243XXNO APOLOGY
My uncle knocked on my door at the hotel and, without waiting to be bidden, thrust in his great, red, bristling, monstrously scarred head. ’Twas an intrusion most diffident and fearful: he was like a mischievous boy come for chastisement.
“You here, Dannie?” he gently inquired.
“Come in, sir,” says I.
’Twas awkwardly––with a bashful grin and halting, doubtful step––that he stumped in.
“Comfortable?” he asked, looking about. “No complaint t’ make ag’in this here hotel?”
I had no complaint.
“Not troubled, is you?”
I was not troubled.
“Isn’t bothered, is you?” he pursued, with an inviting wink. “Not bothered about nothin’, lad, is you?”
Nor bothered.
“Come now!” cries he, dissembling great candor and heartiness, “is you got any questions t’ ask ol’ Nick Top?”
“No, sir,” I answered, quite confidently.
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“Dannie, lad,” says my uncle, unable to contain his delight, with which, indeed, his little eyes brimmed over, “an ye’d jus’ be so damned good as t’ tweak that there––”
I pulled the bell-cord.
“A nip o’ the best Jamaica,” says he.
Old Elihu Wall fetched the red dram.
“Lad,” says my uncle, his glass aloft, his eyes resting upon me in pride, his voice athrill with passionate conviction, “here’s t’you! That’s good o’ you,” says he. “That’s very good. I ’low I’ve fetched ye up very well. Ecod!” he swore, with most reverent and gentle intention, “ye’ll be a gentleman afore ye knows it!”
He downed the liquor with a grin that came over his lurid countenance like a burst of low sunshine.
“A gentleman,” he repeated, “in spite o’ Chesterfield!”
When my uncle was gone, I commanded my reflections elsewhere, prohibited by honor from dwelling upon the wretched mystery in which I was enmeshed. They ran with me to the fool of Twist Tickle. The weather had turned foul: ’twas blowing up from the north in a way to make housed folk shiver for their fellows at sea. Evil sailing on the Labrador! I wondered how the gentle weakling fared as cook of theQuick as Wink. I wondered in what harbor he lay, in the blustering night, or off what coast he tossed. I wondered what trouble he had within his heart. I wished him home again: but yet remembered, with some rising of hope, that his amazing legacy of wisdom had in all things been sufficient245to his need. Had he not in peace and usefulness walked the paths of the world where wiser folk had gone with bleeding feet? ’Twas dwelling gratefully upon this miracle of wisdom and love, a fool’s inheritance, that I, who had no riches of that kind, fell asleep, without envy or perturbation, that night.
’Twas not long I had to wait to discover the fortune of the fool upon that voyage. We were not three days returned from the city when theQuick as Winkslipped into our harbor. She had been beating up all afternoon; ’twas late of a dark night when she dropped anchor. John Cather was turned in, Judith long ago whisked off to bed by our maid-servant; my uncle and I sat alone together when the rattle of the chain apprised us that the schooner was in the shelter of the Lost Soul.
By-and-by Moses came.
“You’ve been long on the road,” says I.
“Well, Dannie,” he explained, looking at his cap, which he was awkwardly twirling, “I sort o’ fell in with Parson Stump by the way, an’ stopped for a bit of a gossip.”
I begged him to sit with us.
“No,” says he; “but I’m ’bliged t’ you. Fac’ is, Dannie,” says he, gravely, “I isn’t got time.”
My uncle was amazed.
“I’ve quit the ship,” Moses went on, “not bein’ much of a hand at cookin’. I’ll be t’ home now,” says he, “an’ I’d be glad t’ have you an’ Skipper Nicholas246drop in, some day soon, when you’re passin’ Whisper Cove.”
We watched him twirl his cap.
“You’d find a wonderful warm welcome,” says he, “from Mrs. Moses Shoos!”
With that he was gone.
247XXIFOOL’S FORTUNE
“Close the door, Dannie,” says Tumm, in the little cabin of theQuick as Wink, late that night, when the goods were put to rights, and the bottle was on the counter, and the schooner was nodding sleepily in the spent waves from the open sea. “This here yarn o’ the weddin’ o’ Moses Shoos is not good for everybody t’ hear.” He filled the glasses––chuckling all the time deep in his chest. “We was reachin’ up t’ Whoopin’ Harbor,” he began, being a great hand at a story, “t’ give theQuick as Winka night’s lodgin’, it bein’ a wonderful windish night; clear enough, the moon sailin’ a cloudy sky, but with a bank o’ fog sneakin’ round Cape Muggy like a fish-thief. An’ we wasn’t in no haste, anyhow, t’ make Sinners’ Tickle, for we was the first trader down this season, an’ ’twas pick an’ choose for we, with a clean bill t’ every harbor from Starvation Cove t’ the Settin’ Hen. So the skipper he says we’ll hang the ol’ girl up t’ Whoopin’ Harbor ’til dawn; an’ we’ll all have a watch below, says he, with a cup o’ tea, says he, if the cook can bile the water ’ithout burnin’ it. Now, look you! Saucy Bill North is wonderful fond248of his little joke; an’ ’twas this here habit o’ burnin’ the water he’d pitched on t’ plague the poor cook with, since we put out o’ Twist Tickle on the v’y’ge down.
“‘Cook, you dunderhead!’ says the skipper, with a wink t’ the crew, which I was sorry t’ see, ‘you been an’ scarched the water agin.’
“Shoos he looked like he’d give up for good on the spot––just like heknowedhe was a fool, an’hadknowed it for a long, long time––sort o’ like he was sorry for we an’ sick of hisself.
“‘Cook,’ says the skipper, ‘you went an’ done it agin. Yes, you did! Don’t you go denyin’ of it. You’ll kill us, cook,’ says he, ‘if you goes on like this. They isn’t nothin’ worse for the system,’ says he, ‘than this here burned water. The almanacs,’ says he, shakin’ his finger at the poor cook, ‘’ll tell youthat!’
“‘I ’low I did burn that water, skipper,’ says the cook, ‘if you says so. But I isn’t got all my wits,’ says he; ’an’ God knows I’m doin’ my best!’
“‘I always did allow, cook,’ says the skipper, ‘that God knowed more’n I ever thunk.’
“‘An’ I neverdidburn no water,’ says the cook, ‘afore I shipped along o’ you in this here ol’ flour-sieve of aQuick as Wink.’
“‘This herewhat?’ snaps the skipper.
“‘This here ol’ basket,’ says the cook.
“‘Basket!’ says the skipper. Then he hummed a bit o’ ‘Fishin’ for the Maid I Loves,’ ’ithout thinkin’ much about the toon. ‘Cook,’ says he ‘I loves you. You is249on’y a half-witted chance-child,’ says he, ‘but I loves you like a brother.’
“‘Does you, skipper?’ says the cook, with a nice, soft little smile, like the poor fool he was. ‘I isn’t by no means hatin’ you, skipper,’ says he. ‘But I can’thelpburnin’ the water,’ says he, ‘an’ I ’low it fair hurts me t’ get blame for it. I’m sorry for you an’ the crew,’ says he, ‘an’ I wisht I hadn’t took the berth. But when I shipped along o’ you,’ says he, ‘I ’lowed Icouldcook, for mother always told me so, an’ I ’lowed she knowed. I’m doin’ my best, anyhow, accordin’ t’ how she’d have me do, an’ I ’low if the water gets scarched,’ says he, ‘the galley fire’s bewitched.’
“‘Basket!’ says the skipper. ‘Ay, ay, cook,’ says he. ‘I justlovesyou.’
“They wasn’t a man o’ the crew liked t’ hear the skipper say that; for, look you! the skipper doesn’t know nothin’ about feelin’s, an’ the cook has more feelin’s ’n a fool can make handy use of aboard a tradin’ craft. There sits the ol’ man, smoothin’ his big, red beard, singin’ ‘I’m Fishin’ for the Maid I Loves,’ while he looks at poor Moses Shoos, which was washin’ up the dishes, for we was through with the mug-up. An’ the devil was in his eyes––the devil was fair grinnin’ in them little blue eyes. Lord! it made me sad t’ see it, for I knowed the cook was in for bad weather, an’ he isn’t no sort o’ craft t’ be out o’ harbor in a gale o’ wind like that.
“‘Cook,’ says the skipper.
“‘Ay, sir?’ says the cook.
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“‘Cook,’ says the skipper, ‘you ought t’ get married.’
“‘I on’y wisht I could,’ says the cook.
“‘You ought t’ try, cook,’ says the skipper, ‘for the sake o’ the crew. We’ll all die,’ says he, ‘afore we sights ol’ Bully Dick agin,’ says he, ‘if you keeps on burnin’ the water. Yougott’ get married, cook, t’ the first likely maid you sees on the Labrador,’ says he, ‘t’ save the crew. She’d do the cookin’ for you. It’ll be the loss o’ all hands,’ says he, ‘an you don’t. This here burned water,’ says he, ‘will be the end of us, cook, an you keeps it up.’
“‘I’d be wonderful glad t’ ’blige you, skipper,’ says the cook, ‘an’ I’d like t’ ’blige all hands. ’Twon’t be by my wish,’ says he, ‘that anybody’ll die o’ the grub they gets, for mother wouldn’t like it.’
“‘Cook,’ says the skipper, ‘shake! I knows aman,’ says he, ‘when I sees one. Any man,’ says he, ‘that would put on the irons o’ matrimony,’ says he, ‘t’ ’blige a shipmate,’ says he, ‘is a better man ’n me, an’ I loves un like a brother.’
“The cook was cheered up considerable.
“‘Cook,’ says the skipper, ‘I ’pologize. Yes, I do, cook,’ says he, ‘I ’pologize.’
“‘I isn’t got no feelin’ ag’in’ matrimony,’ says the cook. ‘But I isn’t able t’ get took. I been tryin’ every maid t’ Twist Tickle,’ says he, ‘an’ they isn’t one,’ says he, ‘will wed a fool.’
“‘Notonemaid t’ wed a fool!’ says the skipper.
“‘Nar a one,’ says the cook.
“‘I’m s’prised,’ says the skipper.
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“‘Nar a maid t’ Twist Tickle,’ says the cook, ‘will wed a fool, an’ I ’low they isn’t one,’ says he, ‘on the Labrador.’
“‘It’s been done afore, cook,’ says the skipper, ‘an’ I ’low ’twill be done agin, if the world don’t come to an end t’ oncet. Cook,’ says he, ‘Iknowsthe maid t’ do it.’
“‘I’d be wonderful glad t’ findshe,’ says the cook. ‘Mother,’ says he, ‘always ’lowed a man didn’t ought t’ live alone.’
“‘Ay, b’y,’ says the skipper, ‘I got the girl foryou. An’ she isn’t a thousand miles,’ says he, ‘from where that ol’ basket of aQuick as Winklies at anchor,’ says he, ‘in Whoopin’ Harbor. She isn’t what you’d call handsome an’ tell no lie,’ says he, ‘but––’
“‘Never you mind about that, skipper,’ says the cook.
“‘No,’ says the skipper, ‘she isn’t handsome, as handsome goes, even in these parts, but––’
“‘Never you mind, skipper,’ says the cook: ‘for mother always ’lowed that looks come off in the first washin’.’
“‘I ’low that Liz Jones would take you, cook,’ says the skipper. ‘You ain’t much on wits, but you got a good-lookin’ figure-head; an’ I ’low she’d be more’n willin’ t’ skipper a craft like you. You better go ashore, cook, when you gets cleaned up, an’ see what she says. Tumm,’ says he, ‘is sort o’ shipmates with Liz,’ says he, ‘an’ I ’low he’ll see you through the worst of it.’
“‘Will you, Tumm?’ says the cook.
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“‘Well,’ says I, ‘I’ll see.’
“I knowed Liz Jones from the time I fished Whoopin’ Harbor with Skipper Bill Topsail in theLove the Wind, bein’ cotched by the measles thereabouts, which she nursed me through; an’ I ’lowed shewouldwed the cook if he asked her, so, thinks I, I’ll go ashore with the fool t’ see that she don’t. No; she isn’t handsome––not Liz. I’m wonderful fond o’ yarnin’ o’ good-lookin’ maids, as you knows, Skipper Nicholas, sir; but I can’t say much o’ Liz: for Liz is so far t’ l’eward o’ beauty that many a time, lyin’ sick there in the fo’c’s’le o’ theLove the Wind, I wished the poor girl would turn inside out, for, thinks I, the pattern might be a sight better on the other side. Iwillsay she is big and well-muscled; an’ muscles, t’ my mind, counts enough t’ make up for black eyes, but not for cross-eyes, much less for fuzzy whiskers. It ain’t in my heart t’ make sport o’ Liz; but Iwillsay she has a bad foot, for she was born in a gale, I’m told, when thePreacherwas hangin’ on off a lee shore ’long about Cape Harrigan, an’ the sea was raisin’ the devil. An’, well––I hates t’ say it, but––well, they call her ‘Walrus Liz.’ No; she isn’t handsome, she haven’t got no good looks; but once you gets a look into whichever one o’ them cross-eyes you is able to cotch, you see a deal more’n your own face; an’ sheiswell-muscled, an’ I ’low I’m goin’ t’ tell you so, for I wants t’ name her good p’ints so well as her bad. Whatever––
“‘Cook,’ says I, ‘I’ll go along o’ you.’
“With that Moses Shoos fell to on the dishes, an’253’twasn’t long afore he was ready to clean hisself; which done, he was ready for the courtin’. But first he got out his dunny-bag, an’ he fished in there ’til he pulled out a blue stockin’, tied in a hard knot; an’ from the toe o’ that there blue stockin’ he took a brass ring. ‘I ’low,’ says he, talkin’ to hisself, in the half-witted way he has, ‘it won’t do no hurt t’ give her mother’s ring. “Moses,” says mother, “you better take the ring off my finger. It isn’t no weddin’-ring,” says she, “for I never was what you might call wed by a real parson in the fashionable way, but on’y accordin’ t’ the customs o’ the land,” says she, “an’ I got it from the Jew t’ make believe I was wed in the way they does it in these days; for it didn’t do nobody no hurt, an’ it sort o’ pleased me. You better take it, Moses, b’y,” says she, “for the dirt o’ the grave would only spile it,” says she, “an’ I’m not wantin’ it no more. Don’t wear it at the fishin’, dear,” says she, “for the fishin’ is wonderful hard,” says she, “an’ joolery don’t stand much wear an’ tear.” ‘Oh, mother!’ says the cook, ‘I done what you wanted!’ Then the poor fool sighed an’ looked up at the skipper. ‘I ’low, skipper,’ says he, ‘’twouldn’t do no hurt t’ give the ring to a man’s wife, would it? For mother wouldn’t mind, would she?’
“The skipper didn’t answer that.
“‘Come, cook,’ says I, ‘leave us get under way,’ for I couldn’t stand it no longer.
“So the cook an’ me put out in the punt t’ land at Whoopin’ Harbor, with the crew wishin’ the poor cook well with their lips, but thinkin’, God knows what! in254their hearts. An’ he was in a wonderful state o’ fright. I neverseeda man so took by scare afore. For, look you! poor Moses thinks she might have un. ‘I never had half a chance afore,’ says he. ‘They’ve all declined in a wonderful regular way. But now,’ says he, ‘I ’low I’ll be took. I jus’feelsthat way; an’, Tumm, I––I––I’m scared!’ I cheered un up so well as I could; an’ by-an’-by we was on the path t’ Liz Jones’s house, up on Gray Hill, where she lived alone, her mother bein’ dead an’ her father shipped on a bark from St. John’s t’ the West Indies. An’ we found Liz sittin’ on a rock at the turn o’ the road, lookin’ down from the hill at theQuick as Wink; all alone––sittin’ there in the moonlight, all alone––thinkin’ o’ God knows what!
“‘Hello, Liz!’ says I.
“‘Hello, Tumm!’ says she. ‘What vethel’th that?’
“‘That’s theQuick as Wink, Liz,’ says I. ‘An’ here’s the cook o’ that there craft,’ says I, ‘come up the hill t’ speak t’ you.’
“‘That’s right,’ says the cook. ‘Tumm, you’re right.’
“‘T’ thpeak t’me!’ says she.
“I wisht she hadn’t spoke quite that way. Lord! it wasn’t nice. It makes a man feel bad t’ see a woman put her hand on her heart for a little thing like that.
“‘Ay, Liz,’ says I, ‘t’ speak t’ you. An’ I’m thinkin’, Liz,’ says I, ‘he’ll say things no man ever said afore––t’ you.’
“‘That’s right, Tumm,’ says the cook. ‘I wants t’255speak as man t’ man,’ says he, ‘t’ stand by what I says,’ says he, ‘accordin’ as mother would have me do!’
“Liz got off the rock. Then she begun t’ kick at the path; an’ she was lookin’ down, but I ’lowed she had an eye on Moses all the time. ‘For,’ thinks I, ‘she’s sensed the thing out, like all the women.’
“‘I’m thinkin’,’ says I, ‘I’ll go up the road a bit.’
“‘Oh no, you won’t, Tumm,’ says she. ‘You thtay right here. Whath the cook wantin’ o’ me?’
“‘Well,’ says the cook, ‘I ’low I wants t’ get married.’
“‘T’ get married!’ says she.
“‘T’ get married,’ says the cook, ‘accordin’ as mother would have me; an’ I ’low you’ll do.’
“‘Me?’ says she.
“‘Liz,’ says he, as solemn as church, ‘I means you.’
“It come to her all of a suddent––an’ she begun t’ breathe hard, an’ pressed her hands against her breast an’ shivered. But she looked away t’ the moon, an’ somehow that righted her.
“‘You better thee me in daylight,’ says she.
“‘Don’t you mind about that,’ says he. ‘Mother always ’lowed that sort o’ thing didn’t matter: an’ she knowed.’
“She put a finger under his chin an’ tipped his face t’ the light.
“‘You ithn’t got all your thentheth, ith you?’ says she.
“‘Well,’ says he, ‘bein’ born on Hollow-eve,’ says he, ‘Iisn’tquite got all my wits. But,’ says he, ‘I wisht I had. An’ I can’t do no more.’
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“‘An’ you wanth t’ wed me?’ says she. ‘Ith you sure you doth?’
“‘I got mother’s ring,’ says the cook, ‘t’ prove it.’
“‘Tumm,’ says Liz t’ me, ‘youithn’t wantin’ t’ get married, ith you?’
“‘No, Liz,’ says I. ‘Not,’ says I, ‘t’ you.’
“‘No,’ says she. ‘Not––t’ me.’ She took me round the turn in the road. ‘Tumm,’ says she, ‘I ’low I’ll wed that man. I wanth t’ get away from here,’ says she, lookin’ over the hills. ‘I wanth t’ get t’ the thouthern outporth, where there’th life. They ithn’t no life here. An’ I’m tho wonderful tired o’ all thith! Tumm,’ says she, ‘no man ever afore athked me t’ marry un, an’ I ’low I better take thith one. He’th on’y a fool,’ says she, ‘but not even a fool ever come courtin’ me, an’ I ’low nobody but a fool would. On’y a fool, Tumm!’ says she. ‘ButIithn’t got nothin’ t’ boatht of. God made me,’ says she, ‘an’ I ithn’t mad that He done it. I ’low He meant me t’ take the firth man that come, an’ be content. I ’lowIithn’t got no right t’ thtick up my nothe at a fool. For, Tumm,’ says she, ‘God made that fool, too. An’, Tumm,’ says she, ‘I wanth thomethin’ elthe. Oh, I wanth thomethin’ elthe! I hateth t’ tell you, Tumm,’ says she, ‘what it ith. But all the other maidth hath un, Tumm, an’ I wanth one, too. I ’low they ithn’t no woman happy without one, Tumm. An’ I ithn’t never had no chanth afore. No chanth, Tumm, though God knowth they ithn’t nothin’ I wouldn’t do,’ says she, ‘t’ get what I wanth! I’ll wed the fool,’ says she. ‘It257ithn’t a man I wanth tho much; no, it ithn’t a man. Ith––’
“‘What you wantin’, Liz?’ says I.
“‘It ithn’t a man, Tumm,’ says she.
“‘No?’ says I. ‘What is it, Liz?’
“‘Ith a baby,’ says she.
“God! I felt bad when she told me that....”
Tumm stopped, sighed, picked at a knot in the table. There was silence in the cabin. TheQuick as Winkwas still nodding to the swell––lying safe at anchor in a cove of Twist Tickle. We heard the gusts scamper over the deck and shake the rigging; we caught, in the intervals, the deep-throated roar of breakers, far off––all the noises of the gale. And Tumm picked at the knot with his clasp-knife; and we sat watching, silent, all. And I felt bad, too, because of the maid at Whooping Harbor––a rolling waste of rock, with the moonlight lying on it, stretching from the whispering mystery of the sea to the greater desolation beyond; and an uncomely maid, alone and wistful, wishing, without hope, for that which the hearts of women must ever desire....
“Ay,” Tumm drawled, “it made me feel bad t’ think o’ what she’d been wantin’ all them years; an’ then I wished I’d been kinder t’ Liz.... An’, ‘Tumm,’ thinks I, ‘you went an’ come ashore t’ stop this here thing; but you better let the skipper have his little joke, for ’twill on’y s’prise him, an’ it won’t do nobody else no hurt. Here’s this fool,’ thinks I, ‘wantin’ a wife;258an’ he won’t never have another chance. An’ here’s this maid,’ thinks I, ‘wantin’ a baby; an’shewon’t never have another chance. ’Tis plain t’ see,’ thinks I, ‘that God A’mighty, who made un, crossed their courses; an’ I ’low, ecod!’ thinks I, ‘that ’twasn’t a bad idea He had. If He’s got to get out of it somehow,’ thinks I, ‘why,Idon’t know no better way. Tumm,’ thinks I, ‘you sheer off. Let Nature,’ thinks I, ‘have course an’ be glorified.’ So I looks Liz in the eye––an’ says nothin’.
“‘Tumm,’ says she, ‘doth you think he––’
“‘Don’t you be scared o’ nothin’,’ says I. ‘He’s a lad o’ good feelin’s,’ says I, ‘an’ he’ll treat you the best he knows how. Is you goin’ t’ take un?’
“‘I wathn’t thinkin’ o’ that,’ says she. ‘I wathn’t thinkin’ o’not. I wath jutht,’ says she, ‘wonderin’.’
“‘They isn’t no sense in that, Liz,’ says I. ‘You just wait an’ find out.’
“‘What’th hith name?’ says she.
“‘Shoos,’ says I. ‘Moses Shoos.’
“With that she up with her pinny an’ begun t’ cry like a young swile.
“‘What you cryin’ for, Liz?’ says I.
“I ’low I couldn’t tell what ’twas all about. But she was like all the women. Lord! ’tis the little things that makes un weep when it comes t’ the weddin’.
“‘Come, Liz,’ says I, ‘what you cryin’ about?’
“‘I lithp,’ says she.
“‘I knows you does, Liz,’ says I; ‘but it ain’t nothin’ t’ cry about.’
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“‘I can’t say Joneth,’ says she.
“‘No,’ says I; ‘but you’ll be changin’ your name,’ says I, ‘an’ it won’t matter no more.’
“‘An’ if I can’t say Joneth,’ says she, ‘I can’t thay––’
“‘Can’t say what?’ says I.
“‘Can’t thay Thooth!’ says she.
“Lord! No more she could. An’ t’ say Moses Shoos! An’ t’ say Mrs. Moses Shoos! Lord! It give me a pain in the tongue t’ think of it.
“‘Jutht my luck,’ says she; ‘but I’ll do my betht.’
“So we went back an’ told poor Moses Shoos that he didn’t have t’ worry no more about gettin’ a wife; an’ he said he was more glad than sorry, an’, says he, she’d better get her bonnet, t’ go aboard an’ get married right away. An’ she ’lowed she didn’t want no bonnet, butwouldlike to change her pinny. So we said we’d as lief wait a spell, though a clean pinny wasn’tneeded. An’ when she got back, the cook said he ’lowed the skipper could marry un well enough ’til we overhauled a real parson; an’ she thought so, too, for, says she, ’twouldn’t be longer than a fortnight, an’anysort of a weddin’, says she, would do ’til then. An’ aboard we went, the cook an’ me pullin’ the punt, an’ she steerin’; an’ the cook he crowed an’ cackled all the way, like a half-witted rooster; but the maid didn’t even cluck, for she was too wonderful solemn t’ do anything but look at the moon.
“‘Skipper,’ said the cook, when we got in the fo’c’s’le, ‘here she is.Iisn’t afeared,’ says he, ‘an’sheisn’t afeared; an’ now I ’lows we’ll have you marry us.’
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“Up jumps the skipper; but he was too much s’prised t’ say a word.
“‘An’ I’m thinkin’,’ says the cook, with a nasty little wink, such as never I seed afore get into the eyes o’ Moses Shoos, ‘that they isn’t a man in this here fo’c’s’le,’ says he, ‘willsayI’m afeared.’
“‘Cook,’ says the skipper, takin’ the cook’s hand, ‘shake! I never knowed a man like you afore,’ says he. ‘T’ my knowledge, you’re the on’y man in the Labrador fleet would do it. I’m proud,’ says he, ‘t’ take the hand o’ the man with nerve enough t’ marry Walrus Liz o’ Whoopin’ Harbor.’
“But ’twas a new Moses he had t’ deal with. The devil got in the fool’s eyes––a jumpin’ little brimstone devil, ecod! I never knowed the man could look that way.
“‘Ay, lad,’ says the skipper, ‘I’m proud t’ know the man that isn’t afeared o’ Walrus––’
“‘Don’t you call her that!’ says the cook. ‘Don’t you do it, skipper!’
“I was lookin’ at Liz. She was grinnin’ in a holy sort o’ way. Never seed nothin’ like that afore––no, lads, not in all my life.
“‘An’ why not, cook?’ says the skipper.
“‘It ain’t her name,’ says the cook.
“‘It ain’t?’ says the skipper. ‘But I been sailin’ the Labrador for twenty year,’ says he, ‘an’ I ’ain’t never heared her called nothin’ but Walrus––’
“‘Don’t you do it, skipper!’
“The devil got into the cook’s hands then. I seed261his fingers clawin’ the air in a hungry sort o’ way. An’ it looked t’ me like squally weather for the skipper.
“‘Don’t you do it no more, skipper,’ says the cook. ‘I isn’t got no wits,’ says he, an’ I’m feelin’ wonderful queer!’
“The skipper took a look ahead into the cook’s eyes. ‘Well, cook,’ says he, ‘I ’low,’ says he, ‘I won’t.’
“Liz laughed––an’ got close t’ the fool from Twist Tickle. An’ I seed her touch his coat-tail, like as if she loved it, but didn’t dast do no more.
“‘What you two goin’ t’ do?’ says the skipper.
“‘We ’lowed you’d marry us,’ says the cook, ‘’til we come across a parson.’
“‘I will,’ says the skipper. ‘Stand up here,’ says he. ‘All hands stand up!’ says he. ‘Tumm,’ says he, ‘get me the first Book you comes across.’
“I got un a Book.
“‘Now, Liz,’ says he, ‘can you cook?’
“‘Fair t’ middlin’,’ says she. ‘I won’t lie.’
“’Twill do,’ says he. ‘An’ does you want t’ get married t’ this here dam’ fool?’
“‘An it pleathe you,’ says she.
“‘Shoos,’ says the skipper, ‘will you let this woman do the cookin’?’
“‘Well, skipper,’ says the cook, ‘I will; for I don’t want nobody t’ die o’ my cookin’ on this here v’y’ge, an’ Iknowsthat mother wouldn’t mind.’
“‘An’ will you keep out o’ the galley?’
“‘I ’low I’llhaveto.’
“‘An’ look you! cook, is you sure––is yousure,’ says262the skipper, with a shudder, lookin’ at the roof, ‘that you wants t’ marry this here––’
“‘Don’t you do it, skipper!’ says the cook. ‘Don’t you say that no more! By the Lord!’ says he, ‘I’ll kill you if you does!’
“‘Is you sure,’ says the skipper, ‘that you wants t’ marry this here––woman?’
“‘I will.’
“‘Well,’ says the skipper, kissin’ the Book, ‘I ’low me an’ the crew don’t care; an’ we can’t help it, anyhow.’
“‘What about mother’s ring?’ says the cook. ‘She might’s well have that,’ says he, ‘if she’s careful about the wear an’ tear. For joolery,’ says he t’ Liz, ‘don’t stand it.’
“‘It can’t do no harm,’ says the skipper.
“‘Ith we married, thkipper?’ says Liz, when she got the ring on.
“‘Well,’ says the skipper, ‘I ’low that knot’ll hold ’til we puts into Twist Tickle, where Parson Stump can mend it, right under my eye. For,’ says he, ‘I got a rope’s-end an’ a belayin’-pin t’makeit hold,’ says he, ‘’til we gets ’longside o’someparson that knows more about matrimonial knots ’n me. We’ll pick up your goods, Liz,’ says he, ‘on the s’uthard v’y’ge. An’ I hopes, ol’ girl,’ says he, ‘that you’ll be able t’ boil the water ’ithout burnin’ it.’
“‘Ay, Liz,’ says the cook, ‘I been makin’ a awful fist o’ b’ilin’ the water o’ late.’
“She give him one look––an’ put her clean pinny to her eyes.
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“‘What you cryin’ about?’ says the cook.
“‘I don’t know,’ says she; ‘but I ’low ’tith becauthe now I knowth youitha fool!’
“‘She’s right, Tumm,’ says the cook. ‘She’s got it right! Bein’ born on Hollow-eve,’ says he, ‘I couldn’t be nothin’ else. But, Liz,’ says he, ‘I’m glad I got you, fool or no fool.’
“So she wiped her eyes, an’ blowed her nose, an’ give a little sniff, an’ looked up an’ smiled.
“‘I isn’t good enough for you,’ says the poor cook. ‘But, Liz,’ says he, ‘if you kissed me,’ says he, ‘I wouldn’t mind a bit. An’ they isn’t a man in this here fo’c’s’le,’ says he, lookin’ round, ‘that’ll say I’d mind. Not one,’ says he, with the little devil jumpin’ in his eyes.
“Then she stopped cryin’ for good.
“‘Go ahead, Liz!’ says he. ‘I ain’t afeared. Come on!’ says he. ‘Give us a kiss!’
“‘Motheth Thooth,’ says she, ‘you’re the firtht man ever athked me t’ give un a kith!’
“She kissed un. ’Twas like a pistol-shot. An’, Lord! her poor face was shinin’....”
In the cabin of theQuick as Winkwe listened to the wind as it scampered over the deck; and my uncle and I watched Tumm pick at the knot in the table.
“He don’tneedno sense,” said Tumm, looking up, at last; “for he’vehada mother, an’ he’vegota memory.”
’Twas very true, I thought.
264XXIIGATHERING WINDS
’Twas by advice of Sir Harry, with meet attention to the philosophy of Lord Chesterfield in respect to the particular accomplishments essential to one who would both please and rise in the world, that my uncle commanded the grand tour to further my education and to cure my twisted foot. “’Tis the last leg o’ the beat, lad;” he pleaded; “ye’ll be a gentleman, made t’ order, accordin’ t’ specifications, when ’tis over with; an’ I’ll be wonderful glad,” says he, wearily, “when ’tis done, for I’ll miss ye sore, lad––ecod! but I’ll miss ye sore.” Abroad, then, despite the gray warning, went John Cather and I, tutor and young gentleman, the twain not to be distinguished from a company of high birth. ’Twas a ghastly thing: ’twas a thing so unfit and grotesque that I flush to think of it––a thing, of all my uncle’s benefits, I wish undone and cannot to this day condone. But that implacable, most tender old ape, when he bade us God-speed on the wharf, standing with legs and staff triangularly disposed to steady him, rippled with pride and admiration to observe the genteel performance of our departure, and in the intervals of265mopping his red, sweaty, tearful countenance, exhibited, in unwitting caricature, the defiant consciousness of station he had with infinite pains sought to have me master.
“Made t’ order, lad,” says he, at last, when he took my hand, “accordin’ t’ the plans an’ specifications o’ them that knows, an’ quite regardless of expense.”
I patted him on the shoulder.
“I wisht,” says he, with a regretful wag, “that Tom Callaway could see ye now. You an’ your tooter! If on’y Tom Callawaycould! I bet ye ’twould perk un up a bit in the place he’s to! ’Twould go a long way towards distractin’ his mind,” says he, “from the fire an’ fumes they talks so much about in church.”
You will be good enough to believe, if you please, that there were sympathetic tears in my uncle’s eyes....
Upon this misguided mission we were gone abroad two years and a fortnight (deducting one day): and pursuing it we travelled far. And we came to magnificent cities, and beheld the places and things that are written of in books, and ate of curious foods, and observed many sorts of people and singular customs, and fell in with strange companions, and sojourned in many houses; but from the spectacle of the world I caught no delight, nor won a lesson, nor gained in anything, save, it may be, in knowledge of the book of my own heart. As we went our way in new paths, my mind dwelt continually with Judith, whom I loved; the vision of her face, wistful and most fair in the mirage of Twist266Tickle, and the illusion of her voice, whispering from the vacant world, were the realities of these wanderings––the people and palaces a fantasy. Of this I said nothing to John Cather, who was himself cast down by some obscure ailment of the spirit, so that I would not add to his melancholy with my love-sickness, but rather sought by cheerful behavior to mitigate the circumstances of his sighs, which I managed not at all. And having journeyed far in this unhappy wise, we came again to the spacious sea and sky and clean air of Twist Tickle, where Judith was with my uncle on the neck of land by the Lost Soul, and the world returned to its familiar guise of coast and ocean and free winds, and theShining Light, once more scraped and refitted against the contingencies of my presence, awaited the ultimate event in the placid waters of Old Wives’ Cove....
Judith was grown to womanly age and ways and perfected in every maidenly attraction. When she came shyly from the shadows of the house into the glowing sunset and spring weather of our landing, I stopped, amazed, in the gravelled walk of our garden, because of the incredible beauty of the maid, now first revealed in bloom, and because of her modesty, which was yet slyly aglint with coquetry, and because of the tender gravity of her years, disclosed in the first poignant search of the soul I had brought back from my long journeying. I thought, I recall, at the moment of our meeting, that laboring in a mood of highest exaltation267God had of the common clay fashioned a glory of person unsuspected of the eager, evil world out of which I had come: I rejoiced, I know, that He had in this bleak remoteness hidden it from the eyes of the world. I fancied as she came––’twas all in a flash––that into this rare creation He had breathed a spirit harmonious with the afflatus of its conception. And being thus overcome and preoccupied, I left the maid’s coy lips escape me, but kissed her long, slender-fingered hand, which she withdrew, at once, to give to John Cather, who was most warm and voluble in greeting. I was by this hurt; but John Cather was differently affected: it seemed he did not care. He must be off to the hills, says he, and he must go alone, instantly, at the peril of his composure, to dwell with his mind, says he, upon the thoughts that most elevated and gratified him. I watched him off upon the Whisper Cove road with improper satisfaction, for, thinks I, most ungenerously, I might now, without the embarrassment of his presence, which she had hitherto rejected, possess Judith’s lips; but the maid was shy and perverse, and would have none of it, apprising me sweetly of her determination.
By this I was again offended.
“Judy,” says my uncle, when we were within, “fetch the bottle. Fetch the bottle, maid!” cries he; “for ’tis surely an occasion.”
Judith went to the pantry.
“Dannie,” my uncle inquired, leaning eagerly close when she was gone from the room, “is ye been good?”
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’Twas a question put in anxious doubt: I hesitated––wondering whether or not I had been good.
“Isn’t ye?” says he. “Ye’ll tellme, won’t ye? I’ll love ye none the less for the evil ye’ve done.”
Still I could not answer.
“I’ve been wantin’ t’ know,” says he, his three-fingered fist softly beating the table, shaking in an intense agitation of suspense. “I’ve been waitin’ an’ waitin’ for months––jus’ t’ hear ye say!”
I was conscious of no evil accomplished.
“Ye’ve a eye, Dannie!” says he.
I exposed my soul.
“That’s good,” says he, emphatically; “that’s very good. I ’low I’ve fetched ye up very well.”
Judith came with the bottle and little brown jug: she had displaced me from this occupation.
“O’ course,” says my uncle, in somewhat doubtful and ungenerous invitation, “ye’ll be havin’ a little darn ol’ rum with a ol’ shipmate. Ye’ve doubtless learned manners abroad,” says he.
’Twas a delight to hear the fond fellow tempt me against his will: I smiled.
“Jus’ a little darn, Dannie,” he repeated, but in no convivial way. “Jus’ a little nip––with a ol’ shipmate?”
I laughed most heartily to see Judith’s sisterly concern for me.
“A wee drop?” my uncle insisted, more confidently.
“I’m not used to it, sir,” says I.
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“That’s good,” he declared; “that’s very good. Give the devil his due, Dannie: I’ve fetched ye up very well.”
’Twas with delight he challenged a disputation....
After this ceremony I sat with Judith on the peak of the Lost Soul. My uncle paced the gravelled walk, in the gathering dusk below, whence, by an ancient courtesy, he might benignantly spy upon the love-making. We were definite against the lingering twilight: I smiled to catch the old man pausing in the path with legs spread wide and glowing face upturned. But I had no smile for the maid, poor child! nor any word to say, save only to express a tenderness it seemed she would not hear. ’Twas very still in the world: there was no wind stirring, no ripple upon the darkening water, no step on the roads, no creak of oar-withe, no call or cry or laugh of humankind, no echo anywhere; and the sunset clouds trooped up from the rim of the sea with ominous stealth, throwing off their garments of light as they came, advancing, grim and gray, upon the shadowy coast. Across the droch, lifted high above the maid and me, his slender figure black against the pale-green sky, stood John Cather on the brink of Tom Tulk’s cliff, with arms extended in some ecstasy to the smouldering western fire. A star twinkled serenely in the depths of space beyond, seeming, in the mystery of that time, to be set above his forehead; and I was pleased to fancy, I recall, that ’twas a symbol and omen of his nobility. Thus the maid and I: thus we four folk, who played270the simple comedy––unknowing, every one, in the departing twilight of that day.
I reproached the maid. “Judith,” says I, “you’ve little enough, it seems, to say to me.”
“There is nothing,” she murmured, “for a maid to say.”
“There is much,” I chided, “for a man to hear.”
“Never a word, Dannie, lad,” she repeated, “that a maid may tell.”
I turned away.
“There is a word,” says she, her voice fallen low and very sweet, soft as the evening light about us, “that a lad might speak.”
“And what’s that, Judith?”
“’Tis a riddle,” she answered; “and I fear, poor child!” says she, compassionately, “that you’ll find it hard to rede.”
’Twas unkind, I thought, to play with me.
“Ah, Dannie, child!” she sighed, a bit wounded and rebuffed, it seems to me now, for she smiled in a way more sad and tenderly reproachful than anything, as she looked away, in a muse, to the fading colors in the west. “Ah, Dannie,” she repeated, her face grown grave and wistful, “you’ve come back the same as you went away. Ye’ve come back,” says she, with a brief little chuckle of gratification, “jus’ the same!”
I thrust out my foot: she would not look at it.
“The self-same Dannie,” says she, her eyes steadfastly averted.
“I’venot!” I cried, indignantly. That the maid271should so flout my new, proud walk! ’Twas a bitter reward: I remembered the long agony I had suffered to please her. “I’venotcome back the same,” says I. “I’ve come back changed. Have you not seen my foot?” I demanded. “Look, maid!” I beat the rock in a passion with that new foot of mine––straight and sound and capable for labor as the feet of other men. It had all been done for her––all borne to win the love I had thought withheld, or stopped from fullest giving, because of this miserable deformity. A maid is a maid, I had known––won as maids are won. “Look at it!” cries I. “Is it the same as it was? Is it crooked any more? Is it the foot of a man or a cripple?” She would not look: but smiled into my eyes––with a mist of tears gathering within her own. “No,” I complained; “you will not look. You would not look when I walked up the path. I wanted you to look; but you would not. You would not look when I put my foot on the table before your very eyes. My uncle looked, and praised me; but you would not look.” ’Twas a frenzy of indignation I had worked myself into by this time. I could not see, any more, the silent glow of sunset color, the brooding shadows, the rising masses of cloud, darkening as they came: I have, indeed, forgotten, and strangely so, the appearance of sea and sky at that moment. “You would not look,” I accused the maid, “when I leaped the brook. I leaped the brook as other men may leap it; but you would not look. You would not look when I climbed the hill. Who helped you up the Lost Soul turn? Was it I? Never before did I do272it. All my life I have crawled that path. Was it the club-footed young whelp who helped you?” I demanded. “Was it that crawling, staggering, limping travesty of the strength of men? But you do not care,” I complained. “You do not care about my foot at all! Oh, Judith,” I wailed, in uttermost agony, “you do not care!”
I knew, then, looking far away into the sea and cloud of the world, that the night was near.
“No,” says she.
“Judith!” I implored. “Judith ... Judith!”
“No,” says she, “I cannot care.”
“Justsayyou do,” I pleaded, “to save me pain.”
“I will not tell you otherwise.”
I was near enough to feel her tremble––to see her red lips draw away, in stern conviction, from her white little teeth.
“You do not care?” I asked her.
“I do not care.”
’Twas a shock to hear the words repeated. “Not care!” I cried out.
“I do not care,” says she, turning, all at once, from the sullen crimson of the sky, to reproach me. “Why should I care?” she demanded. “I have never cared––never cared––about your foot!”
I should have adored her for this: but did not know enough.
“Come!” says she, rising; “there is no sunset now. ’Tis all over with. The clouds have lost their glory. There is nothing to see. Oh, Dannie, lad,” says273she––“Dannie, boy, there is nothing here to see! We must go home.”
I was cast down.
“No glory in the world!” says she.
“No light,” I sighed; “no light, at all, Judith, in this gloomy place.”
And we went home....
For twelve days after that, while the skirt of winter still trailed the world, the days being drear and gray, with ice at sea and cold rain falling upon the hills, John Cather kept watch on Judith and me. ’Twas a close and anxiously keen surveillance. ’Twas, indeed, unremitting and most daring, by night and day: ’twas a staring and peering and sly spying, ’twas a lurking, ’twas a shy, not unfriendly, eavesdropping, an observation without enmity or selfish purpose, ceasing not at all, however, upon either, and most poignant when the maid and I were left together, alone, as the wretched man must have known, in the field of sudden junctures of feeling. I remember his eyes––dark eyes, inquiring in a kindly way––staring from the alders of the Whisper Cove road, from the dripping hills, from the shadowy places of our house: forever in anxious question upon us. By this I was troubled, until, presently, I divined the cause: the man was disquieted, thinks I, to observe my happiness gone awry, but would not intrude even so much as a finger upon the tangle of the lives of the maid and me, because of the delicacy of his nature and breeding. ’Twas apparent, too, that he was ill: he274would go white and red without cause, and did mope or overflow with a feverish jollity, and would improperly overfeed at table or starve his emaciating body. But after a time, when he had watched us narrowly to his heart’s content, he recovered his health and amiability, and was the same as he had been. Judith and I were then cold and distant in behavior with each other, but unfailing in politeness: ’twas now a settled attitude, preserved by each towards the other, and betraying no feeling of any sort whatever.
“John Cather,” says I, “you’ve been ill.”
He laughed. “You are a dull fellow!” says he, in his light way. “’Tis the penalty of honesty, I suppose; and nature has fined you heavily. I have not been ill: I have been troubled.”
“By what, John Cather?”
“I fancied,” he answered, putting his hands on my shoulders, very gravely regarding me as he spoke, “that I must sacrifice my hope. ’Twas a hope I had long cherished, Dannie, and was become like life to me.” His voice was fallen deep and vibrant and soft; and the feeling with which it trembled, and the light in the man’s eyes, and the noble poise of his head, and the dramatic arrangement of his sentences, so affected me that I must look away. “Miserable necessity!” says he. “A drear prospect! And with no more than a sigh to ease the wretched fate! And yet,” says he, quite heartily, “the thing had a pretty look to it. Really, a beautiful look. There was a fine reward. A good deed carries it. Always remember that, Dannie––and275remember that I told you. There was a fine reward. No encouragement of applause, Dannie––just a long sigh in secret: then a grim age of self-command. By jove! but there was a splendid compensation. A compensation within myself, I mean––a recollection of at least one heroically unselfish act. There would have been pain, of course; but I should never have forgotten that I had played a man’s part––better than a man’s part: a hero’s part, a god’s part. And that might have been sufficiently comforting: I do not know––perhaps. I’ll tell you about it, Dannie: the thing was to have been done,” he explained, in sincere emotion, every false appearance gone from him, “for whom, do you think?”
I did not know.
“For a friend,” says he.
“But John Cather,” says I, “’twas too much to require of you.”
His eyes twinkled.
“You’ve no trouble now, have you?” I asked.
“Not I!” cries he. “I have read a new fortune for myself. Trouble? Not I! I am very happy, Dannie.”
“That’s good,” says I; “that’s very good!”