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“I’m t’ wed Judy,” I answered.
’Twas with no unkindness––but with a sly twinkle of understanding––that he looked upon me.
“When I grows up,” I added, for his comfort.
“No, no!” says he. “You’ll never wed Judith. A gentleman? ’Twould scandalize Chesterfield.”
“I will,” said I.
“You’llnot!” cries he, in earnest.
“But I will!”
The defiance still left him smiling. “Not accordin’ t’ Chesterfield,” says he. “You’ll be a gentleman, Dannie, when you grows up, an’ you’ll not be wantin’ t’ wed Judy.”
“Notwantin’to?”
“No, no; you’ll not be wantin’ to.”
“Still,” says I, “will I wed Judy.”
“An’ why?”
“Because,” said I, “I’ve kissed her!”
My uncle would have his last glass alone (he said); and I must be off to bed and to sleep; ’twas grown late for me (said he) beyond the stretch of his conscience to endure. Lord love us! (said he) would I never be t’ bed in season? Off with me––an’ t’ sleep with me! ’Twould be the worse for me (said he) an he caught me wakeful when he turned in. The thing had an odd look––an odd look, to be sure––for never before had the old man’s conscience pricked him to such fatherly consideration upon a night when the wind blew high. I extinguished the hanging lamp, smothered the smouldering125coals, set his night-lamp at hand, and drowsily climbed the stairs, having given him good-night, with a hearty “Thank ’e, sir, for that there tutor!” He bawled after me an injunction against lying awake; and I should presently have gone sound asleep, worn with the excitements of the day, had I not caught ear of him on the move. ’Twas the wary tap and thump of his staff and wooden leg that instantly enlisted my attention; then a cautious fumbling at the latch of the door, a draught of night air, a thin-voiced, garrulous complaint of the weather and long waiting.
“Hist, ye fool!” says my uncle. “Ye’ll wake the lad.”
“Damn the lad!” was the prompt response. “I wish he were dead.”
My uncle laughed.
“Dead!” the stranger repeated. “Dead, Top! And you, too––you hound!”
’Twas an anathema spoken in wrath and hatred.
“I’m thinkin’,” says my uncle, “that ye’re an unkind man.”
The stranger growled.
“Save your temper, man,” my uncle admonished. “Ye’ll need the last rag of it afore the night’s by.”
The man cried out against the threat.
“I’m tellin’ ye,” says my uncle––and I heard his broad hand come with a meaning clap on the stranger’s shoulder––“that ye’ll be wakin’ the lad.”
“The lad! the lad!” the stranger whined. “Is there126nothing in the world for you, Top, but that club-footed young whelp?”
I heard it! I heard the words! My door was ajar––my room at the head of the stair––my ears wide and anxious. I heard the words! There was no mistaking what this intruder said. “The club-footed young whelp!” says he. “Is there nothing in the world for you, Top, but that club-footed young whelp?” He said it––I remember that he said it––and to this day, when I am grown beyond the years of childish sensitiveness, I resent the jibe.
“Nothing,” my uncle answered. “Nothing in the world, sir,” he repeated, lovingly, as I thought, “but only that poor club-footed child!”
Sir? ’Twas a queer way to address, thinks I, this man of doubtful quality. Sir? I could not make it out.
“You sentimental fool!”
“Nay, sir,” my uncle rejoined, with spirit. “An they’s a fool in the company, ’tis yourself. I’ve that from the lad, sir, that you goes lacking––ay, an’ will go, t’ the grave!”
“And what, Top,” the stranger sneered, “may this thing be?”
“Ye’ll laugh, sir,” my uncle replied, “when I tells you ’tis his love.”
The man did laugh.
“For shame!” cried my uncle.
He was taking off his wraps––this stranger. They were so many that I wondered. He was a man of127quality, after all, it might be. “I tell you, Top,” said he, “that the boy may be damned for all I care. I said damned. Imeandamned. There isn’t another form of words, with which I am acquainted, sufficient to express my lack of interest in this child’s welfare. Do you understand me, Top? And do you realize––you obstinate noddy!––that my heart’s in the word? You and I, Top, have business together. It’s a dirty business. It was in the beginning; it is now––a dirty business for us both. I admit it. But can’t we do it reasonably? Can’t we do it alone? Why introduce this ill-born whelp? He’s making trouble, Top; and he’ll make more with every year he lives. Let him shift for himself, man! I care nothing about him. What was his father to me? What was his mother? Make him a cook on a trader. Make him a hand on a Labradorman. Put him before the mast on a foreign craft. What do I care? Let him go! Give him a hook and line. A paddle-punt is patrimony enough for the like of him. Will you never listen to reason? What’s the lad to you? Damn him, say I! Let him––”
“For that,” my uncle interrupted, in a passion, “I’ll hurt ye! Come soon, come late, I’ll hurt ye! Hear me?” he continued, savagely. “I’ll hurt ye for them evil wishes!”
I had expected this outbreak. My uncle would not hear me damned in this cruel way without protest.
“Top,” says the stranger, with a little laugh of scorn, “whenyouhurtme––I’ll know that the chieftest knave of the St. John’s water-side has turned fool!”
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“When I hurts ye, man,” my uncle answered, “I’ll hurt ye sore!”
Again the man laughed.
“Ah, man!” my uncle growled, “but ye’ll squirm for that when the time comes!”
“Come, come, Top!” says the stranger, in such a whine of terror, in such disgusting weakness and sudden withdrawal of high boasting, in such a failure of courage, that I could hardly credit the thing. “Come, come, Top!” he whined. “You’ll do nothing rash, will you? Notrash, Top––not rash!”
“I’ll make ye squirm, sir,” says my uncle, “for damnin’ Dannie.”
“But you’ll do nothing rash, man, will you?”
My uncle would not heed him.
“I’m a reasonable man, Top,” the stranger protested. “You know I’m not a hard man.”
They moved, now, into the dining-room, whence no word of what they said came to my ears. I listened, lying wide-eared in the dark, but heard only a rumble of voices. “And you, too––you hound!” the man had said; and ’twas spoken in the hate that forebodes murder. My uncle? what had that childlike, tenderhearted old rascal accomplished against this man to make the penalty of ungodly wrath a thing meet to the offence? “And you, too––you hound!” I lay in grave trouble and bewilderment, fearing that this strange guest might work his hate upon my uncle, in some explosion of resentment, before my arm could aid against the deed. There was no sound of laughter from129below––no hint of conviviality in the intercourse. Voices and the clink of bottle and glass: nothing mellow in the voices, nothing genial in the clink of glass––nothing friendly or hospitable. ’Twas an uneasy occupation that engaged me; no good, as I knew, came from a surly bout with a bottle of rum. ’Twas still blowing high; the windows rattled, the sea broke in thunder and venomous hissing upon the rocks, the wind screamed its complaint of obstruction; ’twas a tumultuous night, wherein, it seems to me, the passions of men are not overawed by any display of inimical power, but break restraint in evil company with the weather. The voices below, as I hearkened, rose and fell, like the gusts of a gale, falling to quiet confidences, lost in the roar of the night, swiftly rising to threat and angry counter-threat.
It ended in a cry and a crash of glass....
I was by this brought out of bed and pattering down the stair to my uncle’s help. It seemed they did not hear me, or, having heard, were enraged past caring who saw them in this evil case. At the door I came to a stand. There was no encounter, no movement at all, within the room; ’twas very quiet and very still. There had fallen upon the world that pregnant silence, wherein men wait appalled, which follows upon the irrevocable act of a quarrel. A bottle of rum was overturned on the table, and a glass lay in splinters on the hearth at my uncle’s back, as though cast with poor aim. The place reeked with the stench of rum, which130rose from a river of liquor, overflowing the table, dripping to the floor: a foul and sinister detail, I recall, of the tableau. My uncle and the gray little man from St. John’s, leaning upon their hands, the table between, faced each other all too close for peaceful issue of the broil. Beyond was my uncle’s hand-lamp, where I had set it, burning serenely in this tempest of passion. The faces were silhouetted in profile against its quiet yellow light. Monstrous shadows of the antagonists were cast upon the table and ceiling. For the first time in my life I clapped eyes on the man from St. John’s; but his face was in shadow––I saw dimly. ’Twas clean-shaven and gray: I could tell no more. But yet, I knew, the man was a man of some distinction––a gentleman. ’Twas a definite impression I had. There was that about him––clothes and carriage and shaven face and lean white hands––that fixed it in my memory.
I was not observed.
“Out there on the Devil’s Teeth,” my uncle impassively began, “when I laid hold––”
“But,” the stranger protested, “I have nothing to do with that!”
“Out there on the Devil’s Teeth, that night,” my uncle repeated, “when the seas was breakin’ over, an’ the ice begin t’ come, an’ I laid hold o’ that there Book––”
“Hear me, Top! Will younothear me?”
“Out there on the Devil’s Teeth,” my uncle patiently reiterated, “when the crew was drownin’ t’ le’ward,131an’ ’twas every man for his own life, an’ the ice begin t’ come, an’ I laid hold o’ that there––”
The stranger struck the table with his palm. “Hear me!” he implored. “I have nothing––nothing––to do with the Devil’s Teeth!”
“Out there on the Devil’s Teeth, when I took the oath––”
“You stupid fool!”
“When I took the oath,” my uncle resumed, “I knowed ’twould be hard t’ stand by. I knowed that, sir. I done the thing with open eyes. I’ll never plead ignorance afore the Lord God A’mighty, sir, for the words I spoke that night. I’ve stood by, as best I could; an’ I’ll keep on standin’ by, sir, t’ the end, as best I’m able. God help me, sir!” he groaned, leaning still closer to the gray face of his enemy. “Ye think ye’re in hard case, yourself, sir, don’t ye? Do ye never give a thought t’me?Dirty business, says you, betwixt you an’ me! Ay; dirty business for Nick Top. But he’ll stand by; he’ll stand by, sir, come what may––t’ the end! I’m not complainin’, mark ye! not complainin’ at all. The lad’s a good lad. I’m not complainin’. He’ve the makin’s of a better man than you. Oh no! I’m not complainin’. Out there on the Devil’s Teeth, that night, when the souls o’ them men was goin’ Aloft an’ Below, accordin’ t’ their deserts, does ye think I was a fool? Fool! I tells ye, sir, I knowed full well I give my soul t’ hell, that night, when I laid my hand on the Book an’ swore that I’d stand by. An’ Iwillstand by––stand by the lad, sir, t’ the end! He’s a132good lad––he’ll make a better man than you––an’ I’ve no word o’ complaint t’ say.”
“The lad, the lad! DoIcare for the lad?”
“No, God forgive ye!” my uncle cried, “not you that ought.”
“That ought, you fool?”
“Ay; that ought.”
The man laughed.
“I’ll not have ye laugh,” said my uncle, “at Dannie. Ye’ve tried my patience enough with scorn o’ that child.” He tapped the table imperatively, continuing with rising anger, and scowled in a way I had learned to take warning from. “No more o’ that!” says he. “Ye’ve no call t’ laugh at the lad.”
The laughter ceased––failed ridiculously. It proved my uncle’s mastery of the situation. The man might bluster, but was in a moment reduced.
“Top,” said the stranger, leaning forward a little, “I have asked you a simple question:Willyou orwon’tyou?”
“I will not!”
In exasperation the man struck my uncle on the cheek.
“I’ll not hurt ye for that!” said my uncle, gently. “I’ll not hurt ye, man, for that!”
He was struck again. “There will come an extremity,” the stranger calmly added, “when I shall find it expedient to have you assassinated.”
“I’ll not hurt ye for the threat,” said my uncle. “But man,” he cried, in savage anger, “an you keeps me from workin’ my will with the lad––”
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“The lad, the lad!”
“An you keeps me from workin’ my will with that good lad––”
“I say to you frankly: Damn the lad!”
My uncle struck the stranger. “Ye’ll mend your manners!” cried he. “Ye’ve forgot your obligations, but ye’ll mend your manners!”
I marvelled that these men should strike each other with impunity. The like was never known before. That each should patiently bear the insult of the other! I could not make it out. ’Twas strange beyond experience. A blow––and the other cheek turned! Well enough for Christians––but my vicious uncle and this evil stranger! That night, while I watched and listened unperceived from the hall, I could not understand; but now I know that a fellowship of wickedness was signified.
“I’ll not hurt you, Top,” the stranger mocked, “for the blow.”
My uncle laughed.
“Are you laughing, Top?” the stranger sneered. “You are, aren’t you? Well,” says he, “who laughs last laughs best. And I tell you, Top, though you may seem to have the best laugh now, I’ll have the last. And you won’t like it, Top––you won’t be happy when you hear me.”
My uncle laughed again. I wish he had not laughed––not in that unkind way.
“Anyhow,” said the stranger, “take that with my compliments!”
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’Twas a brutal blow with the closed fist. I cried out. My uncle, with the sting and humiliation of the thing to forbear, was deaf to the cry; but the gray little man from St. John’s, who knew well enough he would have no buffet in return, turned, startled, and saw me. My uncle’s glance instantly followed; whereupon a singular thing happened. The old man––I recall the horror with which he discovered me––swept the lamp from the table with a swing of his hand. It hurtled like a star, crashed against the wall, fell shattered and extinguished. We were in darkness––and in silence. For a long interval no word was spoken; the gale was free to noise itself upon our ears––the patter of rain, the howl of the wind, the fretful breaking; of the sea.
“Dannie, lad,” says my uncle, at last, “is that you?”
“Ay, sir.”
“Then,” says he, tenderly, “I ’low you’d best be t’ bed. I’m feared you’ll be cotchin’ cold, there in the draught, in your night-gown. Ye’re so wonderful quick, lad, t’ cotch cold.”
“I’ve come, sir,” says I, “t’ your aid.”
The stranger tittered.
“T’ your aid, sir!” I shouted, defiantly.
“I’m not needin’ ye, Dannie. Ye’re best in bed. ’Tis so wonderful late. I ’low ye’ll be havin’ the croup again, lad, an you don’t watch out. An’ ye mustn’t have the croup; ye really mustn’t! Remember the last time, Dannie, an’ beware. Ah, now! ye’ll never have the croup an ye can help it. Think,” he pleaded,135“o’ the hot-water cloths, an’ the fear ye put me to. An’ Dannie,” he added, accusingly, “ye know the ipecac is all runned out!”
“I’ll stand by, sir,” says I.
“’Tis kind o’ you!” my uncle exclaimed, with infinite graciousness and affection. “’Tis wonderful kind! An’ I’m glad ye’re kind t’ me now––with my ol’ shipmate here. But you isn’t needed, lad; so do you go t’ bed like the good b’y that you is. Go t’ bed, Dannie, God bless ye!––go t’ bed, an’ go t’ sleep.”
“Ay,” I complained; “but I’m not wantin’ t’ leave ye with this man.”
“True, an’ I’m proud of it,” says he; “but I’ve no means o’ curin’ the croup. An’ Dannie,” says he, “I’m more feared o’ the croup than o’ the devil. Do you go t’ bed.”
“I’ll go,” I answered, “an you wills it.”
’Twas very dark in the dining-room; there was no sight of the geometrical gentlemen on that geometrically tempestuous sea to stay a lad in his defiance.
“Good lad!” said my uncle. “God bless ye!”
On the landing above I encountered my tutor, half-dressed, a candle in hand. ’Twas a queer figure he cut, thinks I––an odd, inconsequent figure in a mysterious broil of the men of our kind. What was this cockney––this wretched alien––when the passions of our coast were stirring? He would be better in bed. An eye he had––age-wise ways and a glance to overawe my youth––but what was he, after all, in such a case as this? I was his master, however unlearned I136might be; his elder and master, to be sure, in a broil of our folk. Though to this day I respect the man for his manifold virtues, forgetting in magnanimity his failings, I cannot forgive his appearance on that night: the candle, the touselled hair, the disarray, the lean legs of him! “What’s all this?” he demanded. “I can’t sleep. What’s all this about? Is it a burglar?”
It made me impatient––and no wonder!
“What’s this, you know?” he repeated. “Eh? What’s all this row?”
“Do you go t’ bed!” I commanded, with a stamp, quite out of temper. “Ye’re but a child! Ye’ve no hand in this!”
He was dutiful....
By-and-by my uncle came to my room. He would not enter, but stood at the door, in much embarrassment, all the while looking at the flame of his candle. “Dannie, lad,” he inquired, at last, “is you comfortable?”
“Ay, sir,” says I.
“An’ happy?”
“Ay, sir.”
“An’ is you content,” says he, “all alone with ol’ Nick Top at Twist Tickle?”
I was content.
“You isn’t upsot, is you, by the capers o’ my ol’ shipmate?”
I answered as he wished. “No, sir,” said I.
“Oh no,” says he; “no need o’ bein’ upsot by137thatol’ bully. He’ve wonderful queer ways, I’ll not deny, but ye’re not in the way o’ knowin’, Dannie, that he’ve not a good heart. I ’low ye’ll maybe take to un, lad––when you comes t’ know un better. I hopes ye will. I hopes ye’ll find it easy t’ deal with un. They’s no neednowo’ bein’ upsot; oh my, no! But, Dannie, an I was you,” says he, a bit hopelessly, “times bein’ what they is, an’ life uncertain––an I was you, lad––afore I went t’ sleep I––I––I ’low I’d overhaul that there twenty-third psa’m!”
He went away then....
138XIINEED O’ HASTE
When I awoke ’twas to a gray morning. The wind had fallen to half a gale for stout craft––continuing in the east, the rain gone out of it. Fog had come upon the islands at dawn; ’twas now everywhere settled thick––the hills lost to sight, the harbor water black and illimitable, the world all soggy and muffled. There was a great noise of breakers upon the seaward rocks. A high sea running without (they said); but yet my uncle had manned a trap-skiff at dawn (said they) to put a stranger across to Topmast Point. A gentleman ’twas (said they)––a gray little man with a red mole at the tip of his nose, who had lain the night patiently enough at Skipper Eli Flack’s, but must be off at break o’ day, come what might, to board the outside boat for St. John’s at Topmast Harbor. He had gone in high good-humor; crackin’ off along o’ Skipper Nick (said Eli) like he’d knowed un all his life. An’ Nick? why, ecod! Nick was crackin’ off, too. Neverknowedsuch crackin’ off atween strangers. You could hear the crew laughin’ clear t’ the narrows. ’Twould be a lovely cruise! Rough passage, t’ be sure; but Nick could take a skiff139throughthat! An’ Nick woulddriveher, ecod! you’d see ol’ Nick wing it back through the narrows afore the night was down if the wind held easterly.He’dbe the b’y t’ put she to it!
I scanned the sky and sea.
“Ay,” quoth Eli, of the gale; “she haven’t spit out all she’ve got. She quit in a temper, at dawn,” says he, “an’ she’ll be back afore night t’ ease her mind.”
’Twas a dismal prospect for my uncle.
“But ’twould be a clever gale at flirtin’,” Eli added, for my comfort, “that could delude an’ overcome ol’ Nick!”
My tutor would go walking upon the roads and heads of our harbor (said he) to learn of this new world into which he had come in the dark. ’Twas gray and windy and dripping on the hills; but I led him (though his flimsy protection against the weather liked me not) over the Whisper Cove road to the cliffs of Tom Tulk’s Head, diligently exercising, as we went, for my profit and his befitting entertainment, all the Chesterfieldian phrases ’twas in me to recall. ’Twas easy to perceive his delight in this manner of speech: ’twas a thing so manifest, indeed, such was the exuberance of his laughter and so often did he clap me on the back, that I was fairly abashed by the triumph, and could not for the life of me continue, but must descend, for lack of spirit, to the common tongue of our folk, which did him well enough, after all, it seemed. It pleased him mightily to be set on the crest and brink of that great cliff, high in the mist, the gray wind blowing by, the black sea careering140from an ambush of fog to break in wrathful assault upon the grim rocks below. ’Twas amazing: the slender figure drawn in glee to breast the gale, the long arms opened to the wind, the rapt, dark face, the flashing eyes, the deep, eager breaths like sighs of rapture. A rhapsody: the rush and growl and frown of the world (said he)––the sombre colors, the veil of mist, the everlasting hills, rising in serenity above the turmoil and evanescent rage. To this I listened in wonder. I had not for myself discovered these beauties; but thereafter, because of this teaching, I kept watch.
Came, then, out of the mist, Judith, upon accustomed business. “Dannie, lad,” she asked me, not shy of the stranger, because of woful anxiety, “you’ve not seed my mother hereabouts, is you?”
I grieved that I had not.
“She’ve been gone,” said Judith, with a helpless glance, sweeping the sombre, veiled hills, “since afore dawn. I waked at dawn, Dannie, an’ she were gone from the bed––an’ I isn’t been able t’ find she, somehow. She’ve wandered off––she’ve wandered off again––in her way.”
I would help, said I.
“You’re kind, Dannie,” said she. “Ay, God’s sake, lad! you’re wondrous kind––t’ me.”
My tutor tipped the sad little face, as though by right and propriety admitted long ago, and for a moment looked unabashed into Judith’s eyes––an engaging glance, it seemed, for Judith was left unresisting and untroubled by it. They were eyes, now, speaking141anxious fear and weariness and motherly concern, the brows drawn, the tragic little shadows, lying below, very wide and blue.
“You are a pretty child,” said my tutor, presently; “you have very beautiful eyes, have you not? But you knew it long ago, of course,” he added, smiling in a way most captivating, “didn’t you?”
“No, sir.”
I remember the day––the mist and wind and clamoring sea and solemn hills, the dour, ill-tempered world wherein we were, our days as grass (saith the psalmist). Ay, an’ ’tis so. I remember the day: the wet moss underfoot; the cold wind, blowing as it listed; the petulant sea, wreaking an ancient enmity, old and to continue beyond our span of feeling; the great hills of Twin Islands hid in mist, but yet watching us; the clammy fog embracing us, three young, unknowing souls. I shall not forget––cannot forget––the moment of that first meeting of the maid Judith with John Cather. ’Twas a sombre day, as he had said––ay, a troubled sea, a gray, cold, sodden earth!
“And has nobody told you that you were pretty?” my tutor ran on, in pleasant banter.
She would not answer; but shyly, in sweet self-consciousness, looked down.
“No?” he insisted.
She was too shy of him to say.
“Not even one?” he persisted, tipping up the blushing little face. “Not even one?”
I thought it very bold.
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“Come, now,” says he. “There is a boy. You are so very pretty, you know. You are so very, very pretty. There must be a boy––a sweetheart. Surely there is at least one lad of taste at Twist Tickle. There is a sweetheart; there must be a sweetheart. I spell it with a D!” cries he, triumphantly, detecting the horrified glance that passed between Judy and me. And he clapped me on the back, and stroked Judith’s tawny hair, his hand bold, winning; and he laughed most heartily. “His name,” says he, “is Daniel!”
“Yes, sir,” said Judith, quite frankly.
My tutor laughed again; and I was glad that he did––in that kind way. I was glad––’twas a flush of warm feeling––that my tutor and Judith were at once upon terms of understanding. I was glad that Judith smiled, glad that she looked again, with favor, in interested speculation, into the dark eyes which smiled back at her again. I would have them friends––’twas according to my plan....
At mid-day the wrath of the sea began to fail. The racing lop, the eager, fuming crests––a black-and-white confusion beneath the quiet, gray fog––subsided into reasonableness. ’Twas wild enough, wind and sea, beyond the tickle rocks; but still ’twas fishing weather and water for the courageous.
The fool of Twist Tickle came to our gate. “Mother always ’lowed,” says he, “that when a mancouldheoughtt’; an’ mother knowed.”
“You’re never bound out, Moses!”
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“Well,” he drawled, “mother always ’lowed that when a mancouldpick up a scattered fish an’wouldn’t, he were a mean sort o’ coward.”
“An’ you’ll be takin’me?”
“I was ’lowin’,” he answered, “that usmightget out an’ back an us tried.”
’Twas a brave prospect. Beyond the tickle in a gale o wind! ’Twas irresistible––to be accomplished with the fool of Twist Tickle and his clever punt. I left the pottering Cather to put ship-shape his cabin (as he now called it) for himself––a rainy-day occupation for aliens. In high delight I put out with Moses Shoos to the Off-and-On grounds. Man’s work, this! ’Twas hard sailing for a hook-and-line punt––the reel and rush and splash of it––but an employment the most engaging. ’Twas worse fishing in the toss and smother of the grounds; but ’twas a thrilling reward when the catch came flopping overside––the spoil of a doughty foray. We fished a clean half-quintal; then, late in the day, a rising wind caught us napping in Hell Alley. It came on to blow from the east with fury. There was no beating up to the tickle in the teeth of it; ’twas a task beyond the little punt, drive her to it as we would. When dusk came––dusk fast turning the fog black––the fool turned tail and wisely ran for Whisper Cove. ’Twas dark when we moored the punt to the stage-head: a black night come again, blowing wildly with rain––great gusts of wind threshing the trees above, screaming from cliff to cliff. There were lights at Judith’s: ’twas straightway in our minds to ask a cup of tea in her144kitchen; but when we came near the door ’twas to the discovery of company moving in and out.
There were women in the kitchen.
“’Tis Judith’s mother, Dannie,” Aunt Esther All whispered. “’Tis on’y she. ’Tis on’y Elizabeth.”
We had found her on the hills that morning.
“She’ve come t’ die all of a suddent. ’Tis another of her spells. Oh, Lord! she’ve come t’ die.”
There was no solemnity in this outer room.
“She’ve woful need o’ salvation,” Aunt Esther pattered. “She’s doomed, lad, an she doesn’t repent. Parson Stump ought t’ be fetched t’ work on she.”
There was grief––somewhere there was grief. I heard a sob; it came from a child’s breast. And there followed, then, some strange, rambling words of comfort in Elizabeth’s voice––a plea, it was, to never mind. Again a sob––Judith’s grief.
“’Tis Judith,” Aunt Esther sighed. “She’ve gone an’ give way.”
The child’s heart would break!
“Mother always ’lowed, Dannie,” Moses whispered, “that they ought t’ be a parson handy––when It come.”
’Twas beyond the power of the fool to manage: who was now a fool, indeed––white and shivering in this Presence. I would fetch the parson, said I––and moved right willingly and in haste upon the errand. Aunt Esther followed me beyond the threshold. She caught my arm with such a grasp that I was brought up in surprise. We stood in the wind and rain. The light from the kitchen fell through the doorway into145the black night. Aunt Esther’s lean, brown face, as the lamp betrayed, was working with eager and shameless curiosity. They had wondered, these women of Whisper Cove, overlong and without patience, to know what they wished to know but could not discover. “She’ve been wantin’ Skipper Nicholas,” says she. “She’ve been callin’ for Skipper Nicholas. She’ve been singin’ out, Dannie, like a wretch in tarture. Tell un t’ come. She’ve been wantin’ un sore. She’ve a thing on her mind. Tell un not t’ fail. ’Tis something she’ve t’ tell un. ‘I wants Skipper Nicholas!’ says she. ‘Fetch Nicholas! I wants a word with he afore I die.’ Hist!” Aunt Esther added, as though imparting some delight, “I ’low ’tis the secret.”
I asked her concerning this secret.
“It haves t’ do,” says she, “with Judith.”
“An’ what’s that?”
She whispered.
“For shame!” I cried.
“Ay, but,” says she, “you isn’t a woman!”
“’Tis gossips’ employment, woman!”
“’Tis a woman’s wish t’ know,” she answered.
The thing concerned Judith: I was angered....
And now the door was shut in my face. ’Twas opened––closed again. The fool fled past me to his own place––scared off by the footsteps of Death, in the way of all fools. I was in haste––all at once––upon the road from Whisper Cove to Twist Tickle in a screaming gale of wind and rain. I was in Judith’s service: I146made haste. ’Twas a rough road, as I have said––a road scrambling among forsaken hills, a path made by chance, narrow and crooked, wind-swept or walled by reaching alders and spruce limbs, which were wet and cold and heavy with the drip of the gale. Ah, but was I not whipped on that night by the dark and the sweeping rain and the wind on the black hills and the approach of death? I was whipped on, indeed! The road was perverse to hurrying feet: ’twas ill going for a crooked foot; but I ran––splashing through the puddles, stumbling over protruding rock, crawling over the hills––an unpitying course. Why did the woman cry out for my uncle? What would she confide? Was it, indeed, but the name of the man? Was it not more vital to Judith’s welfare, imperatively demanding disclosure? I hastened. Was my uncle at home? For Elizabeth’s peace at this dread pass I hoped he had won through the gale. In rising anxiety I ran faster. I tripped upon a root and went tumbling down Lovers’ Hill, coming to in a muddy torrent from Tom Tulk’s Head. Thereafter––a hundred paces––I caught sight of the lights of the Twist Tickle meeting-house. They glowed warm and bright in the scowling night that encompassed me....
’Twas district-meeting time at Twist Tickle. The parsons of our Bay were gathered to devise many kindnesses for our folk––the salvation of souls and the nourishment of bodies and the praise of the God of us all. ’Twas in sincerity they came––there’s no disputing147it––and in loving-kindness, however ingenuously, they sought our welfare. When I came from the unkind night into the light and warmth of that plain temple, Parson Lute, of Yellow Tail Tickle, whom I knew and loved, was seeking to persuade the shepherds of our souls that the spread of saving grace might surely be accomplished, from Toad Point to the Scarlet Woman’s Head, by means of unmitigated doctrine and more artful discourse. He was a youngish man, threadbare and puckered of garment––a quivering little aggregation of bones and blood-vessels, with a lean, lipless, high-cheeked face, its pale surface splashed with freckles; green eyes, red-rimmed, the lashes sparse and white; wide, restless nostrils. “Brethren,” said he, with a snap of the teeth, his bony hand clinched and shaking above his gigantic head, “con-vict’em! Anyhow. In any way. By any means.Save’em! That’s what we want in the church. Beloved,” he proceeded, his voice dropping to a hissing whisper, “save ’em.Con-vict ’em!” His head shot forward; ’twas a red, bristly head, with the hair growing low on the brow, like the spruce of an overhanging cliff. “It’s the onlyway,” he concluded, “to save ’em!” He sat down. “I’m hungry for souls!” he shouted from his seat, as an afterthought; and ’twas plain he would have said more had not a spasmodic cough put an end to his ecstasy.
“Praise God!” they said.
“’Low I got a cold,” Parson Lute gasped, his voice changed now by the weakness of an ailing man.
I feared to interrupt; but still must boldly knock.
148
“One moment, brethren!” Parson Stump apologized. “Ah, Daniel!” he cried; “is that you? What’s amiss, boy? You’ve no trouble, have you? And your uncle––eh? you’ve no trouble, boy, have you?” The brethren waited in silence while he tripped lightly over the worn cocoanut matting to the rear––perturbed, a little frown of impatience and bewilderment gathering between his eyes. The tails of his shiny black coat brushed the varnished pine pews, whereto, every Sunday, the simple folk of our harbor repaired in faith. Presently he tripped back again. The frown of bewilderment was deeper now––the perturbation turned anxious. For a moment he paused before the brethren. “Very awkward,” said he, at last. “Really, I’m very sorry.” He scratched his head, fore and aft––bit his lip. “I’m called to Whisper Cove,” he explained, pulling at his nose. “I’m sorry to interrupt the business of the meeting, just at this time, but I do not see how it can be got around. I s’pose we’d better adjourn until such a time as I––”
The chairman would hear of no adjournment.
“But,” Parson Stump complained, “I’m the secretary!”
“We’ll go right on, brother.”
“I can’t very wellstay, brethren,” said Parson Stump, chagrined. “It’s a case of––of––of spiritual consolation.”
“Ah!” ejaculated Parson Lute.
“And I––”
“Now, Brother Wile,” the chairman interrupted, “we’re ready to hearyou.”
149
“One moment,” said Parson Lute, rising. He struggled to suppress his cough. “Excuse me,” he gasped. And, “I don’t quite see, brethren,” he proceeded, “how this meeting can get along without the services of Brother Stump. It seems to me that this meetingneedsBrother Stump. I am of opinion that Brother Stump owes it to the cause in general, and to the clergy of this district in particular, to report this discussion to the conference. It is my conviction, brethren, that Brother Stump––by his indefatigable industry, by his thorough acquaintance with the matters under discussion, by his spiritual insight into problems of this character, by his talent for expression––ought to be present through the whole of this discussion, in its entirety, and ought to present the views of this body to the conferencein person.” And, “Look here, Brother Stump,” he concluded, turning, “why can’tImake this call for you?”
“Well, of course, youcould, Brother Lute,” Parson Stump admitted, his face beginning to clear, “but really I––”
“Oh, come now, brother!”
“Brother Lute,” said Parson Stump, with sincere affection, “I don’t like to think of you on the road to Whisper Cove to-night. I tell you, it––it––goes against the grain. You’re not well, brother. You’re not well at all. And it’s a long way––and there’s a gale of wind and rain outside––”
“Come, come, now!”
“Adirtynight,” Parson Stump mused.
“But it’s the Lord’s business!”
150
“Of course,” Parson Stump yielded, “if youwouldbe so kind, I––”
Parson Lute’s face brightened. “Very well,” said he. “It’s all settled. Now, may I have a word with you? I’ll need some pointers.” To the five brethren: “One moment, brethren!”
They moved towards the rear, and came to rest, heads close, within my hearing. Parson Lute put his arm over Parson Stump’s shoulder. “Now,” said he, briskly, rubbing his hands in a business-like way, “pointers, brother––pointers!”
“Yes, yes, brother!” Parson Stump agreed. “Well, you’ll find my oil-skins hanging in the hall. Mrs. Stump will give you the lantern––”
“No, no! I don’t mean that. Who is this person? Man or woman?”
“Maid,” said Parson Stump.
“Ah!”
Parson Stump whispered in Parson Lute’s ear. Parson Lute raised his eyebrows. He was made sad––and sighed. He was kind, was this parson, and sweetly wishful for the goodness and welfare of all the erring sons and daughters of men.
“Has the woman repented?” he asked.
“I fear not. In fact––no; she has not.”
At once the battle-light began to shine in Parson Lute’s green eyes. “I see,” he snapped.
“Rather difficult case, I fear,” said Parson Stump, despondently. “She––well, she––she isn’t quite right. Poor creature! Do you understand? A simple person.151Not idiotic, you know. Not born that way, of course. Oh no! born with all her sensesquiteintact. She was beautiful as a maid––sweet-natured, lovely in person, very modest and pious––very merry, too, and clever. But before the child came she––she––she began to wait. Do you understand? To wait––to wait for the return of––of some one. She said––I remember that she said––that he would come. She was really quite sure of it. And she waited––and waited. A promise, no doubt; and she had faith in it. For a long time she had faith in it. Rather pitiful, I think. I used to see her about a good deal. She was always waiting. I would meet her on the heads, in all weathers, keeping watch for schooners. The clerk of a trading-schooner, no doubt; but nobody knows. Waiting––waiting––always waiting! Poor creature! The man didn’t come back, of course; and then she got––well––flighty. Got flighty––quite flighty. The man didn’t come back, of course, you know; and she had waited––and waited––so long, so very long. Really, a very difficult case, brother! Something snapped and broken––something missing––something gone, you know. Poor creature! She––she––well, she waited too long. Couldn’tstandit, you see. It seems she loved the man––and trusted him––and, well, just loved him, you know, in the way women will. And now she’s flighty––quiteflighty. A difficult case, I fear, and––”
“I see,” Parson Lute interrupted. “An interesting case. Very sad, too. And you’ve not been able to convict her of her sin?”