, a servant of the bottle, was apart: and why not? for I was nourished by the ape that he was; and a child loves (this at least) him who, elsewhere however repugnant, fosters him. I could not help with any spoken word, but still could have him think ’twas grateful to me to have him sit with me while I fell asleep; and this I gladly did.
My uncle looked up. “Dannie,” said he, “you don’t mind me sittin’ here for a spell on your little bed, do you? Honest, now?”
’Twas woful supplication: the voice a child’s voice; the eyes––dimly visible in the starlight––a child’s beseeching eyes.
“Jus’ for a little spell?” he pleaded.
I said that I was glad to have him.
“An’ you isn’t so wonderful sleepy, is you?”
“No, sir,” I yawned.
He sighed. “I’m glad,” said he. “An’ I’m grateful t’ you, lad, for bein’ kind t’ ol’ Nick Top. He ain’t worth it, Dannie––he’sno good; he’s jus’ a ol’ fool. But I’m lonely the night––most wonderful lonely.59I been thinkin’ I was sort o’ makin’ a mess o’ things. Youishappy, isn’t you, Dannie?” he asked, in a flash of anxious mistrust. “An’ comfortable––an’ good? Ah, well! maybe: I’m glad you’re thinkin’ so. But I ’low I isn’t much on fetchin’ you up. I’m awonderfulpoor hand at that. I ’low you’re gettin’ a bit beyond me. I been feelin’ sort o’ helpless an’ scared; an’ I was wishin’ they was somebody t’ lend a hand with the job. I overhauled ol’ Chesterfield, Dannie, for comfort; but somehow I wasn’t able t’ put my finger on a wonderful lot o’ passages t’ tie to. He’ve wonderful good ideas on the subjeck o’ manners, an’ a raft of un, too; but the ideas he’ve got on souls, Dannie, is poor an’ sort o’ damned scarce. So when I sot down there with the bottle, I ’lowed that if I come up an’ you give me leave t’ sit on the side o’ your little bed for a spell, maybe you wouldn’t mind recitin’ that there little piece you’ve fell into the habit o’ usin’ afore you goes t’ bed. That wee thing about the Shepherd. You wouldn’t mind, would you, just sort o’ givin’ it a light overhaulin’ for me? I’d thank you, Dannie, an you would be so kind; an’ I’ll be as quiet as a mouse while you does it.”
“The tender Shepherd?”
“Ay,” said he; “the Shepherd o’ the lambs.”
“‘Jesus, tender Shepherd, hear me;Bless thy little lamb to-night;Through the darkness be Thou near me;Keep me safe till morning light.60“‘All this day Thy hand has led me,And I thank Thee for Thy care;Thou hast warmed me, clothed and fed me:Listen to my evening prayer.“‘Let my sins be all forgiven;Bless the friends I love so well;Take us all at last to heaven,Happy there with Thee to dwell.’”
And now the lower stars were paling in a far-off flush of light. I had been disquieted, but was by this waxing glow made glad that the sea and rock of the world were to lie uncovered of their shadows while yet I was awake. ’Twas a childish prayer––too simple in terms and petition (as some may think) for the lad that was I to utter, grown tall and broad and lusty for my years; but how sufficient (I recall) to still the fears of night! They who are grown lads, like the lad that was I, got somewhat beyond the years of tenderness, cling within their hearts to all the lost privileges of love they must by tradition affect to despise. My prayer for the little lamb that was I presented no aspect of incongruity to my uncle; it left him silent and solemnly abstracted: the man being cast into a heavy muse upon its content, his head fallen over his breast, as was his habit, and his great gray brows drawn down. How still the night––how cold and clear: how unfeeling in this frosty calm and silence, save, afar, where the little stars winked their kindly cognizance of the wakeful dwellers61of the earth! I sat up in my bed, peering through the window, to catch the first glint of the moon and to watch her rise dripping, as I used to fancy, from the depths of the sea.
“But they stray!” my uncle complained.
’Twas an utterance most strange. “Uncle Nick,” I asked, “what is it that strays?”
“The feet o’ children,” he answered.
By this I was troubled.
“They stray,” he repeated. “Ay; ’tis as though the Shepherd minded not at all.”
“Will my feet stray?”
He would not answer: and then all at once I was appalled––who had not feared before.
“Tell me!” I demanded.
He reached out and touched my hand––a fleeting, diffident touch––and gently answered, “Ay, lad; your feet will stray.”
“No, no!” I cried.
“The feet of all children,” said he. “’Tis the way o’ the world. They isn’t mothers’ prayers enough in all the world t’ change the Shepherd’s will. He’s wise––the Shepherd o’ the lambs.”
“’Tis sad, then,” I expostulated, “that the Shepherd haves it so.”
“Sad?”
“Ay––wondrous sad.”
“I’m not able t’ think ’tis sad,” said he. “’Tis wise, Dannie, I’m thinkin’, t’ have the lads wander in strange paths. I’d not have un suffer fear an’ sorrow, God62knows! not one poor lad of all the lads that ever was. I’d suffer for their sins meself an’ leave un go scot free. Not one but I’d be glad t’ do it for. But still ’tis wise, I’m thinkin’, that they should wander an’ learn for theirselves the trouble o’ false ways. I wisht,” he added, simply, “that they was another plan––some plan t’ save un sorrow while yet it made un men. But I can’t think o’ none.”
“But an they’re lost?”
He scratched his head in a rush of anxious bewilderment. “Why, Dannie,” cries he, “it cannot be! Lost? Some poor wee lads lost?Youlost, Dannie? My God!You, Dannie––you that lies there tender an’ kind an’ clean o’ soul in your little bed? You that said the little prayer t’ the tender Shepherd?Youlost! God! itcouldnot be. What’s this you’re tellin’ me? I’m not able t’ blaspheme the Lord God A’mighty in a way that’s vile as that. Not you, lad––not you! Am I t’ curse the God that would have it so?” cries he, in wrath. “Am I t’ touch your young body here in the solemn night, am I t’ look into your unspoiled eyes by day, an’ feel that you fare into the dark alone, a child, an’ without hope?Methink that? Ol’ Nick Top? Not I! Sin? Ay;you’llsin. God knows so well as I you’ll sin. He made you, lad, an’ knows full well. You’ll be sore hurt, child. For all he learns o’ righteousness, Dannie, a man suffers; an’ for all he learns o’ sin he pays in kind: ’tis all the same––he learns o’ good an’ evil an’ pays in the same coin o’ sorrow. I’m not wishin’ you sorrow: I’m wishin’ you63manhood. You’ll wander, like all lads, as God knows, who made un an’ the world they walks in; but the Shepherd will surely follow an’ fetch home all them that stray away upon hurtful roads accordin’ t’ the will He works upon the sons o’ men. They’s no bog o’ sin in all the world He knows not of. He’ll seek the poor lads out, in patience an’ love; an’ He’ll cure all the wounds the world has dealt un in dark places, however old an’ bleared an’ foul they’ve growed t’ be, an’ He’ll make un clean again, rememberin’ they was little lads, once––jus’ like you.Why, by God! Dannie,” cried he, “I’d do as much meself!”
“Ay,” quoth I; “but the parsons says they’re lost for good an’ all.”
“Does they?” he asked, his eyes blank.
“Deed so––an’ often!”
“Ah, well, Dannie!” said he, “bein’ cut off from the discussion o’ parsons by misdeeds, I’m not able t’ say. But bein’ on’y a lost soul I’m ’lowed t’ think; an’ I’ve thunk a idea.”
I wondered concerning it.
“Which is, speakin’ free an’ easy,” said he, “that they lie!”
“’Twill be hard,” I argued, “’t save un all.”
“’Twould be a mean poor God,” he replied, “that couldn’t manage a little thing like that.”
My uncle’s soul, as I had been taught (and but a moment gone informed), was damned.
“Uncle Nick,” I inquired, “will the Shepherd find you?”