305XXVTO SEA
Judith had vanished! Our maid-servant, astir in the child’s behalf before dawn, in her anxious way, was returned breathless from Whisper Cove with the report. There was no Judith with the wife of Moses Shoos: nor had there been that night. ’Twas still but gray abroad––a drear dawn: promising a belated, sullen day. We awoke the harbor to search the hills, the ledges of the cliffs, the surf-washed shore. ’Twas my uncle hither, the maid-servant thither, myself beyond. Clamorous knocking, sudden lights in the cottages, lights pale in the murky daylight, and a subdued gathering of our kind men-folk: I remember it all––the winged haste, the fright of them that were aroused, the shadows and the stumbling of the farther roads, the sickly, sleepy lights in the windows, the troubled dawn. We dispersed: day broadened, broke gray and glum upon Twin Islands––but discovered no lost maid to us.
’Twas whispered about, soon, that the women had spoken evil of Judith in our harbor; and pursuing this ill-omened rumor, in a rage I could not command, I came at last upon the shameful truth: the women had306spoken scandal of the maid, the which she had learned from Aunt Esther All, the Whisper Cove gossip. The misfortune of gentle Parson Stump, poor man! who had in the ear of Eli Flack’s wife uttered a sweetly jocular word concerning Judith and the honorable intention of John Cather, who walked with her alone on the roads, about his love-making. But, unhappily, the parson being absent-minded, ’twas into the dame’s deaf ear he spoke, and his humor became, in transmission, by pure misfortune, an evil charge.
There was then no help for it, old wives being what they are: authorized by the gentle parson, depending upon the report of a dame of character, the tittle-tattle spread and settled like a mist, defiling Judith to the remotest coves of Twin Islands. And Judith was vanished! I knew then, in the gray noon of that day, why the child had cried in that leafy nook of the Whisper Cove road that she could go nowhere.
I cursed myself.
“Stop, Dannie!” cries my uncle. “She’s still on the hills––somewheres there, waitin’ t’ be sought out an’ comforted an’ fetched home.”
I thought otherwise.
“She’ve lied down there,” says he, “t’ cry an’ wait for me an’ you.”
I watched him pace the garden-path.
“An’ I’m not able, the day, for sheer want o’ rum,” he muttered, “t’ walk the hills.”
I looked away to the sombre hills, where she might lie waiting for him and me; but my glance ran far beyond,307to the low, gray sky and to a patch of darkening sea. And I cursed myself again––my stupidity and ease of passion and the mean conceit of myself by which I had been misled to the falsely meek conclusion of yesterday––I cursed myself, indeed, with a live wish for punishment, in that I had not succored the maid when she had so frankly plead for my strength. John Cather? what right had I to think that she had loved him? On the hills? nay, she was not there; she was not on the hills, waiting for my uncle and me––she was gone elsewhere, conserving her independence and self-respect, in the womanly way she had. My uncle fancied she was a clinging child: I knew her for a proud and impulsively wilful woman. With this gossip abroad to flout her, she would never wait on the hills for my uncle and me: ’twas the ultimate pain she could not bear in the presence of such as loved and trusted her; ’twas the event she had feared, remembering her mother, all her life long, dwelling in sensitive dread, as I knew. She would flee the shame of this accusation, without fear or lingering, unable to call upon the faith of us. ’Twas gathering in my mind that she had fled north, as the maids of our land would do, in the spring, with the Labrador fleet bound down for the fishing. ’Twas a reasonable purpose to possess her aimless feet. She would ship on a Labradorman: she might, for the wishing––she would go cook on a north-bound craft from Topmast Harbor, as many a maid of our coast was doing. And by Heaven! thinks I, she had.
Her mother’s punt was gone from Whisper Cove.
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“She’ve lied down there on the hills,” my uncle protested, “t’ cry an’ wait. Ye’re not searchin’, Dannie, as ye ought. She’vejus’lied down, I tell ye,” he whimpered, “t’ wait.”
’Twas not so, I thought.
“She’ve her mother’s shame come upon her,” says he, “an’ she’ve hid.”
I wished it might be so.
“Jus’ lied down an’ hid,” he repeated.
“No, no!” says I. “She’d never weakly hide her head from this.”
He eyed me.
“Not Judith!” I expostulated.
“She’d never bear her mother’s shame, Dannie,” says he. “She’d run away an’ hide. She––she––toldme so.”
I observed my uncle: he was gone with the need of rum––exhausted and unnerved: his face all pallid and splotched. ’Twas a ghastly thing to watch him stump the gravelled walk of our garden in the gray light of that day.
“Uncle Nicholas, sir,” says I, for the moment forgetting the woe of Judith’s hapless state in this new alarm, “do you come within an’ have a dram.”
“Ye’re not knowin’howt’ search,” he complained. “Ye’re but a pack o’ dunderheads!”
“Come, sir!” I pleaded.
“Is ye been t’ Skeleton Droch?” he demanded. “She’ve a habit o’ readin’ there. No!” he growled, in a temper; “you isn’t had thesenset’ go t’ Skeleton Droch.”
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“A dram, sir,” I ventured, “t’ comfort you.”
“An’ ye bide here, ye dunderhead!” he accused.
I put my hand on his shoulder: he flung it off. I took his arm: he wrenched himself free in an indignant passion.
“Ye’re needin’ it, sir,” says I.
“For God’s sake, child!” he cried; “do you go find the maid an’ leave me be. God knows I’ve trouble enough without ye!”
The maid was not at Skeleton Droch: neither on the hills, nor in the hiding-places of the valleys, nor lying broken on the ledges of the cliffs, nor swinging in the sea beneath––nor was she anywhere on the land of Twin Islands or in the waters that restlessly washed the boundary of gray rock. ’Twas near evening now, and a dreary, angrily windy time. Our men gathered from shore and inland barren––and there was no Judith, nor cold, wet body of Judith, anywhere to be found. ’Twas unthinkingly whispered, then, that the maid had fled with John Cather on the mail-boat: this on Tom Tulk’s Head, in its beginning, and swiftly passed from tongue to tongue. Being overwrought when I caught the surmise––’twas lusty young Jack Bluff that uttered it before me––I persuaded the youth of his error, which, upon rising, he admitted, as did they all of that group, upon my request, forgiving me, too, I think, the cruel abruptness of my argument, being men of feeling, every one. The maid was not gone with John Cather, she was not on the hills of Twin Islands; she was then fled to Topmast Harbor for self-support, that larger310settlement, whence many Labradormen put out at this season for the northerly fishing. And while, sheltered from the rising wind, the kind men-folk of our harbor talked with my uncle and me on Eli Flack’s stage, there came into the tickle from Topmast Harbor, in quest of water, a punt and a man, being bound, I think, for Jimmie Tick’s Cove. ’Twas by him reported that a maid of gentle breeding had come alone in a punt to Topmast in the night. And her hair? says I. She had hair, and a wonderful sight of it, says he. And big, blue eyes? says I. Shehadeyes, says he; an’ she had a nose, so far as he could tell, which had clapped eyes on the maid, an’ she had teeth an’ feet, himself being able to vouch for the feet, which clipped it over the Topmast roads quite lively, soon after dawn, in search of a schooner bound down the Labrador.
I knew then into what service theShining Lightshould be commissioned.
“Ay, lad,” says my uncle.
“And will you ship, sir?”
“Why, Lord love us, shipmate!” he roared, indignantly, to the amazement of our folk; “is ye thinkin’ I’m past my labor?”
I nodded towards Whisper Cove.
“The man,” he agreed.
It came about thus that I sought out Moses Shoos, wishing for him upon this high adventure because of his chivalry. Nay, but in Twist Tickle, whatever the strength and courage and kindliness of our folk, there was no man so to be desired in a crucial emergency.311The fool of the place was beyond purchase, beyond beseeching: kept apart by his folly from every unworthy motive to action. He was a man of pure leading, following a voice, a vision: I would have him upon this sacred adventure in search of the maid I loved. ’Twas no mean errand, no service to be paid for; ’twas a high calling––a ringing summons, it seemed to me, to perilous undertakings, rewarded by opportunity for peril in service of a fond, righteous cause. Nay, but I would have this unspoiled fool: I would have for companion the man who put his faith in visions, could I but win him. I believed in visions––in the deep, limpid, mysterious springs of conduct. I believed in visions––in the unreasoning progress, an advance in the way of life not calculated, but made in unselfish faith, with eyes lifted up from the vulgar, swarming, assailing advantages of existence. My uncle and the fool and I! there was no peril upon the sea to daunt us: we would find and fetch, to her own place, in perfect honor, the maid I loved. And of all this I thought, whatever the worth of it, as I ran upon the Whisper Cove road, in the evening of that gray, blustering day.
Moses was within.
“Here you is,” he drawled. “I ’lowed you’d come. How’s the weather?”
“’Twill blow big guns, Moses,” I answered; “and I’ll not deceive you.”
“Well, well!” he sighed.
And would he go with us?
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“I been waitin’ for you, Dannie,” says he. “I been sittin’ here in the kitchen––waitin’.”
’Twas a hopeful word.
“If mother was here,” he continued, “she’d have ’lowed I’d better wait. ‘You wait for Dannie,’ mother would have ’lowed, ‘until he comes.’ An’ so Ibeenwaitin’.”
Well, there I was.
“That was on’y mother,” he added; “an’, o’ course, I’m married now.”
Walrus Liz of the Labrador came in. I rose––and was pleasantly greeted. She sat, then, and effaced herself.
“Mrs. Moses Shoos,” says Moses, with a fond look upon that woman of ill-favor and infinite tenderness, “haves jus’gott’ be consulted.”
I was grown hopeless––remembering Tumm’s story of the babies.
“In a case like this,” Moses confided, “mother always ’lowed a manoughtto.”
“But your wife?” I demanded.
“Oh, my goodness, Dannie!” cries he. “For shame!”
“Tell me quickly, Moses.”
“Mrs. Moses Shoos,” he answered, with gravest dignity, “always’lows, agreein’ with me––thatmotherknowed!”
’Twas in this way that Moses Shoos shipped on theShining Light....
Shortly now, by an arrangement long made and persistently continued, we had theShining Lightready for313sea––provisioned, her water-casks full. I ran through the house upon a last survey; and I found my uncle at the pantry door, his bag on his back, peering into the dark interior of the little room, in a way most melancholy and desirous, upon the long row of bottles of rum. He sighed, closed the door with scowling impatience, and stumped off to board the ship: I was not heroic, but subtracted one from that long row, and stowed it away in a bag I carried. We dropped the anchor of theShining Light, and beat out, through the tickle, to the wide, menacing sea, with the night coming down and a gale of wind blowing lustily up from the gray northeast. ’Twas thus not in flight theShining Lightcontinued her cruise, ’twas in pursuit of the maid I loved: a thing infinitely more anxious and momentous––a thing that meant more than life or death to me, with the maid gone as cook on a Labrador craft. ’Twas sunset time; but there was no sunset––no fire in the western sky: no glow or effulgent glory or lurid threat. The whole world was gone a dreary gray, with the blackness of night descending: a darkening zenith, a gray horizon lined with cold, black cloud, a coast without tender mercy for the ships of men, a black sea roughening in a rage to the northeast blasts. ’Twas all hopeless and pitiless: an unfeeling sea, but troubled, it seemed to me, by depths of woe and purpose and difficulty we cannot understand. We were bound for Topmast Harbor, on a wind favorable enough for courageous hearts; and my uncle had the wheel, and the fool of Twist Tickle and I kept the deck to serve him.314He did not call upon us to shorten sail, in answer to the old schooner’s complaint; and I was glad that he did not, as was the fool also....
’Twas night when we put into Topmast Harbor; but my uncle and the fool and I awoke the place without regard for its way-harbor importance or number of houses. There was no maid there, said they; there had been a maid, come at dawn, but she was fortunately shipped, as she wished to be. What maid was that? They did not know. Was she a slender, tawny-haired, blue-eyed, most beauteous maid? They did but sleepily stare. I found a man, awakened from sound slumber, who remembered: ay, there was a maid of that description, who had shipped for cook on theLikely Lass. And whence theLikely Lass? Bonavist’ Bay, says he, put in for rest: a seventy-tonner, put out on the favoring wind. And was there another woman aboard? Ecod! he did not know: ’twas a craft likely enough for any maid, other woman aboard or not. And so we set out again, in the night, dodging the rocks of that tickle, by my uncle’s recollection, and presently found ourselves bound north, in search of theLikely Lass, towards a sea that was bitter with cold and dark and wind, aboard a schooner that was far past the labor of dealing with gusts and great waves.
And in the night it came on to blow very hard from the east, with a freezing sleet, which yet grew colder, until snow mixed with it, and at last came in stifling315clouds. It blew harder: we drove on, submerged in racing froth to the hatches, sheathed in ice, riding on a beam, but my uncle, at the wheel, standing a-drip, in cloth of ice, as long ago he had stood, in the first of the cruise of theShining Light, would have no sail off the craft, but humored her northward in chase of theLikely Lass. ’Twas a reeling, plunging, smothered progress through the breaking sea, in a ghostly mist of snow swirling in the timid yellow of our lights, shrouding us as if for death in the rush and seethe of that place. There was a rain of freezing spray upon us––a whipping rain of spray: it broke from the bows and swept past, stinging as it went. ’Twas as though the very night––the passion of it––congealed upon us. There was no reducing sail––not now, in this cold rage of weather. We were frozen stiff and white: ’twas on the course, with a clever, indulgent hand to lift us through, or ’twas founder in the crested waves that reached for us.
“Dannie!” my uncle shouted.
I sprang aft: but in the roar of wind and swish and thud of sea could not hear him.
“Put your ear close,” he roared.
I heard that; and I put my anxious ear close.
“I’m gettin’ kind o’ cold,” says he. “Is ye got a fire in the cabin?”
I had not.
“Get one,” says he.
I got a fire alight in the cabin. ’Twas a red, roaring fire. I called my uncle from the cabin door. The old316man gave the wheel to the fool and came below in a humor the most genial: he was grinning, indeed, under the crust of ice upon his beard; and he was rubbing his stiff hands in delight. He was fair happy to be abroad in the wind and sea with theShining Lightunderfoot.
“Ye got it warm in here,” says he.
“I got more than that, sir,” says I. “I got a thing to please you.”
Whereupon I fetched the bottle of rum from my bag.
“Rum!” cries he. “Well, well!”
I opened the bottle of rum.
“Afore ye pours,” he began, “I ’low I’d best––God’s sake! What’s that?”
’Twas a great sea breaking over us.
“Moses!” my uncle hailed.
The schooner was on her course: the fool had clung to the wheel.
“Ice in that sea, Dannie,” says my uncle. “An’ ye got a bottle o’ rum! Well, well! Wonderful sight o’ ice t’ the nor’ard. Ye’ll find, I bet ye, that the fishin’ fleet is cotched fast somewheres long about the straits. An’ a bottle o’ rum for a cold night! Well, well! I bet ye, Dannie,” says he, “that theLikely Lassis gripped by this time. An’ ye got a bottle o’ rum!” cries he, in a beaming fidget. “Rum’s a wonderful thing on a cold night, lad. Nothin’ like it. I’ve tried it. Was a time,” he confided, “when I was sort o’ give t’ usin’ of it.”
I made to pour him a dram.
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“Leave me hold that there bottle,” says he. “I wants t’ smell of it.”
’Twas an eager sniff.
“’Tisrum,” says he, simply.
I raised the bottle above the glass.
“Come t’ think of it, Dannie,” says he, with a wistful little smile, “that there bottle o’ rum will do more good where you had it than where I’d put it.”
I corked the bottle and returned it to my bag.
“That’s good,” he sighed; “that’s very good!”
I made him a cup o’ tea....
When I got the wheel, with Moses Shoos forward and my uncle gone asleep below, ’twas near dawn. We were under reasonable sail, running blindly through the night: there were no heroics of carrying-on––my uncle was not the man to bear them. But we were frozen stiff––every block and rope of us. And ’twas then blowing up with angrier intention; and ’twas dark and very cold, I recall––and the air was thick with the dust of snow, so that ’twas hard to breathe. Congealing drops of spray came like bullets: I recall that they hurt me. I recall, too, that I was presently frozen to the deck, and that my mitts were stuck to the wheel––that I became fixed and heavy. The old craft had lost her buoyant will: she labored through the shadowy, ghostly crested seas, in a fashion the most weary and hopeless. I fancied I knew why: I fancied, indeed, that she had come close to her last harbor. And of this I soon made sure: I felt of her, just before the break of day, discovering, but with no selfish perturbation, that she was318exhausted. I felt of her tired plunges, of the stagger of her, of her failing strength and will; and I perceived––by way of the wheel in my understanding hands––that she would be glad to abandon this unequal struggle of the eternal youth of the sea against her age and mortality. And the day broke; and with the gray light came the fool of Twist Tickle over the deck. ’Twas a sinister dawn: no land in sight––but a waste of raging sea to view––and the ship laden forward with a shameful burden of ice.
Moses spoke: I did not hear him in the wind, because, I fancy, of the ice in my ear.
“Don’t hear ye!” I shouted.
“She’ve begun t’ leak!” he screamed.
I knew that she had.
“No use callin’ the skipper,” says he. “All froze up. Leave un sleep.”
I nodded.
“Goin’ down,” says he. “Knowed she would.”
My uncle came on deck: he was smiling––most placid, indeed.
“Well, well!” he shouted. “Day, eh?”
“Leakin’,” says Moses.
“Well, well!”
“Goin’ down,” Moses screamed.
“Knowed she would,” my uncle roared. “Can’t last long in this. What’s that?”
’Twas floe ice.
“Still water,” says he. “Leave me have that there wheel, Dannie. Go t’ sleep!”
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I would stand by him.
“Go t’ sleep!” he commanded. “I’ll wake ye afore she goes.”
I went to sleep: but the fool, I recall, beat me at it; he was in a moment snoring....
When I awoke ’twas broad day––’twas, indeed, late morning. TheShining Lightwas still. My uncle and the fool sat softly chatting over the cabin table, with breakfast and steaming tea between. I heard the roar of the wind, observed beyond the framing door the world aswirl and white; but I felt no laboring heave, caught no thud and swish of water. The gale, at any rate, had not abated: ’twas blowing higher and colder. My uncle gently laughed, when I was not yet all awake, and the fool laughed, too; and they ate their pork and brewis and sipped their tea with relish, as if abiding in security and ease. I would fall asleep again: but got the smell of breakfast in my nose, and must get up; and having gone on deck I found in the narrow, white-walled circle of the storm a little world of ice and writhing space. TheShining Lightwas gripped: her foremast was snapped, her sails hanging stiff and frozen; she was listed, bedraggled, incrusted with ice––drifted high with snow. ’Twas the end of the craft: I knew it. And I went below to my uncle and the fool, sad at heart because of this death, but wishing very much, indeed, for my breakfast. ’Twas very warm and peaceful in the cabin, with pork and brewis on the table, my uncle chuckling, the fire most cheerfully thriving. I could320hear the wind––the rage of it––but felt no stress of weather.
“Stove in, Dannie,” says my uncle. “She’ll sink when the ice goes abroad.”
I asked for my fork.
“Fill up,” my uncle cautioned. “Ye’ll need it afore we’re through.”
’Twas to this I made haste.
“More pork than brewis, lad,” he advised. “Pork takes more grindin’.”
I attacked the pork.
“I got your bag ready,” says he.
Then I had no cause to trouble....
’Twas deep night, the gale still blowing high with snow, when the wind changed. It ran to the north––shifted swiftly to the west. The ice-pack stirred: we felt the schooner shiver, heard the tumult of warning noises, as that gigantic, lethargic mass was aroused to unwilling motion by the lash of the west wind. The hull of theShining Lightcollapsed. ’Twas time to be off. I awoke the fool––who had still soundly slept. The fool would douse the cabin fire, in a seemly way, and put out the lights; but my uncle forbade him, having rather, said he, watch the old craft go down with a warm glow issuing from her. Presently she was gone, all the warmth and comfort and hope of the world expiring in her descent: there was no more aShining Light; and we three folk were cast away on a broad pan of ice, in the midst of night and driving snow. Of321the wood they had torn from the schooner against this time, the fool builded a fire, beside which we cowered from the wind; and soon, the snow failing and the night falling clear and starlit, points of flickering light appeared on the ice beyond us. There were three, I recall, diminishing in the distance; and I knew, then, what I should do in search of Judith when the day came. Three schooners cast away beyond us; one might be theLikely Lass: I would search for Judith, thinks I, when day came. ’Twas very long in coming, and ’twas most bitter cold and discouraging in its arrival: a thin, gray light, with no hopeful hue of dawn in the east––frosty, gray light, spreading reluctantly over the white field of the world to a black horizon. I wished, I recall, while I waited for broader day, that some warm color might appear to hearten us, some tint, however pale and transient, to recall the kindlier mood of earth to us; and there came, in answer to my wishing, a flush of rose in the east, which waxed and endured, spreading its message, but failed, like a lamp extinguished, leaving the world all sombre and inimical, as it had been.
I must now be off alone upon my search: my wooden-legged uncle could not travel the ice––nor must the fool abandon him.
“I ’lowed ye would, lad,” says he, “like any other gentleman.”
I bade them both good-bye.
“Three schooners cast away t’ the nor’ard,” says he. “I’m hopin’ ye’ll find theLikely Lass. Good-bye,322Dannie. I ’low I’ve fetched ye up very well. Good-bye, Dannie.”
I was moved away now: but halted, like a dog between two masters.
“Good-bye!” he shouted. “God bless ye, Dannie––God bless ye!”
I turned away.
“God bless ye!” came faintly after me.
That night I found Judith with the crew of theLikely Lass, sound asleep, her head lying, dear child! on the comfortable breast of the skipper’s wife. And she was very glad, she said, that I had come....
323XXVITHE DEVIL’S TEETH
’Twill not, by any one, be hard to recall that the great gale of that year, blowing unseasonably with snow, exhausted itself in three days, leaving the early birds of the Labrador fleet, whose northward flitting had been untimely, wrecked and dispersed upon the sea. In the reaction of still, blue weather we were picked up by the steamerFortune, a sealing-craft commissioned by the government for rescue when surmise of the disaster grew large; but we got no word of my uncle and the fool of Twist Tickle until the fore-and-afterEvery Timeput into St. John’s with her flag flying half-mast in the warm sunshine. ’Twas said that she had the bodies of men aboard: and ’twas a grewsome truth––and the corpses of women, too, and of children. She brought more than the dead to port: she brought the fool, and the living flesh and spirit of my uncle––the old man’s body ill-served by the cold, indeed, but his soul, at sight of me, springing into a blaze as warm and strong and cheerful as ever I had known. ’Twas all he needed, says he, t’ work a cure: the sight of a damned little grinnin’ Chesterfieldian young gentleman! Whatever324the actual effect of this genteel spectacle, my uncle was presently on his feet again, though continuing much broken in vigor; and when he was got somewhat stronger we set out for Twist Tickle, to which we came, three days later, returning in honor to our own place.
The folk were glad that we were all come back to them....
I loved Judith: I loved the maid with what exalted wish soul and body of me understood––conceiving her perfect in every grace and spiritual adornment: a maid lifted like a star above the hearts of the world. I considered my life, and counted it unworthy, as all lives must be before her: I considered my love, but found no spot upon it. I loved the maid: and was now grown to be a man, able, in years and strength and skill of mind and hand, to cherish her; and I would speak to her of this passion and dear hope, but must not, because of the mystery concerning me. There came, then, an evening when I sought my uncle out to question him; ’twas a hushed and compassionate hour, I recall, the sunset waxing glorious above the remotest sea, and the night creeping with gentle feet upon the world, to spread its soft blanket of shadows.
I remembered the gray stranger’s warning.
“Here I is, lad,” cries my uncle, with an effort at heartiness, which, indeed, had departed from him, and would not come again. “Here I is––havin’ a little dram o’ rum with Nature!”
’Twas a draught of salt air he meant.
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“Dannie,” says he, in overwhelming uneasiness, his voice become hoarse and tremulous, “ye got a thing on your mind!”
I found him very old and ill and hopeless; ’twas with a shock that the thing came home to me: the man was past all labor of the hands, got beyond all ships and winds and fishing––confronting, now, with an anxious heart, God knows! a future of dependence, for life and love, upon the lad he had nourished to the man that was I. I remembered, again, the warning of that gray personage who had said that my contempt would gather at this hour; and I thought, as then I had in boyish faith most truly believed, that I should never treat my uncle with unkindness. ’Twas very still and glowing and beneficent upon the sea; ’twas not an hour, thinks I, whatever the prophecy concerning it, for any pain to come upon us. My uncle was fallen back in a great chair, on a patch of greensward overlooking the sea, to which he had turned his face; and ’twas a kindly prospect that lay before his aged eyes––a sweep of softest ocean, walled with gentle, drifting cloud, wherein were the fool’s great Gates, wide open to the glory beyond.
“I’m wishing, sir,” said I, “to wed Judith.”
“’Tis a good hope,” he answered.
I saw his hand wander over the low table beside him: I knew what it sought––and that by his will and for my sake it must forever seek without satisfaction.
“Sir,” I implored, “I’ve no heart to ask her!”
He did not answer.
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“And you know why, sir,” I accused him. “You know why!”
“Dannie,” says he, “ye’ve wished for this hour.”
“And I am ready, sir.”
He drew then from his pocket a small Bible, much stained and wrinkled by water, which he put on the table between us. “Dannie, lad,” says he, “do ye now go t’ your own little room, where ye was used t’ lyin’, long ago, when ye was a little lad.” He lifted himself in the chair, turned upon me––his eyes frankly wet. “Do ye go there,” says he, “an’ kneel, like ye used t’ do in the days when ye was but a little child, an’ do ye say, once again, for my sake, Dannie, the twenty-third psa’m.”
I rose upon this holy errand.
“‘The Lord is my shepherd,’” my uncle repeated, looking away to the fool’s great Gates, “‘I shall not want.’”
That he should not.
“‘He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters.’”
And so it should be.
“Dannie,” my uncle burst out, flashing upon me with a twinkle, as when I was a lad, “I ’low I’ve fetched ye up very well: for say what ye will, ’twas a wonderful little anchor I give ye t’ hold to!”
I went then to the little bed where as a child I lay waiting for sleep to come bearing fairy dreams. ’Twas still and dusky in the room: the window, looking out327upon the wide, untroubled waters, was a square of glory; and the sea whispered melodiously below, as it had done long, long ago, when my uncle fended my childish heart from all the fears of night and day. I looked out upon the waste of sea and sky and rock, where the sombre wonder of the dusk was working, clouds in embers, cliffs and water turning to shadows; and I was comforted by this returning beauty. I repeated the twenty-third psalm, according to my teaching, reverently kneeling, as I was bid; and my heart responded, as it has never failed to do. I remembered: I remembered the windless dusks and fresh winds and black gales through which as a child I had here serenely gone to sleep because my uncle sat awake and watchful below. I remembered his concern and diffident caresses in the night when I had called to him to come: I remembered all that he had borne and done to provide the happiness and welfare he sought in loving patience to give the child he had. Once again, as when I was a child, the sea and sunset took my soul as a harp to stir with harmonious chords of faith; and I was not disquieted any more––nor in any way troubled concerning the disclosure of that black mystery in which I had thrived to this age of understanding. And ’twas in this mood––this grateful recollection of the multitudinous kindnesses of other years––that I got up from my knees to return to my uncle.
“Dannie,” says he, having been waiting, it seemed, to tell me this, first of all, “ye’ll remember––will ye not?––for your guidance an’ comfort, that ’tis not a tie328o’ blood betwixt you an’ ol’ Nick Top. He’s no kin t’ shame ye: he’s on’y a chance acquaintance.”
The tale began at the waning of the evening glory....
“Your father an’ me, lad,” said my uncle, “was shipmates aboard theWill-o’-the-Wispwhen she was cast away in a nor’east gale on the Devil’s Teeth, near twenty year ago: him bein’ the master an’ me but a hand aboard. How old is you now, Dannie? Nineteen? Well, well! You was but six months come from above, lad, when that big wind blowed your father’s soul t’ hell; an’ your poor mother was but six months laid away. We was bound up from the Labrador that night, with a cargo o’ dry fish, picked up ’long shore in haste, t’ fill out a foreign bark at Twillingate. ’Twas late in the fall o’ the year, snow in the wind, the sea heapin’ up in mountains, an’ the night as black as a wolf’s throat. Your father was crowdin’ on, Dannie, in the way he had, bein’ a wonderful driver, an’ I ’lowed he was fetchin’ too close t’ the Harborless Shore for safety; but I wouldn’t tell un so, lad, for I didn’t know un so well as I knows you, bein’ on’y a hand aboard, ye see, with a word or two t’ le’ward of what ye might call a speakin’ acquaintance with the skipper. I ’lowed he’d strike the Rattler; but he cleared the Rattler, by good luck, an’ fetched up at dawn on the Devil’s Teeth, a mean, low reef o’ them parts, where the poorWill-o’-the-Wispbroke her back an’ went on in splinters with the sea an’ wind. ’Twas over soon, Dannie; ’twas all over soon, by kindness o’329Providence: the ol’ craft went t’ pieces an’ was swep’ on t’ le’ward by the big black waves.”
In the pause my uncle’s hand again searched the low table for the glass that was not there.
“I’m not wantin’ t’ tell ye,” he muttered.
I would not beg him to stop.
“Me an’ your father, Dannie,” he continued, presently, dwelling upon the quiet sunset, now flaring with the last of its fire, “somehow cotched a grip o’ the rock. ’Twas a mean reef t’ be cast away on, with no dry part upon it: ’twas near flush with the sea, an’ flat an’ broad an’ jagged, slimy with sea-weed; an’ ’twas washed over by the big seas, an’ swam in the low roll o’ the black ones. I ’low, Dannie, that I was never afore cotched in such a swirl an’ noise o’ waters. ’Twas wonderful––the thunder an’ spume an’ whiteness o’ them big waves in the dawn! An’ ’twas wonderful––the power o’ them––the wolfish way they’d clutch an’ worry an’ drag! ’Twas a mean, hard thing t’ keep a grip on that smoothed rock; but I got my fingers in a crack o’ the reef, an’ managed t’ hold on, bein’ stout an’ able, an’ sort of savage for life––in them old days. Afore long, your poor father crep’ close, lad, an’ got his fingers in the same crack. ’Twas all done for you, Dannie, an’ ye’ll be sure t’ bear it in mind––will ye not?––when ye thinks o’ the man hereafter. I seed the big seas rub un on the reef, an’ cut his head, an’ break his ribs, as he come crawlin’ towards me. ’Twas a long, long time afore he reached the place. Ye’ll not forget it––will ye lad?––ye’ll surely not forget it when ye thinks o’ the man that was your father.”
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I looked at the sward, soft and green with summer, and roundabout upon the compassionate shadows of evening.
“‘Nick,’ says your father,” my uncle continued, “‘does ye hear them men?’
“They was all gone down, poor souls! I knowed.
“‘Nine men o’ the crew,’ says he, ‘drownin’ there t’ le’ward.’
“’Twas o’ Mary Luff’s son I thought, that poor lad! for I’d fetched un on the v’y’ge.
“‘I hear un callin’,’ says he.
“’Twas but a fancy: they was no voices o’ them drowned men t’ le’ward.
“‘Nick,’ says he, ‘I didn’t mean t’ wreck her here. I was ’lowin’ t’ strike the Long Cliff, where they’s a chance for a man’s life. Does ye hear me, Nick?’ says he. ‘I didn’t mean t’ do ithere!’
“‘Skipper,’ says I, ‘was ye meanin’ t’ wreck that there ship?’
“‘Not here,’ says he.
“‘Was ye meanin’ t’doit?’ says I.”
My uncle paused.
“Go on, sir,” said I.
“Dannie,” said he, “they come, then, three big seas, as seas will; an’ I ’low”––he touched the crescent scar––“I got this here about that time.”
’Twas quite enough for me.
“‘Skipper,’ says I,” my uncle continued, “‘what did ye go an’ do it for?’
“‘I got a young one t’ St. John’s,’ says he.
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“‘’Tis no excuse,’ says I.
“‘Ay,’ says he, ‘but I was ’lowin’ t’ make a gentleman of un. He’s the on’y one I got,’ says he, ’an’ his mother’s dead.’
“‘’Twas no way t’ go about it,’ says I.
“‘Ye’ve no lad o’ your own,’ says he, ‘an’ ye don’t know. They was a pot o’ money in this, Top,’ says he. ‘I was ’lowin’ t’ make a gentleman o’ my young one an I lived through; but I got t’ go––I got t’ go t’ hell an’ leave un. They’s ice in these big seas,’ says he, ‘an I’ve broke my left arm, an’ can’t stand it much longer. But you’ll live it out, Top; you’ll live it out––I knows ye will. The wind’s gone t’ the nor’west, an’ the sea’s goin’ down; an’ they’ll be a fleet o’ Labrador craft up the morrow t’ pick you up. An’ I was ’lowin’, Top,’ says he, ‘that you’d take my kid an’ fetch un up as his mother would have un grow. They isn’t no one else t’ do it,’ says he, ‘an’ I was ’lowin’ you might try. I’ve broke my left arm,’ says he, ‘an’ got my fingers froze, or I’d live t’ do it myself. They’s a pot o’ money in this, Top,’ says he. ‘You tell the owner o’ this here ship,’ says he, ‘an’ he’ll pay––he’ve got t’ pay!’
“I had no wish for the task, Dannie––not bein’ much on nursin’ in them days.
“‘I got t’ go t’ hell for this, Top,’ says your father, ‘an’ I ’lowed ye’d ease the passage.’
“‘Skipper, sir,’ says I, ‘is ye not got a scrap o’ writin’?’
“He fetched out this here little Bible.
“‘Top,’ says he, ‘I ’lowed I’d have a writin’ t’ make332sure, the owner o’ this here ship bein’ on’y a fish speculator; an’ I got it in this Bible.’
“‘Then,’ says I, ‘I’ll take that young one, Tom Callaway, if I weathers this here mess.’
“‘Ay,’ says he, ‘but I’m not wishin’ t’ go t’ hell forthat.’
“’Twas come broad day now.
“‘An I’m but able, Tom Callaway,’ says I, ‘I’ll make a gentleman of un t’ ease your pains.’
“‘Would ye swear it?’ says he.
“I put my hand on the Book; an’ I knowed, Dannie, when I made ready t’ take that oath, out there on the Devil’s Teeth, that I’d give my soul t’ hell for the wickedness I must do. I done it with my eyes wide open t’ the burden o’ evil I must take up; an’ ’twas sort o’ hard t’ do, for I was by times a Christian man, Dannie, in them ol’ days, much sot on church an’ prayer an’ the like o’ that. But I seed that your poor father was bent on makin’ a gentleman out o’ you t’ please your dead mother’s wishes, an’ I ’lowed, havin’ no young un o’ my own, that Ididn’tknow much about the rights of it; an’ I knowed he’d suffer forever the pains o’ hell for what he done, whatever come of it, an’ I ’lowed ’twould be a pity t’ have the murder o’ seven poor men go t’ waste for want o’ one brave soul t’ face the devil. ‘Nick,’ thinks I, while your father, poor, doomed man! watched me––I can see here in the dusk the blood an’ water on his white face––‘Nick,’ thinks I, ‘an you was one o’ them seven poor, murdered men, ye’d want the price o’ your life paid t’ that wee young333one. From heaven or hell, Nick, accordin’ t’ which place ye harbored in,’ thinks I, ‘ye’d want t’ watch that little life grow, an’ ye’d like t’ say t’ yourself, when things went ill with ye,’ thinks I, ‘that the little feller ye died for was thrivin’, anyhow, out there on earth.’ An’ I ’lowed, for your wee sake, Dannie, an’ for the sake o’ the seven poor, murdered men, whose wishes I read in the dead eyes that looked into mine, an’ for the sake o’ your poor, fond father, bound soon for hell, that I’d never let the comfort o’ my mean soul stand in the way o’ fetchin’ good t’ your little life out o’ all this woe an’ wickedness. I ’lowed, Dannie, then an’ there, on the Devil’s Teeth, that could I but manage to endure, I’d stand by your little body an’ soul t’ the end, whatever become o’ me.”
’Twas but a tale my uncle told: ’twas not an extenuation––not a plea.
“‘Tide’s risin’, Nick,’ says your father. ‘I can’t stand it much longer with my broken arm an’ froze fingers. Nick,’ says he, ‘will ye swear?’
“I was afraid, Dannie, t’ swear it.
“‘Won’t ye?’ says he. ‘He’ve his mother’s eyes––an’ he’ll be a wonderful good lad t’ you.’
“I couldn’t, Dannie.
“‘For God’s sake, Nick!’ says he, ‘swear it, an’ ease my way t’ hell.’
“‘I swear!’ says I.
“‘Then,’ says he, ‘you turn the screws on the owner o’ that there ship. The writin’ is all you needs. You make a gentleman o’ my lad, God bless un! accordin’334t’ the wishes of his mother. Give un the best they is in Newf’un’land. Nothin’ too good in all the world for Dannie. You bear in mind, Nick,’ says he, ‘that I’m roastin’ in hell,’ says he, ‘payin’ for his education!’”
My uncle’s hand approached the low table, but was in impatience withdrawn; and the old man looked away––northward: to the place, far distant, where the sea still washed the Devil’s Teeth.
“I’ve bore it in mind,” he muttered.
Ay! and much more than that: the wreck of his own great soul upon my need had clouded twenty years of life with blackest terror of the unending pains of perdition.
“’Tis a lovely evening, Dannie,” he sighed. “’Tis so still an’ kind an’ beautiful. I’ve often ’lowed, in weather like this, with the sea at peace an’ a red sky givin’ promise o’ mercy for yet one day,” said he, “that I’d like t’ live forever––jus’ live t’ fish an’ be an’ hope.”
“I wisht ye might!” I cried.
“An’ t’ watch ye grow, Dannie,” said he, turning suddenly upon me, his voice fallen low and tremulous with affectionate feeling and pride. “Life,” says he, so earnestly that I was made meek by the confession, “held nothin’ at all for me but the Christian hope o’ heaven until ye came; an’ then, when I got ye, ’twas filled full o’ mortal, unselfish, better aims. I’ve loved ye well, lad, in my own delight,” says he. “I’ve loved ye in a wishful way,” he repeated, “quite well.”
I was humble in this presence....
“Your father,” my uncle resumed, “couldn’t stand335the big seas. I cotched un by the jacket, an’ held un with me, so long as I was able, though he ’lowed I might as well let un go t’ hell, without drawin’ out the fear o’ gettin there. ‘On’y a minute or two, Nick,’ says he. ‘Ye might as well let me get there. I’m cold, froze up, an’ they’s more ice comin’ with this sea,’ says he; ‘they was a field o’ small ice up along about the Sissors,’ says he, ‘an’ I ’low it haves come down with the nor’east wind. The sea,’ says he, ‘will be full of it afore long. Ye better let me go,’ says he. ‘’Tisn’t by any means pleasant here, an’ the on’y thing I wants, now that ye’ve took the oath,’ says he, ‘is t’ get warm. Ye better let me go. I got t’ go, anyhow,’ says he, ‘an’ a hour or two don’t make no difference.’ An’ so, with the babe that was you in mind, an’ with my life t’ save for your sake, I let un go t’ le’ward, where the seven murdered men had gone down drowned. ’Twas awful lonesome without un, when the tide got high an’ the seas was mean with chunks o’ ice. Afore that,” my uncle intensely declared, “I was admired o’ water-side widows, on account o’ looks; but,” says he, touching his various disfigurements, “I was broke open here, an’ I was broke open there, by bein’ rubbed on the rocks an’ clubbed by the ice at high-tide. When I was picked up by Tumm, o’ theQuick as Wink(bein’ bound up in fish), I ’lowed I might as well leave the cook, which is now dead, have his way with the butcher-knife an’ sail-needle; an’ so I come t’ St. John’s as ye sees me now, not a wonderful sight for looks, with my leg an’ fingers gone, but ready, God knows! t’ stand by the young un336I was livin’ t’ take an’ rear. Ye had been, all through it, Dannie,” he added, simply, “the thing that made me hold on; for when your father was gone t’ le’ward, an’ I begun t’ think o’ ye, a wee babe t’ St. John’s, I got t’ love ye, lad, as I’ve loved ye ever since.
“’Tis a lovely evening,” he added; “’tis a wonderful civil and beautiful time, with all them clouds, like coals o’ fire, in the west.”
’Twas that: an evening without guile or menace––an hour most compassionate.
“The owner o’ theWill-o’-the-Wisp,” says my uncle, “wasn’t no Honorable in them days; he was but a St. John’s fish speculator with a taste for low politics. But he’ve become a Honorable since, on the fortune he’ve builded from that wreck, an’ he’s like t’ end a knight o’ the realm, if he’ve money enough t’ carry on an’ marry the widow he’s after. ’Twas not hard t’ deal with un––leastways, ’twas not hard when I loaded with rum, which I was used t’ doin’, Dannie, as ye know, afore I laid ’longside of un in the wee water-side place he’d fetch the money to. No, no! ’Twas not easy: I’d not have ye think it––’twas hard, ’twas bitter hard, Dannie, t’ be engaged in that dirty business. I’d not have ye black your soul with it; an’ I was ’lowin, Dannie, afore the parson left us, t’ teach un how t’ manage the Honorable, t’ tell un about the liquor an’ the bluster, t’ show un how t’ scare the Honorable on the Water Street pavement, t’ teach un t’ threaten an’ swear the coward’s money from his pocket, for I wasn’t wantin’you, Dannie, t’ know the trial an’ wickedness o’ the foul deed, bein’ in love337with ye too much t’ have ye spoiled by sin. I ’low I had that there young black-an’-white parson near corrupted: I ’low I had un worked up t’ yieldin’ t’ temptation, lad, when he up an’ left us, along o’ Judy. An’ there’s the black-an’-white parson, gone God knows where! an’ here’s ol’ Nick Top, sittin’ on the grass at evenin’, laid by the heels all along o’ two days o’ wind on the ice!”
“And so you brought me up?” says I.
“Ay, Dannie,” he answered, uneasily; “by blackmail o’ the Honorable. I got t’ go t’ hell for it, but I’ve no regrets on that account,” says he, in a muse, “for I’ve loved ye well, lad; an’ as I sit here now, lookin’ back, I knows that God was kind t’ give me you t’ work an’ sin for. I’ll go t’ hell––ay, I’ll go t’ hell! Ye must never think, lad, when I gets down there, that I’m sorry for what I done. I’ll not be sorry––not even in hell––for I’ll think o’ the years when you was a wee little lad, an’ I’ll be content t’ remember. An’ do you go away, now, lad,” he added, “an’ think it over. Ye’ll not judge me now; ye’ll come back, afore long, an’ then judge me.”
I moved to go.
“Dannie!” he called.
I turned.
“I’ve gone an’ tol’ Judy,” says he, “lest she learn t’ love ye for what ye was not.”
’Twas no matter to me....
This, then, was the heart of my mystery! I had been fed and adorned and taught and reared in luxury by the338murder of seven men and the merciless blackmail of an ambitious villain. What had fed me, warmed me, clothed me had been the product of this horrible rascality. And my father was the murderer, whom I had dreamed a hero, and my foster-father was the persecutor, whom I had loved for his kindly virtue. And paid for!––all paid for in my father’s crime and damnation. This––all this––to make a gentleman of the ill-born, club-footed young whelp of a fishing skipper! I laughed as I walked away from this old Nick Top: laughed to recall my progress through these nineteen years––the proud, self-righteous stalking of my way.
’Twas a pretty figure I had cut, thinks I, with my rings and London clothes, in the presence of the Honorable, with whom I had dealt in pride and anger! ’Twas a pretty figure I had cut, all my life––the whelp of a ruined, prostituted skipper: the issue of a murderous barratry! What protection had the defenceless child that had been I against these machinations? What protest the boy, growing in guarded ignorance? What appeal the man in love, confronted by his origin and shameful fostering? Enraged by this, what I thought of my uncle’s misguided object and care I may not here set down, because of the bitterness and injustice of the reflections; nay, but I dare not recall the mood and wicked resentment of that time.
And presently I came to the shore of the sea, where I sat down on the rock, staring out upon the waters. ’Twas grown dark then, of a still, religious night, with the black sea lapping the rocks, infinitely continuing in339restlessness, and a multitude of stars serenely twinkling in the uttermost depths of the great sky. ’Twas of this I thought, I recall, but cannot tell why: that the sea was forever young, unchanging in all the passions of youth, from the beginning of time to the end of it; that the mountains were lifted high, of old, passionless, inscrutable, of unfeeling snow and rock, dwelling above the wish of the world; that the sweep of prairie, knowing no resentment, was fruitful to the weakest touch; that the forests fell without complaint; that the desert, hopeless, aged, contemptuous of the aspirations of this day, was of immutable bitterness, seeking some love long lost to it nor ever to be found again; but that the sea was as it had been when God poured it forth––young and lusty and passionate––the only thing in all the fleeting world immune from age and death and desuetude.
’Twas strange enough; but I knew, thank God! when the rocking, crooning sea took my heart as a harp in its hands, that all the sins and errors of earth were of creative intention and most beautiful, as are all the works of the God of us all. Nay, but, thinks I, the sins of life are more lovely than the righteous accomplishments. Removed by the starlit sky, wherein He dwells––removed because of its tender distance and beauty and placidity, because of its compassion and returning gift of faith, removed by the vast, feeling territory of sensate waters, whereupon He walks, because they express, eternally, His wrath and loving kindness––carried far away, in the quiet night, I looked back, and I understood, as never before––nor can I ever hope to know340again––that God, being artist as we cannot be, had with the life of the world woven threads of sin and error to make it a pattern of supernal beauty, that His purpose might be fulfilled, His eyes delighted.
And ’twas with the healing of night and starry sky and the soft lullaby of the sea upon my spirit––’twas with this wide, clear vision of life, the gift of understanding, as concerned its exigencies––that I arose and went to my uncle....
I met Judith on the way: the maid was hid, waiting for me, in the deep shadow of the lilacs and the perfume of them, which I shall never forget, that bordered the gravelled path of our garden.
“You’ve come at last,” says she. “He’ve been waiting for you––out there in the dark.”
“Judith!” says I.
She came confidingly close to me.
“I’ve a word to say to you, maid,” says I.
“An’ you’re a true man?” she demanded.
“’Tis a word,” says I, “that’s between a man an’ a maid. ’Tis nothing more.”
She held me off. “An’ you’re true,” she demanded, “to them that have loved you?”
“As may or may not appear,” I answered.
“Ah, Dannie,” she whispered, “I cannot doubt you!”
I remember the scent of the lilacs––I remember the dusk––the starlit sky.
“I have a word,” I repeated, “to say to you.”
“An’ what’s that?” says she.