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Parson Stump shook his head.
“No impression whatever?”
“No, brother.”
“How,” Parson Lute demanded, with a start, “does she––ah––subsist?”
“She fishes, brother, in quiet weather, and she is helped, though it is not generally known, by a picturesque old character of the place––a man not of the faith, a drunkard, I fear, but kind-hearted and generous to the needy.”
“The woman ever converted before?”
“Twice, brother,” Parson Stump answered; “but not now in a state of grace. She is quite obstinate,” he added, “and she has, I fear, peculiar views––verypeculiar, I fear––on repentance. In fact, she loves the child, you see; and she fears that a confession of her sin––a confession of repentance, you know––might give the world to think that her love had failed––that she wished the child––well––unborn. She would not appear disloyal to Judith, I fear, even to save her soul. A peculiar case, is it not? A difficult case, I fear.”
“I see,” said Parson Lute, tapping his nose reflectively. “The child is the obstacle. A valuable hint in that. Well, I may be able to do something, with God’s help.”
“God bless you, brother!”
They shook hands....
My uncle was returned from Topmast Harbor. I paused but to bid him urgently to the bedside of Elizabeth,153then ran on to rejoin the parson at the turn of the road. By night, in a gale of wind and rain from the east, was no time for Parson Lute, of Yellow Tail Tickle, to be upon the long road to Whisper Cove. But the rough road, and the sweep of the wind, and the steep ascents, and the dripping limbs, and the forsaken places lying hid in the dark, and the mud and torrents, and the knee-deep, miry puddles seemed not to be perceived by him as he stumbled after me. He was praying aloud––importunately, as it is written. He would save the soul of Elizabeth, that man; the faith, the determination were within him. ’Twas fair pitiful the way he besought the Lord. And he made haste; he would pause only at the crests of the hills––to cough and to catch his breath. I was hard driven that night––straight into the wind, with the breathless parson forever at my heels. I shall never forget the exhibition of zeal. ’Twas divinely unselfish––’twas heroic as men have seldom shown heroism. Remembering what occurred thereafter, I number the misguided man with the holy martyrs. At the Cock’s Crest, whence the road tumbled down the cliff to Whisper Cove, the wind tore the breath out of Parson Lute, and the noise of the breakers, and the white of the sea beyond, without mercy, contemptuous, confused him utterly.
He fell.
“Tis near at hand, sir!” I pleaded with him.
He was up in a moment. “Let us press on, Daniel,” said he, “to the salvation of that soul. Let us press on!”
We began the descent....
154XIIIJUDITH ABANDONED
I left the parson in the kitchen to win back his breath. He was near fordone, poor man! but still entreatingly prayed, in sentences broken by consumptive spasms, for wisdom and faith and the fire of the Holy Ghost in this dire emergency. When I entered the room where Elizabeth lay, ’twas to the grateful discovery that she had rallied: her breath came without wheeze or gasp; the labored, spasmodic beating of her heart no longer shook the bed. ’Twas now as though, I thought, they had troubled her with questions concerning her soul or her sin; for she was turned sullen––lying rigid and scowling, with her eyes fixed upon the whitewashed rafters, straying only in search of Judith, who sat near, grieving in dry sobs, affrighted.
And ’twas said that this Elizabeth had within the span of my short life been a maid most lovely! There were no traces of that beauty and sprightliness remaining. I wondered, being a lad, that unkindness should work a change so sad in any one. ’Twas a mystery.... The room was cold. ’Twas ghostly, too––with Death hovering there invisible. Youth is mystified155and appalled by the gaunt Thing. I shivered. Within, the gale sighed and moaned and sadly whispered; ’twas blowing in a melancholy way––foreboding some inevitable catastrophe. Set on a low ledge of the cliff, the cottage sagged towards the edge, as if to peer at the breakers; and clammy little draughts stole through the cracks of the floor and walls, crying as they came, and crept about, searching out the uttermost corners, with sighs and cold fingers.
’Twas a mean, poor place for a woman to lie in extremity.... And she had once been lovely––with warm, live youth, with twinkling eyes and modesty, with sympathy and merry ways to win the love o’ folk! Ay; but ’twas wondrous hard to believe.... ’Twas a mean station of departure, indeed––a bare, disjointed box of a room, low-ceiled, shadowy, barren of comfort, but yet white and neat, kept by Judith’s clever, conscientious, loving hands. There was one small window, outlooking to sea, black-paned in the wild night, whipped with rain and spray. From without––from the vastness of sea and night––came a confused and distant wail, as of the lamentation of a multitude. Was this my fancy? I do not know; but yet it seemed to me––a lad who listened and watched––that a wise, pitying, unnumbered throng lamented.
I could not rid my ears of this wailing....
Elizabeth had rallied; she might weather it out, said the five wives of Whisper Cove, who had gathered to observe her departure.
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“If,” Aunt Esther qualified, “she’s letbe.”
“Like she done las’ time,” William Buttle’s wife whispered. “I ’low our watchin’s wasted. Ah, this heart trouble! You never knows.”
“If,” Aunt Esther repeated, “she’s let be.”
We waited for the parson.
“Have Skipper Nicholas come?” Elizabeth asked.
“No, maid; ’tis not he, maid.” They would still taunt her! They would still taunt her, in the way of virtuous women; ’twas “Maid! Maid!” until the heart of a man of honor––of a man of any sort––was fair sickened of virtue and women. “’Tis the parson,” said they.
Elizabeth sighed. “I wants a word along o’ Skipper Nicholas,” said she, faintly, “when he’ve come.”
Parson Lute softly entered from the kitchen, wiping the rain from his face and hands, stepping on tiptoe over the bare floor. He was worn and downcast. No inspiration, it seemed, had been granted in answer to his praying. I loved him, of old, as did all the children of Twist Tickle, to whom he was known because of gentlest sympathy, shown on the roads in fair weather and foul at district-meeting time; and I was glad that he had come to ease the passage to heaven of the mother of Judith. The five women of Whisper Cove, taken unaware by this stranger, stood in a flutter of embarrassment. They were not unkind––they were curious concerning death and the power of parsons. He laid a kind hand on Judith’s head, shook hands with the women, and upon each bestowed a whispered157blessing, being absently said; and the wives of Whisper Cove sat down and smoothed their skirts and folded their hands, all flushed and shaking with expectation. They wondered, no doubt, what he would accomplish––salvation or not: Parson Stump had failed. Parson Lute seemed for a moment to be unnerved by the critical attitude of his audience––made anxious for his reputation: a purely professional concern, inevitably habitual. He was not conscious of this, I am sure; he was too kind, too earnest in service, to consider his reputation. But yet he mustdo––when another had failed. The Lord had set him a hard task; but being earnest and kind, he had no contempt, no lack of love, I am sure, for the soul the Lord had given him to lose or to save––neither gross wish to excel, nor gross wish to excuse.
“Daughter,” he whispered, tenderly, to Elizabeth.
Elizabeth threw the coverlet over her head, so that only the tangled fringe of her hair was left to see; and she began to laugh––a coquettish trifling. Parson Lute gently uncovered the head.
“You isn’t Parson Stump,” Elizabeth tittered.
“Turn your face this way,” said Parson Lute.
She laughed.
“This way,” said Parson Lute.
“Go ’way!” Elizabeth laughed. “Go on with you!” She hid her flaming face. “You didn’t ought t’ see me in bed!” she gasped. “Go ’way!”
“My child,” said Parson Lute, patiently, “turn your face this way.”
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She would not. “Go ’way!” said she.
“This way!” Parson Lute repeated.
It had been a quiet, slow command, not to go unheeded. The five women of Whisper Cove stiffened with amazement. Here, indeed, was a masterful parson! Parson Stump had failed; but not this parson––not this parson, who could command in the name of the Lord! They exchanged glances––exchanged nudges. Elizabeth’s laughter ceased. All the women of Whisper Cove waited breathless. There was silence; the commotion was all outside––wind and rain and breakers, a far-off passion, apart from the poor comedy within. The only sound in the room was the wheezing of the girl on the bed. Elizabeth turned; her brows were drawn, her eyes angry. Aunt Esther All, from her place at the foot of the bed, heard the ominous wheeze of her breath and observed the labor of her heart; and she was concerned, and nudged William Buttle’s wife, who would not heed her.
“’Tis not good for her,” Aunt Esther whispered.
“You leave me be!” Elizabeth complained.
Parson Lute took her hand.
“You quit that!” said Elizabeth.
“Hush, daughter,” the parson pleaded.
Into the interval of silence a gust of rain intruded.
“Have Nicholas come?” Elizabeth asked. “Haven’t he come yet?”
Aunt Esther shook her head.
“I wants un,” said Elizabeth, “when he’ve come.”
The parson began now soothingly to stroke the great,159rough hand he held; but at once Elizabeth broke into bashful laughter, and he dropped it––and frowned.
“Woman,” he cried, in distress, “don’t you know that you are dying?”
Elizabeth’s glance ran to Judith, who rose, but sat again, wringing her hands. The mother turned once more to the parson; ’twas an apathetic gaze, fixed upon his restless nostrils.
“How is it with your soul?” he asked.
’Twas a word spoken most graciously, in the perfection of pious desire, of reverence, of passionate concern for the future of souls; but yet Elizabeth’s glance moved swiftly to the parson’s eyes, in a rage, and instantly shifted to his red hair, where it remained, fascinated.
“Are you trusting in your Saviour’s love?”
I accuse myself for speaking, in this bold way, of the unhappy question; but yet, why not? for ’twas asked in purest anxiety, in the way of Parson Lute, whom all children loved.
“Are you clinging,” says he, “to the Cross?”
Elizabeth listlessly stared at the rafters.
“Have you laid hold on the only Hope of escape?”
The child Judith––whose grief was my same agony––sobbed heart-brokenly.
“Judith!” Elizabeth called, her apathy vanished. “Poor little Judith!”
“No, my daughter,” the parson gently protested. “This is not the time,” said he. “Turn your heart away from these earthly affections,” he pleaded, his160voice fallen to an earnest whisper. “Oh, daughter, fix your eyes upon the Cross!”
Elizabeth was sullen. “I wants Judith,” she complained.
“You have no time, now, my daughter, to think of these perishing human ties.”
“IwantsJudith!”
“Mere earthly affection, daughter! ‘And if a man’––”
“An’ Judith,” the woman persisted, “wantsme!”
“Nay,” the parson softly chided. He was kind––patient with her infirmity. ’Twas the way of Parson Lute. With gentleness, with a tactful humoring, he would yet win her attention. But, “Oh,” he implored, as though overcome by a flooding realization of the nature and awful responsibility of his mission, “can you not think of your soul?”
“Judith, dear!”
The child arose.
“No!” said the parson, quietly. “No, child!”
The wind shook the house to its crazy foundations and drove the crest of a breaker against the panes.
“I wants t’tellshe, parson!” Elizabeth wailed. “An I wants she––jus’wantsshe––anyhow––jus’ for love!”
“Presently, daughter; not now.”
“She––she’s mychild!”
“Presently, daughter.”
Judith wept again.
“Sir!” Elizabeth gasped––bewildered, terrified.
“Not now, daughter.”
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All the anger and complaint had gone out of Elizabeth’s eyes; they were now filled with wonder and apprehension. Flashes of intelligence appeared and failed and came again. It seemed to me, who watched, that in some desperate way, with her broken mind, she tried to solve the mystery of this refusal. Then ’twas as though some delusion––some terror of her benighted state––seized upon her: alarm changed to despair; she rose in bed, but put her hand to her heart and fell back.
“He better stop it!” Aunt Esther All muttered.
The four wives of Whisper Cove bitterly murmured against her.
“He’s savin’ her soul,” said William Buttle’s wife.
They were interested, these wives, in the operation; they resented disturbance.
“Well,” Aunt Esther retorted, “I ’low, anyhow, he don’t know much about heart-trouble.”
Parson Lute, unconscious of this watchful observation, frankly sighed. The hearts of men, I know, contain no love more sweet and valuable than that which animated his desire. He mused for an interval. “Do you know the portion of the wicked?” he asked, in loving-kindness, without harshness whatsoever.
“Yes, sir.”
“What is it?”
It seemed she would appease him. She was ingratiating, now, with smile and answer. “Hell, sir,” she answered.
“Are you prepared for the change?”
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’Twas a familiar question, no doubt. Elizabeth’s conversion had been diligently sought. But the lean face of Parson Lute, and the fear of what he might do, and the solemn quality of his voice, and his sincere and simple desire seemed so to impress Elizabeth that she was startled into new attention.
“Yes, sir,” she said.
It appeared to puzzle Parson Lute. He had been otherwise informed by Parson Stump. The woman wasnotin a state of grace.
“You have cast yourself upon the mercy of God?” he asked.
“No, sir.”
“Then how, my daughter, can you say that you are prepared?”
There was no answer.
“You have made your peace with an offended God?”
“No, sir.”
“But you say that you are prepared?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You have repented of your sin?”
“No, sir.”
Parson Lute turned impatient. “And yet,” he demanded, “you expect to go to heaven?”
“No, sir.”
“What!” cried Parson Lute.
“No, sir,” she said.
Parson Lute was incredulous. “To hell?” he asked.
“Eh?”
“Tohell?”
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Elizabeth hesitated. By some direct and primitively human way her benighted mind had reached its determination. But still she hesitated––frightened somewhat, it may be, by the conventionality of Whisper Cove and Twist Tickle.
“Yes, sir,” said she. “Most men goes there.”
“But you,” said he, in amaze, “are not a man!”
“Judith’s father were,” she answered; “an’ I’m wantin’––oh, I’m wantin’––t’ see un once again!”
The five wives of Whisper Cove gasped....
The outer door was flung open. Came a rush of wind––the noise and wet and lusty stirring of the night. It broke harshly in upon us; ’twas a crashing discord of might and wrath and cruel indifference––a mocking of this small tragedy. The door was sharply closed against the gale. I heard the wheeze and tread of my uncle in the kitchen. He entered––his broad face grave and anxious and grieved––but instantly fled, though I beckoned; for Parson Lute, overcome, it may be, by the impiety of Elizabeth, was upon his knees, fervently praying that the misguided soul might yet by some miraculous manifestation of grace be restored to propriety of view and of feeling. ’Twas a heartfelt prayer offered in faith, according to the enlightenment of the man––a confession of ignorance, a plea of human weakness, a humble, anxious cry for divine guidance that the woman might be plucked as a brand from the burning, to the glory of the Lord God Most Tender and Most High. Came, in the midst of it, a furious outburst;164the wind rose––achieved its utmost pitch of power. I looked out: Whisper Cove, low between the black barriers, was churned white; and beyond––concealed by the night––the sea ran tumultuously. ’Twas a big, screaming wind, blowing in from the sea, unopposed by tree or hill. The cottage trembled to the gusts; the timbers complained; the lamp fluttered in the draught. Great waves, rolling in from the open, were broken on the rocks of Whisper Cove. Rain and spray, driven by the gale, drummed on the roof and rattled like hail on the window. And above this angry clamor of wind and sea rose the wailing, importunate prayer for the leading of the God of us all....
When the parson had got to his feet again, Aunt Esther All diffidently touched his elbow. “Nicholas have come, sir,” said she.
“Nicholas?”
“Ay; the man she’ve sent for.”
Elizabeth caught the news. “I wants un,” she wheezed. “Go ’way, parson! I wants a word along o’ Nicholas all alone.”
“She’ve a secret, sir,” Aunt Esther whispered.
Judith moved towards the door; but the parson beckoned her back, and she stood doubtfully.
“Mister Top! Mister Top!” Elizabeth called, desperate to help herself, to whom no heed was given.
In the fury of the gale––the rush past of wind and rain––the failing voice was lost.
“I ’low,” Aunt Esther warned, “’twould be wise, sir––”
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“Have the man wait in the kitchen.”
Elizabeth lay helplessly whimpering.
“But, sir,” Aunt Esther protested, “she’ve––”
“Have the man wait in the kitchen,” the parson impatiently repeated. “There is no time now for these worldly arrangements. No, no!” said he. “There is no time. The womanmustbe convicted!” He was changed: despondency had vanished––humility gone with it. In the eye of the man––the gesture––the risen voice––appeared some high authority to overawe us. He had the habit of authority, as have all parsons; but there was now some compelling, supernatural addition to weaken us. We did not dare oppose him, not one of us––not my uncle, whose head had been intruded, but was now at once withdrawn. The parson had come out of his prayer, it seemed, refreshed and inspired; he had remembered, it may be, that the child was the obstacle––the child whom Elizabeth would not slight to save her soul. “The woman must be saved,” said he. “She must be saved!” he cried, striking his fist into his palm, his body all tense, his teeth snapped shut, his voice strident. “The Lord is mighty and merciful––a forgiving God.” ’Twas an appeal (he looked far past the whitewashed rafters and the moving darkness of the night); ’twas a returning appeal––a little failure of faith, I think. “The Lord has heard me,” he declared, doggedly. “He has not turned away. The woman must––sheshall––be saved!”
“Ay, but,” Aunt Esther expostulated; “she’ve been sort o’ wantin’ t’ tell––”
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The parson’s green eyes were all at once bent in a penetrating way upon Aunt Esther; and she backed away, biting at her nails––daring no further protest.
“Judith, my child,” said the parson, “do you go to the kitchen.”
“No, no!” Judith wailed. “I’m wantin’ t’ stay.”
Elizabeth stretched out her arms.
“It distracts your mother’s attention, you see,” said the parson, kindly. “Do you go, my dear.”
“Iwillnot go!”
“Judith!” Elizabeth called.
The parson caught the child’s arm.
“You leave me be!” Judith flashed, her white little teeth all bare.
“Do you go,” said the parson, coldly, “to the kitchen.”
“He’d better mind what he’s about!” Aunt Esther complained.
Elizabeth was now on her elbow, staring in alarm. Her breast was significantly heaving, and the great vein of her throat had begun to beat. “Don’t send she away, parson!” she pleaded. “She’s wantin’ her mother. Leave she be!”
The parson led Judith away.
“For God’s sake, parson,” Elizabeth gasped, “leave she come! What you goin’ t’ do with she?” She made as though to throw off the coverlet and follow; but she was unable, and fell back in exhaustion. “Judith!” she called. “Judith!”
The kitchen door was closed upon Judith; the obstacle had been removed.
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“Don’t hurt she, parson,” Elizabeth entreated, seeming, now, to be possessed of a delusion concerning the parson’s purpose. “She’ve done no harm, sir. She’ve been a good child all her life.”
“Elizabeth,” said the parson, firmly, “repent!”
“What you done with my Judith?”
“Repent!”
Elizabeth’s heart began to work beyond its strength. “For God’s sake, parson!” she gasped; “you’ll not hurt she, will you?”
“Repent, I say!”
“I’ll repent, parson. What you goin’ t’ do with Judy? Don’t hurt she, parson. I’ll repent. Oh, bring she back, parson! I’ll repent. For God’s sake, parson!” It may be that despair gave her cunning––I do not know. The deception was not beyond her: she had been converted twice––she was used to the forms as practised in those days at Twist Tickle. She wanted her child, poor woman! and her mind was clouded with fear: she is not to be called evil for the trick. Nor is Parson Lute to be blamed for following earnestly all that she said––praying, all the while, that the issue might be her salvation. She had a calculating eye on the face of Parson Lute. “I believe!” she cried, watching him closely for some sign of relenting. “Help thou my unbelief.” The parson’s face softened. “Save me!” she whispered, exhausted. “Save my soul! I repent. Save my soul!” She seemed now to summon all her strength, for the parson had not yet called back the child. “Praise God!” she screamed, seeking now beyond168doubt to persuade him of her salvation. “I repent! I’m saved! I’m saved!”
“Praise God!” Parson Lute shouted.
Elizabeth swayed––threw up her hands––fell back dead.
“I tol’ you so,” said Aunt Esther, grimly.
169XIVTHE TWENTY-THIRD PSALM
Faith, but ’twas a bitter night! Men were drowning on our coast––going to death in the wreck of schooners. The sea broke in unmasked assault upon the great rocks of Whisper Cove; the gale worried the cottage on the cliff. But ’twas warm in the kitchen: the women had kept the fire for the cup o’ tea to follow the event; ’twas warm, and the lamp made light and shadow, and the kettle bubbled and puffed, the wood crackled, the fire snored and glowed, all serenely, in disregard of death, as though no mystery had come to appal the souls of us.
My uncle had Judith on his knee.
“I’m not able,” she sobbed.
“An’ ye’ll not try?” he besought. “Ye’ll not even try?”
We were alone: the women were employed in the other room; the parson paced the floor, unheeding, his yellow teeth fretting his finger-nails, his lean lips moving in some thankful communication with the God he served.
“Ah, but!” says my uncle, “ye’llsurelycome t’ live along o’ me!”
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“No, no! I’ll be livin’ where I’ve always lived––with mother.”
“Ye cannot live alone.”
“Ay; but I’m able t’ live alone––an’ fish alone––like mother done.”
“’Twas not her wish, child,” says my uncle. “She’d have ye live along o’ me. ‘Why, Judy,’ she’d have ye know, ‘do ye live along o’ he. Do ye trust, little maid,’ she’d have ye t’ know, ‘that there ol’ Nick Top. He’ve a powerful bad look t’ the eye in his head,’ she’d say, ‘an’ he’ve the name o’ the devil; but Lord love ye!’ she’d say, ‘he’ve a heart with room t’ contain ye, an’ a warm welcome t’ dwell within. He’ve took good care o’ little ol’ Dannie,’ she’d say, ‘an’ he’ll take good care o’you. He’ll never see ye hurt or wronged or misguided so long as he lives. Not,’ she’d say, ‘that there damned ol’ rascal!’ An’ if ye come, Judy, dear,” my uncle entreated, “I won’t see ye wronged––I won’t!” My uncle’s little eyes were overrunning now––the little eyes he would not look into. The parson still paced the floor, still unheeding, still muttering fervent prayer of some strange sort; but my uncle, aged in sinful ways, was frankly crying. “Ye’ll come, Judy, will ye not?” he begged. “Along o’ ol’ Nick Top, who would not see ye wronged? Ah, little girl!” he implored––and then her head fell against him––“ye’ll surely never doubt Nick Top. An’ ye’ll come t’ he, an’ ye’ll sort o’ look after un, will ye not?––that poor ol’ feller!”
Judith was sobbing on his breast.
“That poor, poor ol’ feller!”
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She wept the more bitterly.
“Poor little girl!” he crooned, patting her shoulder. “Ah, the poor little girl!”
“I’ll go!” cried Judith, in a passion of woe and gratitude. “I’ll go––an’ trust an’ love an’ care for you!”
My uncle clasped her close. “‘The Lard is my shepherd,’” says he, looking up, God knows to what! his eyes streaming, “‘I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters.’” By the wind, by the breaking of the troubled sea, the old man’s voice was obscured. “‘Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for thou art with me: thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.’” Judith still sobbed, uncomforted; my uncle stroked her hair––and again she broke into passionate weeping. “‘Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of my enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.’” Returned, again, in a lull of the gale, my fancy that I caught the lamentation of a multitude. “‘Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.’”
“Bless God!” cried the parson. “Bless God, brother!”
“Ay,” said my uncle, feelingly, “bless God!”
The parson wrung my uncle’s hand.
“That there psa’m don’t seem true, parson, b’y,” says my uncle, “on a night like this here dirty night, with schooners in trouble at sea. Ever been t’ sea in172a gale o’ wind, parson? Ah, well! it don’t seem true––not in a gale o’ wind, with this here poor, lonely little maid’s mother lyin’ there dead in the nex’ room. It jus’ don’t seem true!”
Parson Lute, poor man! started––stared, pained, anxious; in doubt, it may be, of the Christian congeniality of this man.
“It don’t seem true,” says my uncle, “in the face of a easterly gale an’ the death o’ mothers. An’, look you, parson,” he declared, “I’ll be––well, parson, I’ll jus’ bejiggered––if it do! There you haves it!”
“Brother,” the parson answered, accusingly, “it is in the Bible; it must be true.”
“’Tiswhere?” my uncle demanded, confounded.
“In the Bible, sir.”
“An’ it––it––must be––”
“True, sir.”
My uncle sighed; and––for I know his loving-kindness––’twas a sigh that spoke a pain at heart.
“It must be true,” reiterated the wretched parson, now, it seemed, beset by doubt. “Itmustbe true!”
“Why, by the dear God ye serve, parson!” roared my uncle, with healthy spirit, superior in faith, “Iknows’tis true, Bible or St. John’s noospaper!”
Aunt Esther put her gray head in at the door. “Is the kettle b’ilin’?” says she.
The kettle was boiling.
“Ah!” says she––and disappeared.
“‘Though I walk,’” the parson repeated, his thin,173freckled hands clasped, “‘through the valley of the shadow of death!’”
There was no doctor at Twist Tickle: so the parson lay dead––poor man!––of the exposure of that night, within three days, in the house of Parson Stump....
174XVA MEASURE OF PRECAUTION
With the threats of the gray stranger in mind, my uncle now began without delay to refit theShining Light: this for all the world as though ’twere a timely and reasonable thing to do. But ’twas neither timely, for the fish were running beyond expectation off Twist Tickle, nor reasonable, for theShining Lighthad been left to rot and foul in the water of Old Wives’ Cove since my infancy. Whatever the pretence he made, the labor was planned and undertaken in anxious haste: there was, indeed, too much pretence––too suave an explanation, a hand too aimless and unsteady, an eye too blank, too large a flow of liquor––for a man who suffered no secret perturbation.
“In case o’ accident, Dannie,” he explained, as though ’twere a thing of no importance. “Jus’ in case o’ accident. I wouldn’t be upset,” says he, “an I was you.”
“Never you fear,” says I.
“No,” says he; “you’ll stand by, Dannie!”
“That I will,” I boasted.
“Ye can’t deludeme,” says he. “I knowsyou. I bet yeyou’llstand by, whatever comes of it.”
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’Tis quite beyond me to express my gratification. ’Twas a mysterious business altogether––this whim to make theShining Lightready for sea. I could make nothing of it at all. And why, thinks I, should the old craft all at once be troubled by all this pother of block and tackle and hammer and saw? ’Twas beyond me to fathom; but I was glad to discover, whatever the puzzle, that my uncle’s faith in the lad he had nourished was got real and large. ’Twas not for that he bred me; but ’twas the only reward––and that a mean, poor one––he might have. And he was now come near, it seemed, to dependence upon me; there was that in his voice to show it––a little trembling, a little hopelessness, a little wistfulness: a little weakening of its quality of wrathful courage.
“You’llstand by,” he had said; and, ay, but it fair saddened me to feel the appeal of his aging spirit to my growing years! There comes a time, no doubt, in the relationship of old and young, when the guardian is all at once changed into the cherished one. ’Tis a tragical thing––a thing to be resolved, to be made merciful and benign, only by the acquiescence of the failing spirit. There is then no interruption––no ripple upon the flowing river of our lives. As for my uncle, I fancy that he kept watch upon me, in those days, to read his future, to discover his achievement, in my disposition. Stand by? Ay, that I would! And being young I sought a deed to do: I wished the accident might befall to prove me.
“Accident?” cries I. “Never you fear!”
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“I’ll not fear,” says he, “that ye’ll not stand by.”
“Ay,” I complained; “but never you fear at all!”
“I’ll not fear,” he repeated, with a little twinkle of amusement, “that ye’ll not stand by, as best ye’re able.”
I felt now my strength––the greatness of my body and the soaring courage of my soul. This in the innocent way of a lad; and by grace of your recollection I shall not be blamed for it. Fourteen and something more? ’Twas a mighty age! What did it lack, thinks I, of power and wisdom? To be sure I strutted the present most haughtily and eyed the future with as saucy a flash as lads may give. The thing delighted my uncle; he would chuckle and clap me on the back and cry, “That’s very good!” until I was wrought into a mood of defiance quite ridiculous. But still ’tis rather grateful to recall: for what’s a lad’s boasting but the honest courage of a man? I would serve my uncle; but ’twas not all: I would serve Judith. She was now come into our care: I would serve her.
“They won’t nothin’ hurtshe!” thinks I.
I am glad to recall that this boyish love took a turn so chivalrous....
When ’twas noised abroad that my uncle was to refit theShining Light, Twist Tickle grew hilarious. “Laugh an you will, lads,” says my uncle, then about the business of distributing genial invitations to the hauling-down. “’Tis a gift o’ the good Lord t’ be able t’ do it. The ol’ girl out there haven’t a wonderful lot177to admire, an’ she’s nowhere near t’ windward o’ forty; but I’ll show ye, afore I’m through, that she’ll stand by in a dirty blow, an I jus’ asks she t’ try. Ye’ll find, lads,” says he, “when ye’re so old as me, an’ sailed t’ foreign parts, that they’s more to a old maid or a water-side widow than t’ many a lass o’ eighteen. The ol’ girl out there haves a mean allowance o’ beauty, but she’ve a character that isn’t talked about after dark; an’ when I buys her a pair o’ shoes an’ a new gown, why, ecod! lads, ye’ll think she’s a lady. ’Tis one way,” says he, “that ladies ismade.”
This occurred at Eli Flack’s stage of an evening when a mean, small catch was split and the men-folk were gathered for gossip. ’Twas after sunset, with fog drifting in on a lazy wind: a glow of red in the west. Our folk were waiting for the bait-skiff, which had long been gone for caplin, skippered, this time, by the fool of Twist Tickle.
“Whatever,” says my uncle, “they’ll be a darn o’ rum for ye, saved and unsaved, when she’ve been hauled down an’ scraped. An’ will ye come t’ the haulin’-down?”
That they would!
“I knowed ye would,” says my uncle, as he stumped away, “saved an’ unsaved.”
The bait-skiff conch-horn sounded. The boat had entered the narrows. ’Twas coming slowly through the quiet evening––laden with bait for the fishing of to-morrow. Again the horn––echoing sweetly, faintly, among the hills of Twin Islands. ’Twas Moses Shoos178that blew; there was no mistaking the long-drawn blast.
Ah, well! she needed the grooming, thisShining Light, whatever the occasion. ’Twas scandalous to observe her decay in idleness. She needed the grooming––this neglected, listless, slatternly old maid of a craft. A craft of parts, to be sure, as I had been told; but a craft left to slow wreck, at anchor in quiet water. Year by year, since I could remember the days of my life, in summer and winter weather she had swung with the tides or rested silent in the arms of the ice. I had come to Twist Tickle aboard, as the tale of my infancy ran, on the wings of a nor’east gale of some pretensions; and she had with heroic courage weathered a dirty blow to land me upon the eternal rocks of Twin Islands. For this––though but an ancient story, told by old folk to engage my presence in the punts and stages of our harbor––I loved her, as a man, Newfoundland born and bred, may with propriety love a ship.
There are maids to be loved, no doubt, and ’tis very nice to love them, because they are maids, fashioned in a form most lovely by the good Lord, given a heart most childlike and true and loving and tenderly dependent, so that, in all the world, as I know, there is nothing so to be cherished with a man’s last breath as a maid. I have loved a maid and speak with authority. But there is also a love of ships, though, being inland-born, you may not know it. ’Tis a surpassing faith and affection, inspired neither by beauty nor virtue, but wilful and179mysterious, like the love of a maid. ’Tis much the same, I’m thinking: forgiving to the uttermost, prejudiced beyond the perception of any fault, savagely loyal. ’Twas in this way, at any rate, that my uncle regarded theShining Light; and ’twas in this way, too, with some gentler shades of admiration, proceeding from an apt imagination, that I held the old craft in esteem.
“Dannie,” says my uncle, presently, as we walked homeward, “ye’ll ’blige me, lad, by keepin’ a eye on the mail-boat.”
I wondered why.
“You keep a eye,” he whispered, winking in a way most grave and troubled, “on that there little mail-boat when she lands her passengers.”
“For what?” I asked.
“Brass buttons,” says he.
’Twas now that the cat came out of the bag. Brass buttons? ’Twas the same as saying constables. This extraordinary undertaking was then a precaution against the accident of arrest. ’Twas inspired, no doubt, by the temper of that gray visitor with whom my uncle had dealt over the table in a fashion so surprising. I wondered again concerning that amazing broil, but to no purpose; ’twas ’beyond my wisdom and ingenuity to involve these opposite natures in a crime that might make each tolerable to the other and advantage them both. ’Twas plain, at any rate, that my uncle stood in jeopardy, and that of no trivial sort: else never would he have employed his scant savings upon the hull of theShining Light. It grieved me to know it. ’Twas most180sad and most perplexing. ’Twas most aggravating, too: for I must put no questions, but accept, in cheerful serenity, the revelations he would indulge me with, and be content with that.
“An’ if ye sees so much as a single brass button comin’ ashore,” says he, “ye’ll give me a hail, will ye not, whereever I is?”
This I would do.
“Ye never can tell,” he added, sadly, “what’s in the wind.”
“I’m never allowed t’ know,” said I.
He was quick to catch the complaint. “Ye’re growin’ up, Dannie,” he observed; “isn’t you, lad?”
I fancied I was already grown.
“Ah, well!” says he; “they’ll come a time, lad, God help ye! when ye’ll know.”
“I wisht ’twould hasten,” said I.
“I wisht ’twould never come at all,” said he.
’Twas disquieting....
Work on theShining Lightwent forward apace and with right good effect. ’Twas not long––it might be a fortnight––before her hull was as sound as rotten plank could be made with gingerly calking. ’Twas indeed a delicate task to tap the timbers of her: my uncle must sometimes pause for anxious debate upon the wisdom of venturing a stout blow. But copper-painted below the water-line, adorned above, she made a brave showing at anchor, whatever she might do at sea; and there was nothing for it, as my uncle said, but to have faith,181which would do well enough: for faith, says he, could move mountains. When she had been gone over fore and aft, aloft and below, in my uncle’s painstaking way––when she had been pumped and ballasted and cleared of litter and swabbed down and fitted with a new suit of sails––she so won upon our confidence that not one of us who dwelt on the neck of land by the Lost Soul would have feared to adventure anywhere aboard.
The fool of Twist Tickle pulled a long face.
“Hut, Moses!” I maintained; “she’ll do very well. Jus’ look at her!”
“Mother always ’lowed,” says he, “that a craft was like a woman. An’ since mother died, I’ve come t’ learn for myself, Dannie,” he drawled, “that the more a woman haves in the way o’ looks the less weather she’ll stand. I’ve jus’ come, now,” says he, “from overhaulin’ a likely maid at Chain Tickle.”
I looked up with interest.
“Jinny Lawless,” says he. “Ol’ Skipper Garge’s youngest by the third.”
My glance was still inquiring.
“Ay, Dannie,” he sighed; “she’ve declined.”
“You’ve took a look,” I inquired, “at the maids o’ Long Bill Hodge o’ Sampson’s Island?”
He nodded.
“An’ they’ve––”
“Alldeclined,” says he.
“Never you care, Moses,” said I. “Looks or no looks, you’ll find theShining Lightstand by whensheputs to sea.”