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+Project Gutenberg's The Cruise of the Shining Light, by Norman Duncan
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: The Cruise of the Shining Light
+
+Author: Norman Duncan
+
+Release Date: August 15, 2009 [EBook #29696]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ASCII
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CRUISE OF THE SHINING LIGHT ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed
+Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+THE CRUISE OF THE SHINING LIGHT
+
+BY
+
+NORMAN DUNCAN
+
+AUTHOR OF
+
+"Doctor Luke of the Labrador", "The Way of the Sea"
+
+NEW YORK AND LONDON
+
+HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS
+
+MCMVII
+
+
+
+
+Copyright, 1907, by Harper & Brothers.
+
+All rights reserved.
+
+Published April, 1907.
+
+
+
+
+TO
+
+MY ELDER BROTHER
+
+ROBERT KENNEDY DUNCAN
+
+THIS BOOK IS
+
+AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED
+
+
+
+
+CONTENTS
+
+   CHAP.                                                          PAGE
+      I. NICHOLAS TOP                                                1
+     II. AT THE SIGN OF THE ANCHOR AND CHAIN                        10
+    III. THE CATECHISM AT TWIST TICKLE                              27
+     IV. ON SINISTER BUSINESS                                       38
+      V. TAP-TAP ON THE PAVEMENT                                    45
+     VI. THE FEET OF CHILDREN                                       54
+    VII. TWIN ISLANDS                                               69
+   VIII. A MAID O' WHISPER COVE                                     75
+     IX. AN AFFAIR OF THE HEART                                     89
+      X. IMPORTED DIRECT                                           104
+     XI. THE GRAY STRANGER                                         120
+    XII. NEED O' HASTE                                             138
+   XIII. JUDITH ABANDONED                                          154
+    XIV. THE TWENTY-THIRD PSALM                                    169
+     XV. A MEASURE OF PRECAUTION                                   174
+    XVI. GREEN PASTURES: AN INTERLUDE                              188
+   XVII. RUM AND RUIN                                              203
+  XVIII. A LEGACY OF LOVE                                          219
+    XIX. A WORD OF WARNING                                         230
+     XX. NO APOLOGY                                                243
+    XXI. FOOL'S FORTUNE                                            247
+   XXII. GATHERING WINDS                                           264
+  XXIII. THE TIDE-RIP                                              276
+   XXIV. JOHN CATHER'S FATE                                        290
+    XXV. TO SEA                                                    305
+   XXVI. THE DEVIL'S TEETH                                         323
+
+
+
+
+THE CRUISE OF THE SHINING LIGHT
+
+
+
+
+THE CRUISE OF THE SHINING LIGHT
+
+I
+
+NICHOLAS TOP
+
+
+My uncle, Nicholas Top, of Twist Tickle, was of a cut so grotesque
+that folk forgot their manners when he stumped abroad. Bowling through
+the streets of St. John's, which twice a year he tapped with staff and
+wooden leg, myself in leading--bowling cheerily, with his last rag
+spread, as he said, and be damned to the chart--he left a swirling
+wake of amazement: craning necks, open mouths, round eyes, grins so
+frank, the beholders being taken unaware, that 'twas simple to
+distinguish hearts of pity from savage ones.
+
+Small wonder they stared; my uncle was a broad, long-bodied, scowling,
+grim-lipped runt, with the arms and chest of an ape, a leg lacking,
+three fingers of the left hand gone at the knuckles, an ankle botched
+in the mending (the surgery his own), a jaw out of place, a round
+head set low between gigantic shoulders upon a thick neck: the whole
+forever clad in a fantastic miscellany of water-side slops, wrinkled
+above, where he was large, flapping below, where he was lean, and
+chosen with a nautical contempt for fit and fashion, but with a
+mysteriously perverse regard for the value of a penny.
+
+"An' how much, lad," says he, in the water-side slop-shops, "is a
+penny saved?"
+
+'Twas strange that of all men he should teach me this old-fashioned
+maxim as though 'twere meant for my own practice. 'Twas well enough
+for him, it seemed; but 'twas an incumbrance of wisdom in the singular
+case of the lad that was I.
+
+"A penny made, sir," says I.
+
+"Co'--rect!" says he, with satisfaction.
+
+There was more to be wondered at: beginning at my uncle's left ear,
+which was itself sadly puckered and patched, a wide, rough scar, of
+changing color, as his temper went, cut a great swath in his wiry
+hair, curving clear over the crown of his head. A second scar, of
+lesser dimension and ghastly look, lay upon his forehead, over the
+right eyebrow, to which though by nature drooping to a glower, it gave
+a sharp upward twist, so that in a way to surprise the stranger he was
+in good humor or bad, cynical or sullen, according to the point of
+approach.
+
+There were two rolls of flabby flesh under his chin, and a puff of fat
+under each of his quick little eyes; and from the puffs to the lower
+chin, which was half submerged in the folds of a black cravat, the
+broad, mottled expanse was grown wild with short gray beard, save
+where, on the left cheek, a ragged scar (the third) kept it bare and
+livid. 'Twas plain the man had blundered into some quarrel of wind and
+sea, whence he had been indifferently ejected, in the way of the sea,
+to live or die, as might chance: whereof--doubtless to account for his
+possession of me--he would tell that my father had been lost in the
+adventure.
+
+"Swep' away by the third big sea," says he, his face wan with the
+terror of that time, his body shrunk in the chair and so uneasy that I
+was moved against my will to doubt the tale. "May God A'mighty forgive
+un the deed he done!"
+
+"Was it a sore, wicked thing my father did?"
+
+"God forgive un--an' me!"
+
+"Is you sure, Uncle Nick?"
+
+"God forgive un!"
+
+"You're not likin' my poor father," I complained, "for the sinful
+thing he done."
+
+"'Tis a sinful wicked world us dwells in," says he. "An' I 'low, b'y,"
+says he, in anxious warning, "that afore you goes t' bed the night....
+Pass the bottle. Thank 'e, lad ... that afore you goes t' bed the
+night you'd best get a new grip on that there little anchor I've give
+ye t' hang to."
+
+"An' what's that?" says I.
+
+"The twenty-third psa'm," says he, his bottle tipped, "for safety!"
+
+My uncle would have (as he said) no dealings with a glass. There was
+none in the places familiar to his eyes; and when by chance, in the
+tap-rooms of the city, he came face to face with himself, he would
+start away with a fervent malediction upon the rogue in the mirror,
+consigning him to perdition without hope of passage into some easier
+state.
+
+'Twas anathema most feeling and complete.
+
+"Hist!" cries I. "You're never so bad as _that_, Uncle Nick!"
+
+"None worse," says he, "than that there ol' lost rascal!"
+
+I did not believe it.
+
+"I isn't took a steady look at my ol' figger-'ead," he was used to
+saying, with his little eyes widened to excite wonder, "this five
+year! In p'int o' looks," says he, smirking, vain as you please, "I'm
+t' windward o' most o' the bullies when I trims my beard. Ah, lad,
+they's a raft o' bar-maids an' water-side widows would wed ol'
+Nicholas Top. An' why? 'Tain't money, God knows! for Nicholas Top
+haves none. Nar a dollar that a lone water-side widow could nose out!
+An' if 'tisn't money," says he, "why, Lord love us! 'tis _looks_. It
+can't be nothin' else. 'Tis looks or money with the widows; they cares
+not which. Come, now, lad," says he, "would you 'low it _could_ be
+otherwise than looks?"
+
+I must wag my head.
+
+"Lord love us, Dannie!" says he, so vain--so innocently vain of the
+face he would not see--that my lips twitch with laughter to think of
+it. "You an' them water-side widows is got a wonderful judgment for
+looks!"
+
+By this I was flattered.
+
+"Now, look you!" says he, being now in his cups and darkly confidential
+with me, "I'm havin', as I says, no dealin' with a glass. An' why?
+Accordin' t' the water-side widows 'tis not ill-favor o' face. Then
+why? I'm tellin' you: 'Tis just because," says he, tapping the table
+with his forefinger, "Nick Top isn't able t' look hisself in the
+eye.... Pass the bottle. Thank 'e, lad.... There you haves it!" says
+he, with a pitiful little catch of the breath. "Nicholas Top haves a
+wonderful bad eye!"
+
+I must nod my assent and commiseration.
+
+"In p'int o' beauty," says my uncle, "Nicholas Top is perfeckly
+content with the judgment o' water-side widows, which can't be beat;
+but for these five year, Lord help un! he've had no love for the eye
+in his very own head."
+
+'Twas said in such chagrin and depth of sadness that I was moved to
+melancholy.
+
+"His own eye, lad," he would repeat, "in his very own head!"
+
+My uncle, I confess, had indeed a hint too much of the cunning and
+furtive about both gait and glance to escape remark in strange places.
+'Twas a pity--and a mystery. That he should hang his head who might
+have held it high! At Twist Tickle, to be sure, he would hop hither
+and yon in a fashion surprisingly light (and right cheerful); but
+abroad 'twas either swagger or slink. Upon occasions 'twas manifest
+to all the world that following evil he walked in shame and terror.
+These times were periodic, as shall be told: wherein, because of his
+simplicity, which was unspoiled--whatever the rascality he was in the
+way of practising--he would betray the features of hang-dog villany,
+conceiving all the while that he had cleverly masked himself with
+virtue.
+
+"Child," says he, in that high gentleness by which he was distinguished,
+"take the old man's hand. Never fear t' clasp it, lad! Ye're abroad in
+respectable company."
+
+I would clasp it in childish faith.
+
+"Abroad," says he, defiantly, "in highly respectable company!"
+
+Ah, well! whether rogue or gentleman, upon whom rascality was writ,
+the years were to tell. These, at any rate, were the sinister aspects
+of Nicholas Top, of Twist Tickle, whose foster-child I was, growing in
+such mystery as never was before, I fancy, and thriving in love not of
+the blood but rich and anxious as love may be: and who shall say that
+the love which is of the blood--a dull thing, foreordained--is more
+discerning, more solicitous, more deep and abiding than that which
+chances, however strangely, in the turmoil and changes of the life we
+live? To restore confidence, the old dog was furnished with an ample,
+genial belly; and albeit at times he drank to excess, and despite the
+five years' suspicion of the eye in his very own head, his eyes were
+blue and clear and clean-edged, with little lights of fun and
+tenderness and truth twinkling in their depths. I would have you know
+that as a child I loved the scarred and broken old ape: this with a
+child's devotion, the beauty of which (for 'tis the way of the heart)
+is not to be matched in later years, whatever may be told. Nor in
+these days, when I am full-grown and understand, will I have a word
+spoken in his dishonor.
+
+Not I, by Heaven!
+
+                  *       *       *       *       *
+
+I came to Twist Tickle, as I am informed, on the wings of a
+southeasterly gale: which winds are of mean spirit and sullenly
+tenacious--a great rush of ill weather, overflowing the world, blowing
+gray and high and cold. At sea 'twas breaking in a geyser of white
+water on the Resurrection Rock; and ashore, in the meagre shelter of
+Meeting House Hill, the church-bell clanged fearsomely in a swirl of
+descending wind: the gloaming of a wild day, indeed! The _Shining
+Light_ came lurching through the frothy sea with the wind astern: a
+flash of white in the mist, vanishing among the careering waves,
+doughtily reappearing--growing the while into the stature of a small
+craft of parts, making harbor under a black, tumultuous sky. Beyond
+the Toads, where there is a turmoil of breaking water, she made a sad
+mess of it, so that the folk of the Tickle, watching the strange
+appearance from the heads, made sure she had gone down; but she
+struggled out of the spray and tumble, in the end, and came to harbor
+unscathed in the place where Nicholas Top, himself the skipper and
+crew, was born and fished as a lad.
+
+They boarded him, and (as they tell) he was brisk and grim and
+dripping upon the deck--with the lights dancing in his eyes: those
+which are lit by the mastery of a ship at sea.
+
+"Ay, mates," says he, "I'm come back. An'," says he, "I'd thank ye t'
+tread lightly, for I've a wee passenger below, which I've no wish t'
+have woke. He's by way o' bein' a bit of a gentleman," says he, "an'
+I'd not have ye take a liberty."
+
+This made them stare.
+
+"An' I'd not," my uncle repeated, steadily, glancing from eye to eye,
+"have ye take a liberty."
+
+They wondered the more.
+
+"A bit of a gentleman!" says my uncle, in savage challenge. "A bit of
+a gentleman!"
+
+He would tell them no more, nor ever did; but in imperturbable
+serenity and certainty of purpose builded a tight little house in a
+nook of Old Wives' Cove, within the harbor, where the _Shining Light_
+might lie snug; and there he dwelt with the child he had, placidly
+fishing the grounds with hook and line, save at such times as he set
+out upon some ill-seeming business to the city, whence he returned at
+ease, it seemed, with himself and his errand, but something grayer,
+they say, than before. The child he reared was in the beginning
+conscious of no incongruity, but clothed the old man with every grace
+and goodly quality, in faith and understanding, as children will: for
+these knowing ones, with clearer sight than we, perceive neither
+guile nor weakness nor any lack of beauty in those who foster
+them--God be thanked!--whatever the nature and outward show may be.
+There is a beauty common to us all, neither greater nor less in any of
+us, which these childish hearts discover. Looking upon us, they are
+blind or of transcendent vision, as you will: the same in issue--so
+what matter?--since they find no ugliness anywhere. 'Tis the way, it
+may be, that God looks upon His world: either in the blindness of love
+forgiving us or in His greater wisdom knowing that the sins of men do
+serve His purpose and are like virtue in His plan.
+
+But this is a mystery....
+
+
+
+
+II
+
+AT THE SIGN OF THE ANCHOR AND CHAIN
+
+
+The Anchor and Chain is a warm, pleasantly noisy place by the
+water-side at St. John's, with a not ungrateful reek of rum and
+tobacco for such outport folk as we; forever filled, too, with big,
+twinkling, trumpeting men, of our simple kind, which is the sort the
+sea rears. There for many a mellow hour of the night was I perched
+upon a chair at my uncle's side, delighting in the cheer which
+enclosed me--in the pop of the cork, the inspiriting passage of the
+black bottle, the boisterous talk and salty tales, the free
+laughter--but in which I might not yet, being then but seven years
+old, actively partake.
+
+When in the first of it my uncle called for his dram, he would never
+fail to catch the bar-maid's hand, squeeze it under the table, with
+his left eyelid falling and his displaced jaw solemnly ajar, informing
+her the while, behind his thumb and forefinger, the rest of that hand
+being gone, that I was a devil of a teetotaler: by which (as I
+thought, and, I'll be bound, he knew well I would think) my years were
+excused and I was admitted to the company of whiskered skippers upon
+a footing of equality. 'Tis every man's privilege, to be sure, to
+drink rum or not, as he will, without loss of dignity.
+
+If his mates would have me drink a glass with them my uncle would not
+hinder.
+
+"A nip o' ginger-ale," says I, brash as a sealing-captain.
+
+'Twas the despair of my uncle. "Lord love us!" says he, looking with
+horror upon the bottle.
+
+"T' you, sir," says I, with my glass aloft, "an' t' the whole bally
+crew o' ye!"
+
+"Belly-wash!" groans my uncle.
+
+And so, brave and jolly as the rest of them, forgetting the doses of
+jalap in store for me when I was got back to the Tickle, I would now
+have my ninny (as they called it). Had the bar-maids left off kissing
+me--but they would not; no, they would kiss me upon every coming, and
+if I had nothing to order 'twas a kiss for my virtue, and if I drank
+'twas a smack for my engaging manliness; and my only satisfaction was
+to damn them heartily--under my breath, mark you! lest I be soundly
+thrashed on the spot for this profanity, my uncle, though you may now
+misconceive his character, being in those days quick to punish me. But
+such are women: in a childless place, being themselves childless, they
+cannot resist a child, but would kiss queer lips, and be glad o' the
+chance, because a child is lovely to women, intruding where no
+children are.
+
+As a child of seven I hated the bar-maids of the Anchor and Chain,
+because they would kiss me against my will when the whiskered
+skippers went untouched. But that was long ago....
+
+                  *       *       *       *       *
+
+I must tell that at the Anchor and Chain my uncle blundered in
+with Tom Bull, of the _Green Billow_, the owner and skipper thereof,
+trading the ports of the West Coast, then coast-wise, but (I fancy)
+not averse to a smuggling opportunity, both ways, with the French
+Islands to the south of us; at any rate, 'twas plain, before the
+talk was over, that he needed no lights to make the harbor of
+St.-Pierre, Miquelon, of a dark time. 'Twas a red-whiskered, flaring,
+bulbous-nosed giant, with infantile eyes, containing more of wonder
+and patience than men need. He was clad in yellow oil-skins, a-drip,
+glistening in the light of the lamps, for he was newly come in from
+the rain: a bitter night, the wind in the northeast, with a black
+fog abroad (I remember it well)--a wet, black night, the rain
+driving past the red-curtained windows of the Anchor and Chain, the
+streets swept clean of men, ourselves light-hearted and warm,
+indifferent, being ashore from the wind, the cloudy night, the
+vicious, crested waves of the open, where men must never laugh nor
+touch a glass.
+
+They must have a dram together in a stall removed from the congregation
+of steaming men at the long bar. And when the maid had fetched the
+bottle, Tom Bull raised it, regarded it doubtfully, cocked his head,
+looked my shamefaced uncle in the eye.
+
+"An' what might this be?" says he.
+
+"'Tis knowed hereabouts, in the langwitch o' waterside widows,"
+replies my uncle, mildly, "as a bottle o' Cheap an' Nasty."
+
+Tom Bull put the bottle aside.
+
+"_Tis_ cheap, I'll be bound," says my uncle; "but 'tis not so
+wonderful nasty, Tom," he grieved, "when 'tis the best t' be had."
+
+"Skipper Nicholas," says Tom, in wonder, "wasn't you give aforetime t'
+the use o' Long Tom?"
+
+My uncle nodded.
+
+"Dear man!" Tom Bull sighed.
+
+My uncle looked away. Tom Bull seemed now first to observe his
+impoverished appearance, and attacked it with frankly curious eyes,
+which roamed without shame over my uncle's shrinking person; and my
+uncle winced under this inquisition.
+
+"Pour your liquor," growls he, "an' be content!"
+
+Tom Bull grasped the bottle, unafraid of the contents, unabashed by
+the rebuke. "An' Skipper Nicholas," asks he, "where did you manage t'
+pick up the young feller?"
+
+My uncle would not attend.
+
+"Eh?" Tom Bull persisted. "Where did you come across o' he?"
+
+"This," says my uncle, with a gentle tug at my ear, "is Dannie."
+
+"Ay; but whose young one?"
+
+"Tom Callaway's son."
+
+"Tom Callaway's son!" cries Tom Bull.
+
+There was that about me to stir surprise; with those generous days so
+long gone by, I will not gainsay it. Nor will I hold Tom Bull in fault
+for doubting, though he stared me, up and down, until I blushed and
+turned uneasy while his astonished eyes were upon me.
+
+"Tom Callaway's son!" cries he again.
+
+That I was.
+
+"The same," says my uncle.
+
+Forthwith was I once more inspected, without reserve--for a child has
+no complaint to make in such cases--and with rising wonder, which, in
+the end, caused Tom Bull to gape and gasp; but I was now less
+concerned with the scrutiny, being, after all, long used to the
+impertinence of the curious, than with the phenomena it occasioned. My
+uncle's friend had tipped the bottle, and was now become so deeply
+engaged with my appearance that the yellow whiskey tumbled into his
+glass by fits and starts, until the allowance was far beyond that
+which, upon information supplied me by my uncle, I deemed proper (or
+polite) for any man to have at one time. The measurement of drams was
+in those bibulous days important to me--of much more agreeable
+interest, indeed, than the impression I was designed to make upon the
+'longshore world.
+
+"No such nonsense!" exclaims Tom Bull. "Tom Callaway died 'ithout a
+copper t' bury un."
+
+"Tom Callaway," says my uncle, evasively, "didn't have no _call_ t' be
+buried; he was drown-ded."
+
+My uncle's old shipmate sipped his whiskey with absent, but
+grateful, relish, his eyes continuing to wander over so much of me
+as grew above the table, which was little enough. Presently my
+uncle was subjected to the same severe appraisement, and wriggled
+under it in guilty way--an appraisement of the waterside slops:
+the limp and shabby cast-off apparel which scantily enveloped his
+great chest, insufficient for the bitter rain then sweeping the
+streets. Thence the glance of this Tom Bull went blankly over the
+foggy room, pausing nowhere upon the faces of the folk at the bar,
+but coming to rest, at last, upon the fly-blown rafters (where was
+no interest), whence, suddenly, it dropped to my hand, which lay
+idle and sparkling upon the sticky table.
+
+"Tom Callaway's son!" he mused.
+
+My hand was taken, spread down upon the calloused palm of Tom Bull, in
+disregard of my frown, and for a long time the man stared in puzzled
+silence at what there he saw. 'Twas very still, indeed, in the little
+stall where we three sat; the boisterous laughter, the shuffling and
+tramp of heavy boots, the clink of glasses, the beating of the rain
+upon the windows seemed far away.
+
+"I'd not be s'prised," says Tom Bull, in the low, hoarse voice of awe,
+"if them there was di'monds!"
+
+"They is," says my uncle, with satisfaction.
+
+"Di'monds!" sighs Tom Bull. "My God!"
+
+'Twas boredom--the intimate inspection, the question, the start of
+surprise. 'Twas all inevitable, so familiar--so distastefully
+intrusive, too. 'Twas a boredom hard to suffer, and never would have
+been borne had not the occasion of it been my uncle's delight. 'Twas
+always the same: Diamonds? ay, diamonds! and then the gasped "My God!"
+They would pry into this, by the Lord! and never be stopped by my
+scowl and the shrinking of my flesh. It may be that the parade my
+misguided guardian made of me invited the intimacy, and, if so, I have
+no cry to raise against the memory of it; but, whatever, they made
+free with the child that was I, and boldly, though 'twas most boresome
+and ungrateful to me. As a child my hand was fingered and eyed by
+every 'longshore jack, coast-wise skipper, and foreign captain from
+the Turkey Cock to the sign of The King George. And wherever I went
+upon the streets of St. John's in those days there was no escape: the
+glitter of me stopped folk in their tracks--to turn and stare and
+wonder and pass muttering on.
+
+"Three in that one, Tom," adds my uncle.
+
+'Twas a moment before Tom Bull had mastered his amazement. "Well,
+well!" cries he. "Di'monds! Three in that one! Lord, Lord, think o'
+that! This wee feller with all them di'monds! An' Skipper Nicholas,"
+says he, drawing closer to my beaming uncle, "this here red stone,"
+says he, touching the ring on my third finger, "would be a jool? A
+ruby, like as not?"
+
+"'Tis that," says my uncle.
+
+"An' this here?" Tom Bull continues, selecting my little finger.
+
+"Well, now, Tom," says my uncle, with gusto, for he delighted in these
+discussions, "I 'low I better tell you 'bout that. Ye see, lad," says
+he, "that's a seal-ring, Tom. I'm told that gentlemen wears un t'
+stamp the wax o' their corr-ee-spondence. 'Twas Sir Harry that give me
+the trick o' that. It haves a D for Daniel, an' a C for Callaway; an'
+it haves a T in the middle, Tom, for Top. I 'lowed I'd get the Top in
+somewheres, so I put it in atween the D an' the C t' have it lie snug:
+for I'm not wantin' this here little Dannie t' forget that Top was t'
+the wheel in his younger days." He turned to me, and in a voice quite
+broken with affection, and sadly hopeless, somehow, as I recall,
+"Dannie, lad," says he, "ye'll never forget, will ye, that Top was t'
+the wheel? God bless ye, child! Well, Tom," turning now to his
+shipmate, "ye're a man much sailed t' foreign parts, an' ye wouldn't
+think it ungenteel, would ye, for a lad like Dannie t' wear a
+seal-ring? No? I'm wonderful glad o' that. For, Tom," says he, most
+earnestly, "I'm wantin' Dannie t' be a gentleman. He's just _got_ t'
+be a gentleman!"
+
+"A gentleman, Nick?"
+
+"He've _got_ t' be a gentleman!"
+
+"You'll never manage that, Nick Top," says Tom Bull.
+
+"Not manage it!" my uncle indignantly complained. "Why, look, Tom
+Bull--jus' _look_--at them there jools! An' _that's_ on'y a poor
+beginnin'!"
+
+Tom Bull laid my hand very gingerly upon the table, as though 'twere a
+thing not lightly to be handled lest it fall to pieces in his grasp.
+He drew my left hand from my pocket and got it under the light.
+
+"Two pearls," says my uncle, "'longside a emerald. Aft o' that you'll
+be like t' find two more di'monds. Them's first-water Brazil, Tom."
+
+Tom Bull inquiringly touched my watch-guard.
+
+"Eighteen karat," says my uncle.
+
+Tom Bull drew the watch from its pocket and let it lie glittering in
+his hand; the jewels, set shyly in the midst of the chasing, glowed in
+the twilight of the stall.
+
+"Solid," says my uncle.
+
+Tom Bull touched my velvet jacket with the tip of his finger.
+
+"Imported direck," says my uncle, "from Lon'on. Direck, Tom--is
+you hearin' me?--direck from Lon'on. Not," says he, with quick
+consideration, "that we've no respeck for home talent. My, my, no!
+Dannie haves a matter o' thirteen outfits done right here in St.
+John's. You beat about Water Street for a week, Tom, an' you'll
+_sight_ un. Fill your glass, Tom! We're well met this night. Leave me
+talk t' you, lad. Leave me talk t' ye about Dannie. Fill up, an' may
+the Lord prosper your smugglin'! 'Tis a wild night without. I'm
+glad enough t' be in harbor. 'Tis a dirty night; but 'tis not blowin'
+_here_, Tom--an' that's the bottle; pour your dram, lad, an' take
+it like a man! God save us! but a bottle's the b'y t' make a fair
+wind of a head wind. Tom," says he, laying a hand on my head--which
+was the ultimate expression of his affection--"you jus' ought t'
+clap eyes on this here little ol' Dannie when he've donned his
+Highland kilts. He's a little divil of a dandy then, I'm tellin'
+you. Never a lad o' the city can match un, by the Lord! Not match
+my little Dannie! Clap eyes," says he, "on good ol' little Dannie!
+Lord save ye, but of all the young fellers you've knowed he's the
+finest figger of a lad--"
+
+"Uncle Nick!" I cried, in pain--in pain to be excused (as shall be
+told).
+
+"Hush, lad!" croons he. "Never mind!"
+
+I could not help it.
+
+"An' talkin' about outfits, Tom," says my uncle, "this here damn
+little ol' Dannie, bein' a gentleman, haves his _best_--from Lon'on.
+Ye can't blame un, Tom; they _all_ doos it."
+
+'Twas all hands t' the pumps for poor Tom Bull. "Dear man!" he gasped,
+his confusion quite accomplished.
+
+"An' _paid_ for," says my uncle.
+
+Tom Bull looked up.
+
+"'Tis all," says my uncle, solemnly jerking thumb down towards the
+bowels of the earth, "paid for!"
+
+Tom Bull gulped the dregs of his whiskey.
+
+                  *       *       *       *       *
+
+By-and-by, having had his glass--and still with the puzzle of myself
+to mystify his poor wits--Tom Bull departed. My uncle and I still kept
+to the stall, for there was an inch of spirits in my uncle's glass,
+and always, though the night was late and stormy, a large possibility
+for new company. 'Twas grown exceeding noisy in a far corner of the
+place, where a foreign captain, in from the north (Fogo, I take it),
+loaded with fish for Italian ports, was yielding to his liquor; and I
+was intent upon this proceeding, wondering whether or not they would
+soon take to quarrelling, as often happened in that tap-room, when Tom
+Bull softly came again, having gone but a step beyond the threshold of
+the place. He stepped, as though aimlessly, to our place, like a man
+watched, fearing the hand of the law; and for a time he sat musing,
+toying with the glass he had left.
+
+"Skipper Nicholas," says he, presently, "I 'low Dannie Callaway haves
+a friend t' buy un all them jools?"
+
+"This here little ol' Dannie," says my uncle, with another little
+reassuring tug at my ear, "haves no friend in all the world but me."
+
+'Twas true.
+
+"Not one?"
+
+"Nar a friend in all the world but ol' Nick Top o' Twist Tickle."
+
+"An' _you_ give un them jools?"
+
+"I did."
+
+There was a pause. Tom Bull was distraught, my uncle quivering; and
+I was interested in the rain on the panes and in the foreign
+captain who was yielding to his liquor like a fool or a half-grown
+boy. I conceived a contempt for that shaven, scrawny skipper--I
+remember it well. That he should drink himself drunk like a boy
+unused to liquor! Faugh! 'Twas a sickening sight. He would involve
+himself in some drunken brawl, I made sure, when even I, a child,
+knew better than to misuse the black bottle in this unkind way.
+'Twas the passage from Spain--and the rocks of this and the rocks of
+that--and 'twas the virtues of a fore-and-after and the vices of
+an English square rig for the foremast. He'd stand by the square rig;
+and there were Newfoundlanders at his table to dispute the opinion.
+The good Lord only knew what would come of it! And the rain was on
+the panes, and the night was black, and the wind was playing
+devil-tricks on the great sea, where square-rigged foremasts and
+fore-and-afters were fighting for their lives. A dirty night at sea--a
+dirty night, God help us!
+
+"Skipper Nicholas," says Tom Bull, in an anxious whisper, "I'm tied up
+t' Judby's wharf, bound out at dawn, if the wind holds. I 'low you is
+in trouble, lad, along o' them jools. An' if you wants t' cut an'
+run--"
+
+In the pause my uncle scowled.
+
+--"The little _Good Omen_," says Tom Bull, under his breath, "is
+your'n t' command!"
+
+'Twas kind of intention, no doubt, but done in folly--in stupid (if
+not befuddled) misconception of the old man's mettle. My uncle sat
+quite still, frowning into his glass; the purple color crept into the
+long, crescent scar of his scalp, his unkempt beard bristled like a
+boar's back, the flesh of his cheeks, in composure of a ruddy hue,
+turned a spotty crimson and white, with the web of veins swelling
+ominously. All the storm signals I had, with the acumen of the child
+who suffers unerring discipline, mastered to that hour were at the
+mast-head, prognosticating a rare explosion of rage. But there was no
+stirring on my uncle's part; he continued to stare into his glass,
+with his hairy brows drawn quite over his eyes.
+
+The blundering fellow leaned close to my uncle's ear. "If 'tis
+turn-tail or chokee for you, along o' them jools," says he, "I'll put
+you across--"
+
+My uncle's eyes shifted to his staff.
+
+--"T' the Frenchmen--"
+
+My uncle's great right hand was softly approaching his staff.
+
+--"Well," says the blundering Tom Bull, "give the old girl a wind with
+some slap to it, I'll put you across in--"
+
+My uncle fetched him a smart crack on the pate, so that the man leaped
+away, in indignation, and vigorously rubbed his head, but durst not
+swear (for he was a Methodist), and, being thus desperately situated,
+could say nothing at all, but could only petulantly whimper and stamp
+his foot, which I thought a mean thing for a man to do in such
+circumstances. "A poor way," says he, at last, "t' treat an old
+shipmate!" I thought it marvellously weak; my uncle would have had
+some real and searching thing to say--some slashing words (and, may
+be, a blow). "An you isn't a thief," cries Tom Bull, in anger, "you
+_looks_ it, anyhow. An' the rig o' that lad bears me out. Where'd you
+come by them jools? Eh?" he demanded. "Where'd you come by them
+di'monds and pearls? Where'd you come by them rubies an' watches?
+_You_--Nick Top: Twist Tickle hook-an'-line man! Buyin' di'monds for
+a pauper," he snorted, "an' drinkin' Cheap an' Nasty! Them things
+don't mix, Nick Top. Go be hanged! The police 'll cotch ye yet."
+
+"No," says my uncle, gently; "not yet."
+
+Tom Bull stamped out in a rage.
+
+"No," my uncle repeated, wiping the sweat from his brow, "Tom Bull
+forgotten; the police 'll not cotch me. Oh no, Dannie!" he sighed.
+"They'll not cotch me--not yet!"
+
+                  *       *       *       *       *
+
+Then out of the black night came late company like a squall o' wind:
+Cap'n Jack Large, no less! newly in from Cadiz, in salt, with a
+spanking passage to make water-side folk stare at him (the _Last Hope_
+was the scandal of her owners). He turned the tap-room into an uproar;
+and no man would believe his tale. 'Twas beyond belief, with Longway's
+trim, new, two-hundred-ton _Flying Fish_, of the same sailing, not yet
+reported! And sighting Nicholas Top and me, Cap'n Jack Large cast off
+the cronies he had gathered in the tap-room progress of the night, and
+came to our stall, as I expected when he bore in from the rain, and
+sent my uncle's bottle of Cheap and Nasty off with contempt, and
+called for a bottle of Long Tom (the best, as I knew, the Anchor and
+Chain afforded), which must be broached under his eye, and said he
+would drink with us until we were turned out or dawn came. Lord, how I
+loved that man, as a child, in those days: his jollity and bigness and
+courage and sea-clear eyes! 'Twas grand to feel, aside from the
+comfort of him, that he had put grown folk away to fondle the child on
+his knee--a mystery, to be sure, but yet a grateful thing. Indeed,
+'twas marvellously comfortable to sit close to him. But I never saw
+him again: for the _Last Hope_ went down, with a cargo of mean fish,
+in the fall of the next year, in the sea between St. John's and the
+West Indies.
+
+But that night--
+
+"Cap'n Jack," says I, "you quit that basket."
+
+He laughed.
+
+"You quit her," I pleaded. "But ecod, man!" says I, "please quit her.
+An you don't I'll never see you more."
+
+"An' you'll never care," cries he. "Not _you_, Master Callaway!"
+
+"Do you quit her, man!"
+
+"I isn't able," says he, drawing me to his knee; "for, Dannie," says
+he, his blue eyes alight, "they isn't ar another man in Newf'un'land
+would take that basket t' sea!"
+
+I sighed.
+
+"Come, Dannie," says he, "what'll ye take t' drink?"
+
+"A nip o' ginger-ale," says I, dolefully.
+
+Cap'n Jack put his arm around the bar-maid. "Fetch Dannie," says he,
+"the brand that comes from over-seas."
+
+Off she went.
+
+"Lord love us!" groans my uncle; "that's two."
+
+"'Twill do un no harm, Nick," says Cap'n Jack. "You just dose un well
+when you gets un back t' the Tickle."
+
+"I will," says my uncle.
+
+He did....
+
+                  *       *       *       *       *
+
+And we made a jovial night of it. Cap'n Jack would not let me off his
+knee. Not he! He held me close and kindly; and while he yarned of the
+passage to my uncle, and interjected strange wishes for a wife, he
+whispered many things in my ear to delight me, and promised me, upon
+his word, a sailing from St. John's to Spanish ports, when I was grown
+old enough, if only I would come in that basket of a _Lost Hope_,
+which I maintained I never would do. 'Twas what my uncle was used to
+calling a lovely time; and, as for me, I wish I were a child again,
+and Cap'n Jack were come in from the rain, and my uncle tipping the
+bottle of Long Tom (though 'twere a scandal). Ay, indeed I do! That I
+were a child again, used to tap-room bottles, and that big Cap'n Jack
+had come in from the gale to tell me I was a brave lad in whom he
+found a comfort neither of the solid land nor of water-side
+companionship. But I did not think of Cap'n Jack that night, when my
+uncle had stowed me away in my bed at the hotel; but, rather, in the
+long, wakeful hours, through which I lay alone, I thought of Tom
+Bull's question, "Where'd ye get them jools?"
+
+I had never before been troubled--not once; always I had worn the
+glittering stones without question.
+
+"Where'd ye get them jools?"
+
+I could not fall asleep: I repeated the twenty-third psalm, according
+to my teaching; but still I could not fall asleep....
+
+
+
+
+III
+
+THE CATECHISM AT TWIST TICKLE
+
+
+Of an evening at Twist Tickle Nicholas Top would sit unstrung and
+wistful in his great chair by the west window, with the curtains drawn
+wide, there waiting, in deepening gloom and fear, for the last light
+to leave the world. With his head fallen upon his breast and his eyes
+grown fixed and tragical with far-off gazing, he would look out upon
+the appalling sweep of sea and rock and sky, where the sombre wonder
+of the dusk was working more terribly than with thunder: clouds in
+embers, cliffs and mist and tumbling water turning to shadows,
+vanishing, as though they were not. In the place of a shining world,
+spread familiar and open, from its paths to the golden haze of its
+uttermost parts, there would come the cloud and mystery and straying
+noises of the night, wherein lurk and peer and restlessly move
+whatsoever may see in the dark.
+
+Thus would he sit oppressed while night covered the world he knew by
+day. And there would come up from the sea its voice; and the sea has
+no voice, but mysteriously touches the strings within the soul of a
+man, so that the soul speaks in its own way, each soul lifting its
+peculiar message. For me 'twas sweet to watch the tender shadows creep
+upon the western fire, to see the great gray rocks dissolve, to hear
+the sea's melodious whispering; but to him (it seemed) the sea spoke
+harshly and the night came with foreboding. In the silence and failing
+light of the hour, looking upon the stupendous works of the Lord, he
+would repeat the words of the prophet of the Lord:
+
+"_For behold the Lord will come with fire, and with his chariots like
+a whirlwind, to render his anger with fury, and his rebuke with the
+flames of fire._" And again, with his hand upon his forehead and his
+brows fallen hopelessly, "_With his chariots like a whirlwind, to
+render his anger with fury, and his rebuke with the flames of fire._"
+Still repeating the awful words, his voice broken to a terrified
+whisper, "_His rebuke with the flames of fire!_" And in particular
+moods, when the prophets, however sonorous, were inadequate to his
+need, my uncle would have recourse to his own pithy vocabulary for
+terms with which to anathematize himself; but these, of course, may
+not be written in a book.
+
+                  *       *       *       *       *
+
+When the dusk was come my uncle would turn blithely from this
+melancholy contemplation and call for a lamp and his bottle. While I
+was about this business (our maid-servant would not handle the bottle
+lest she be damned for it), my uncle would stump the floor, making
+gallant efforts to whistle and trill: by this exhorting himself to a
+cheerful mood, so that when I had moved his great chair to the table,
+with the lamp near and turned high, and had placed a stool for his
+wooden leg, and had set his bottle and glass and little brown jug of
+cold water conveniently at hand, his face would be pleasantly rippling
+and his eyes all a-twinkle.
+
+"Up with un, Dannie!" says he.
+
+'Twas his fancy that he had gout in the tip of his wooden leg. I must
+lift the ailing bit of timber to the stool with caution.
+
+"Ouch!" groans he. "Easy, lad!"
+
+'Twas now in place.
+
+"All ship-shape an' cheerful," says he. "Pass the bottle."
+
+He would then stand me up for catechism; and to this task I would come
+with alacrity, and my heels would come together, and my shoulders
+square, and my hands go behind my back, as in the line at school.
+'Twas a solemn game, whatever the form it took, whether dealing with
+my possessions, hopes, deportment, or what-not; and however grotesque
+an appearance the thing may wear, 'twas done in earnest by us both and
+with some real pains (when I was stupid or sleepy) to me. 'Twas the
+way he had, too, of teaching me that which he would have me conceive
+him to be--of fashioning in my heart and mind the character he would
+there wear. A clumsy, forecastle method, and most pathetically
+engaging, to be sure! but in effect unapproached: for to this day,
+when I know him as he was, the man he would appear to be sticks in my
+heart and will not be supplanted. Nor would I willingly yield the
+wistful old dog's place to a gentleman of more brilliant parts.
+
+"Dannie, lad," he would begin, in the manner of a visiting trustee,
+but yet with a little twitch and flush of embarrassment, which must
+be wiped away with his great bandanna handkerchief--"Dannie, lad,"
+he would begin, "is ol' Nicholas Top a well-knowed figger in
+Newf'un'land?"
+
+"He's knowed," was the response I had been taught, "from Cape Race t'
+Chidley."
+
+"What for?"
+
+"Standin' by."
+
+So far so good; my uncle would beam upon me, as though the compliment
+were of my own devising, until 'twas necessary once more to wipe the
+smile and blush from his great wet countenance.
+
+"Is it righteous," says he, "t' stand by?"
+
+"'Tis that."
+
+He would now lean close with his poser: "Does it say so in the Bible?
+Ah ha, lad! Does it say so _there_?"
+
+"'Twas left out," says I, having to this been scandalously taught, "by
+mistake!"
+
+'Twas my uncle's sad habit thus to solve his ethical difficulties. To
+a gigantic, thumb-worn Bible he would turn, the which, having sought
+with unsuccess until his temper was hot, he would fling back to its
+place, growling: "Them ol' prophets was dunderheads, anyhow; they left
+out more'n they put in. Why, Dannie," in vast disgust, "you don't find
+the mention of barratry from jib-boom t' taffrail! An' you mean t'
+set there an' tell me them prophets didn't make no mistake? No, sir! I
+'low they was well rope's-ended for neglect o' dooty when the Skipper
+cotched un in the other Harbor." But if by chance, in his impatient
+haste, he stumbled upon some confirmation of his own philosophy, he
+would crow: "There you got it, Dannie! Right under the thumb o' me!
+Them ol' bullies was wise as owls." 'Twas largely a matter of words,
+no doubt (my uncle being self-taught in all things); and 'tis possible
+that the virtue of standing by, indirectly commended, to be sure, is
+not specifically and in terms enjoined upon the righteous. However--
+
+"Come, now!" says my uncle; "would you say that ol' Nicholas Top was
+_famous_ for standin' by?"
+
+'Twas hard to remember the long response. "Well," I must begin, in a
+doubtful drawl, every word and changing inflection his own, as I had
+been taught, "I wouldn't go _quite_ t' the length o' that. Ol'
+Nicholas Top wouldn't claim it hisself. Ol' Nicholas Top on'y claims
+that he's _good_ at standin' by. His cronies do 'low that he can't be
+beat at it by ar a man in Newf'un'land; but Nicholas wouldn't go t'
+the length o' _sayin'_ so hisself. 'Ol' Nick,' says they, 'would stand
+by if the ship was skippered by the devil and inbound on a fiery wind
+t' the tickle t' hell. Whatever Nick says he'll _do_,' says they, 'is
+all the same as _did_; an' if he says he'll stand by, he'll stick,
+blow high or blow low, fog, ice, or reefs. "Be jiggered t' port an'
+weather!" says he.'[1] But sure," I must conclude, "ol' Nicholas
+wouldn't say so hisself. An' so I wouldn't go t' the length o' holdin'
+that he was famous for standin' by. Take it by an' all, if I was
+wantin' sea room, I'd stick t' _well knowed_ an' be done with it."
+
+"Co'-rect!" says my uncle, with a smack of satisfaction. "You got that
+long one right, Dannie. An' now, lad," says he, his voice turning soft
+and genuine in feeling, "what's the ol' sailorman tryin' t' make out
+o' _you_?"
+
+"A gentleman."
+
+"An' why?"
+
+Then this disquieting response:
+
+"'Tis none o' my business."
+
+'Twould have been logical had he asked me: "An', Dannie, lad, what's a
+gentleman?" But this he never did; and I think, regarding the thing
+from this distance, that he was himself unable to frame the
+definition, so that, of course, I never could be taught it. But he was
+diligent in pursuit of this knowledge; he sat with open ears in those
+exclusive tap-rooms where "the big bugs t' St. John's" (as he called
+them) congregated; indeed, the little gold watch by which Skipper Tom
+Bull's suspicion had been excited at the Anchor and Chain came to me
+immediately after the Commissioner of This had remarked to the
+Commissioner of That, within my uncle's hearing--this at the Gold
+Bullet over a bottle of Long Tom--that a watch of modest proportions
+was the watch for a gentleman to wear (my other watches had been
+chosen with an opposite idea). And my uncle, too (of which anon), held
+in high regard that somewhat questionable light of morality and
+deportment whom he was used to calling ol' Skipper Chesterfield. But
+"What is a gentleman?" was omitted from my catechism.
+
+"An' is this ol' Nicholas Top a liar?" says my uncle.
+
+"No, sir."
+
+"Is he a thief?"
+
+"No, sir."
+
+"Smuggler?"
+
+"No, sir."
+
+"Have he ever been mixed up in burglary, murder, arson, barratry,
+piracy, fish stealin', or speckalation?"
+
+"No, sir."
+
+To indicate his utter detachment from personal interest in the
+question to follow, my uncle would wave his dilapidated hand, as
+though leaving me free to answer as I would, which by no means was I.
+
+"An' of how much," says he, "would he rob his neighbor that he might
+prosper?"
+
+'Twas now time for me to turn loud and indignant, as I had been
+taught. Thus: my head must shoot out in truculent fashion, my brows
+bend, my lips curl away from my teeth like a snarling dog's, my eyes
+glare; and I must let my small body shake with explosive rage, in
+imitation of my uncle, while I brought the table a thwack with all my
+force, shouting:
+
+"Not a damn copper!"
+
+"Good!" says my uncle, placidly. "You done that very well, Dannie, for
+a lad. You fetched out the damn quite noisy an' agreeable. Now," says
+he, "is Nicholas Top a rascal?"
+
+'Twas here we had trouble; in the beginning, when this learning was
+undertaken, I must be whipped to answer as he would have me. Ay, and
+many a night have I gone sore to bed for my perversity, for in respect
+to obedience his severity was unmitigated, as with all seafaring men.
+But I might stand obstinate for a moment--a moment of grace. And upon
+the wall behind his chair, hanging in the dimmer light, was a colored
+print portraying a blue sea, spread with rank upon rank of accurately
+measured waves, each with its tiny cap of foam, stretching without
+diminution to the horizon, upon which was perched a full-rigged ship,
+a geometrical triumph; and from this vessel came by small-boat to the
+strand a company of accurately moulded, accurately featured,
+accurately tailored fellows, pulling with perfect accuracy in every
+respect. I shall never forget the geometrical gentleman upon that
+geometrically tempestuous sea, for as I stood sullen before my uncle
+they provided the only distraction at hand.
+
+"Come, Daniel!" says he, in a little flare of wrath; "is he a
+rascal?"
+
+"Well," says I, defiantly, "I've heard un lied about."
+
+"Wrong!" roars my uncle. "Try again, sir! Is ol' Nicholas Top a
+rascal?"
+
+There was no help for it. I must say the unkind words or be thrashed
+for an obstinate whelp.
+
+"A damned rascal, sir!" says I.
+
+"Co'-_rect_!" cries my uncle, delighted.[2]
+
+And now, presently, my uncle would drawl, "Well, Dannie, lad, you
+might 's well measure out the other," and when I had with care poured
+his last dram would send me off to bed. Sometimes he would have me say
+my prayers at his knee--not often--most when high winds, without rain,
+shook our windows and sang mournfully past the cottage, and he was
+unnerved by the night. "The wind's high the night," says he, with an
+anxious frown; "an' Dannie," says he, laying a hand upon my head, "you
+might 's well overhaul that there
+
+                 "'_Jesus, tender Shepherd, hear me,
+                 Bless Thy little lamb to-night,_'
+
+afore you turns in. 'Twill do you good, an' 'twon't manage t' do me no
+harm." And this done I would off to bed; but had no sooner bade him
+good-night, got my gruff response, and come to the foot of the stair,
+than, turning to say good-night again, I would find myself forgot. My
+uncle would be sunk dejectedly in his great chair, his scarred face
+drawn and woful. I see him now--under the lamp--a gray, monstrous,
+despairing man, a bottle beside him, the familiar things of the place
+in shadow. The old feeling of wonder and regret returns. I sigh--as
+then, a child, bound up to a lonely chamber in the night, I sighed.
+
+"Good-night, sir!"
+
+There was no response; but he would look in upon me on the way to
+bed--into the little room where I lay luxuriously, in the midst of
+those extravagant comforts which so strangely came to me. And more
+often than not he would haul this way and that upon the covers until,
+as though by some unhappy accident, I was awakened.
+
+"God bless you, Dannie," says he.
+
+"Good-night, sir."
+
+'Twas all he wanted--a good wish spoken in the night. To his own bare
+room he would then be off, a bit uncertain (I recall) in the
+management of his wooden leg.
+
+                  *       *       *       *       *
+
+Under my window, at the foot of a short cliff which fell roughly into
+the open cove, as shall be told, the sea broke. While sleep waited
+'twas my habit to listen to the waves upon the rocks: in that brief
+and mystical interval when many truths take shape, definite and
+lovely, as in a mist, but are forgot before dawn stirs us, nor can be
+remembered. Of still moonlit nights; of windless dusks, with the swell
+of past storms sullenly remaining; in clammy, breathless weather; with
+fresh winds blowing our craft to and fro on their way in search of the
+fish; in blackest gales, when the men of Twist Tickle kept watch for
+wrecks upon the heads--forever I listened to the voice of the sea
+before I fell asleep. But the sea has no voice, but may only play upon
+the souls of men, which speak from the uttermost depths, each soul in
+its own way: so that the sea has a thousand voices, and listening men
+are tranquil or not, as may chance within them, without mystery. Never
+since those far-off days, when the sea took my unspoiled soul as a
+harp in its hands, have I been secure in the knowledge of truth,
+untroubled by bewilderment and anxious questions. Untroubled by love,
+by the fear of hell, 'twas good to be alive in a world where the sea
+spoke tenderly below the window of the room where sleep came bearing
+dreams.
+
+And my uncle? God knows! The harp was warped, and the strings of the
+harp were broken and out of tune....
+
+  [1] 'Twas really "damned t' port an' weather" my uncle would have me
+      say; but I hesitate to set it down, lest the more gentle readers
+      of my simple narrative think ill of the man's dealings with a
+      child, which I would not have them do.
+
+  [2] Of course, the frequent recurrence of this vulgarity in my
+      narrative is to be regretted. No one, indeed, is more sensible
+      of the circumstance than I. My uncle held the word in
+      affectionate regard, and usefully employed it: 'tis the only
+      apology I have to offer. Would it not be possible for the more
+      delicate readers of my otherwise inoffensive narrative to elide
+      the word? or to supply, on the spur of the moment, an acceptable
+      equivalent, of which, I am told, there is an infinite variety?
+      or (better still) to utter it courageously? I am for the bolder
+      course: 'tis a discipline rich in cultural advantages. But 'tis
+      for the reader, of course, to choose the alternative.
+
+
+
+
+IV
+
+ON SINISTER BUSINESS
+
+
+Our pilgrimages to St. John's, occurring twice a year, were of a
+singular description: not only in the manner of our progress, which
+was unexampled, in view of our relationship and condition, but in the
+impenetrable character of our mission and in the air of low rascality
+it unfailingly wore. For many days before our departure from Twist
+Tickle by the outside boat, my uncle would quit the Green Bull
+grounds, where he fished with hook and line, would moor his punt fore
+and aft, and take to the bleak hills of Twin Islands, there (it
+seemed) to nurse some questionable design: whence at dusk he would
+emerge, exhausted in leg and spirit, but yet with strength to mutter
+obscure imprecations as he came tapping up the gravelled walk from the
+gate, and with the will to manage a bottle and glass in the kitchen.
+
+"The bottle!" cries he. "Ecod! the dog'll never scare ol' Nick Top.
+Dannie, the bottle!"
+
+While I fled for this he would sit growling by the table; but before I
+was well returned the humor would be vanishing, so that sometimes I
+guessed (but might be mistaken) he practised this rage and profanity
+to play a part.
+
+"Ol' Nick Top," says he, "is as saucy a dog as you'll find in the
+pack!"
+
+'Twas said with a snap.
+
+"A saucy ol' dog!" snarls he. "An' Lord love ye! but he's able
+t'--t'--t' _bite_!"
+
+"Uncle Nick," says I, "you're all wore out along o' walkin' them
+hills."
+
+"Wore out!" cries he, an angry flash in his wide little eyes. "_Me_
+wore out?... Pass the bottle.... Ye'd never think it, lad, an ye could
+see me t' St. John's," says he, "at the--"
+
+The revelation came to a full stop with the tipping of the square
+black bottle.
+
+"Where's that?" says I.
+
+"'Tis a wee water-side place, lad," says he, with a grave wink, "where
+ol' Nick Top's the sauciest dog in the pack!"
+
+I would pass the water for his liquor.
+
+"An' here," cries he, toasting with solemn enthusiasm, "is wishin' all
+water-side rascals in"--'twas now a long pull at the glass--"jail!"
+says he. "'Twould go agin my conscience t' wish un worse. I really
+isn't able!"
+
+By these wanderings on the hills the slow, suspicious wits of our folk
+of Twist Tickle were mystified and aroused to superstitious imaginings.
+'Twas inevitable that they should pry and surmise--surmising much
+more than they dared pry. They were never bold, however, in the
+presence of my uncle, whether because of their courteous ways or
+because of his quick temper and sulphurous tongue, in respect to
+meddling, I am not able to say; but no doubt they would have troubled
+us a deal had my uncle even so much as admitted by the set of his eyelid
+(which he never would do) that there was a mystery concerning us. The
+lads of the place lurked upon the hills when the business went forward,
+continuing in desperate terror of my uncle at such times. They
+learned, notwithstanding their fright, that he trudged far and hard,
+at first smiling with the day, then muttering darkly, at last
+wrathfully swishing the spruce with his staff; but not one of them
+could follow to the discovery of the secret, whatever it might be, so
+that, though 'twas known the old man exchanged a genial humor for an
+execrable one, the why and wherefore were never honestly fathomed.
+
+                  *       *       *       *       *
+
+Came, at last, the day before our departure, upon which my wardrobe
+for the journey must be chosen from the closets and chests, inspected,
+scrupulously packed--this for travel, that for afternoon, this, again,
+for dinner--tweed and serge and velvet: raiment for all occasions, for
+all weathers, as though, indeed, I were to spend time with the
+governor of the colony. Trinkets and cravats presented pretty
+questions for argument, in which my uncle delighted, and would sustain
+with spirit, watching rather wistfully, I recall, to see my interest
+wax; and my interest would sometimes wax too suddenly for belief,
+inspired by his melancholy disappointment, so that he would dig me in
+the ribs with his long forefinger and laugh at me because he had
+discovered my deception. My uncle was a nice observer (and diligent)
+of fashion, and a stickler for congruity of dress, save in the matter
+of rings and the like, with which, perhaps, he was in the way of too
+largely adorning me.
+
+"Ye'll be wearin' the new Turkish outfit aboard ship, Dannie?" says
+he.
+
+I would not.
+
+"Lon'on _Haberdasher_ come out strong," says he, at a coax, "on
+Turkish outfits for seven-year-olds."
+
+'Twas not persuasive.
+
+"Wonderful pop'lar across the water."
+
+"But," I would protest, "I'm not likin' the queer red cap."
+
+"Ah, Dannie," says he, "I fears ye'll never be much of a gentleman if
+ye're careless o' the fashion. Not in the fashion, out o' the world!
+What have ol' Skipper Chesterfield t' say on that p'int? Eh, lad? What
+have the bully ol' skipper t' say--underlined by Sir Harry? A list o'
+the ornamental accomplishments, volume II., page 24. 'T' be extremely
+clean in your person,' says he, 'an' perfeckly well dressed, accordin'
+t' the fashion, be that what it will.' There you haves it, lad,
+underlined by Sir Harry! _'Be that what it will.'_ But ye're not
+likin' the queer red cap, eh? Ah, well! I 'low, then, ye'll be havin'
+t' don the kilt."
+
+This I would hear with relief.
+
+"But I 'low," growls he, "that Sir Harry an' Skipper Chesterfield
+haves the right of it: for they're both strong on manners--if weak on
+morals."
+
+Aboard ship I was put in the cabin and commanded to bear myself like
+a gentleman: whereupon I was abandoned, my uncle retreating in
+haste and purple confusion from the plush and polish and glitter of
+the state-room. But he would never fail to turn at the door (or
+come stumping back through the passage); and now heavily oppressed by
+my helplessness and miserable loneliness and the regrettable
+circumstances of my life--feeling, it may be, some fear for me and
+doubt of his own wisdom--he would regard me anxiously. To this day he
+lingers thus in my memory: leaning forward upon his short staff,
+half within the bright light, half lost in shadow, upon his poor,
+fantastic, strangely gentle countenance an expression of tenderest
+solicitude, which still would break, against his will, in ripples of
+the liveliest admiration at my appearance and luxurious situation,
+but would quickly recover its quality of concern and sympathy.
+
+"Dannie, lad," he would prescribe, "you better overhaul the
+twenty-third psa'm afore turnin' in."
+
+To this I would promise.
+
+"'The Lard is my shepherd,'" says he. "'I shall not want.' Say it
+twice," says he, as if two doses were more salutary than one, "an'
+you'll feel better in the mornin'."
+
+To this a doleful assent.
+
+"An' ye'll make good use o' your time with the gentlefolk, Dannie?"
+says he. "Keep watch on 'em, lad, an' ye'll l'arn a wonderful lot
+about manners. 'List o' the necessary ornamental accomplishments
+(without which no man livin' can either please or rise in the world),
+which hitherto I fear ye want,'" quotes he, most glibly, "'an'
+which only require your care an' attention t' possess.' Volume II.,
+page 24. 'A distinguished politeness o' manners an' address, which
+common-sense, observation, good company, an' imitation will give ye
+if ye will accept it.' There you haves it, Dannie--underlined by
+Sir Harry! Ye got the sense, ye got the eye, an' here's the company.
+Lord love ye, Dannie, the Commissioner o' Lands is aboard with his
+lady! No less! An' I've heared tell of a Yankee millionaire cruisin'
+these parts. They'll be wonderful handy for practice. Lay alongside,
+Dannie--an' imitate the distinguished politeness: for ol' Skipper
+Chesterfield cracks up imitation an' practice most wonderful high!"
+
+The jangle of the bell in the engine-room would now interrupt him. The
+mail was aboard: the ship bound out.
+
+"An' Dannie," says my uncle, feeling in haste for the great
+handkerchief (to blow his nose, you may be sure), "I'm not able t'
+_think_ o' you bein' lonely. I'm for'ard in the steerage, lad--just
+call that t' mind. An' if ye find no cure in that, why, lad"--in a
+squall of affectionate feeling, his regard for gentility quite
+vanished--"sink me an' that damn ol' Chesterfield overside, an'
+overhaul the twenty-third psa'm!"
+
+"Ay, sir."
+
+"You is safe enough, lad; for, Dannie--"
+
+'Twas in the imperative tone, and I must instantly and sharply
+attend.
+
+--"I'm for'ard, standin' by!"
+
+He would then take himself off to the steerage for good; and 'twas
+desperately lonely for me, aboard the big ship, tossing by night and
+day through the rough waters of our coast.
+
+
+
+
+V
+
+TAP-TAP ON THE PAVEMENT
+
+
+My uncle would not have speech with me again, lest his rough look and
+ways endanger the social advantages he conceived me to enjoy in the
+cabin, but from the lower deck would keep sly watch upon me, and,
+unobserved of others, would with the red bandanna handkerchief flash
+me messages of affection and encouragement, to which I must not for
+the life of me respond. Soon, however, 'twas my turn to peer and wish;
+for, perceiving at last that I was not ill (the weather being fair),
+and that I had engaged the companionship of gentlefolk--they were
+quick enough, indeed, these St. John's folk and spying wanderers, to
+attach themselves to the mystery of old Nick Top's child--my uncle
+would devote himself to his own concerns with unhappy result.
+
+The manner of his days of preparation upon the hills of Twin Islands
+would return: the ill temper and cunning and evil secretiveness,
+joined now with the hang-dog air he habitually wore in the city. And
+these distressful appearances would by day and night increase, as we
+passed the Funks, came to Bonavist' Bay, left the Bacalieu light
+behind and rounded the Brandy Rocks, until, instead of a rotund,
+twinkling old sea-dog, with a gargoylish countenance, with which the
+spirit had nothing to do, there landed on the wharf at the city a
+swaggering, wrathy pirate, of devilish cast and temper, quick to flush
+and bluster, mighty in profanity, far gone in drink.
+
+Thence to the hotel, in this wise: my uncle, being clever with his
+staff and wooden leg and vastly strong, would shoulder my box, make
+way through the gang-plank idlers and porters with great words, put me
+grandly in the lead, come gasping at a respectful distance behind,
+modelling his behavior (as he thought) after that of some flunky of
+nobility he had once clapped eyes on; and as we thus proceeded up the
+hill--a dandy in tartan kilt and velvet and a gray ape in slops--he
+would have a quick word of wrath for any passenger that might chance
+to jostle me. 'Twas a conspicuous progress, craftily designed, as,
+long afterwards, I learned; we were not long landed, you may be sure,
+before the town was aware that the mystery of Twist Tickle was once
+more come in by the _Lake_: old Skipper Nicholas Top and the lad with
+the rings, as they called me!
+
+                  *       *       *       *       *
+
+Having come now to the hotel (this by night), where would be a
+cheerful fire awaiting us in my comfortable quarters, my uncle
+would unstrap my box and dispose its contents in clean and handy
+places, urging me the while, like a mother, to make good use of my
+opportunity to observe the ways of gentlefolk, especially as
+practised in the dining-room of the hotel, that I might expeditiously
+master polite manners, which was a thing Skipper Chesterfield held
+most seriously in high opinion. I must thus conduct myself (he
+said), rather than idly brood, wishing for his company: for a silk
+purse was never yet made of a sow's ear but with pain to all
+concerned. "An' Dannie," says he, jovially, when he had clapped the
+last drawer shut and put my nightclothes to warm at the fire, "if
+you was t' tweak that there bell-pull--"
+
+I would gladly tweak it.
+
+"Thank 'e, Dannie," says my uncle, gently. "It'll be the best
+Jamaica--a nip afore I goes."
+
+In response to this would come old Elihu Wall, whom in private I
+loved, exaggerating every obsequious trick known to his kind to humor
+my uncle. I must then act my part, as I had been taught, thus: must
+stride to the fire, turn, spread my legs, scowl, meditatively ply a
+tooth-pick (alas! my groping uncle), become aware of old Elihu Wall,
+become haughtily conscious of my uncle, now in respectful attitude
+upon his foot and wooden leg; and I must scowl again, in a heavier
+way, as though angered by this interruption, and rub my small
+quarters, now heated near beyond endurance, and stare at the ceiling,
+and, dropping my eyes sharply upon Elihu Wall, say with a haughty
+sniff, a haughty curl of the lip:
+
+"Elihu"--with a superior jerk towards my uncle--"fetch this man a dram
+o' your best Jamaica!"
+
+'Twas not hard to do--not hard to learn: for my uncle was unceasing in
+solicitous and patient instruction, diligent in observation, as he
+cruised in those exclusive places to which (somehow) he gained
+admittance for my sake and a jolly welcome for his own. And 'twas a
+grateful task, too, to which I heartily gave my interest, for I loved
+my uncle. 'Twas his way of teaching me not only the gentlemanly art of
+dealing with menials, as he had observed it, but, on his part, as he
+stood stiff and grave, the proper attitude of a servant towards his
+master. In these days, long distant from the first strange years of my
+life, I am glad that I was not wilful with him--glad that I did not
+obstinately resist the folly and boredom of the thing, as I was
+inclined to do. But, indeed, it must not be counted to me for virtue;
+for my uncle had a ready hand, though three fingers were missing, and
+to this day I remember the odd red mark it left (the thumb,
+forefinger, and palm), when, upon occasion, it fell upon me.
+
+"Elihu," says I, "fetch this man a dram o' your best Jamaica!"
+
+Upon the disappearance of Elihu Wall, my uncle and I would resume
+intimate relations.
+
+"You done well, Dannie!" cries he, gleefully rubbing his hands. "I
+never knowed Sir Harry t' do it better."
+
+We were both mightily proud.
+
+"Dannie," says he, presently, with gleeful interest, "give un a good
+one when he gets back. Like a gentleman, Dannie. Just t' show un what
+you can do."
+
+Enter Elihu Wall.
+
+"What the devil d'ye mean?" says I, in wrath. "Eh? What the devil d'ye
+mean?"
+
+"Yes, sir," says Elihu Wall. "Sorry, sir. _Very_, sir."
+
+"Devil take your sorrow!" says I.
+
+I would then slip the old fellow a bit of silver, as I was bidden, and
+he would obsequiously depart.[3]
+
+"You done well, Dannie!" cries my uncle again, in delight. "Lord! but
+'twas grand! You done wonderful well! I never knowed Sir Harry t' do
+it better. I wisht ol' Chesterfield was here t' see. Ecod!" he
+chuckles, with a rub at his nose, gazing upon me with affectionate
+admiration, in which was no small dash of awe, "you done it well, my
+lad! I've heard Sir Harry say _more_, mark you! but I've never knowed
+un t' do it better. _More_, Dannie, but t' less purpose. Ah, Dannie,"
+says he, fondly, "they's the makin's of a gentleman in _you_!"
+
+I was pleased--to be sure!
+
+"An' I 'low, by an' all," my uncle would boast, scratching his head in
+high gratification, "that I'm a-fetchin' ye up very well!"
+
+'Twas hard on old Elihu Wall--this unearned abuse. But Elihu and I
+were fast friends, nevertheless: he sped many a wearisome hour for me
+when my uncle was upon his grim, mysterious business in the city; and
+I had long ago told him that he must not grieve, whatever I
+said--however caustic and unkind the words--because my uncle's whims
+must be humored, which was the end to be served by us both. With this
+assurance of good feeling, old Elihu Wall was content. He took my
+insolence in good part, playing the game cheerfully: knowing that the
+hard words were uttered without intention to wound, but only in
+imitation of gentlemen, from whom Elihu Wall suffered enough, Heaven
+knows! (as he confided to me) not to mind what I might say.
+
+                  *       *       *       *       *
+
+I must tell that, once, taken with pain, having overeaten myself, left
+alone in the hotel at St. John's, I got out of bed and sought my
+uncle's lodgings, which I was never permitted to see. 'Twas a rough
+search for a sick child to follow through in the night, ending by the
+water-side--a dismal stair, leading brokenly to a wretched room,
+situate over a tap-room too low for frequency by us, where women
+quarrelled with men. Here my uncle sat with his bottle, not yet turned
+in. He was amazed when I entered, but scolded me not at all; and he
+gave me brandy to drink, until my head swam, and took me to sleep with
+him, for the only time in all my life. When I awoke 'twas to disgust
+with the bed and room in which I lay--with the smell and dirt of the
+place--the poverty and sordidness, to which I was not used.
+
+I complained of the housing my uncle had.
+
+"Dannie, lad," says my uncle, sighing unhappily, "the old man's poor,
+an' isn't able t' help it."
+
+Still I complained.
+
+"Don't, Dannie!" says he. "I isn't able t' bear it. An' I'm wishin'
+you'd never found out. The old man's poor--wonderful poor. He's on'y a
+hook-an'-line man. For God's sake ask un no questions!"
+
+I asked him no questions....
+
+                  *       *       *       *       *
+
+Every morning while at St. John's, my uncle and I must walk the lower
+streets: my hand in his, when I was a child, and, presently, when I
+was grown into a lad, myself at his heels. Upon these occasions I must
+be clad and conduct myself thus and so, with utmost particularity:
+must be combed and brushed, and carry my head bravely, and square my
+shoulders, and turn out my toes, and cap my crown so that my
+unspeakably wilful hair, which was never clipped short, as I would
+have it, would appear in disarray. Never once did I pass the anxious
+inspection without needing a whisk behind, or, it may be, here and
+there, a touch of my uncle's thick finger, which seemed, somehow,
+infinitely tender at that moment.
+
+"I'm wantin' ye, Dannie," says he, "t' look like a gentleman the day.
+They'll be a thing come t' pass, come a day."
+
+There invariably came a thing to pass--a singular thing, which I
+conceived to be the object of these pilgrimages; being this: that when
+in the course of our peregrinations we came to the crossing of King
+Street with Water he would never fail to pause, tap-tap a particular
+stone of the walk, and break into muttered imprecations, continuing
+until folk stared and heads were put out of the windows. In so far as
+one might discern, there was nothing in that busy neighborhood to
+excite the ill-temper of any man; but at such times, as though
+courting the curious remark he attracted, my uncle's staff would
+strike the pavement with an angry pat, his head wag and nod, his eyes
+malevolently flash, and he would then so hasten his steps that 'twas
+no easy matter to keep pace with him, until, once past, he would again
+turn placid and slow.
+
+"There you haves it, Dannie!" he would chuckle. "There you haves it!"
+
+'Twas all a mystery.
+
+                  *       *       *       *       *
+
+My uncle must once get very drunk at St. John's--this for a day and a
+night, during which I must not leave my quarters. These were times of
+terror--and of loneliness: for it seemed to my childish mind that when
+my uncle was drunk I had no friend at all. But 'twas all plain sailing
+afterwards--a sober, cheerful guardian, restless to be off to Twist
+Tickle. My uncle would buy new outfits for me at the shops, arrange
+the regular shipment of such delicacies as the St. John's markets
+afforded according to the season, seek gifts with which to delight and
+profit me, gather the news of fashion, lie in wait for dropped hints
+as to the manners and customs of gentlemen, procure his allowance of
+whiskey for the six months to come: in every way providing for my
+happiness and well-being and for such meagre comfort as he would allow
+himself.
+
+Then off to Twist Tickle: and glad we were of it when the _Lake_ got
+beyond the narrows and the big, clean, clear-aired sea lay ahead!
+
+  [3] My uncle would instantly have thrashed me had I approached an oath
+      (or any other vulgarity) in conversation upon ordinary
+      occasions.
+
+
+
+
+VI
+
+THE FEET OF CHILDREN
+
+
+Once of a still night at Twist Tickle (when I was grown to be eleven)
+my uncle abandoned his bottle and came betimes to my room to make sure
+that I was snug in my sleep. 'Twas fall weather without, the first
+chill and frosty menace of winter abroad: clear, windless, with all
+the stars that ever shone a-twinkle in the far velvet depths of the
+sky beyond the low window of my room. I had drawn wide the curtains to
+let the companionable lights come in: to stare, too, into the vast
+pool of shadows, which was the sea, unquiet and sombre beneath the
+serenity and twinkling splendor of the night. Thus I lay awake, high
+on the pillows, tucked to my chin: but feigned a restful slumber when
+I caught the sigh and downcast tread of his coming.
+
+"Dannie," he whispered, "is you awake?"
+
+I made no answer.
+
+"Ah, Dannie, isn't you?"
+
+Still I would not heed him.
+
+"I wisht you was," he sighed, "for I'm wonderful lonely the night,
+lad, an' wantin' t' talk a spell."
+
+'Twas like a child's beseeching. I was awake at once--wide awake for
+him: moved by the wistfulness of this appeal to some perception of his
+need.
+
+"An' is you comfortable, Dannie, lyin' there in your own little bed?"
+
+"Ay, sir."
+
+"An' happy?"
+
+"Grand, sir!" said I.
+
+He crept softly to my bed. "You don't mind?" he whispered. I drew my
+feet away to make room. He sat down, and for a moment patted me with
+the tenderness of a woman. "You don't mind?" he ventured again, in
+diffidence. I did not mind (but would not tell him so); nay, so far
+was I from any objection that I glowed with content in this assurance
+of loving protection from the ills of the world. "No?" said he. "I'm
+glad o' that: for I'm so wonderful old an' lonely, an' you're sort o'
+all I got, Dannie, t' fondle. 'Tis pleasant t' touch a thing that's
+young an' not yet smirched by sin an' trouble. 'Tis some sort o' cure
+for the souls o' broken folk, I'm thinkin'. An' you don't mind? I'm
+glad o' that. You're gettin' so wonderful old yourself, Dannie, that I
+was a bit afeared. A baby yesterday an' a man the morrow! You're near
+growed up. 'Leven year old!" with a wry smile, in which was no pride,
+but only poignant regret. "You're near growed up." Presently he
+withdrew a little. "Ay," said he, gently; "you is housed an' clad an'
+fed. So much I've managed well enough." He paused--distraught, his
+brows bent, his hand passing aimlessly over the scars and gray
+stubble of his head. "You're happy, Dannie?" he asked, looking up.
+"Come, now, is you sure? You'd not be makin' game o' the old man,
+would you, Dannie? You'd not tell un you _was_ when you _wasn't_,
+would you? Is you sure you're happy? An' you're glad, is you, t' be
+livin' all alone at Twist Tickle with a ol' feller like Nick Top?"
+
+"Wonderful happy, sir," I answered, used to the question, free and
+prompt in response; "happy, sir--with you."
+
+"An' you is sure?"
+
+I was sure.
+
+"I'm glad o' that," he continued, but with no relief of the anxious
+gloom upon his face. "I'm glad you is comfortable an' happy. I 'low,"
+said he, "that poor Tom Callaway would like t' get word of it. Poor
+Tom! Poor ol' Tom! Lord love you, lad! he was your father: an' he
+loved you well--all too well. I 'low he'd be wonderful _glad_ just t'
+know that you was comfortable an' happy--an' good. You is good, isn't
+you? Oh, I knows you is! An' I wisht Tom Callaway could know. I wisht
+he could: for I 'low 'twould perk un up a bit, in the place he's to,
+t' get wind of it that his little Dannie was happy with ol' Nick Top.
+He've a good deal t' bear, I'm thinkin', where he's to; an' 'twould
+give un something t' distract his mind if he knowed you was doin'
+well. But, Dannie, lad," he pursued, with a lively little flash of
+interest, "they's a queer thing about that. Now, lad, mark you! 'tis
+easy enough t' send messages Aloft; but when it comes t' gettin' a
+line or two o' comfort t' the poor damned folk Below, they's no mortal
+way that I ever heared tell on. Prayer," says he, "wings aloft, far
+beyond the stars, t' the ear o' God Hisself; an' I wisht--oh, I
+wisht--they was the same sort o' telegraph wire t' hell! For," said
+he, sadly, "I've got some news that I'd kind o' like t' send."
+
+I could not help him.
+
+"I'm _tired_!" he complained, with a quick-drawn sigh. "I'm all wore
+out; an' I wisht I could tell Tom Callaway."
+
+I, too, sighed.
+
+"But I 'low," was my uncle's woe-begone conclusion, "that that there
+poor ol' Tom Callaway 'll just have t' wait till I sees un."
+
+'Twas with a start of horror that I surmised the whereabouts of my
+father's soul.
+
+                  *       *       *       *       *
+
+We were but newly come from St. John's: a long sojourn in the
+water-side tap-rooms--a dissipation protracted beyond the habit (and
+will) of my uncle. I had wearied, and had wondered, but had found no
+explanation. There was a time when the rage and stagger of his
+intoxicated day had been exceeded past my remembrance and to my
+terror. I forgave him the terror: I did, I am sure! there was no
+fright or humiliation the maimed ape could put upon me but I would
+freely forgive, remembering his unfailing affection. 'Twas all plain
+now: the course of his rascality had not run smooth. I divined it; and
+I wished, I recall, lying there in the light of the untroubled stars,
+that I might give of myself--of the ease and placid outlook he
+preserved for me--some help to his distress and melancholy. But I was
+a child: no more than a child--unwise, unhelpful, in a lad's way
+vaguely feeling the need of me from whom no service was due: having
+intuitive discernment, but no grown tact and wisdom. That he was
+scarred, two-fingered, wooden-legged, a servant of the bottle, was
+apart: and why not? for I was nourished by the ape that he was; and a
+child loves (this at least) him who, elsewhere however repugnant,
+fosters him. I could not help with any spoken word, but still could
+have him think 'twas grateful to me to have him sit with me while I
+fell asleep; and this I gladly did.
+
+                  *       *       *       *       *
+
+My uncle looked up. "Dannie," said he, "you don't mind me sittin' here
+for a spell on your little bed, do you? Honest, now?"
+
+'Twas woful supplication: the voice a child's voice; the eyes--dimly
+visible in the starlight--a child's beseeching eyes.
+
+"Jus' for a little spell?" he pleaded.
+
+I said that I was glad to have him.
+
+"An' you isn't so wonderful sleepy, is you?"
+
+"No, sir," I yawned.
+
+He sighed. "I'm glad," said he. "An' I'm grateful t' you, lad, for
+bein' kind t' ol' Nick Top. He ain't worth it, Dannie--_he's_ no good;
+he's jus' a ol' fool. But I'm lonely the night--most wonderful
+lonely. I been thinkin' I was sort o' makin' a mess o' things. You
+_is_ happy, isn't you, Dannie?" he asked, in a flash of anxious
+mistrust. "An' comfortable--an' good? Ah, well! maybe: I'm glad you're
+thinkin' so. But I 'low I isn't much on fetchin' you up. I'm a
+_wonderful_ poor hand at that. I 'low you're gettin' a bit beyond me.
+I been feelin' sort o' helpless an' scared; an' I was wishin' they was
+somebody t' lend a hand with the job. I overhauled ol' Chesterfield,
+Dannie, for comfort; but somehow I wasn't able t' put my finger on a
+wonderful lot o' passages t' tie to. He've wonderful good ideas on the
+subjeck o' manners, an' a raft of un, too; but the ideas he've got on
+souls, Dannie, is poor an' sort o' damned scarce. So when I sot down
+there with the bottle, I 'lowed that if I come up an' you give me
+leave t' sit on the side o' your little bed for a spell, maybe you
+wouldn't mind recitin' that there little piece you've fell into the
+habit o' usin' afore you goes t' bed. That wee thing about the
+Shepherd. You wouldn't mind, would you, just sort o' givin' it a light
+overhaulin' for me? I'd thank you, Dannie, an you would be so kind;
+an' I'll be as quiet as a mouse while you does it."
+
+"The tender Shepherd?"
+
+"Ay," said he; "the Shepherd o' the lambs."
+
+               "'_Jesus, tender Shepherd, hear me;
+                 Bless thy little lamb to-night;
+               Through the darkness be Thou near me;
+                 Keep me safe till morning light._
+
+               "'_All this day Thy hand has led me,
+                 And I thank Thee for Thy care;
+               Thou hast warmed me, clothed and fed me:
+                 Listen to my evening prayer._
+
+               "'_Let my sins be all forgiven;
+                 Bless the friends I love so well;
+               Take us all at last to heaven,
+                 Happy there with Thee to dwell._'"
+
+And now the lower stars were paling in a far-off flush of light. I had
+been disquieted, but was by this waxing glow made glad that the sea
+and rock of the world were to lie uncovered of their shadows while yet
+I was awake. 'Twas a childish prayer--too simple in terms and petition
+(as some may think) for the lad that was I to utter, grown tall and
+broad and lusty for my years; but how sufficient (I recall) to still
+the fears of night! They who are grown lads, like the lad that was I,
+got somewhat beyond the years of tenderness, cling within their hearts
+to all the lost privileges of love they must by tradition affect to
+despise. My prayer for the little lamb that was I presented no aspect
+of incongruity to my uncle; it left him silent and solemnly
+abstracted: the man being cast into a heavy muse upon its content, his
+head fallen over his breast, as was his habit, and his great gray
+brows drawn down. How still the night--how cold and clear: how
+unfeeling in this frosty calm and silence, save, afar, where the
+little stars winked their kindly cognizance of the wakeful dwellers
+of the earth! I sat up in my bed, peering through the window, to catch
+the first glint of the moon and to watch her rise dripping, as I used
+to fancy, from the depths of the sea.
+
+"But they stray!" my uncle complained.
+
+'Twas an utterance most strange. "Uncle Nick," I asked, "what is it
+that strays?"
+
+"The feet o' children," he answered.
+
+By this I was troubled.
+
+"They stray," he repeated. "Ay; 'tis as though the Shepherd minded not
+at all."
+
+"Will my feet stray?"
+
+He would not answer: and then all at once I was appalled--who had not
+feared before.
+
+"Tell me!" I demanded.
+
+He reached out and touched my hand--a fleeting, diffident touch--and
+gently answered, "Ay, lad; your feet will stray."
+
+"No, no!" I cried.
+
+"The feet of all children," said he. "'Tis the way o' the world. They
+isn't mothers' prayers enough in all the world t' change the
+Shepherd's will. He's wise--the Shepherd o' the lambs."
+
+"'Tis sad, then," I expostulated, "that the Shepherd haves it so."
+
+"Sad?"
+
+"Ay--wondrous sad."
+
+"I'm not able t' think 'tis sad," said he. "'Tis wise, Dannie, I'm
+thinkin', t' have the lads wander in strange paths. I'd not have un
+suffer fear an' sorrow, God knows! not one poor lad of all the lads
+that ever was. I'd suffer for their sins meself an' leave un go scot
+free. Not one but I'd be glad t' do it for. But still 'tis wise, I'm
+thinkin', that they should wander an' learn for theirselves the
+trouble o' false ways. I wisht," he added, simply, "that they was
+another plan--some plan t' save un sorrow while yet it made un men.
+But I can't think o' none."
+
+"But an they're lost?"
+
+He scratched his head in a rush of anxious bewilderment. "Why,
+Dannie," cries he, "it cannot be! Lost? Some poor wee lads lost? _You_
+lost, Dannie? My God! _You_, Dannie--you that lies there tender an'
+kind an' clean o' soul in your little bed? You that said the little
+prayer t' the tender Shepherd? _You_ lost! God! it _could_ not be.
+What's this you're tellin' me? I'm not able t' blaspheme the Lord God
+A'mighty in a way that's vile as that. Not you, lad--not you! Am I t'
+curse the God that would have it so?" cries he, in wrath. "Am I t'
+touch your young body here in the solemn night, am I t' look into your
+unspoiled eyes by day, an' feel that you fare into the dark alone, a
+child, an' without hope? _Me_ think that? Ol' Nick Top? Not I! Sin?
+Ay; _you'll_ sin. God knows so well as I you'll sin. He made you, lad,
+an' knows full well. You'll be sore hurt, child. For all he learns o'
+righteousness, Dannie, a man suffers; an' for all he learns o' sin he
+pays in kind: 'tis all the same--he learns o' good an' evil an' pays
+in the same coin o' sorrow. I'm not wishin' you sorrow: I'm wishin'
+you manhood. You'll wander, like all lads, as God knows, who made un
+an' the world they walks in; but the Shepherd will surely follow an'
+fetch home all them that stray away upon hurtful roads accordin' t'
+the will He works upon the sons o' men. They's no bog o' sin in all
+the world He knows not of. He'll seek the poor lads out, in patience
+an' love; an' He'll cure all the wounds the world has dealt un in dark
+places, however old an' bleared an' foul they've growed t' be, an'
+He'll make un clean again, rememberin' they was little lads,
+once--jus' like you. _Why, by God! Dannie,_" cried he, "_I'd do as
+much meself!_"
+
+"Ay," quoth I; "but the parsons says they're lost for good an' all."
+
+"Does they?" he asked, his eyes blank.
+
+"Deed so--an' often!"
+
+"Ah, well, Dannie!" said he, "bein' cut off from the discussion o'
+parsons by misdeeds, I'm not able t' say. But bein' on'y a lost soul
+I'm 'lowed t' think; an' I've thunk a idea."
+
+I wondered concerning it.
+
+"Which is, speakin' free an' easy," said he, "that they lie!"
+
+"'Twill be hard," I argued, "'t save un all."
+
+"'Twould be a mean poor God," he replied, "that couldn't manage a
+little thing like that."
+
+My uncle's soul, as I had been taught (and but a moment gone
+informed), was damned.
+
+"Uncle Nick," I inquired, "will the Shepherd find you?"
+
+"Me?" cries he.
+
+"Ay," I persisted; "will he not seek till he finds you, too?"
+
+"Hist!" he whispered. "I'm damned, Dannie, for good an' all."
+
+"You?"
+
+"Good Lord, yes!" said he, under his breath. "Hist! Certain sure, I
+is--damned t' hell for what I'm doin'."
+
+At this distant day I know that what he did was all for me, but not on
+that moonlit night of my childhood.
+
+"What's that?" said I.
+
+"I'm damned for it, anyhow," he answered. "Say no more, Dannie."
+
+I marvelled, but could make nothing of it at all. 'Tis strange (I have
+since thought) that we damn ourselves without hesitation: not one
+worthy man in all the world counting himself deserving of escape from
+those dreadful tortures preached for us by such apostles of injustice
+as find themselves, by the laws they have framed, interpreting without
+reverence or fear of blunder, free from the common judgment. Ay, we
+damn ourselves; but no man among us damns his friend, who is as evil
+as himself. And who damns his own child? 'Tis no doubt foolish to be
+vexed by any philosophy comprehending what is vulgarly called hell;
+but still (as I have thought) this is a reasonable view: there is no
+hell in the philosophy of a mother for her own child; and as by
+beneficent decree every man is the son of his mother, consequently
+there is no hell; else 'twould make such unhappiness in heaven. Ah,
+well! I looked out of the window where were the great works of the
+Lord: His rock and sea and sky. The moon was there to surprise
+me--half risen: the sea shot with a glistening pathway to the glory of
+the night. And in that vast uncertain and inimical place, far out from
+shore, there rode a schooner of twenty tons, dawdling unafraid, her
+small sails spread for a breeze, in hope. Whither bound? Northward: an
+evil coast for sailing-craft--cruel waters: rock and fog and ice and
+tempestuous winds. Thither bound, undaunted, with wings wide, abroad
+in the teeth of many perils, come wreck or not. At least (I thought)
+she had ventured from snug harbor.
+
+"Dannie," said my uncle, "you're all alone in the world."
+
+Alone? Not I! "Why, sir," said I, "I've _you!_"
+
+He looked away.
+
+"Isn't I?" I demanded.
+
+"No, lad," he answered; "you isn't."
+
+'Twas the first step he had led me from dependence upon him. 'Twas as
+though he had loosened my hand a little from its confident clasp of
+his own. I was alarmed.
+
+"Many's the lad," said he, "that thinks he've his mother; an' many's
+the mother that thinks she've her lad. But yet they is both alone--all
+alone. 'Tis the queerest thing in the world."
+
+"But, Uncle Nick, I _haves_ you!"
+
+"No," he persisted; "you is all alone. Why, Lord! Dannie, you is
+'leven. What does I know about _you_?"
+
+Not enough.
+
+"An' what does _you_ know about _me_?"
+
+I wondered.
+
+"All children is alone," said he. "Their mothers doesn't think so; but
+they is. They're alone--all alone. They got t' walk alone. How am I t'
+help you, Dannie? What can I _do_ for you? Of all the wisdom I've
+gathered I'd give you all an' go beggared, but you cannot take one
+jot. You must walk alone; 'tis the way o' the world. An', Dannie,
+could I say t' the evil that is abroad, 'Stand back! Make way! Leave
+this child o' mine t' walk in holiness!' I would not speak the word.
+'Twould be hard t' stand helpless while you was sore beset. I'm not
+knowin' how I'd bear it. 'Twould hurt me, Dannie, God knows! But still
+I'd have you walk where sin walks. 'Tis a man's path, an' I'd have you
+take it, lad, like a man. I'd not have you come a milk-sop t' the
+Gate. I'd have you come scathless, an that might be with honor; but
+I'd have you come a man, scarred with a man's scars, an need be. You
+walk alone, Dannie, God help you! in the world God made: I've no
+knowledge o' your goings. You'll wander far on they small feet. God
+grant you may walk manfully wherever they stray. I've no more t' hope
+for than just only that."
+
+"I'll try, sir," said I.
+
+My uncle touched me again--moving nearer, now, that his hand might lie
+upon me. "Dannie," he whispered, "if you must sin the sins of us--"
+
+"Ay, sir?"
+
+"They'll be some poor folk t' suffer. An' Dannie--"
+
+I was very grave in the pause.
+
+"You'll not forget t' be kind, will you," he pleaded, "t' them that
+suffer for your sins?"
+
+"I will not sin," I protested, "t' the hurt of any others."
+
+He seemed not to hear. "An' you'll bear your own pain," he continued,
+"like a man, will you not?"
+
+I would bear it like a man.
+
+"That's good," said he. "That's very good!"
+
+The moon was now risen from the sea: the room full of white light.
+
+"They is a Shepherd," said my uncle. "God be thanked for that. _He'll_
+fetch you home."
+
+"An' you?" said I.
+
+"Me? Oh no!"
+
+"He'll remember," said I, confidently, "that you was once a little
+lad--jus' like me."
+
+"God knows!" said he.
+
+I was then bade go to sleep....
+
+                  *       *       *       *       *
+
+Presently I fell asleep, but awoke, deep in the night, to find my
+uncle brooding in a chair by my bed. The moon was high in the
+unclouded heaven. There was no sound or stirring in all the world--a
+low, unresting, melancholy swish and sighing upon the rocks below my
+window, where the uneasy sea plainted of some woe long forgot by all
+save it, which was like a deeper stillness and silence. The Lost Soul
+was lifted old and solemn and gray in the cold light and shadow of
+the night. I was troubled: for my uncle sat in the white beam,
+striking in at my window, his eyes staring from cavernous shadows, his
+face strangely fixed and woful--drawn, tragical, set in no incertitude
+of sorrow and grievous pain and expectation. I was afraid--'twas his
+eyes: they shook me with fear of the place and distance from which it
+seemed he gazed at me. 'Twas as though a gulf lay between, a place of
+ghostly depths, of echoes and jagged rock, dark with wind-blown
+shadows. He had brought me far (it seemed) upon a journey, leading me;
+and having now set my feet in other paths and turned my face to a City
+of Light, lifted in glory upon a hill, was by some unworthiness turned
+back to his own place, but stayed a moment upon the cloudy cliff at
+the edge of darkness, with the night big and thick beyond, to watch me
+on my way.
+
+"Uncle Nick," said I, "'tis wonderful late in the night."
+
+"Ay, Dannie," he answered; "but I'm wantin' sore t' sit by you here a
+spell."
+
+"I'll not be able," I objected, "t' go t' sleep."
+
+"'Twill do no hurt, lad," said he "if I'm wonderful quiet. An' I'll be
+quiet--wonderful quiet."
+
+"But I'm _wantin'_ t' go t' sleep!"
+
+"Ah, well," said he, "I'll not trouble you, then. I would not have you
+lie awake. I'll go. Good-night. God bless you, lad!"
+
+I wish I had not driven him away....
+
+
+
+
+VII
+
+TWIN ISLANDS
+
+
+In all this time I have said little enough of Twist Tickle, never a
+word (I think) of Twin Islands, between whose ragged shores the
+sheltering tickle winds; and by your favor I come now gratefully to
+the task. 'Tis a fishing outport: a place of rock and sea and windy
+sky--no more than that--but much loved by the twelvescore simple souls
+of us, who asked for share of all the earth but salt-water and a
+harbor (with the winds blowing) to thrive sufficient to ourselves and
+to the world beyond. Had my uncle sought a secret place to foster the
+child that was I--which yet might yield fair wage for toil--his quest
+fortuitously ended when the _Shining Light_ ran dripping out of the
+gale and came to anchor in the quiet water of the tickle. But more
+like 'twas something finer that moved him: in that upheaval of his
+life, it may be, 'twas a wistful turning of the heart to the paths and
+familiar waters of the shore where he lived as a lad. Had the _Shining
+Light_ sailed near or far and passed the harbor by, the changed
+fortunes of--but there was no sailing by, nor could have been, for the
+great wind upon whose wings she came was passionate, too, and
+fateful.
+
+If 'tis a delight to love, whatever may come of it (as some hold), I
+found delight upon the grim hills of Twin Islands....
+
+                  *       *       *       *       *
+
+They lie hard by the coast, but are yet remote: Ship's Run divides
+them from the long blue line of main-land which lifts its barren hills
+in misty distance from our kinder place. 'Tis a lusty stretch of gray
+water, sullen, melancholy, easily troubled by the winds, which
+delight, it seems, sweeping from the drear seas of the north, to stir
+its rage. In evil weather 'tis wide as space; when a nor'easter lifts
+the white dust of the sea, clouding Blow-me-down-Billy of the
+main-land in a swirl of mist and spume, there is no departure; nor is
+there any crossing (mark you) when in the spring of the year a
+southerly gale urges the ice to sea. We of Twin Islands were cut off
+by Ship's Run from all the stirring and inquisitive world.
+
+According to Tumm, the clerk of the _Quick as Wink_, which traded our
+harbor, Twin Islands are t' the west'ard o' the Scarf o' Fog, a bit
+below the Blue Gravestones, where the _Soldier o' the Cross_ was
+picked up by Satan's Tail in the nor'easter o' the Year o' the Big
+Shore Catch. "Oh, I knows un!" says he. "You opens the Tickle when you
+rounds Cocked Hat o' the Hen-an'-Chickens an' lays a course for
+Gentleman Cove, t'other side o' the bay. Good harbor in dirty
+weather," says he: "an', ecod! my lads, a hearty folk." This is
+forbidding enough, God knows! as to situation; but though the ancient
+islands, scoured by wind and rain, are set in a misty isolation and
+show gray, grimly wrinkled faces to the unkind sea, betraying no
+tenderness, they are green and genial in the places within: there are
+valleys; and the sun is no idler, and the lean earth of those parts is
+not to be discouraged.
+
+"God-forsaken place, Nick!" quoth Tom Bull, at the Anchor and Chain.
+
+"How was you knowin' that, Tom?" says my uncle. "You isn't never
+_been_ there."
+
+"_Sounds_ God-forsaken."
+
+"So does hell."
+
+"Well, hell _is_."
+
+"There you goes again, Tom Bull!" cries my uncle, with a sniff and
+wrathful twitch of the lip. "There you goes again, you dunderhead--jumpin'
+t' conclusions!"
+
+Tom Bull was shocked.
+
+"Hell God-forsaken!" growls my uncle. "They's more hard labor for the
+good Lord t' do in hell, Tom Bull, than any place I knows on; an' I
+'low He's right there, kep' double watches on the jump, a-doin' of
+it!"
+
+Twist Tickle pursues an attenuated way between the Twins, broadening
+into the harbor basin beyond the Pillar o' Cloud, narrowing at the
+Finger and Thumb, widening, once more, into the lower harbor, and
+escaping to the sea, at last, between Pretty Willie and the Lost Soul,
+which are great bare heads. You get a glimpse of the Tickle from the
+deck of the mail-boat: this when she rounds the Cocked Hat and
+wallows off towards Gentleman Cove. 'Tis but a niggardly glimpse at
+best, and vastly unfair to the graces of the place: a white house, wee
+and listlessly tilted, gripping a rock, as with expiring interest; a
+reach of placid water, deep and shadowy, from which rise the hills,
+gray, rugged, splashed with green; heights beyond, scarfed with
+clinging wisps of mist.
+
+The white houses are builded in a fashion the most disorderly at the
+edge of the tickle, strung clear from the narrows to the Lost Soul and
+straying somewhat upon the slopes, with the scrawny-legged flakes
+clinging to the bare declivities and the stages squatted at the
+water-side; but some houses, whose tenants are solitary folk made
+morose by company, congregate in the remoter coves--where the shore is
+the shore of the open sea and there is no crowd to trouble--whence
+paths scramble over the hills to the Tickle settlement. My uncle's
+cottage sat respectably, even with some superiority, upon a narrow
+neck of rock by the Lost Soul, outlooking, westerly, to sea, but in
+the opposite direction dwelling in a way more intimate and fond upon
+the unruffled water of Old Wives' Cove, within the harbor, where rode
+the _Shining Light_.
+
+"An' there she'll lie," he was used to saying, with a grave and
+mysteriously significant wink, "until I've sore need o' she."
+
+"Ay," said they, "or till she rots, plank an' strand."
+
+"An she rots," says my uncle, "she may rot: for she'll sail these
+here waters, sound or rotten, by the Lord! an I just put her to it."
+
+Unhappy, then, perhaps, Twin Islands, in situation and prospect; but
+the folk of that harbor, who deal barehanded with wind and sea to
+catch fish, have this wisdom: that a barren, a waste of selfish water,
+a low, soggy sky have nothing to do with the hearts of men, which are
+independent, in love and hope and present content, of these unfeeling
+things. We were seafaring men, every jack of the place, with no
+knowledge of a world apart from green water, which forever confronted
+us, fashioning our lives; but we played the old comedy as heartily,
+with feeling as true and deep, the same fine art, as you, my
+gentlefolk! and made a spectacle as grateful to the gods for whom the
+stage (it seems) is set.
+
+                  *       *       *       *       *
+
+And there is a road from the Tickle to the sea--to an outer cove,
+high-cliffed, frothy, sombre, with many melancholy echoes of wind and
+breakers and listless human voices, where is a cluster of hopeless,
+impoverished homes. 'Tis a wilful-minded path, lingering indolently
+among the hills, artful, intimate, wise with age, and most indulgently
+secretive of its soft discoveries. It is used to the lagging feet of
+lovers. There are valleys in its length, and winding, wooded
+stretches, kindly places; and there are arching alders along the way
+to provide a seclusion yet more tender. In the moonlight 'tis a path
+of enchantment--a way (as I know) of pain and high delight: of a
+wandering hope that tantalizes but must in faith, as we are men, be
+followed to its catastrophe. I have suffered much of ecstasy and
+despair upon that path. 'Tis the road to Whisper Cove.
+
+Judith dwelt at Whisper Cove....
+
+
+
+
+VIII
+
+A MAID O' WHISPER COVE
+
+
+Fourteen, then, and something more: a footloose lad of Twist
+Tickle--free to sail and wander, to do and dream, to read the riddles
+of my years, blithe and unalarmed. 'Tis beyond the will and wish of me
+to forget the day I lay upon the Knob o' Lookout, from afar keeping
+watch on the path to Whisper Cove--the taste of it, salty and cool,
+the touch of it upon my cheek and in my hair, the sunlight and
+scampering wind: the simple haps and accidents, the perception,
+awakening within me, and the portent. 'Twas blowing high and merrily
+from the west--a yellow wind from the warm west and from the golden
+mist and low blue line of coast at the other side of the bay. It
+rippled the azure floor between, and flung the spray of the breakers
+into the sunshine, and heartily clapped the gray cliff, and pulled the
+ears of the spruce, and went swinging on, in joyous mood, to the gray
+spaces of the great sea beyond Twin Islands. I shall not forget: for
+faith! the fates were met in conspiracy with the day to plot the
+mischief of my life. There was no warning, no question to ease the
+issue in my case: 'twas all ordained in secret; and the lever of
+destiny was touched, and the labor of the unfeeling loom went forward
+to weave the pattern of my days.
+
+                  *       *       *       *       *
+
+Judith (as I know) washed her mother's face and hands with conscientious
+care: 'twas her way. Doubtless, in the way she had, she chattered,
+the while, a torrent of affectionate reproof and direction, which gave
+no moment for promise or complaint, and at last, with a raised finger
+and a masterful little flash of the eye, bade the flighty woman keep
+out of mischief for the time. What then, 'tis easy to guess: she
+exhausted the resources of soap and water in her own adornment (for she
+smelled of suds in the cabin of the _Shining Light_), and set out by
+the path from Whisper Cove to Twist Tickle, with never a glance
+behind, but a prim, sharp outlook, from shyly downcast eyes, upon all
+the world ahead. A staid, slim little maid, with softly fashioned
+shoulders, carried sedately, her small head drooping with shy grace,
+like a flower upon its slender stalk, seeming as she went her dainty
+way to perceive neither scene nor incident of the passage, but yet
+observing all in swift, sly little flashes.
+
+"An' a-ha!" thinks I, "she's bound for the _Shining Light_!"
+
+It was blowing: on the edge of the cliff, where the path was lifted
+high above the sea, winding through sunlit space, the shameless old
+wind, turned skyward by the gray cliff, made bold, in the way the wind
+knows and will practise, wherever it blows. The wind cared nothing
+for the tragic possibility of a lad on the path: Judith was but a
+fluttering rag in the gust. At once--'twas a miracle of activity--her
+face reappeared in a cloud of calico and tawny hair. She looked
+fearfully to the path and yellow hills; and her eyes (it must be) were
+wide with the distress of this adventure, and there were blushes (I
+know) upon her cheeks, and a flash of white between her moist red
+lips. Without hint of the thing (in her way)--as though recklessly
+yielding to delight despite her fears--she lifted her hands and
+abandoned the pinafore to the will of the wind with a frightened
+little chuckle. 'Twas her way: thus in a flash to pass from nay to yea
+without mistrust or lingering. Presently, tired of the space and
+breeze, she dawdled on in the sunshine, idling with the berries and
+scrawny flowers by the way, and with the gulls, winging above the sea,
+until, as with settled intention, she vanished over the cliff by the
+goat-path to Old Wives' Cove, where rode the _Shining Light_, sound
+asleep under a blanket of sunshine in the lee of the Lost Soul.
+
+I followed.
+
+                  *       *       *       *       *
+
+In the cabin of the _Shining Light_, cross-legged on the table, in the
+midst of the order she had accomplished, her hands neatly folded in
+her lap, Judith sat serene. She had heard my clatter on the
+gang-plank, my shuffle and heavy tread on the deck. 'Twas I, she knew:
+there was no mistaking, God help me! the fall of my feet on road or
+deck. It may be that her heart for a moment fluttered to know that
+the lad that was I came at last. She has not told me: I do not know.
+But faith! my own was troublesome enough with a new and irritating
+uneasiness, for which was no accounting.
+
+I feigned astonishment. "Hello!" quoth I; "what you doin' here?"
+
+She turned away--the eager expectation all fled from her face: I saw
+it vanish.
+
+"Eh?" says I.
+
+She sniffed: 'twas a frank sniff of contempt--pain, like a half-heard
+sob, mixed with the scorn of it.
+
+"What you doin' here?"
+
+I stood reproached; she had achieved it in a glance--a little shaft of
+light, darting upon me, departing, having dealt its wound.
+
+"Well, maid," cries I, the smart of her glance and silence enraging
+me, "is you got no tongue?"
+
+She puckered her brows, pursed her lips; she sighed--and concerned
+herself with her hair-ribbon, quite placid once more. 'Twas a trick
+well known to me. 'Twas a trick aggravating to the temper. 'Twas a
+maid's trick--an ensnaring, deadly trick. 'Twas a trick ominous of my
+imminent confusion.
+
+"Eh?" I demanded.
+
+"Dannie, child," she admonished, gently, "God hates a liar!"
+
+I might have known.
+
+"T' make believe," cries she, "that I'd not be here! How could you!"
+
+"'Tis not a lie."
+
+"'Tis a white lie, child," she chided. "You've come, Dannie, poor lad!
+t' be a white liar. 'Tis a woful state--an' a parlous thing. For,
+child, if you keeps on--"
+
+She had paused. 'Twas a trick to fetch the question. I asked it.
+
+"You'll be a blue one," says she. "An' then--"
+
+"What then?"
+
+"Blue-black, child. An' then--"
+
+I waited.
+
+"Oh, Dannie, lad!" cries she, her little hands clasped, a pitiful
+quaver in her voice, so that I felt consigned to woe, indeed, for this
+misdoing, "you'll be a liar as black as--"
+
+There was no more of it.
+
+"You dare not say it!" I taunted.
+
+I did not wish that she should: not I! but still, being a lad, would
+have her come close enough to sauce the devil. But I would not have
+her say that word. Indeed, I need not have troubled. 'Twas not in her
+mind to be so unmaidenly, with a lad at hand to serve her purpose.
+
+"No," says she, "I dare not; but you, Dannie, bein' a lad--"
+
+Her voice trailed off expectantly.
+
+"Black as hell?"
+
+She nodded.
+
+"Come, maid," says I, "you've called me a liar."
+
+"I wasn't wantin' to."
+
+"No odds," says I. "An' if I'm a liar," says I, "I 'low I'm a fool for
+it?"
+
+"You is."
+
+"Then, my maid," cries I, in triumph, "you'll be keepin' me company in
+hell! You've called me a fool. 'An' whoso calleth his brother a
+fool--'"
+
+"Oh no," says she, quite undisturbed. "'Tis not so."
+
+"Not so?"
+
+"Why, no, child! Didn't you know?"
+
+"But it _says_ so!"
+
+"Dannie, child," says she, with unruffled superiority, "I come down
+from heaven one year an' five months after God sent you. An' God
+_told_ me, Dannie, just afore I left Un at the Gate, that He'd changed
+His mind about that."
+
+The particular color of this stupendous prevarication I am still
+unable to determine....
+
+                  *       *       *       *       *
+
+Here in the cabin of the _Shining Light_ was my workshop. On the
+bench, stout-hulled and bravely masted, was a bark to be rigged. My
+fingers itched to be dealing with the delicate labor. 'Twas no time
+now, thought I, all at once, to dally with the child. The maid was a
+sweet maid, an amiably irritating maid, well enough, in her way, to
+idle with; but the building of the ship was a substantial delight,
+subject to the mastery of a man with hands and a will, the end a sure
+achievement--no vague, elusive thing, sought in madness, vanishing in
+the grasp. I would be about this man's-work. Never was such a ship as
+this ship should be! And to the work went Judith and I. But
+presently, as never happened before, I was in some strange way
+conscious of Judith's nearness. 'Twas a soft, companionable presence,
+indeed! I bungled the knots, and could no longer work my will upon the
+perverse spars, but had rather dwell upon her slender hands, swiftly,
+capably busy, her tawny hair, her sun-browned cheeks and the creamy
+curve of her brow, the blue and flash and fathomless depths of her
+eyes. I remembered the sunlight and freshening breeze upon the hills,
+the chirp and gentle stirring of the day, the azure sea and far-off,
+tender mist, the playful breakers, flinging spray high into the yellow
+sunshine. 'Twas no time now, thought I, to be busied with craft in the
+gloomy cabin of the _Shining Light_, which was all well enough in its
+way; 'twas a time to be abroad in the sunlit wind. And I sighed: not
+knowing what ailed me, but yet uneasy and most melancholy. The world
+was an ill place for a lad to be (thinks I), and all the labor of it a
+vanity....
+
+                  *       *       *       *       *
+
+Now the afternoon was near spent. My hands were idle--my eyes and
+heart far astray from the labor of the time. It was very still and
+dreamful in the cabin. The chinks were red with the outer glow, and a
+stream of mote-laden sunlight, aslant, came in at the companionway.
+
+It fell upon Judith.
+
+"Judy," I whispered, bending close, "I 'low I might as well--might as
+well have--"
+
+She looked up in affright.
+
+"Have a kiss," said I.
+
+"Oh no!" she gasped.
+
+"Why not? Sure I'm able for it!"
+
+"Ay," she answered, in her wisdom yielding this; "but, Dannie, child,
+'tisn't _'lowed_."
+
+"Why not?"
+
+Her eyes turned round with religious awe. "God," said she, with a
+solemn wag, "wouldn't like it."
+
+"I'd never stop for that."
+
+"May be," she chided; "but I 'low, lad, we ought t' 'blige Un once in
+a while. 'Tis no more than kind. An' what's a kiss t' lack? Pooh!"
+
+I was huffed.
+
+"Ah, well, then!" said she, "an your heart's set on it, Dannie, I've
+no mind t' stop you. But--"
+
+I moved forward, abashed, but determined.
+
+"But," she continued, with an emphasis that brought me to a stop, "I
+'low I better ask God, t' make sure."
+
+'Twas the way she had in emergencies.
+
+"Do," said I, dolefully.
+
+The God of the lad that was I--the God of his childish vision, when,
+in the darkness of night, he lifted his eyes in prayer, seeking the
+leading of a Shepherd--was a forbidding God: white, gigantic, in the
+shape of an old, old man, the Ancient of Days, in a flowing robe,
+seated scowling upon a throne, aloft on a rolling cloud, with an awful
+mist of darkness all roundabout. But Judith, as I knew, visualized in
+a more felicitous way. The God to whom she appealed was a rotund,
+florid old gentleman, with the briefest, most wiry of sandy whiskers
+upon his chops, a jolly double chin, a sunburned nose, kindly blue
+eyes forever opened in mild wonder (and a bit bleared by the wind),
+the fat figure clad in broadly checked tweed knickerbockers and a
+rakish cap to match, like the mad tourists who sometimes strayed our
+way. 'Twas this complacent, benevolent Deity that she made haste to
+interrogate in my behalf, unabashed by the spats and binocular, the
+corpulent plaid stockings and cigar, which completed his attire. She
+spread her feet, in the way she had at such times; and she shut her
+eyes, and she set her teeth, and she clinched her hands, and thus
+silently began to wrestle for the answer, her face all screwed, as by
+a taste of lemon.[4]
+
+Presently my patience was worn.
+
+"What news?" I inquired.
+
+"Hist!" she whispered. "He's lookin' at me through His glasses."
+
+I waited an interval.
+
+"What now, Judy?"
+
+"Hist!" says she. "He's wonderful busy makin' up His mind. Leave Un
+be, Dannie!"
+
+'Twas trying, indeed! I craved the kiss. Nor by watching the child's
+puckered face could I win a hint to ease the suspense that rode me.
+Upon the will of Judith's Lord God Almighty in tweed knickerbockers
+surely depended the disposition of the maid. I wished He would make
+haste to answer.
+
+"Judy, maid," I implored, "will He never have done?"
+
+"You'll be makin' Un mad, Dannie," she warned.
+
+"I can wait no longer."
+
+"He's scowlin'."
+
+I wished I had not interrupted.
+
+"I 'low," she reported, "He'll shake His head in a minute."
+
+'Twas a tender way to break ill news.
+
+"Ay," she sighed, opening her eyes. "He've gone an' done it. I knowed
+it. He've said I hadn't better not. I'm wonderful sorry you've t' lack
+the kiss, Dannie. I'm wonderful sorry, Dannie," she repeated, in a
+little quiver of pity, "for _you_!"
+
+She was pitiful: there's no forgetting that compassion, its tearful
+concern and wistfulness. I was bewildered. More wishful beseeching
+must surely have softened a Deity with a sunburned nose and a double
+chin! Indeed, I was bewildered by this fantasy of weeping and
+nonsense. For the little break in her voice and the veil of tears upon
+her eyes I cannot account. 'Twas the way she had as a maid: and
+concerning this I have found it folly to speculate. Of the boundaries
+of sincerity and pretence within her heart I have no knowledge. There
+was no pretence (I think); 'twas all reality--the feigning and the
+feeling--for Judith walked in a confusion of the truths of life with
+visions. There came a time--a moment in our lives--when there was no
+feigning. 'Twas a kiss besought; and 'twas kiss or not, as between a
+man and a maid, with no Almighty in tweed knickerbockers conveniently
+at hand to shoulder the blame. Ah, well, Judith! the golden,
+mote-laden shaft which transfigured your childish loveliness into
+angelic glory, the encompassing shadows, the stirring of the day
+without, the winds of blue weather blowing upon the hills, are
+beauties faded long ago, the young denial a pain almost forgot. The
+path we trod thereafter, Judith, is a memory, too: the days and nights
+of all the years since in the streaming sunlight of that afternoon the
+lad that was I looked upon you to find the shadowy chambers of your
+eyes all misty with compassion.
+
+                  *       *       *       *       *
+
+"Dannie," she ventured, softly, "you're able t' take it."
+
+"Ay--but will not."
+
+"You're wonderful strong, Dannie, an' I'm but a maid."
+
+"I'll wrest no kisses," said I, with a twitch of scorn, "from maids."
+
+She smiled. 'Twas a passing burst of rapture, which, vanishing, left
+her wan and aged beyond her years.
+
+"No," she whispered, but not to me, "he'd _not_ do that. He'd not--do
+that! An' I'd care little enough for the Dannie Callaway that would."
+
+"You cares little enough as 'tis," said I. "You cares nothing at all.
+You cares not a jot."
+
+She smiled again: but now as a wilful, flirting maid. "As for carin'
+for _you_, Dannie," she mused, dissembling candor, "I _do_--an' I
+don't."
+
+The unholy spell that a maid may weave! The shameless trickery of
+this!
+
+"I'll tell you," she added, "the morrow."
+
+And she would keep me in torture!
+
+"There'll be no to-morrow for we," I flashed, in a passion. "You cares
+nothing for Dannie Callaway. 'Tis my foot," I cried, stamping in rage
+and resentment. "'Tis my twisted foot. I'm nothin' but a cripple!"
+
+She cried out at this.
+
+"A limpin' cripple," I groaned, "t' be laughed at by all the maids o'
+Twist Tickle!"
+
+She began now softly to weep. I moved towards the ladder--with the
+will to abandon her.
+
+"Dannie," she called, "take the kiss."
+
+I would not.
+
+"Take two," she begged.
+
+"Maid," said I, severely, "what about your God?"
+
+"Ah, _but_--" she began.
+
+"No, no!" cries I. "None o' that, now!"
+
+"You'll not listen!" she pouted.
+
+"'Twill never do, maid!"
+
+"An you'd but hear me, child," she complained, "I'd 'splain--"
+
+"_What about your God?_"
+
+She turned demure--all in a flash. "I'll ask Un," said she, most
+piously. "You--you--you'll not run off, Dannie," she asked, faintly,
+"when I--I--shuts my eyes?"
+
+"I'll bide here," says I.
+
+"Then," says she, "I'll ask Un."
+
+The which she did, in her peculiar way. 'Twas a ceremony scandalously
+brief and hurried. Once I caught (I thought) a slit in her eye--a
+peep-hole through which she spied upon me. Presently she looked up
+with a shy little grin. "God says, Dannie," she reported, speaking
+with slow precision, the grin now giving place to an expression of
+solemnity and highest rapture, "that He 'lows He didn't know what a
+fuss you'd make about a little thing like a kiss. He've been wonderful
+bothered o' late by overwork, Dannie, an' He's sorry for what He done,
+an' 'lows you might overlook it this time. 'You tell Dannie, Judy,'
+says He, 'that he've simply no idea what a God like me haves t' put up
+with. They's a woman t' Thunder Arm,' says He, 'that's been worryin'
+me night an' day t' keep her baby from dyin', an' I simply can't make
+up my mind. She'll make me mad an she doesn't look out,' says He, 'an'
+then I'll kill it. An' I've the heathen, Judy--all them heathen--on my
+mind. 'Tis enough t' drive any God mad. An' jus' now,' says He, 'I've
+got a wonderful big gale blowin' on the Labrador, an' I'm near drove
+deaf,' says He, 'by the noise them fishermen is makin'. What with the
+Labradormen an' the woman t' Thunder Arm an' the heathen 'tis fair
+awful. An' now comes Dannie,' says He, 't' make me sick o' my berth!
+You tell Dannie,' says he, 't' take the kiss an' be done with it.
+Tell un t' go ahead,' says He, 'an' not be afeared o' me. I isn't in
+favor o' kissin' as a usual thing,' says He, 'for I've always 'lowed
+'twas sort o' silly; but if _you_ don't mind, Judy,' says He, 'why,
+_I_ can turn my head.'"
+
+'Twas not persuasive.
+
+"'Tis a white kiss," said she, seeking, in her way, to deck the thing
+with attractions.
+
+I would not turn.
+
+"'Tis all silk."
+
+It budged me not, though I craved the kiss with a mounting sense of
+need, a vision of despair. It budged me not: I would not be beguiled.
+
+"An' oh, Dannie!" she besought, with her hands appealing, "'tis
+_awful_ expensive!"
+
+I returned.
+
+"Take it," she sobbed.
+
+I pecked her lips.
+
+"Volume II., page 26!" roared my uncle, his broad red face appearing
+at that moment in the companionway. "You done well, Dannie! 'Tis quite
+t' the taste o' Skipper Chesterfield. You're sailin' twelve knots by
+the log, lad, on the course you're steerin'!"
+
+So I did not have another; but the one, you may believe! had done the
+mischief.
+
+  [4] I am informed that there are strange folk who do not visualize
+      after the manner of Judith and me. 'Tis a wonder how they
+      conceive, at all!
+
+
+
+
+IX
+
+AN AFFAIR OF THE HEART
+
+
+My uncle's errand, speedily made known, for Judith's restoration, was
+this: to require my presence betimes at tea that evening, since (as he
+said) there was one coming by the mail-boat whom he would have me
+favorably impress with my appearance and state of gentility--a thing I
+was by no means loath to do, having now grown used to the small
+delights of display. But I was belated, as it chanced, after all: for
+having walked with Judith, by my uncle's hint, to the cairn at the
+crest of Tom Tulk's Head, upon the return I fell in with Moses Shoos,
+the fool of Twist Tickle, who would have me bear him company to Eli
+Flack's cottage, in a nook beyond the Finger, and lend him comfort
+thereafter, in good or evil fortune, as might befall. To this I gave a
+glad assent, surmising from the significant conjunction of smartened
+attire and doleful countenance that an affair of the heart was
+forward. And 'twas true; 'twas safely to be predicted, indeed, in
+season and out, of the fool of our harbor: for what with his own
+witless conjectures and the reports of his mates, made in unkind
+banter, his leisure was forever employed in the unhappy business: so
+that never a strange maid came near but he would go shyly forth upon
+his quest, persuaded of a grateful issue. 'Twas heroic, I thought, and
+by this, no less than by his attachment, he was endeared to me.
+
+                  *       *       *       *       *
+
+I sniffed a change of wind as we fell in together. 'Twould presently
+switch to the south (I fancied); and 'twould blow high from the
+sou'east before the night was done. The shadows were already long; and
+in the west--above the hills which shut the sea from sight--the blue
+of mellow weather and of the day was fading. And by the lengthened
+shadows I was reminded that 'twas an untimely errand the fool was
+upon. "'Tis a queer time," said I, "t' be goin' t' Eli's. Sure, Moses,
+they'll be at the board!"
+
+"Dear man! but I'm wonderful crafty, Dannie," he explained, with a sly
+twitch of the eye. "An they're at table, lad, with fish an' brewis sot
+out, I'm sure t' cotch the maid within."
+
+"The maid?" I inquired.
+
+"Ay, lad; 'tis a maid. I'm told they's a new baggage come t' Skipper
+Eli's for a bit of a cruise."
+
+I caught a bashful flush mounting to his ears and the rumble of a
+chuckle in his throat.
+
+"She've come from Tall Pine Harbor," said he, "with a cask o' liver;
+an' I'm told she've her heart dead sot on matrimony."
+
+"Larry Hull's maid?"
+
+"No, lad; 'tis not she. She've declined. Las' fall, Dannie, bein'
+wind-bound in a easterly gale, I cotched she at Skipper Jonathan
+Stark's. No; she've declined."
+
+"'Tis Maria Long, then," said I.
+
+"No, lad; she've declined, too."
+
+"Elizabeth Wutt?"
+
+"She've declined."
+
+"'Tis not the Widow Tootle!"
+
+"No; _she've_ declined," he answered, dismally. "But," he added, with
+a sudden access of cheerfulness, "she come wonderful _near_ it. 'Twas
+a close call for she! She 'lowed, Dannie, that an my beard had been
+red she might ha' went an' done it, takin' chances with my wits. She
+might, says she, put up with a lack o' wit; but a beard o' proper
+color she must have for peace o' mind. You sees, Dannie, Sam Tootle
+had a red beard, an' the widow 'lowed she'd feel strange with a yellow
+one, bein' accustomed t' the other for twenty year. She've declined,
+'tis true; but she come wonderful _near_ t' sayin the word. 'Twas
+quite encouragin'," he added, then sighed.
+
+"You keep on, Moses," said I, to hearten him, "an' you'll manage it
+yet."
+
+"Mother," he sighed, "used t' 'low so."
+
+We were now come to a rise in the road, whence, looking back, I found
+the sky fast clouding up. 'Twas a wide view, falling between the
+black, jagged masses of Pretty Willie and the Lost Soul, cast in
+shadow--a reach of blood-red sea, with mounting clouds at the edge of
+the world, into which the swollen sun had dropped, to set the
+wind-blown tatters in a flare of red and gold. 'Twas all a sullen
+black below, tinged with purple and inky blue; but high above the
+flame and glow of the rags of cloud there hung a mottled sky, each
+fleecy puff a touch of warmer color upon the pale green beyond. The
+last of our folk were bound in from the grounds, with the brown sails
+spread to a rising breeze, the fleet of tiny craft converging upon the
+lower-harbor tickle; presently the men would be out of the roughening
+sea, pulling up the harbor to the stage-heads, there to land and split
+the catch. Ay, a change of wind, a switch to the sou'east, with the
+threat of a gale with rain; 'twould blow before dark, no doubt, and
+'twas now all dusky in the east, where the sky was cold and gray. Soon
+the lamps would be alight in the kitchens of our harbor, where the men
+folk, cleansed of the sweat of the sea, would sit warm and dry with
+their wives and rosy lads and maids, caring not a whit for the wind
+and rain without, since they had what they had within.
+
+"I'm knowin' no other maid at Tall Pine Harbor," said I, "that's fit
+t' wed."
+
+"'Tis a maid o' the name o' Pearl," he confided; "an' I'm told she's
+fair on looks."
+
+"Pearl what, Moses?"
+
+"I disremember, Dannie," he answered, a bit put out. "The lads told
+me, out there on the grounds the day, when I got wind of her bein'
+here, but I've clean forgot. It won't matter, anyhow, will it, lad?
+for, sure, I'm able t' _ask_."
+
+"An' you've hopes?"
+
+He trudged on, staring straight ahead, now silent and downcast. "Well,
+no, Dannie," he answered, at last, "not what you might call _hopes_.
+So many, Dannie, haves declined, that I'd be s'prised t' cotch one
+that wouldn't slip the hook. But not havin' cast for this one, lad,
+I've not give up. I'm told they's no wonderful demand for the maid on
+accounts of temper and cross-eyes; an' so I was sort of allowin' she
+_might_ have a mind t' try a fool, him bein' the on'y skipper t' hand.
+Mother used t' say if I kep' on she 'lowed I'd haul one out in the
+end: an' I 'low mother knowed. She never 'lowed I'd cotch a perfeck
+specimen, in p'int o' looks, for them, says she, mates accordin' t'
+folly; but she did say, Dannie, that the maid I wed would come t' know
+me jus' the way mother knowed me, an t' love me jus' the way mother
+loved me, for my goodness. 'Twas kind o' mother t' think it: nobody
+else, Dannie, was ever so kind t' me. I wonder why _she_ was! Would
+you say, Dannie," he asked, turning anxiously, "that a cross-eyed maid
+_could_ be fair on looks? Not," he added, quickly, "that I'd care a
+wonderful sight: for mother used t' say that looks wiped off in the
+first washin', anyhow."
+
+I did not answer.
+
+"You wouldn't say, would you, lad," he went on, "that _I_ was fair on
+looks?"
+
+An ungainly little man, this Moses Shoos: stout enough about the
+chest, where a man's strength needs lie, big-shouldered, long-armed,
+but scrawny and crooked in the legs and of an inconfident, stumbling
+gait, prone to halt, musing vacantly as he went. He was bravely clad
+upon his courtship: a suit of homespun from the _Quick as Wink_, given
+in fair dealing, as to quality, by Tumm, the clerk, but with
+reservations as to fit--everywhere (it seemed) unequal to its task, in
+particular at the wrists and lean shanks. His visage was in the main
+of a gravely philosophical cast, full at the forehead, pensive about
+the eyes, restless-lipped, covered upon cheeks and chin with a close,
+curly growth of yellow beard of a color with his hair: 'twas as
+though, indeed, he carried a weight of thought--of concern and
+helpless sympathy for the woes of folk. 'Twas set with a child's eyes:
+of the unfaded blue, inquiring, unafraid, innocent, pathetic,
+reflecting the emotion of the moment; quick, too, but in no way to
+shame him, to fill with tears. He spoke in a colorless drawl, with
+small variation of pitch: a soft, low voice, of clear timbre, with a
+note of melancholy insistently sounding, whatever his mood. I watched
+him stumble on; and I wondered concerning the love his mother had for
+him, who got no other love, but did not wonder that he kept her close
+within his heart, for here was no mystery.
+
+"Eh, Dannie?" he reminded me, with a timid little smile, in which was
+yet some glint of vanity.
+
+"Oh, ay!" I answered; "you're fair on looks."
+
+"Ay," said he, in fine simplicity; "mother used t' say so, too. She
+'lowed," he continued, "that I was a sight stronger on looks 'n any
+fool she ever knowed. It might have been on'y mother, but maybe not.
+The lads, Dannie, out there on the grounds, is wonderful fond o'
+jokin', an' _they_ says I've a power o' looks; but mother," he
+concluded, his voice grown caressive and reverent, "wouldn't lie."
+
+It gave me a familiar pang--ay, it _hurt_ me sore--to feel this loving
+confidence vibrate upon the strings within me, and to know that the
+echo in my heart was but an echo, after all, distant and blurred, of
+the reality of love which was this fool's possession.
+
+"An' she said that?" I asked, in poignant envy.
+
+"Oh, ay!" he answered. "Afore she knowed I was a fool, lad, she 'lowed
+she had the best kid t' Twist Tickle."
+
+"An' after?" I demanded.
+
+"It didn't seem t' make no difference, Dannie, not a jot."
+
+I wisht I had a mother.
+
+"I wisht, Dannie," said he, in a break of feeling for me, "that _you_
+had a mother."
+
+"I wisht I had," said I.
+
+"I wisht," said he, in the way of all men with mothers, as God knows
+why, "that you had one--just like mine."
+
+We were come to the turn in the road, where the path descended at
+haphazard, over the rocks and past the pigpen, to the cottage of Eli
+Flack, builded snugly in a lee from the easterly gales. For a moment,
+in the pause, the fool of Twist Tickle let his hand rest upon my
+shoulder, which never before had happened in all our intercourse, but
+withdrew it, as though awakened from this pitying affection to a
+sense of his presumption, which never, God witness! did I teach him.
+
+"Tis a grand sunset," said he. "Look, Dannie; 'tis a sunset with
+gates!"
+
+'Twas so: great black gates of cloud, edged with glowing color, with
+the quiet and light of harbor beyond.
+
+"With gates!" he whispered.
+
+'Twas the fancy of a fool; nay, 'twas the fancy (as chanced his need)
+of some strange wisdom.
+
+"Dannie," said he, "they's times when I sees mother's face peerin' at
+me from them clouds--her own dear face as 'twas afore she died. She's
+keepin' watch from the windows o' heaven--keepin' watch, jus' like she
+used t' do. You'll never tell, will you, lad? You'll not shame me,
+will you? They'd laugh, out there on the grounds, an you told: for
+they're so wonderful fond o' laughter--out there on the grounds. I
+lives, somehow," said he, brushing his hand in bewilderment over his
+eyes, "in the midst o' laughter, but have no call t' laugh. I wonder
+why, for mother didn't laugh; an' I wonder why _they_ laughs so much.
+They'd laugh, Dannie, an you told un she was keepin' watch; an' so you
+will not: for I've growed, somehow, wonderful tired o' laughter--since
+mother died. But 'tis so: I knows 'tis so! I sees her face in the
+light o' sunsets--just as it used t' be. She comes t' the gate, when
+the black clouds arise t' hide the mystery we've no call t' know, an'
+the dear Lord cares not what we fathom; an' I sees her, Dannie, from
+my punt, still keepin' watch upon me, just like she done from the
+window, afore she went an' died. She was a wonderful hand, somehow, at
+keepin' watch at the window. She'd watch me go an' watch me come. I've
+often wondered why she done it. I've wondered, Dannie, an' wondered,
+but never could tell why. Why, Dannie, I've knowed her t' run out, by
+times, an' say: 'Come, dear, 'tis time you was within. Hush, lad,
+never care. They'll never hurt you, dear,' says she, 'when you're
+within--with me.' An', Dannie, t' this day I'm feared t' look into the
+sky, at evening, when I've been bad, lest I sees her saddened by my
+deeds; but when I'm good, I'm glad t' see her face, for she smiles,
+lad, just like she used t' do from the window--afore they buried
+her."
+
+"Ay," said I; "I've no doubt, Moses--nar a doubt at all."
+
+The wind had risen; 'twas blowing from south by sou'east in meaning
+gusts: gusts intent upon riot, without compassion, loosed and
+conscious of release to work the will they had. The wind cares nothing
+for the needs of men; it has no other feeling than to vent its
+strength upon the strength of us--the lust (it seems to me) for a
+trial of passion, not knowing the enlistment of our hearts. 'Tis by
+the heart alone that we outlive the sea's angry, crafty hate, for
+which there is no cause, since we would live at peace with it: for the
+heart remembers the kitchens of our land, and, defiant or not, evades
+the trial, repressed by love, as the sea knows no repression. 'Twas
+blowing smartly, with the promise of greater strength--'twas a time
+for reefs; 'twas a time for cautious folk, who loved their young, to
+walk warily upon the waters lest they be undone. The wind is a
+taunter; and the sea perversely incites in some folk--though 'tis
+hardly credible to such as follow her by day and night--strange desire
+to flaunt abroad, despite the bitter regard in which she holds the
+sons of men. I was glad that the folk of our harbor were within the
+tickle: for the sea of Ship's Run, now turned black, was baring its
+white teeth. 'Twas an unkind place to be caught in a gale of wind; but
+our folk were wise--knowing in the wiles of the sea--and were not to
+be trapped in the danger fools despise.
+
+"I'm on'y a fool," said Moses Shoos; "but, Dannie, mother 'lowed,
+afore she died, that I was wonderful good t' she. 'Moses, lad,' says
+mother, on that day, 'fool or no fool, looks or not, you been
+wonderful good t' me. I could never love you more; an' I wouldn't
+trade you, lad, for the brightest man o' Twist Tickle. Does you hear
+me, dear?' says she. 'I wants you t' remember. I loves you,' says she;
+'an' fool or no fool, I'd never trade you off, you've been so good t'
+me.'"
+
+"T' be sure not!" cries I.
+
+"Not mother," said he; "not--_my_ mother!"
+
+I reminded him that 'twas time to be about his courtship, for the
+light was fading now, and 'twould soon be dark.
+
+"Ay," said he; "mother 'lowed 'twasn't good for man t' be alone. An' I
+'low she knowed."
+
+I watched him down the hill....
+
+I was but a motherless lad--not yet grown wise, but old enough,
+indeed, to want a mother--in some dim way (which even yet is not clear
+to my heart's ignorance, nor ever will be, since I am born as I am)
+sensitive to feel the fathomless, boundless lack, poignantly conscious
+that my poor vision, at its clearest, was but a flash of insight. I
+used to try, I know, as a child, lying alone in the dark, when my
+uncle was gone to bed, to conjure from the shadows some yearning face,
+to feel a soft hand come gratefully from the hidden places of my room
+to smooth the couch and touch me with a healing touch, in cure of my
+uneasy tossing, to hear a voice crooning to my woe and restlessness;
+but never, ache and wish as I would, did there come from the dark a
+face, a hand, a voice which was my mother's; nay, I must lie alone, a
+child forsaken in the night, wanting that brooding presence, in pain
+for which there was no ease at all in all the world. I watched the
+fool of Twist Tickle go gravely in at the kitchen door, upon his
+business, led by the memory of a wisdom greater than his own,
+beneficent, continuing, but not known to me, who was no fool; and I
+envied him--spite of his burden of folly--his legacy of love. 'Twas
+fallen into dusk: the hills were turning shapeless in the night, the
+glow all fled from the sky, the sea gone black. But still I
+waited--apart from the rock and shadows and great waters of the world
+God made--a child yearning for the face and hand and tender guidance
+of the woman who was his own, but yet had wandered away into the
+shades from which no need could summon her. It seemed to me, then,
+that the mothers who died, leaving sons, were unhappy in their death,
+nor ever could be content in their new state. I wanted mine--I wanted
+her!--wanted her as only a child can crave, but could not have
+her--not though I sorely wanted her....
+
+                  *       *       *       *       *
+
+He came at last--and came in habitual dignity--punctiliously closing
+the door behind him and continuing on with grave steps.
+
+"You here, Dannie?" he asked.
+
+"Ay, Moses; still waitin'."
+
+"'Tis kind, lad."
+
+"I 'lowed I'd wait, Moses," I ventured, "t' find out."
+
+"'Tis grown thick," said he. "'Twill blow from the east with fog an'
+rain. You're bound home, Dannie?"
+
+"Ay," said I; "'tis far past tea-time."
+
+We got under way.
+
+"'Twill blow an uncivil sort o' gale from the east," he remarked, in a
+casual way. "We'll have Sunk Rock breakin' the morrow. 'Twill not be
+fit for fishin' on the Off-an'-On grounds. But I 'low I'll go out,
+anyhow. Nothin' like a spurt o' labor," said he, "t' distract the
+mind. Mother always said so; an' she knowed."
+
+"The maid would not have you, Moses?"
+
+"Mother always 'lowed," he answered, "that 'twas wise t' distract
+the mind in case o' disappointment. I 'low I'll overhaul the
+splittin'-table when I gets t' home. She needs a scrubbin'."
+
+We came to the rise in the road.
+
+"Mother," said he, "'lowed that if ever I come in from Whisper Cove t'
+build at Twist Tickle, she'd have the house sot here. I 'low I'll put
+one up, some time, t' have it ready ag'in' the time I'm married.
+Mother 'lowed 'twas a good thing t' be forehanded with they little
+things." The note of melancholy, always present, but often subdued, so
+that it sounded below the music of his voice, was now obtrusive: a
+monotonous repetition, compelling attention, insistent, an unvarying
+note of sadness. "Ay," he continued; "mother 'lowed 'twas a good thing
+t' have a view. She'd have it sot here, says she, facin' the west, if
+ever I got enough ahead with the fish t' think o' buildin'. She'd have
+it sot, says she, so she could watch the sunset an' keep a eye on the
+tickle t' see my punt come in. She was wonderful on sunsets, was
+mother; an' she was sort o' sot, somehow, on keepin' watch on me.
+Wonderful good o' she, wasn't it, Dannie, t' want t' keep watch--on
+me?" Again the note of melancholy, throbbing above the drawl--rising,
+indeed, into a wail. "So," said he, "I 'low I'll just put up a house,
+by-an'-by, for the wife I'm t' have; an' I'll have it here, I'm
+thinkin', for mother 'lowed my wife would want it with a view o' the
+tickle, t' watch my punt come in. Think she will, Dannie? Think she
+will?"
+
+The mail-boat blew in the narrows.
+
+"I must haste!" said I.
+
+"An you must haste, Dannie," said he, "run on. I'll not make haste,
+for I'm 'lowin' that a little spell o' thinkin' about mother will sort
+o' do me good."
+
+                  *       *       *       *       *
+
+I ran on, fast as my legs would carry me (which was not very fast).
+'Twas the departing whistle; the mail-boat had come and gone--I saw
+her lights, shining warmly in the dark, grow small as she fared out
+through the narrows to the sea. It began to rain in great drops;
+overhead 'twas all black--roundabout a world of looming shadows,
+having lights, like stars, where the cottages were set on the hills. I
+made haste on my way; and as I pattered on over the uneven road to the
+neck of land by the Lost Soul, I blamed myself right heartily,
+regretting my uncle's disappointment, in that the expected guest would
+already have arrived, landed by way of my uncle's punt. And, indeed,
+the man was there, as I learned: for my uncle met me on the gravelled
+path of our garden, to bid me, but not with ill-temper, begone
+up-stairs and into clean linen and fitting garments, which were laid
+out and waiting (he said) on my bed. And when, descending in clean and
+proper array, bejewelled to suit the occasion, by my uncle's command,
+I came to the best room, I found there a young man in black, scarce
+older, it seemed, than myself.
+
+"This here young man, Dannie," says my uncle, with a flourish, "is
+your tutor."
+
+I bowed.
+
+"Imported direck," adds my uncle, "from Lon'on."
+
+My tooter? It sounded musical: I wondered what the young man blew--but
+shook hands, in the Chesterfieldian manner (as best I had mastered
+it), and expressed myself (in such Chesterfieldian language as I could
+recall in that emergency) as being delighted to form an acquaintance
+so distinguished.
+
+"Well done!" cries my uncle, past containing his pride in the
+Chesterfieldian achievement. "Sir Harry hisself couldn't beat it!"
+
+The young man laughed pleasantly.
+
+
+
+
+X
+
+IMPORTED DIRECT
+
+
+I laughed, too, unable to help it, and my uncle guffawed, in his large
+way; and then we all laughed like tried friends together: so that
+'twas plain, being thus at once set upon agreeable terms, with no
+shyness or threat of antipathy to give ill ease, that we three strange
+folk were well-met in the wide world. 'Twas cosey in the best room: a
+lively blaze in the fireplace, the room bright with lamplight, warm
+with the color of carpet and tapestried mahogany, spotless and grand,
+as I thought, in every part; ay, cosey enough, with good company
+well-met within, the risen wind clamoring through the night, the rain
+lashing the black panes, the sea rumbling upon the rocks below, and,
+withal, a savory smell abroad in goodly promise. My uncle, grown fat
+as a gnome in these days, grotesquely fashioned, miscellaneously
+clothed as ever, stood with legs wide upon the black wolf's-skin, his
+back to the fire, his great hands clasped over his paunch, lying as
+upon a shelf; regarding the direct importation and myself, the rise of
+my admiration, the room, the whole world, indeed, visible and
+invisible, with delight so boyish that 'twas good to watch the play
+of satisfaction upon his fantastic countenance, which now rippled and
+twinkled from his black cravat to his topmost scars and bristles.
+Well-met were we three folk; ay, no doubt: I was in a glow of content
+with this new fortune.
+
+'Tis strange how the affections fall....
+
+                  *       *       *       *       *
+
+My tutor, John Cather, as his name turned out to be, was older than
+I, after all--my elder by five years, I fancied, with age-wise ways
+and a proud glance to overawe my youth, were need of it to come: a
+slight, dark-skinned man, clean-featured, lean-cheeked, full-lipped,
+with restless dark eyes, thin, olive-tinted hands, black hair,
+worn overlong, parted in the manner of a maid and falling upon his
+brow in glossy waves, which he would ruffle into disorder, with
+the air of knowing what he was about. He was clad all in black, for
+the reason, he said, that he aspired to holy orders: well-kept black,
+edged with linen of the whitest, and not ill cut, according to my
+uncle's fashion-plates, but sadly worn at the seams and everywhere
+brushed near threadbare. Now sprawled, hands pocketed, in a
+great-chair under the lamp, indolent with accomplished grace (it
+seemed), one long leg thrown languidly over the other, the slender
+foot never at rest, he was postured with that perfection of ease and
+gentility into which my uncle, watchful observer of the manners of
+the world he walked in, had many a time endeavored to command me, but
+with the most indifferent success. I listened to my tutor's airy,
+rambling chit-chat of the day's adventures, captivated by the
+readiness and wit and genial outlook; the manner of it being new to
+my experience, the accompaniment of easy laughter a grateful
+enlightenment in a land where folk went soberly. And then and
+there--I remember, as 'twere an hour gone, the gale and the
+lamplight and the laughter of that time--I conceived for him an
+enduring admiration.
+
+Taken by an anxious thought I whispered in my uncle's ear, having him
+bend his monstrous head close for secrecy.
+
+"Eh?" says he.
+
+I repeated the question.
+
+"Steerage, lad," he answered. "Tut!" he growled, "none o' that, now!
+'Twill be steerage."
+
+It grieved me to know it.
+
+"An' now, Dannie, lad," quoth my uncle, aloud, with a thirsty rubbing
+of the hands and a grin to match, "fetch the bottle. The bottle, b'y!
+'Tis time for growed men t' pledge the v'y'ge. A bit nippy, parson
+man? The bottle, Dannie!"
+
+"Bottle?" cries my tutor. "Why, really, you know, Skipper Nicholas,
+I--"
+
+"Is you much give t' the use o' fo'c's'les, parson?" my uncle
+interrupted.
+
+My tutor was not.
+
+"Then," says my uncle, grimly, "you'll be wantin' a drap."
+
+'Twas true enough, by my uncle's mysterious perversity: a drop would
+be wanted, indeed.
+
+"Dannie, lad," he commanded, "fetch that there bottle!"
+
+Cather tossed his head, with a brief little laugh, and then, resigned
+to my uncle's idiosyncrasy--divining the importance of it--gave me a
+quick nod of permission: the which I was glad to get, aware, as I
+was, of the hospitable meaning of my uncle's invitation and his
+sensitiveness in respect to its reception. So I got the ill-seeming
+black bottle from the locker, the tray and glasses and little brown
+jug from the pantry, the napkin from Agatha, in a flutter in the
+kitchen, and having returned to the best room, where the tutor
+awaited the event in some apparent trepidation, I poured my uncle's
+dram, and measured an hospitable glass for Cather, but with less
+generous hand, not knowing his capacity, but shrewdly suspecting its
+inferiority. The glasses glittered invitingly in the light of the fire
+and lamp, and the red liquor lay glowing within: an attractive
+draught, no doubt--to warm, upon that windy night, and to appetize
+for the belated meat.
+
+"T' you, parson!" says my uncle.
+
+I touched the tutor's elbow.
+
+"Water?" says he, in doubt. "Is it the custom?"
+
+"Leave un be, Dannie."
+
+"Whatever the custom," my tutor began, "of course--"
+
+"'Tis wise," I ventured; minded to this by the man's awkward handling
+of the glass.
+
+"For shame, Dannie!" cries my uncle. "Leave the parson take his
+liquor as he will. 'Tis easy t' see he likes it neat."
+
+Cather was amused.
+
+"T' you, parson!" says my uncle.
+
+The tutor laughed as he raised the glass of clear rum. I watched him
+with misgiving, alive to all the signs of raw procedure--the crook of
+his elbow, the tilt of the glass, the lift of his head. "To you, sir!"
+said he: and resolutely downed it. 'Twas impressive then, I recall, to
+observe his face--the spasm of shock and surprise, the touch of
+incredulity, of reproachful complaint, as that hard liquor coursed
+into his belly. 'Twas over in a moment--the wry mouth of it, the
+shudder--'twas all over in a flash. My tutor commanded his features,
+as rarely a man may, into stoical disregard of his internal
+sensations, and stood rigid, but calm, gripping the back of his chair,
+his teeth set, his lips congealed in an unmeaning grin, his eyes,
+which ran water against his will, fixed in mild reproach upon my
+beaming uncle, turning but once, I recall, to my solicitous self. With
+no unseemly outbreak--with but an inconsequent ahem and a flirt of his
+handkerchief over his lips--he returned to his composure. He would
+never again drink rum with my uncle, nor any other liquor, through all
+the years of our intimate connection; but this mattered not at all,
+since he had in the beginning pledged the old man's health with honor
+to himself. I was glad, however, that on the windy night of our
+meeting he was no more put out; for I wished him safe within my
+uncle's regard, and knew, as I knew my uncle and the standards of our
+land, that he had by this gallant conduct achieved the exalted
+station. 'Twas a test of adaptability (as my uncle held), and of
+manhood, too, of which, as a tenet, taught me by that primitive
+philosopher, I am not able, bred as I am, to rid myself to this very
+day.
+
+"Parson," said my uncle, solemnly, advancing upon the tutor, "ye
+_done_ it, and ye done it _well_! Shake, shipmate--shake!"
+
+The bell tinkled.
+
+"Is that dinner?" cries my tutor. "Jove! but I _am_ on edge."
+
+We moved into the dining-room, myself pitying the man in a heartfelt
+way for his stomach's sake. 'Twas unkind in my uncle to sharpen his
+appetite with red rum.
+
+                  *       *       *       *       *
+
+My uncle stumped ahead, his wooden leg as blithe as the sound one, and
+was waiting in his humble quarters, with a gnome-like leer of
+expectation, when we entered. Neither my watch, set with its shy
+jewels, nor my sparkling fingers, nor the cut and quality and fit of
+my London-made clothes, which came close to perfection, nor anything
+concerning me, had caused my tutor even so much as to lift an eyebrow
+of surprise; but the appearance of the table, laid in the usual way,
+gave him an indubitable fit of amazement: for, as was our custom on
+the neck of land by the Lost Soul, at the one end, where sat the
+luxurious Dannie Callaway, by no will of his own, was the glitter of
+silver, the flash and glow of delicate china, a flower or more from
+our garden, exquisite napery, the bounties of the kindly earth,
+whatever the cost; but at the other (the napery abruptly ceasing at
+the centre of the table because of the wear and tear that might
+chance) was set out, upon coarse ware, even to tin, fare of common
+description, forecastle fare, fisherman fare, unrelieved by any grace
+of flower or linen or glitter of glass, by any grace at all, save the
+grace of a black bottle, which, according to my experience, was
+sufficient to my uncle and such rough folk as dined with him. 'Twas no
+cause for surprise to me, to whom the enigma had been familiar from
+the beginning; but my tutor, come suddenly against the puzzle, was
+nonplussed, small blame to him.
+
+"Parson," says my uncle, "_you_--goes steerage!"
+
+My tutor started, regarded my uncle with a little jerk of astonishment;
+and his eyebrows went high--but still conveyed no more than polite
+inquiry. "I beg your pardon?" he apologized.
+
+"Steerage, parson!" my uncle repeated. "Steerage passage, sir, the
+night!"
+
+"Really!"
+
+"'Tis the same as sayin'," I made haste to explain, "that you dines
+along o' Uncle Nick at _his_ end."
+
+The tutor was faintly amused.
+
+"Steerage the night, parson; cabin the morrow," said my uncle. "Ye'll
+live high, lad, when ye're put in the cabin. Lord love ye, parson! but
+the feedin' there is fair scandalous. 'Twould never do t' have the
+news of it go abroad. An' as for the liquor! why, parson," he
+proceeded, tapping my tutor on the breast, to impress the amazing
+disclosure, while we stood awkwardly, "Dannie haves a locker o' wine
+as old as your grandmother, in this here very room, waitin' for un t'
+grow up; an' he'll broach it, parson, like a gentleman--he'll broach
+it for you, when you're moved aft. But bein' shipped from the morrow,
+accordin' t' articles, signed, sealed, an' delivered," he added,
+gravely, "'twouldn't be just quite right, accordin' t' the lay o'
+fac's you're not in the way o' knowin', t' have ye feed along o'
+Dannie the night. 'Twouldn't be right, 'twouldn't be honest, as I sees
+it in the light o' them fac's; _not_," he repeated, in a whisper,
+ghostly with the awe and mystery of it, so that the tutor stared
+alarmed, "accordin' t' them damned remarkable fac's, as I _sees_ un!
+But I've took ye in, parson--_I've_ took ye in!" he cried, with a
+beaming welcome, to which my tutor instantly responded. "Ye'll find it
+snug an' plenty in the steerage, an' no questions asked. No
+questions," he repeated, with a wink of obscure meaning, "asked.
+They's junk an' cabbage, lad, with plum-duff t' top off with, for a
+bit of a treat, an' rum--why parson! as for the rum, 'tis as free as
+water! Sit ye," says he, "an' fall to!" his face all broken into
+smiles. "Fall to, parson, an' spare nothin'. Better the salt-junk o'
+toil," he improvised, in bold imitation of the Scripture, to my
+tutor's further astonishment, "than the ice-cream o' crime!"
+
+My tutor helplessly nodded.
+
+"Ol' Nick Top," says my uncle, "is on'y a hook-an'-line man, an' fares
+hard, as fishermen must; but little ol' Dannie Callaway, sittin' there
+in that little cabin o' his, is a damn little gentleman, sir, an'
+feeds off the best, as them big-bugs will."
+
+We fell to.
+
+"Wild night," my tutor remarked.
+
+'Twas blowing wildly, indeed: the wind come to the east--sweeping in
+from the vast gray sea, with black rain to fling at the world. The
+windows rattled as the gusts went crying past the cottage. But a warm
+glow, falling from the lamp above the table, and the fire, crackling
+and snorting in the grate, put the power of the gale to shame. 'Twas
+cosey where we sat: warm, light, dry, with hunger driven off--a cosey
+place on a bitter night: a peace and comfort to thank the good God
+for, with many a schooner off our coast, from Chidley to the Baccalieu
+light, riding out the gale, in a smother of broken water, with a rocky
+shore and a flash of breakers to leeward. Born as I am--Newfoundlander
+to the marrow of my body and the innermost parts of my soul--my heart
+puts to sea, unfailingly, whatever the ease and security of my place,
+when the wind blows high in the night and the great sea rages. 'Tis a
+fine heritage we have, we outport Newfoundlanders--this feeling for
+the toss and tumult and dripping cold of the sea: this sympathy, born
+of self-same experience. I'd not exchange it, with the riches of
+cities to boot, for the thin-lipped, gray, cold-eyed astuteness, the
+pomp and splendid masks, of the marts and avenues I have seen in my
+time. I'd be a Newfoundlander, outport born, outport bred, of outport
+strength and tenderness of heart, of outport sincerity, had I my birth
+to choose....
+
+                  *       *       *       *       *
+
+"Dannie," says my uncle, peering inquisitively into the cabin, "how
+d'ye like that there fresh beef?"
+
+'Twas good.
+
+"He likes it!" cries my uncle, delighted. "Parson, he likes it. Hear
+un? He likes it. An' 'tis paid for, parson--paid for! Dannie," says
+he, again leaning forward, eyes bent upon my plates, "how d'ye like
+them there fresh greens? Eh, lad?"
+
+They were very good.
+
+"An' paid for, parson--all paid for!"
+
+My tutor, poor man! stared agape, his knife and fork laid by; for my
+uncle, become now excited and most indiscreet, was in a manner the
+most perplexing--and in some mysterious indication--pointing, thumb
+down, towards the oil-cloth that floored the room, or to the rocks
+beneath, which the wind ran over, the house being set on spiles, or to
+the bowels of the earth, as you may choose. 'Twas a familiar thing to
+me--the mystery of the turned thumb and spasmodic indication, the
+appearance, too, at such times, of my uncle's eyes: round, protruding,
+alight with wicked admiration, starting from the scars and bristles
+and disfigurements of his face, but yet reflecting awe, as of some
+unholy daring, to be mightily suffered for in due time. But 'twas not
+familiar to my tutor, nor, doubtless, had ever occurred to his
+imagination, sophisticated as he may have thought it; he could do
+nothing but withstand the amazement as best he might, and that in a
+mean, poor way, as he gazed alternately upon my uncle's flushed and
+deeply stirred countenance and upon my own saddened, aged face,
+speaking its ancient bewilderment. I pitied his disquietude, rather:
+for he was come from abroad to our coast--and could not understand.
+
+"Dannie, lad," my uncle anxiously inquired, "_can_ it be that you
+likes them there fresh carrots?"
+
+It could easily be.
+
+"An' paid for!" my uncle ejaculated, with no abatement of delight.
+"Parson," he proceeded, proudly, "good feed that there young gentleman
+has in the cabin, eh?"
+
+My tutor agreed.
+
+"None better in the world, eh?" the old man went on. "_You_ couldn't
+do no better, could you?"
+
+My tutor said that no man could.
+
+"An' paid for," says my uncle, thumbing down. "Paid for, every bite!"
+He turned to me. "Dannie," says he, "how d'ye like them there new
+potatoes?"
+
+They were more than palatable.
+
+"Hear that, parson!" cries my uncle. "He likes un! Imported direck,
+sir, from Bermuda," says he, with all the vanity of riches. "Ever feed
+so high yourself, parson? Consignment arrived," says he, "per S.S.
+_Silvia_. You'll see it in the _Herald_ an you looks."
+
+"Really!" my tutor exclaimed, for lack of something better.
+
+"Fac'," says my uncle; "an' paid for--skin an' eye!"
+
+My tutor gave it up--permitted himself no longer to be troublesomely
+mystified; but after a quick glance from steerage to cabin, flashed
+with amused comprehension of the contrast, threw back his head
+with a little laugh quite detached from our concerns, and presently,
+innured to the grotesquery, busied himself with relish upon his
+salt-junk. Thereafter, the rum buzzing in his head, he ran on in a
+vivacious way upon all things under the sun, save himself, so that
+the windy night seemed very far away, indeed, and the lamplight and
+fire to lend an inspiration to his nimble tongue, until, in a lull
+of the engaging discourse, he caught my uncle peering greedily into
+the cabin, all but licking his lips, his nostrils distended to the
+savor, his flooded eyes fixed upon the fresh beef and vegetables in
+manifest longing, every wrinkle and muscle of his broad face off
+guard. My tutor--somewhat affected, I fancy, by this display--turned
+to me with a little frown of curiosity, an intrusive regard, it
+seemed to me, which I might in all courtesy fend off for the future.
+'Twas now time, thinks I, to enlighten him with the knowledge I
+had: a task I had no liking for, since in its accomplishment I must
+stir my uncle unduly.
+
+"Uncle Nick," says I, "'tis like Mr. Cather will be havin' a cut off
+my roast."
+
+"The parson?" my uncle demanded.
+
+"Ay," says I, disregarding his scowl; "a bit o' roast beef."
+
+"Not he!" snaps my uncle. "Not a bite!"
+
+I nerved myself--with a view wholly to Cather's information. "Uncle
+Nick," I proceeded, my heart thumping, such was the temerity of the
+thing, "'tis a dirty night without, an' here's Mr. Cather just joined
+the ship, an' I 'low, now, the night, Uncle Nick, that maybe you--"
+
+"Me?" roars my uncle, in a flare of rage and horror. "_Me_ touch it?
+ME!"
+
+The vehemence of this amazed my tutor, who could supply no cause for
+the outburst; but 'twas no more than I had expected in the beginning.
+
+"Me!" my uncle gasped.
+
+There was a knock at the door....
+
+                  *       *       *       *       *
+
+Ay, a knock at the door! 'Twas a thing most unexpected. That there
+should come a knock at the door! 'Twas past believing. 'Twas no timid
+tapping; 'twas a clamor--without humility or politeness. Who should
+knock? There had been no outcry; 'twas then no wreck or sudden peril
+of our people. Again it rang loud and authoritative--as though one
+came by right of law or in vindictive anger. My uncle, shocked all
+at once out of a wide-eyed daze of astonishment, pushed back from the
+board, in a terrified flurry, his face purpled and swollen, and
+blundered about for his staff; but before he had got to his feet, our
+maid-servant, on a fluttering run from the kitchen, was come to
+the door. The gale broke in--rushing noises and a swirl of wet
+wind. We listened; there was a voice, not the maid-servant's--thin,
+high-tempered, lifted in irascible demand--but never a word to be
+distinguished in that obscurity of wind and rain. 'Twas cold, and
+the lamp was flaring: I closed the door against this inrush of
+weather.
+
+My wretched uncle beckoned the tutor close, a finger lifted in
+caution; but still kept looking at me--and all the while stared at me
+with eyes of frightened width--in a way that saw me not at all.
+"Parson," he whispered, "they wasn't ar another man landed by the
+mail-boat the day, was they?"
+
+The tutor nodded.
+
+"Ye wouldn't say, would ye," my uncle diffidently inquired, "that he'd
+be from St. John's by the cut of um?"
+
+"A gray little man from St. John's."
+
+"I 'low then," says my uncle, "that he talked a wonderful spell about
+a lad, didn't um?"
+
+My tutor shook his head.
+
+"Nar a word--about _any_ lad?"
+
+"I'm sure not."
+
+My uncle tapped the tip of his nose.
+
+"A red mole," said my tutor.
+
+And now my uncle poured himself a great dram of rum. 'Twas a cataract
+of liquor! Never such a draught had I known him dare--not in his most
+abandoned hours at the Anchor and Chain. 'Twas beyond him to down it
+at a gulp; 'twas in two gulps that he managed it, but with no breath
+between--and then pushed the glass away with a shudder of disgust.
+Presently--when the liquor had restored his courage and begun to fetch
+the color to his pallid face--he got his staff in his fist and
+stumbled off in a high bluster, muttering gross imprecations as he
+went. The door slammed behind him; we heard no more--never a sound of
+growl or laugh from the best room where he sat with the gray little
+man from St. John's. 'Twas not a great while he stayed; and when he
+came again--the stranger having gone--he drew up to the board with all
+his good-humor and ease of mind regained. The rum had thickened his
+tongue and given a wilful turn to his wooden leg: no more. There was
+not a hint of discomposure anywhere about him to be descried; and I
+was glad of this, for I had supposed, being of an imaginative turn,
+that all the mystery of the luxury that was mine was at last come to
+its dreadful climax.
+
+"A ol' shipmate, Dannie," my uncle genially explained.
+
+'Twas hard to believe.
+
+"Sailed along o' that there ol' bully t' Brazilian ports," says he,
+"thirty year ago."
+
+I wondered why my uncle had not called for his bottle to be brought in
+haste to the best room.
+
+"Still storming," the tutor ventured.
+
+"Blowin' high," I remarked.
+
+"I 'low I'll stay ashore, the morrow," says my uncle, "an' have a
+spurt o' yarnin' along o' that there ol' bully."
+
+But the gray little man from St. John's--the gray little red-moled
+man--was no old shipmate (I knew), nor any friend at all, else my
+uncle would have had him hospitably housed for the night under our
+roof.
+
+
+
+
+XI
+
+THE GRAY STRANGER
+
+
+We sat late by the fire in the best room: into which I must fairly lug
+my perverse old uncle by the ears--for (says he) the wear an' tear of
+a wooden leg was a harsh thing for a carpet to abide, an' parlor
+chairs (says he) was never made for the hulks o' sea-farin' folk.
+'Twas late, indeed, when he sent young Cather off to bed, with a
+warning to be up betimes, or go hungry, and bade me into the
+dining-room, as was our custom, to set out his bottle and glass. I
+turned the lamp high, and threw birch on the fire, and lifted his
+gouty wooden leg to the stool, and got his bottle and little brown
+jug, wondering, all the while, that my uncle was downcast neither by
+the wind nor the singular intrusion of the gray stranger. 'Twas a new
+thing in my life--a grateful change, for heretofore, in black gales,
+blowing in the night, with the thunder of waters under the window, it
+had been my duty to stand by, giving the comfort of my presence to the
+old man's melancholy and terror. 'Twas the company of the tutor,
+thinks I, and I was glad that the congenial fellow was come from a far
+place, escape cut off.
+
+"Wonderful late," says my uncle.
+
+"No," said I; "not late for windy nights."
+
+"Too late for lads," says he, uneasily.
+
+I poured his glass of rum.
+
+"Think you, Dannie," my uncle inquired, "that he've the makin's of a
+fair rascal?"
+
+"An' who?" says I, the stranger in mind.
+
+"The tutor."
+
+"I'm hopin' _not_!" I cried.
+
+"Ay," says my uncle, an eye half closed; "but think you he _would_
+make a rascal--with clever management?"
+
+"'Twould never come t' pass, sir."
+
+My uncle sipped his rum in a muse.
+
+"Uncle Nick," I complained, "leave un be."
+
+"'Tis a hard world, Dannie," he replied.
+
+"Do you leave un be!" I expostulated.
+
+My uncle ignored me. "He've a eye, Dannie," says he, immersed in
+villanous calculation; "he've a dark eye. I 'low it _might_ be
+managed."
+
+'Twas an uncomfortable suspicion thus implanted; and 'twas an unhappy
+outlook disclosed--were my uncle to work his will upon the helpless
+fellow.
+
+"Uncle Nick, you'll not mislead un?"
+
+"Bein' under oath," my uncle answered, with the accent and glance of
+tenderest affection, "I'll keep on, Dannie, t' the end."
+
+I poured the second dram of rum and pushed it towards him. 'Twas all
+hopeless to protest or seek an understanding. I loved the old man, and
+forgave the paradox of his rascality and loyal affection. The young
+man from London must take his chance, as must we all, in the
+fashioning hands of circumstance. 'Twas not to be conceived that his
+ruin was here to be wrought. My uncle's face had lost all appearance
+of repulsion: scar and color and swollen vein--the last mark of sin
+and the sea--had seemed to vanish from it; 'twas as though the finger
+of God had in passing touched it into such beauty as the love of
+children may create of the meanest features of our kind. His glass was
+in his marred, toil-distorted hand; but his eyes, grown clear and
+sparkling and crystal-pure--as high of purpose as the eyes of such as
+delight in sacrifice--were bent upon the lad he had fostered to my
+age. I dared not--not the lad that was I--I dared not accuse him! Let
+the young man from London, come for the wage he got, resist, if need
+were to resist. I could not credit his danger--not on that night. But
+I see better now than then I saw.
+
+"I 'low he'll do," said my uncle, presently, as he set down his glass.
+"Ay, lad; he'll do, if I knows a eye from a eye."
+
+"Do what?"
+
+"Yield," he answered.
+
+"T' what?"
+
+"Temptation."
+
+"Uncle Nick," I besought, "leave the man be!"
+
+"What odds?" he answered, the shadow of gloom come upon his face. "I'm
+cleared for hell, anyhow."
+
+'Twas a thing beyond me, as many a word and wicked deed had been
+before. I was used to the wretched puzzle--calloused and uncaring,
+since through all my life I still loved the man who fostered me, and
+held him in esteem. We fell silent together, as often happened when my
+uncle tippled himself drunk at night; and my mind coursed in free
+flight past the seeming peril in which my tutor slept, past the roar
+of wind and the clamor of the sea, beyond the woes of the fool who
+would be married, to the cabin of the _Shining Light_, where Judith
+sat serene in the midst of the order she had accomplished. I
+remembered the sunlight and the freshening breeze upon the hills,
+the chirp and gentle stirring of the day, the azure sea and the
+far-off, tender mist, the playful breakers, flinging spray into the
+yellow sunshine. I remembered the companionable presence of the maid,
+her slender hands, her tawny hair, her sun-browned cheeks and the
+creamy curve of her brow, the blue and flash and fathomless depths
+of her eyes. I remembered the sweet, moist touch of her lips: I
+remembered--in that period of musing, when my uncle, fallen
+disconsolate in his chair, sipped his rum--the kiss that she gave
+me in the cabin of the _Shining Light_.
+
+"Dannie," says my uncle, "what you thinkin' about?"
+
+I would not tell.
+
+"'Tis some good thing," says he. "I'd like wonderful well t' know."
+
+I could but sigh.
+
+"Dannie," says he, in his wisdom, "you've growed wonderful fond o'
+Judy, isn't you?"
+
+"I'm t' wed Judy," I answered.
+
+'Twas with no unkindness--but with a sly twinkle of understanding--that
+he looked upon me.
+
+"When I grows up," I added, for his comfort.
+
+"No, no!" says he. "You'll never wed Judith. A gentleman? 'Twould
+scandalize Chesterfield."
+
+"I will," said I.
+
+"You'll _not_!" cries he, in earnest.
+
+"But I will!"
+
+The defiance still left him smiling. "Not accordin' t' Chesterfield,"
+says he. "You'll be a gentleman, Dannie, when you grows up, an' you'll
+not be wantin' t' wed Judy."
+
+"Not _wantin'_ to?"
+
+"No, no; you'll not be wantin' to."
+
+"Still," says I, "will I wed Judy."
+
+"An' why?"
+
+"Because," said I, "I've kissed her!"
+
+                  *       *       *       *       *
+
+My uncle would have his last glass alone (he said); and I must be off
+to bed and to sleep; 'twas grown late for me (said he) beyond the
+stretch of his conscience to endure. Lord love us! (said he) would I
+never be t' bed in season? Off with me--an' t' sleep with me! 'Twould
+be the worse for me (said he) an he caught me wakeful when he turned
+in. The thing had an odd look--an odd look, to be sure--for never
+before had the old man's conscience pricked him to such fatherly
+consideration upon a night when the wind blew high. I extinguished the
+hanging lamp, smothered the smouldering coals, set his night-lamp at
+hand, and drowsily climbed the stairs, having given him good-night,
+with a hearty "Thank 'e, sir, for that there tutor!" He bawled after
+me an injunction against lying awake; and I should presently have gone
+sound asleep, worn with the excitements of the day, had I not caught
+ear of him on the move. 'Twas the wary tap and thump of his staff and
+wooden leg that instantly enlisted my attention; then a cautious
+fumbling at the latch of the door, a draught of night air, a
+thin-voiced, garrulous complaint of the weather and long waiting.
+
+"Hist, ye fool!" says my uncle. "Ye'll wake the lad."
+
+"Damn the lad!" was the prompt response. "I wish he were dead."
+
+My uncle laughed.
+
+"Dead!" the stranger repeated. "Dead, Top! And you, too--you hound!"
+
+'Twas an anathema spoken in wrath and hatred.
+
+"I'm thinkin'," says my uncle, "that ye're an unkind man."
+
+The stranger growled.
+
+"Save your temper, man," my uncle admonished. "Ye'll need the last rag
+of it afore the night's by."
+
+The man cried out against the threat.
+
+"I'm tellin' ye," says my uncle--and I heard his broad hand come with
+a meaning clap on the stranger's shoulder--"that ye'll be wakin' the
+lad."
+
+"The lad! the lad!" the stranger whined. "Is there nothing in the
+world for you, Top, but that club-footed young whelp?"
+
+I heard it! I heard the words! My door was ajar--my room at the head
+of the stair--my ears wide and anxious. I heard the words! There
+was no mistaking what this intruder said. "The club-footed young
+whelp!" says he. "Is there nothing in the world for you, Top, but
+that club-footed young whelp?" He said it--I remember that he said
+it--and to this day, when I am grown beyond the years of childish
+sensitiveness, I resent the jibe.
+
+"Nothing," my uncle answered. "Nothing in the world, sir," he
+repeated, lovingly, as I thought, "but only that poor club-footed
+child!"
+
+Sir? 'Twas a queer way to address, thinks I, this man of doubtful
+quality. Sir? I could not make it out.
+
+"You sentimental fool!"
+
+"Nay, sir," my uncle rejoined, with spirit. "An they's a fool in the
+company, 'tis yourself. I've that from the lad, sir, that you goes
+lacking--ay, an' will go, t' the grave!"
+
+"And what, Top," the stranger sneered, "may this thing be?"
+
+"Ye'll laugh, sir," my uncle replied, "when I tells you 'tis his
+love."
+
+The man did laugh.
+
+"For shame!" cried my uncle.
+
+He was taking off his wraps--this stranger. They were so many that I
+wondered. He was a man of quality, after all, it might be. "I tell
+you, Top," said he, "that the boy may be damned for all I care. I said
+damned. I _mean_ damned. There isn't another form of words, with which
+I am acquainted, sufficient to express my lack of interest in this
+child's welfare. Do you understand me, Top? And do you realize--you
+obstinate noddy!--that my heart's in the word? You and I, Top, have
+business together. It's a dirty business. It was in the beginning; it
+is now--a dirty business for us both. I admit it. But can't we do it
+reasonably? Can't we do it alone? Why introduce this ill-born whelp?
+He's making trouble, Top; and he'll make more with every year he
+lives. Let him shift for himself, man! I care nothing about him. What
+was his father to me? What was his mother? Make him a cook on a
+trader. Make him a hand on a Labradorman. Put him before the mast on a
+foreign craft. What do I care? Let him go! Give him a hook and line. A
+paddle-punt is patrimony enough for the like of him. Will you never
+listen to reason? What's the lad to you? Damn him, say I! Let him--"
+
+"For that," my uncle interrupted, in a passion, "I'll hurt ye! Come
+soon, come late, I'll hurt ye! Hear me?" he continued, savagely. "I'll
+hurt ye for them evil wishes!"
+
+I had expected this outbreak. My uncle would not hear me damned in
+this cruel way without protest.
+
+"Top," says the stranger, with a little laugh of scorn, "when _you_
+hurt _me_--I'll know that the chieftest knave of the St. John's
+water-side has turned fool!"
+
+"When I hurts ye, man," my uncle answered, "I'll hurt ye sore!"
+
+Again the man laughed.
+
+"Ah, man!" my uncle growled, "but ye'll squirm for that when the time
+comes!"
+
+"Come, come, Top!" says the stranger, in such a whine of terror, in
+such disgusting weakness and sudden withdrawal of high boasting, in
+such a failure of courage, that I could hardly credit the thing.
+"Come, come, Top!" he whined. "You'll do nothing rash, will you? Not
+_rash_, Top--not rash!"
+
+"I'll make ye squirm, sir," says my uncle, "for damnin' Dannie."
+
+"But you'll do nothing rash, man, will you?"
+
+My uncle would not heed him.
+
+"I'm a reasonable man, Top," the stranger protested. "You know I'm not
+a hard man."
+
+They moved, now, into the dining-room, whence no word of what they
+said came to my ears. I listened, lying wide-eared in the dark, but
+heard only a rumble of voices. "And you, too--you hound!" the man had
+said; and 'twas spoken in the hate that forebodes murder. My uncle?
+what had that childlike, tenderhearted old rascal accomplished against
+this man to make the penalty of ungodly wrath a thing meet to the
+offence? "And you, too--you hound!" I lay in grave trouble and
+bewilderment, fearing that this strange guest might work his hate upon
+my uncle, in some explosion of resentment, before my arm could aid
+against the deed. There was no sound of laughter from below--no hint
+of conviviality in the intercourse. Voices and the clink of bottle and
+glass: nothing mellow in the voices, nothing genial in the clink of
+glass--nothing friendly or hospitable. 'Twas an uneasy occupation that
+engaged me; no good, as I knew, came from a surly bout with a bottle
+of rum. 'Twas still blowing high; the windows rattled, the sea broke
+in thunder and venomous hissing upon the rocks, the wind screamed its
+complaint of obstruction; 'twas a tumultuous night, wherein, it seems
+to me, the passions of men are not overawed by any display of inimical
+power, but break restraint in evil company with the weather. The
+voices below, as I hearkened, rose and fell, like the gusts of a gale,
+falling to quiet confidences, lost in the roar of the night, swiftly
+rising to threat and angry counter-threat.
+
+It ended in a cry and a crash of glass....
+
+                  *       *       *       *       *
+
+I was by this brought out of bed and pattering down the stair to my
+uncle's help. It seemed they did not hear me, or, having heard, were
+enraged past caring who saw them in this evil case. At the door I
+came to a stand. There was no encounter, no movement at all, within
+the room; 'twas very quiet and very still. There had fallen upon the
+world that pregnant silence, wherein men wait appalled, which follows
+upon the irrevocable act of a quarrel. A bottle of rum was overturned
+on the table, and a glass lay in splinters on the hearth at my
+uncle's back, as though cast with poor aim. The place reeked with the
+stench of rum, which rose from a river of liquor, overflowing the
+table, dripping to the floor: a foul and sinister detail, I recall,
+of the tableau. My uncle and the gray little man from St. John's,
+leaning upon their hands, the table between, faced each other all too
+close for peaceful issue of the broil. Beyond was my uncle's
+hand-lamp, where I had set it, burning serenely in this tempest of
+passion. The faces were silhouetted in profile against its quiet
+yellow light. Monstrous shadows of the antagonists were cast upon
+the table and ceiling. For the first time in my life I clapped eyes
+on the man from St. John's; but his face was in shadow--I saw dimly.
+'Twas clean-shaven and gray: I could tell no more. But yet, I knew,
+the man was a man of some distinction--a gentleman. 'Twas a definite
+impression I had. There was that about him--clothes and carriage and
+shaven face and lean white hands--that fixed it in my memory.
+
+I was not observed.
+
+"Out there on the Devil's Teeth," my uncle impassively began, "when I
+laid hold--"
+
+"But," the stranger protested, "I have nothing to do with that!"
+
+"Out there on the Devil's Teeth, that night," my uncle repeated, "when
+the seas was breakin' over, an' the ice begin t' come, an' I laid hold
+o' that there Book--"
+
+"Hear me, Top! Will you _not_ hear me?"
+
+"Out there on the Devil's Teeth," my uncle patiently reiterated, "when
+the crew was drownin' t' le'ward, an' 'twas every man for his own
+life, an' the ice begin t' come, an' I laid hold o' that there--"
+
+The stranger struck the table with his palm. "Hear me!" he implored.
+"I have nothing--nothing--to do with the Devil's Teeth!"
+
+"Out there on the Devil's Teeth, when I took the oath--"
+
+"You stupid fool!"
+
+"When I took the oath," my uncle resumed, "I knowed 'twould be hard t'
+stand by. I knowed that, sir. I done the thing with open eyes. I'll
+never plead ignorance afore the Lord God A'mighty, sir, for the words
+I spoke that night. I've stood by, as best I could; an' I'll keep on
+standin' by, sir, t' the end, as best I'm able. God help me, sir!" he
+groaned, leaning still closer to the gray face of his enemy. "Ye think
+ye're in hard case, yourself, sir, don't ye? Do ye never give a
+thought t' _me?_ Dirty business, says you, betwixt you an' me! Ay;
+dirty business for Nick Top. But he'll stand by; he'll stand by, sir,
+come what may--t' the end! I'm not complainin', mark ye! not
+complainin' at all. The lad's a good lad. I'm not complainin'. He've
+the makin's of a better man than you. Oh no! I'm not complainin'. Out
+there on the Devil's Teeth, that night, when the souls o' them men was
+goin' Aloft an' Below, accordin' t' their deserts, does ye think I was
+a fool? Fool! I tells ye, sir, I knowed full well I give my soul t'
+hell, that night, when I laid my hand on the Book an' swore that I'd
+stand by. An' I _will_ stand by--stand by the lad, sir, t' the end!
+He's a good lad--he'll make a better man than you--an' I've no word
+o' complaint t' say."
+
+"The lad, the lad! Do _I_ care for the lad?"
+
+"No, God forgive ye!" my uncle cried, "not you that ought."
+
+"That ought, you fool?"
+
+"Ay; that ought."
+
+The man laughed.
+
+"I'll not have ye laugh," said my uncle, "at Dannie. Ye've tried my
+patience enough with scorn o' that child." He tapped the table
+imperatively, continuing with rising anger, and scowled in a way I had
+learned to take warning from. "No more o' that!" says he. "Ye've no
+call t' laugh at the lad."
+
+The laughter ceased--failed ridiculously. It proved my uncle's mastery
+of the situation. The man might bluster, but was in a moment reduced.
+
+"Top," said the stranger, leaning forward a little, "I have asked you
+a simple question: _Will_ you or _won't_ you?"
+
+"I will not!"
+
+In exasperation the man struck my uncle on the cheek.
+
+"I'll not hurt ye for that!" said my uncle, gently. "I'll not hurt ye,
+man, for that!"
+
+He was struck again. "There will come an extremity," the stranger calmly
+added, "when I shall find it expedient to have you assassinated."
+
+"I'll not hurt ye for the threat," said my uncle. "But man," he cried,
+in savage anger, "an you keeps me from workin' my will with the
+lad--"
+
+"The lad, the lad!"
+
+"An you keeps me from workin' my will with that good lad--"
+
+"I say to you frankly: Damn the lad!"
+
+My uncle struck the stranger. "Ye'll mend your manners!" cried he.
+"Ye've forgot your obligations, but ye'll mend your manners!"
+
+I marvelled that these men should strike each other with impunity. The
+like was never known before. That each should patiently bear the
+insult of the other! I could not make it out. 'Twas strange beyond
+experience. A blow--and the other cheek turned! Well enough for
+Christians--but my vicious uncle and this evil stranger! That night,
+while I watched and listened unperceived from the hall, I could not
+understand; but now I know that a fellowship of wickedness was
+signified.
+
+"I'll not hurt you, Top," the stranger mocked, "for the blow."
+
+My uncle laughed.
+
+"Are you laughing, Top?" the stranger sneered. "You are, aren't you?
+Well," says he, "who laughs last laughs best. And I tell you, Top,
+though you may seem to have the best laugh now, I'll have the last.
+And you won't like it, Top--you won't be happy when you hear me."
+
+My uncle laughed again. I wish he had not laughed--not in that unkind
+way.
+
+"Anyhow," said the stranger, "take that with my compliments!"
+
+'Twas a brutal blow with the closed fist. I cried out. My uncle, with
+the sting and humiliation of the thing to forbear, was deaf to the
+cry; but the gray little man from St. John's, who knew well enough he
+would have no buffet in return, turned, startled, and saw me. My
+uncle's glance instantly followed; whereupon a singular thing
+happened. The old man--I recall the horror with which he discovered
+me--swept the lamp from the table with a swing of his hand. It
+hurtled like a star, crashed against the wall, fell shattered and
+extinguished. We were in darkness--and in silence. For a long interval
+no word was spoken; the gale was free to noise itself upon our
+ears--the patter of rain, the howl of the wind, the fretful breaking;
+of the sea.
+
+"Dannie, lad," says my uncle, at last, "is that you?"
+
+"Ay, sir."
+
+"Then," says he, tenderly, "I 'low you'd best be t' bed. I'm feared
+you'll be cotchin' cold, there in the draught, in your night-gown.
+Ye're so wonderful quick, lad, t' cotch cold."
+
+"I've come, sir," says I, "t' your aid."
+
+The stranger tittered.
+
+"T' your aid, sir!" I shouted, defiantly.
+
+"I'm not needin' ye, Dannie. Ye're best in bed. 'Tis so wonderful
+late. I 'low ye'll be havin' the croup again, lad, an you don't watch
+out. An' ye mustn't have the croup; ye really mustn't! Remember the
+last time, Dannie, an' beware. Ah, now! ye'll never have the croup an
+ye can help it. Think," he pleaded, "o' the hot-water cloths, an' the
+fear ye put me to. An' Dannie," he added, accusingly, "ye know the
+ipecac is all runned out!"
+
+"I'll stand by, sir," says I.
+
+"'Tis kind o' you!" my uncle exclaimed, with infinite graciousness and
+affection. "'Tis wonderful kind! An' I'm glad ye're kind t' me
+now--with my ol' shipmate here. But you isn't needed, lad; so do you
+go t' bed like the good b'y that you is. Go t' bed, Dannie, God bless
+ye!--go t' bed, an' go t' sleep."
+
+"Ay," I complained; "but I'm not wantin' t' leave ye with this man."
+
+"True, an' I'm proud of it," says he; "but I've no means o' curin' the
+croup. An' Dannie," says he, "I'm more feared o' the croup than o' the
+devil. Do you go t' bed."
+
+"I'll go," I answered, "an you wills it."
+
+'Twas very dark in the dining-room; there was no sight of the
+geometrical gentlemen on that geometrically tempestuous sea to stay a
+lad in his defiance.
+
+"Good lad!" said my uncle. "God bless ye!"
+
+On the landing above I encountered my tutor, half-dressed, a candle in
+hand. 'Twas a queer figure he cut, thinks I--an odd, inconsequent
+figure in a mysterious broil of the men of our kind. What was this
+cockney--this wretched alien--when the passions of our coast were
+stirring? He would be better in bed. An eye he had--age-wise ways and
+a glance to overawe my youth--but what was he, after all, in such a
+case as this? I was his master, however unlearned I might be; his
+elder and master, to be sure, in a broil of our folk. Though to this
+day I respect the man for his manifold virtues, forgetting in
+magnanimity his failings, I cannot forgive his appearance on that
+night: the candle, the touselled hair, the disarray, the lean legs of
+him! "What's all this?" he demanded. "I can't sleep. What's all this
+about? Is it a burglar?"
+
+It made me impatient--and no wonder!
+
+"What's this, you know?" he repeated. "Eh? What's all this row?"
+
+"Do you go t' bed!" I commanded, with a stamp, quite out of temper.
+"Ye're but a child! Ye've no hand in this!"
+
+He was dutiful....
+
+                  *       *       *       *       *
+
+By-and-by my uncle came to my room. He would not enter, but stood
+at the door, in much embarrassment, all the while looking at the
+flame of his candle. "Dannie, lad," he inquired, at last, "is you
+comfortable?"
+
+"Ay, sir," says I.
+
+"An' happy?"
+
+"Ay, sir."
+
+"An' is you content," says he, "all alone with ol' Nick Top at Twist
+Tickle?"
+
+I was content.
+
+"You isn't upsot, is you, by the capers o' my ol' shipmate?"
+
+I answered as he wished. "No, sir," said I.
+
+"Oh no," says he; "no need o' bein' upsot by _that_ ol' bully. He've
+wonderful queer ways, I'll not deny, but ye're not in the way o'
+knowin', Dannie, that he've not a good heart. I 'low ye'll maybe take
+to un, lad--when you comes t' know un better. I hopes ye will. I hopes
+ye'll find it easy t' deal with un. They's no need _now_ o' bein'
+upsot; oh my, no! But, Dannie, an I was you," says he, a bit
+hopelessly, "times bein' what they is, an' life uncertain--an I was
+you, lad--afore I went t' sleep I--I--I 'low I'd overhaul that there
+twenty-third psa'm!"
+
+He went away then....
+
+
+
+
+XII
+
+NEED O' HASTE
+
+
+When I awoke 'twas to a gray morning. The wind had fallen to half a
+gale for stout craft--continuing in the east, the rain gone out of
+it. Fog had come upon the islands at dawn; 'twas now everywhere
+settled thick--the hills lost to sight, the harbor water black and
+illimitable, the world all soggy and muffled. There was a great
+noise of breakers upon the seaward rocks. A high sea running without
+(they said); but yet my uncle had manned a trap-skiff at dawn (said
+they) to put a stranger across to Topmast Point. A gentleman 'twas
+(said they)--a gray little man with a red mole at the tip of his
+nose, who had lain the night patiently enough at Skipper Eli
+Flack's, but must be off at break o' day, come what might, to board
+the outside boat for St. John's at Topmast Harbor. He had gone in
+high good-humor; crackin' off along o' Skipper Nick (said Eli) like
+he'd knowed un all his life. An' Nick? why, ecod! Nick was crackin'
+off, too. Never _knowed_ such crackin' off atween strangers. You
+could hear the crew laughin' clear t' the narrows. 'Twould be a
+lovely cruise! Rough passage, t' be sure; but Nick could take a skiff
+through _that_! An' Nick would _drive_ her, ecod! you'd see ol' Nick
+wing it back through the narrows afore the night was down if the
+wind held easterly. _He'd_ be the b'y t' put she to it!
+
+I scanned the sky and sea.
+
+"Ay," quoth Eli, of the gale; "she haven't spit out all she've got.
+She quit in a temper, at dawn," says he, "an' she'll be back afore
+night t' ease her mind."
+
+'Twas a dismal prospect for my uncle.
+
+"But 'twould be a clever gale at flirtin'," Eli added, for my comfort,
+"that could delude an' overcome ol' Nick!"
+
+My tutor would go walking upon the roads and heads of our harbor (said
+he) to learn of this new world into which he had come in the dark.
+'Twas gray and windy and dripping on the hills; but I led him (though
+his flimsy protection against the weather liked me not) over the
+Whisper Cove road to the cliffs of Tom Tulk's Head, diligently
+exercising, as we went, for my profit and his befitting entertainment,
+all the Chesterfieldian phrases 'twas in me to recall. 'Twas easy to
+perceive his delight in this manner of speech: 'twas a thing so
+manifest, indeed, such was the exuberance of his laughter and so often
+did he clap me on the back, that I was fairly abashed by the triumph,
+and could not for the life of me continue, but must descend, for lack
+of spirit, to the common tongue of our folk, which did him well
+enough, after all, it seemed. It pleased him mightily to be set on the
+crest and brink of that great cliff, high in the mist, the gray wind
+blowing by, the black sea careering from an ambush of fog to break in
+wrathful assault upon the grim rocks below. 'Twas amazing: the slender
+figure drawn in glee to breast the gale, the long arms opened to the
+wind, the rapt, dark face, the flashing eyes, the deep, eager breaths
+like sighs of rapture. A rhapsody: the rush and growl and frown of the
+world (said he)--the sombre colors, the veil of mist, the everlasting
+hills, rising in serenity above the turmoil and evanescent rage. To
+this I listened in wonder. I had not for myself discovered these
+beauties; but thereafter, because of this teaching, I kept watch.
+
+Came, then, out of the mist, Judith, upon accustomed business.
+"Dannie, lad," she asked me, not shy of the stranger, because of woful
+anxiety, "you've not seed my mother hereabouts, is you?"
+
+I grieved that I had not.
+
+"She've been gone," said Judith, with a helpless glance, sweeping the
+sombre, veiled hills, "since afore dawn. I waked at dawn, Dannie, an'
+she were gone from the bed--an' I isn't been able t' find she,
+somehow. She've wandered off--she've wandered off again--in her way."
+
+I would help, said I.
+
+"You're kind, Dannie," said she. "Ay, God's sake, lad! you're wondrous
+kind--t' me."
+
+My tutor tipped the sad little face, as though by right and propriety
+admitted long ago, and for a moment looked unabashed into Judith's
+eyes--an engaging glance, it seemed, for Judith was left unresisting
+and untroubled by it. They were eyes, now, speaking anxious fear and
+weariness and motherly concern, the brows drawn, the tragic little
+shadows, lying below, very wide and blue.
+
+"You are a pretty child," said my tutor, presently; "you have very
+beautiful eyes, have you not? But you knew it long ago, of course," he
+added, smiling in a way most captivating, "didn't you?"
+
+"No, sir."
+
+I remember the day--the mist and wind and clamoring sea and solemn
+hills, the dour, ill-tempered world wherein we were, our days as grass
+(saith the psalmist). Ay, an' 'tis so. I remember the day: the wet
+moss underfoot; the cold wind, blowing as it listed; the petulant sea,
+wreaking an ancient enmity, old and to continue beyond our span of
+feeling; the great hills of Twin Islands hid in mist, but yet watching
+us; the clammy fog embracing us, three young, unknowing souls. I shall
+not forget--cannot forget--the moment of that first meeting of the
+maid Judith with John Cather. 'Twas a sombre day, as he had said--ay,
+a troubled sea, a gray, cold, sodden earth!
+
+"And has nobody told you that you were pretty?" my tutor ran on, in
+pleasant banter.
+
+She would not answer; but shyly, in sweet self-consciousness, looked
+down.
+
+"No?" he insisted.
+
+She was too shy of him to say.
+
+"Not even one?" he persisted, tipping up the blushing little face.
+"Not even one?"
+
+I thought it very bold.
+
+"Come, now," says he. "There is a boy. You are so very pretty, you
+know. You are so very, very pretty. There must be a boy--a sweetheart.
+Surely there is at least one lad of taste at Twist Tickle. There is a
+sweetheart; there must be a sweetheart. I spell it with a D!" cries
+he, triumphantly, detecting the horrified glance that passed between
+Judy and me. And he clapped me on the back, and stroked Judith's tawny
+hair, his hand bold, winning; and he laughed most heartily. "His
+name," says he, "is Daniel!"
+
+"Yes, sir," said Judith, quite frankly.
+
+My tutor laughed again; and I was glad that he did--in that kind way.
+I was glad--'twas a flush of warm feeling--that my tutor and Judith
+were at once upon terms of understanding. I was glad that Judith
+smiled, glad that she looked again, with favor, in interested
+speculation, into the dark eyes which smiled back at her again. I
+would have them friends--'twas according to my plan....
+
+                  *       *       *       *       *
+
+At mid-day the wrath of the sea began to fail. The racing lop, the
+eager, fuming crests--a black-and-white confusion beneath the quiet,
+gray fog--subsided into reasonableness. 'Twas wild enough, wind and
+sea, beyond the tickle rocks; but still 'twas fishing weather and
+water for the courageous.
+
+The fool of Twist Tickle came to our gate. "Mother always 'lowed,"
+says he, "that when a man _could_ he _ought_ t'; an' mother knowed."
+
+"You're never bound out, Moses!"
+
+"Well," he drawled, "mother always 'lowed that when a man _could_ pick
+up a scattered fish an' _wouldn't_, he were a mean sort o' coward."
+
+"An' you'll be takin' _me_?"
+
+"I was 'lowin'," he answered, "that us _might_ get out an' back an us
+tried."
+
+'Twas a brave prospect. Beyond the tickle in a gale o wind! 'Twas
+irresistible--to be accomplished with the fool of Twist Tickle and his
+clever punt. I left the pottering Cather to put ship-shape his cabin
+(as he now called it) for himself--a rainy-day occupation for aliens.
+In high delight I put out with Moses Shoos to the Off-and-On grounds.
+Man's work, this! 'Twas hard sailing for a hook-and-line punt--the
+reel and rush and splash of it--but an employment the most engaging.
+'Twas worse fishing in the toss and smother of the grounds; but 'twas
+a thrilling reward when the catch came flopping overside--the spoil of
+a doughty foray. We fished a clean half-quintal; then, late in the
+day, a rising wind caught us napping in Hell Alley. It came on to blow
+from the east with fury. There was no beating up to the tickle in the
+teeth of it; 'twas a task beyond the little punt, drive her to it as
+we would. When dusk came--dusk fast turning the fog black--the fool
+turned tail and wisely ran for Whisper Cove. 'Twas dark when we moored
+the punt to the stage-head: a black night come again, blowing wildly
+with rain--great gusts of wind threshing the trees above, screaming
+from cliff to cliff. There were lights at Judith's: 'twas straightway
+in our minds to ask a cup of tea in her kitchen; but when we came
+near the door 'twas to the discovery of company moving in and out.
+
+There were women in the kitchen.
+
+"'Tis Judith's mother, Dannie," Aunt Esther All whispered. "'Tis on'y
+she. 'Tis on'y Elizabeth."
+
+We had found her on the hills that morning.
+
+"She've come t' die all of a suddent. 'Tis another of her spells. Oh,
+Lord! she've come t' die."
+
+There was no solemnity in this outer room.
+
+"She've woful need o' salvation," Aunt Esther pattered. "She's doomed,
+lad, an she doesn't repent. Parson Stump ought t' be fetched t' work
+on she."
+
+There was grief--somewhere there was grief. I heard a sob; it came
+from a child's breast. And there followed, then, some strange,
+rambling words of comfort in Elizabeth's voice--a plea, it was, to
+never mind. Again a sob--Judith's grief.
+
+"'Tis Judith," Aunt Esther sighed. "She've gone an' give way."
+
+The child's heart would break!
+
+"Mother always 'lowed, Dannie," Moses whispered, "that they ought t'
+be a parson handy--when It come."
+
+'Twas beyond the power of the fool to manage: who was now a fool,
+indeed--white and shivering in this Presence. I would fetch the
+parson, said I--and moved right willingly and in haste upon the
+errand. Aunt Esther followed me beyond the threshold. She caught my
+arm with such a grasp that I was brought up in surprise. We stood in
+the wind and rain. The light from the kitchen fell through the doorway
+into the black night. Aunt Esther's lean, brown face, as the lamp
+betrayed, was working with eager and shameless curiosity. They had
+wondered, these women of Whisper Cove, overlong and without patience,
+to know what they wished to know but could not discover. "She've been
+wantin' Skipper Nicholas," says she. "She've been callin' for Skipper
+Nicholas. She've been singin' out, Dannie, like a wretch in tarture.
+Tell un t' come. She've been wantin' un sore. She've a thing on her
+mind. Tell un not t' fail. 'Tis something she've t' tell un. 'I wants
+Skipper Nicholas!' says she. 'Fetch Nicholas! I wants a word with he
+afore I die.' Hist!" Aunt Esther added, as though imparting some
+delight, "I 'low 'tis the secret."
+
+I asked her concerning this secret.
+
+"It haves t' do," says she, "with Judith."
+
+"An' what's that?"
+
+She whispered.
+
+"For shame!" I cried.
+
+"Ay, but," says she, "you isn't a woman!"
+
+"'Tis gossips' employment, woman!"
+
+"'Tis a woman's wish t' know," she answered.
+
+The thing concerned Judith: I was angered....
+
+                  *       *       *       *       *
+
+And now the door was shut in my face. 'Twas opened--closed again. The
+fool fled past me to his own place--scared off by the footsteps of
+Death, in the way of all fools. I was in haste--all at once--upon the
+road from Whisper Cove to Twist Tickle in a screaming gale of wind and
+rain. I was in Judith's service: I made haste. 'Twas a rough road, as
+I have said--a road scrambling among forsaken hills, a path made by
+chance, narrow and crooked, wind-swept or walled by reaching alders
+and spruce limbs, which were wet and cold and heavy with the drip of
+the gale. Ah, but was I not whipped on that night by the dark and the
+sweeping rain and the wind on the black hills and the approach of
+death? I was whipped on, indeed! The road was perverse to hurrying
+feet: 'twas ill going for a crooked foot; but I ran--splashing through
+the puddles, stumbling over protruding rock, crawling over the
+hills--an unpitying course. Why did the woman cry out for my uncle?
+What would she confide? Was it, indeed, but the name of the man? Was
+it not more vital to Judith's welfare, imperatively demanding
+disclosure? I hastened. Was my uncle at home? For Elizabeth's peace at
+this dread pass I hoped he had won through the gale. In rising anxiety
+I ran faster. I tripped upon a root and went tumbling down Lovers'
+Hill, coming to in a muddy torrent from Tom Tulk's Head. Thereafter--a
+hundred paces--I caught sight of the lights of the Twist Tickle
+meeting-house. They glowed warm and bright in the scowling night that
+encompassed me....
+
+                  *       *       *       *       *
+
+'Twas district-meeting time at Twist Tickle. The parsons of our Bay
+were gathered to devise many kindnesses for our folk--the salvation of
+souls and the nourishment of bodies and the praise of the God of us
+all. 'Twas in sincerity they came--there's no disputing it--and in
+loving-kindness, however ingenuously, they sought our welfare. When I
+came from the unkind night into the light and warmth of that plain
+temple, Parson Lute, of Yellow Tail Tickle, whom I knew and loved, was
+seeking to persuade the shepherds of our souls that the spread of
+saving grace might surely be accomplished, from Toad Point to the
+Scarlet Woman's Head, by means of unmitigated doctrine and more artful
+discourse. He was a youngish man, threadbare and puckered of
+garment--a quivering little aggregation of bones and blood-vessels,
+with a lean, lipless, high-cheeked face, its pale surface splashed
+with freckles; green eyes, red-rimmed, the lashes sparse and white;
+wide, restless nostrils. "Brethren," said he, with a snap of the
+teeth, his bony hand clinched and shaking above his gigantic head,
+"con-_vict_ 'em! Anyhow. In any way. By any means. _Save_ 'em! That's
+what we want in the church. Beloved," he proceeded, his voice dropping
+to a hissing whisper, "save 'em. _Con_-vict 'em!" His head shot
+forward; 'twas a red, bristly head, with the hair growing low on the
+brow, like the spruce of an overhanging cliff. "It's the only _way_,"
+he concluded, "to save 'em!" He sat down. "I'm hungry for souls!" he
+shouted from his seat, as an afterthought; and 'twas plain he would
+have said more had not a spasmodic cough put an end to his ecstasy.
+
+"Praise God!" they said.
+
+"'Low I got a cold," Parson Lute gasped, his voice changed now by the
+weakness of an ailing man.
+
+I feared to interrupt; but still must boldly knock.
+
+"One moment, brethren!" Parson Stump apologized. "Ah, Daniel!" he
+cried; "is that you? What's amiss, boy? You've no trouble, have you?
+And your uncle--eh? you've no trouble, boy, have you?" The brethren
+waited in silence while he tripped lightly over the worn cocoanut
+matting to the rear--perturbed, a little frown of impatience and
+bewilderment gathering between his eyes. The tails of his shiny black
+coat brushed the varnished pine pews, whereto, every Sunday, the
+simple folk of our harbor repaired in faith. Presently he tripped back
+again. The frown of bewilderment was deeper now--the perturbation
+turned anxious. For a moment he paused before the brethren. "Very
+awkward," said he, at last. "Really, I'm very sorry." He scratched his
+head, fore and aft--bit his lip. "I'm called to Whisper Cove," he
+explained, pulling at his nose. "I'm sorry to interrupt the business
+of the meeting, just at this time, but I do not see how it can be got
+around. I s'pose we'd better adjourn until such a time as I--"
+
+The chairman would hear of no adjournment.
+
+"But," Parson Stump complained, "I'm the secretary!"
+
+"We'll go right on, brother."
+
+"I can't very well _stay_, brethren," said Parson Stump, chagrined.
+"It's a case of--of--of spiritual consolation."
+
+"Ah!" ejaculated Parson Lute.
+
+"And I--"
+
+"Now, Brother Wile," the chairman interrupted, "we're ready to hear
+_you_."
+
+"One moment," said Parson Lute, rising. He struggled to suppress his
+cough. "Excuse me," he gasped. And, "I don't quite see, brethren,"
+he proceeded, "how this meeting can get along without the services of
+Brother Stump. It seems to me that this meeting _needs_ Brother
+Stump. I am of opinion that Brother Stump owes it to the cause in
+general, and to the clergy of this district in particular, to
+report this discussion to the conference. It is my conviction,
+brethren, that Brother Stump--by his indefatigable industry, by
+his thorough acquaintance with the matters under discussion, by his
+spiritual insight into problems of this character, by his talent
+for expression--ought to be present through the whole of this
+discussion, in its entirety, and ought to present the views of
+this body to the conference _in person_." And, "Look here, Brother
+Stump," he concluded, turning, "why can't _I_ make this call for
+you?"
+
+"Well, of course, you _could_, Brother Lute," Parson Stump admitted,
+his face beginning to clear, "but really I--"
+
+"Oh, come now, brother!"
+
+"Brother Lute," said Parson Stump, with sincere affection, "I don't
+like to think of you on the road to Whisper Cove to-night. I tell you,
+it--it--goes against the grain. You're not well, brother. You're not
+well at all. And it's a long way--and there's a gale of wind and rain
+outside--"
+
+"Come, come, now!"
+
+"A _dirty_ night," Parson Stump mused.
+
+"But it's the Lord's business!"
+
+"Of course," Parson Stump yielded, "if you _would_ be so kind, I--"
+
+Parson Lute's face brightened. "Very well," said he. "It's all
+settled. Now, may I have a word with you? I'll need some pointers." To
+the five brethren: "One moment, brethren!"
+
+They moved towards the rear, and came to rest, heads close, within my
+hearing. Parson Lute put his arm over Parson Stump's shoulder. "Now,"
+said he, briskly, rubbing his hands in a business-like way, "pointers,
+brother--pointers!"
+
+"Yes, yes, brother!" Parson Stump agreed. "Well, you'll find my
+oil-skins hanging in the hall. Mrs. Stump will give you the
+lantern--"
+
+"No, no! I don't mean that. Who is this person? Man or woman?"
+
+"Maid," said Parson Stump.
+
+"Ah!"
+
+Parson Stump whispered in Parson Lute's ear. Parson Lute raised his
+eyebrows. He was made sad--and sighed. He was kind, was this parson,
+and sweetly wishful for the goodness and welfare of all the erring
+sons and daughters of men.
+
+"Has the woman repented?" he asked.
+
+"I fear not. In fact--no; she has not."
+
+At once the battle-light began to shine in Parson Lute's green eyes.
+"I see," he snapped.
+
+"Rather difficult case, I fear," said Parson Stump, despondently.
+"She--well, she--she isn't quite right. Poor creature! Do you
+understand? A simple person. Not idiotic, you know. Not born that
+way, of course. Oh no! born with all her senses _quite_ intact. She
+was beautiful as a maid--sweet-natured, lovely in person, very
+modest and pious--very merry, too, and clever. But before the child
+came she--she--she began to wait. Do you understand? To wait--to wait
+for the return of--of some one. She said--I remember that she
+said--that he would come. She was really quite sure of it. And she
+waited--and waited. A promise, no doubt; and she had faith in it. For
+a long time she had faith in it. Rather pitiful, I think. I used to see
+her about a good deal. She was always waiting. I would meet her on
+the heads, in all weathers, keeping watch for schooners. The clerk of a
+trading-schooner, no doubt; but nobody knows. Waiting--waiting--always
+waiting! Poor creature! The man didn't come back, of course; and then
+she got--well--flighty. Got flighty--quite flighty. The man didn't come
+back, of course, you know; and she had waited--and waited--so long, so
+very long. Really, a very difficult case, brother! Something snapped
+and broken--something missing--something gone, you know. Poor creature!
+She--she--well, she waited too long. Couldn't _stand_ it, you see. It
+seems she loved the man--and trusted him--and, well, just loved him, you
+know, in the way women will. And now she's flighty--_quite_ flighty. A
+difficult case, I fear, and--"
+
+"I see," Parson Lute interrupted. "An interesting case. Very sad, too.
+And you've not been able to convict her of her sin?"
+
+Parson Stump shook his head.
+
+"No impression whatever?"
+
+"No, brother."
+
+"How," Parson Lute demanded, with a start, "does she--ah--subsist?"
+
+"She fishes, brother, in quiet weather, and she is helped, though it
+is not generally known, by a picturesque old character of the place--a
+man not of the faith, a drunkard, I fear, but kind-hearted and
+generous to the needy."
+
+"The woman ever converted before?"
+
+"Twice, brother," Parson Stump answered; "but not now in a state
+of grace. She is quite obstinate," he added, "and she has, I
+fear, peculiar views--_very_ peculiar, I fear--on repentance. In
+fact, she loves the child, you see; and she fears that a confession
+of her sin--a confession of repentance, you know--might give the
+world to think that her love had failed--that she wished the
+child--well--unborn. She would not appear disloyal to Judith, I
+fear, even to save her soul. A peculiar case, is it not? A difficult
+case, I fear."
+
+"I see," said Parson Lute, tapping his nose reflectively. "The child
+is the obstacle. A valuable hint in that. Well, I may be able to do
+something, with God's help."
+
+"God bless you, brother!"
+
+They shook hands....
+
+                  *       *       *       *       *
+
+My uncle was returned from Topmast Harbor. I paused but to bid him
+urgently to the bedside of Elizabeth, then ran on to rejoin the
+parson at the turn of the road. By night, in a gale of wind and rain
+from the east, was no time for Parson Lute, of Yellow Tail Tickle, to
+be upon the long road to Whisper Cove. But the rough road, and the
+sweep of the wind, and the steep ascents, and the dripping limbs, and
+the forsaken places lying hid in the dark, and the mud and torrents,
+and the knee-deep, miry puddles seemed not to be perceived by him as
+he stumbled after me. He was praying aloud--importunately, as it is
+written. He would save the soul of Elizabeth, that man; the faith, the
+determination were within him. 'Twas fair pitiful the way he besought
+the Lord. And he made haste; he would pause only at the crests of the
+hills--to cough and to catch his breath. I was hard driven that
+night--straight into the wind, with the breathless parson forever at
+my heels. I shall never forget the exhibition of zeal. 'Twas divinely
+unselfish--'twas heroic as men have seldom shown heroism. Remembering
+what occurred thereafter, I number the misguided man with the holy
+martyrs. At the Cock's Crest, whence the road tumbled down the cliff
+to Whisper Cove, the wind tore the breath out of Parson Lute, and the
+noise of the breakers, and the white of the sea beyond, without mercy,
+contemptuous, confused him utterly.
+
+He fell.
+
+"Tis near at hand, sir!" I pleaded with him.
+
+He was up in a moment. "Let us press on, Daniel," said he, "to the
+salvation of that soul. Let us press on!"
+
+We began the descent....
+
+
+
+
+XIII
+
+JUDITH ABANDONED
+
+
+I left the parson in the kitchen to win back his breath. He was near
+fordone, poor man! but still entreatingly prayed, in sentences broken
+by consumptive spasms, for wisdom and faith and the fire of the Holy
+Ghost in this dire emergency. When I entered the room where Elizabeth
+lay, 'twas to the grateful discovery that she had rallied: her breath
+came without wheeze or gasp; the labored, spasmodic beating of her
+heart no longer shook the bed. 'Twas now as though, I thought, they
+had troubled her with questions concerning her soul or her sin; for
+she was turned sullen--lying rigid and scowling, with her eyes fixed
+upon the whitewashed rafters, straying only in search of Judith, who
+sat near, grieving in dry sobs, affrighted.
+
+And 'twas said that this Elizabeth had within the span of my short
+life been a maid most lovely! There were no traces of that beauty and
+sprightliness remaining. I wondered, being a lad, that unkindness
+should work a change so sad in any one. 'Twas a mystery.... The room
+was cold. 'Twas ghostly, too--with Death hovering there invisible.
+Youth is mystified and appalled by the gaunt Thing. I shivered.
+Within, the gale sighed and moaned and sadly whispered; 'twas blowing
+in a melancholy way--foreboding some inevitable catastrophe. Set on a
+low ledge of the cliff, the cottage sagged towards the edge, as if to
+peer at the breakers; and clammy little draughts stole through the
+cracks of the floor and walls, crying as they came, and crept about,
+searching out the uttermost corners, with sighs and cold fingers.
+
+'Twas a mean, poor place for a woman to lie in extremity.... And she
+had once been lovely--with warm, live youth, with twinkling eyes and
+modesty, with sympathy and merry ways to win the love o' folk! Ay; but
+'twas wondrous hard to believe.... 'Twas a mean station of departure,
+indeed--a bare, disjointed box of a room, low-ceiled, shadowy, barren
+of comfort, but yet white and neat, kept by Judith's clever,
+conscientious, loving hands. There was one small window, outlooking to
+sea, black-paned in the wild night, whipped with rain and spray. From
+without--from the vastness of sea and night--came a confused and
+distant wail, as of the lamentation of a multitude. Was this my fancy?
+I do not know; but yet it seemed to me--a lad who listened and
+watched--that a wise, pitying, unnumbered throng lamented.
+
+I could not rid my ears of this wailing....
+
+                  *       *       *       *       *
+
+Elizabeth had rallied; she might weather it out, said the five wives
+of Whisper Cove, who had gathered to observe her departure.
+
+"If," Aunt Esther qualified, "she's let _be_."
+
+"Like she done las' time," William Buttle's wife whispered. "I 'low
+our watchin's wasted. Ah, this heart trouble! You never knows."
+
+"_If_," Aunt Esther repeated, "she's let be."
+
+We waited for the parson.
+
+"Have Skipper Nicholas come?" Elizabeth asked.
+
+"No, maid; 'tis not he, maid." They would still taunt her! They would
+still taunt her, in the way of virtuous women; 'twas "Maid! Maid!"
+until the heart of a man of honor--of a man of any sort--was fair
+sickened of virtue and women. "'Tis the parson," said they.
+
+Elizabeth sighed. "I wants a word along o' Skipper Nicholas," said
+she, faintly, "when he've come."
+
+Parson Lute softly entered from the kitchen, wiping the rain from his
+face and hands, stepping on tiptoe over the bare floor. He was worn
+and downcast. No inspiration, it seemed, had been granted in answer to
+his praying. I loved him, of old, as did all the children of Twist
+Tickle, to whom he was known because of gentlest sympathy, shown on
+the roads in fair weather and foul at district-meeting time; and I was
+glad that he had come to ease the passage to heaven of the mother of
+Judith. The five women of Whisper Cove, taken unaware by this
+stranger, stood in a flutter of embarrassment. They were not
+unkind--they were curious concerning death and the power of parsons.
+He laid a kind hand on Judith's head, shook hands with the women, and
+upon each bestowed a whispered blessing, being absently said; and the
+wives of Whisper Cove sat down and smoothed their skirts and folded
+their hands, all flushed and shaking with expectation. They wondered,
+no doubt, what he would accomplish--salvation or not: Parson Stump had
+failed. Parson Lute seemed for a moment to be unnerved by the critical
+attitude of his audience--made anxious for his reputation: a purely
+professional concern, inevitably habitual. He was not conscious of
+this, I am sure; he was too kind, too earnest in service, to consider
+his reputation. But yet he must _do_--when another had failed. The
+Lord had set him a hard task; but being earnest and kind, he had no
+contempt, no lack of love, I am sure, for the soul the Lord had given
+him to lose or to save--neither gross wish to excel, nor gross wish to
+excuse.
+
+"Daughter," he whispered, tenderly, to Elizabeth.
+
+Elizabeth threw the coverlet over her head, so that only the tangled
+fringe of her hair was left to see; and she began to laugh--a
+coquettish trifling. Parson Lute gently uncovered the head.
+
+"You isn't Parson Stump," Elizabeth tittered.
+
+"Turn your face this way," said Parson Lute.
+
+She laughed.
+
+"This way," said Parson Lute.
+
+"Go 'way!" Elizabeth laughed. "Go on with you!" She hid her flaming
+face. "You didn't ought t' see me in bed!" she gasped. "Go 'way!"
+
+"My child," said Parson Lute, patiently, "turn your face this way."
+
+She would not. "Go 'way!" said she.
+
+"This way!" Parson Lute repeated.
+
+It had been a quiet, slow command, not to go unheeded. The five women
+of Whisper Cove stiffened with amazement. Here, indeed, was a
+masterful parson! Parson Stump had failed; but not this parson--not
+this parson, who could command in the name of the Lord! They exchanged
+glances--exchanged nudges. Elizabeth's laughter ceased. All the women
+of Whisper Cove waited breathless. There was silence; the commotion
+was all outside--wind and rain and breakers, a far-off passion, apart
+from the poor comedy within. The only sound in the room was the
+wheezing of the girl on the bed. Elizabeth turned; her brows were
+drawn, her eyes angry. Aunt Esther All, from her place at the foot of
+the bed, heard the ominous wheeze of her breath and observed the labor
+of her heart; and she was concerned, and nudged William Buttle's wife,
+who would not heed her.
+
+"'Tis not good for her," Aunt Esther whispered.
+
+"You leave me be!" Elizabeth complained.
+
+Parson Lute took her hand.
+
+"You quit that!" said Elizabeth.
+
+"Hush, daughter," the parson pleaded.
+
+Into the interval of silence a gust of rain intruded.
+
+"Have Nicholas come?" Elizabeth asked. "Haven't he come yet?"
+
+Aunt Esther shook her head.
+
+"I wants un," said Elizabeth, "when he've come."
+
+The parson began now soothingly to stroke the great, rough hand he
+held; but at once Elizabeth broke into bashful laughter, and he
+dropped it--and frowned.
+
+"Woman," he cried, in distress, "don't you know that you are dying?"
+
+Elizabeth's glance ran to Judith, who rose, but sat again, wringing
+her hands. The mother turned once more to the parson; 'twas an
+apathetic gaze, fixed upon his restless nostrils.
+
+"How is it with your soul?" he asked.
+
+'Twas a word spoken most graciously, in the perfection of pious
+desire, of reverence, of passionate concern for the future of souls;
+but yet Elizabeth's glance moved swiftly to the parson's eyes, in a
+rage, and instantly shifted to his red hair, where it remained,
+fascinated.
+
+"Are you trusting in your Saviour's love?"
+
+I accuse myself for speaking, in this bold way, of the unhappy
+question; but yet, why not? for 'twas asked in purest anxiety, in the
+way of Parson Lute, whom all children loved.
+
+"Are you clinging," says he, "to the Cross?"
+
+Elizabeth listlessly stared at the rafters.
+
+"Have you laid hold on the only Hope of escape?"
+
+The child Judith--whose grief was my same agony--sobbed heart-brokenly.
+
+"Judith!" Elizabeth called, her apathy vanished. "Poor little
+Judith!"
+
+"No, my daughter," the parson gently protested. "This is not the
+time," said he. "Turn your heart away from these earthly affections,"
+he pleaded, his voice fallen to an earnest whisper. "Oh, daughter,
+fix your eyes upon the Cross!"
+
+Elizabeth was sullen. "I wants Judith," she complained.
+
+"You have no time, now, my daughter, to think of these perishing human
+ties."
+
+"I _wants_ Judith!"
+
+"Mere earthly affection, daughter! 'And if a man'--"
+
+"An' Judith," the woman persisted, "wants _me_!"
+
+"Nay," the parson softly chided. He was kind--patient with her
+infirmity. 'Twas the way of Parson Lute. With gentleness, with a
+tactful humoring, he would yet win her attention. But, "Oh," he
+implored, as though overcome by a flooding realization of the nature
+and awful responsibility of his mission, "can you not think of your
+soul?"
+
+"Judith, dear!"
+
+The child arose.
+
+"No!" said the parson, quietly. "No, child!"
+
+The wind shook the house to its crazy foundations and drove the crest
+of a breaker against the panes.
+
+"I wants t' _tell_ she, parson!" Elizabeth wailed. "An I wants
+she--jus' _wants_ she--anyhow--jus' for love!"
+
+"Presently, daughter; not now."
+
+"She--she's my _child_!"
+
+"Presently, daughter."
+
+Judith wept again.
+
+"Sir!" Elizabeth gasped--bewildered, terrified.
+
+"Not now, daughter."
+
+All the anger and complaint had gone out of Elizabeth's eyes; they
+were now filled with wonder and apprehension. Flashes of intelligence
+appeared and failed and came again. It seemed to me, who watched, that
+in some desperate way, with her broken mind, she tried to solve the
+mystery of this refusal. Then 'twas as though some delusion--some
+terror of her benighted state--seized upon her: alarm changed to
+despair; she rose in bed, but put her hand to her heart and fell
+back.
+
+"He better stop it!" Aunt Esther All muttered.
+
+The four wives of Whisper Cove bitterly murmured against her.
+
+"He's savin' her soul," said William Buttle's wife.
+
+They were interested, these wives, in the operation; they resented
+disturbance.
+
+"Well," Aunt Esther retorted, "I 'low, anyhow, he don't know much
+about heart-trouble."
+
+Parson Lute, unconscious of this watchful observation, frankly sighed.
+The hearts of men, I know, contain no love more sweet and valuable
+than that which animated his desire. He mused for an interval. "Do you
+know the portion of the wicked?" he asked, in loving-kindness, without
+harshness whatsoever.
+
+"Yes, sir."
+
+"What is it?"
+
+It seemed she would appease him. She was ingratiating, now, with smile
+and answer. "Hell, sir," she answered.
+
+"Are you prepared for the change?"
+
+'Twas a familiar question, no doubt. Elizabeth's conversion had been
+diligently sought. But the lean face of Parson Lute, and the fear of
+what he might do, and the solemn quality of his voice, and his sincere
+and simple desire seemed so to impress Elizabeth that she was startled
+into new attention.
+
+"Yes, sir," she said.
+
+It appeared to puzzle Parson Lute. He had been otherwise informed by
+Parson Stump. The woman was _not_ in a state of grace.
+
+"You have cast yourself upon the mercy of God?" he asked.
+
+"No, sir."
+
+"Then how, my daughter, can you say that you are prepared?"
+
+There was no answer.
+
+"You have made your peace with an offended God?"
+
+"No, sir."
+
+"But you say that you are prepared?"
+
+"Yes, sir."
+
+"You have repented of your sin?"
+
+"No, sir."
+
+Parson Lute turned impatient. "And yet," he demanded, "you expect to
+go to heaven?"
+
+"No, sir."
+
+"_What_!" cried Parson Lute.
+
+"No, sir," she said.
+
+Parson Lute was incredulous. "To hell?" he asked.
+
+"Eh?"
+
+"To _hell_?"
+
+Elizabeth hesitated. By some direct and primitively human way her
+benighted mind had reached its determination. But still she
+hesitated--frightened somewhat, it may be, by the conventionality of
+Whisper Cove and Twist Tickle.
+
+"Yes, sir," said she. "Most men goes there."
+
+"But you," said he, in amaze, "are not a man!"
+
+"Judith's father were," she answered; "an' I'm wantin'--oh, I'm
+wantin'--t' see un once again!"
+
+The five wives of Whisper Cove gasped....
+
+                  *       *       *       *       *
+
+The outer door was flung open. Came a rush of wind--the noise and wet
+and lusty stirring of the night. It broke harshly in upon us; 'twas a
+crashing discord of might and wrath and cruel indifference--a mocking
+of this small tragedy. The door was sharply closed against the gale. I
+heard the wheeze and tread of my uncle in the kitchen. He entered--his
+broad face grave and anxious and grieved--but instantly fled, though I
+beckoned; for Parson Lute, overcome, it may be, by the impiety of
+Elizabeth, was upon his knees, fervently praying that the misguided
+soul might yet by some miraculous manifestation of grace be restored
+to propriety of view and of feeling. 'Twas a heartfelt prayer offered
+in faith, according to the enlightenment of the man--a confession of
+ignorance, a plea of human weakness, a humble, anxious cry for divine
+guidance that the woman might be plucked as a brand from the burning,
+to the glory of the Lord God Most Tender and Most High. Came, in the
+midst of it, a furious outburst; the wind rose--achieved its utmost
+pitch of power. I looked out: Whisper Cove, low between the black
+barriers, was churned white; and beyond--concealed by the night--the
+sea ran tumultuously. 'Twas a big, screaming wind, blowing in from the
+sea, unopposed by tree or hill. The cottage trembled to the gusts; the
+timbers complained; the lamp fluttered in the draught. Great waves,
+rolling in from the open, were broken on the rocks of Whisper Cove.
+Rain and spray, driven by the gale, drummed on the roof and rattled
+like hail on the window. And above this angry clamor of wind and sea
+rose the wailing, importunate prayer for the leading of the God of us
+all....
+
+                  *       *       *       *       *
+
+When the parson had got to his feet again, Aunt Esther All diffidently
+touched his elbow. "Nicholas have come, sir," said she.
+
+"Nicholas?"
+
+"Ay; the man she've sent for."
+
+Elizabeth caught the news. "I wants un," she wheezed. "Go 'way,
+parson! I wants a word along o' Nicholas all alone."
+
+"She've a secret, sir," Aunt Esther whispered.
+
+Judith moved towards the door; but the parson beckoned her back, and
+she stood doubtfully.
+
+"Mister Top! Mister Top!" Elizabeth called, desperate to help herself,
+to whom no heed was given.
+
+In the fury of the gale--the rush past of wind and rain--the failing
+voice was lost.
+
+"I 'low," Aunt Esther warned, "'twould be wise, sir--"
+
+"Have the man wait in the kitchen."
+
+Elizabeth lay helplessly whimpering.
+
+"But, sir," Aunt Esther protested, "she've--"
+
+"Have the man wait in the kitchen," the parson impatiently repeated.
+"There is no time now for these worldly arrangements. No, no!" said
+he. "There is no time. The woman _must_ be convicted!" He was changed:
+despondency had vanished--humility gone with it. In the eye of the
+man--the gesture--the risen voice--appeared some high authority to
+overawe us. He had the habit of authority, as have all parsons; but
+there was now some compelling, supernatural addition to weaken us. We
+did not dare oppose him, not one of us--not my uncle, whose head had
+been intruded, but was now at once withdrawn. The parson had come out
+of his prayer, it seemed, refreshed and inspired; he had remembered,
+it may be, that the child was the obstacle--the child whom Elizabeth
+would not slight to save her soul. "The woman must be saved," said he.
+"She must be saved!" he cried, striking his fist into his palm, his
+body all tense, his teeth snapped shut, his voice strident. "The Lord
+is mighty and merciful--a forgiving God." 'Twas an appeal (he looked
+far past the whitewashed rafters and the moving darkness of the
+night); 'twas a returning appeal--a little failure of faith, I think.
+"The Lord has heard me," he declared, doggedly. "He has not turned
+away. The woman must--she _shall_--be saved!"
+
+"Ay, but," Aunt Esther expostulated; "she've been sort o' wantin' t'
+tell--"
+
+The parson's green eyes were all at once bent in a penetrating way
+upon Aunt Esther; and she backed away, biting at her nails--daring no
+further protest.
+
+"Judith, my child," said the parson, "do you go to the kitchen."
+
+"No, no!" Judith wailed. "I'm wantin' t' stay."
+
+Elizabeth stretched out her arms.
+
+"It distracts your mother's attention, you see," said the parson,
+kindly. "Do you go, my dear."
+
+"I _will_ not go!"
+
+"Judith!" Elizabeth called.
+
+The parson caught the child's arm.
+
+"You leave me be!" Judith flashed, her white little teeth all bare.
+
+"Do you go," said the parson, coldly, "to the kitchen."
+
+"He'd better mind what he's about!" Aunt Esther complained.
+
+Elizabeth was now on her elbow, staring in alarm. Her breast was
+significantly heaving, and the great vein of her throat had begun to
+beat. "Don't send she away, parson!" she pleaded. "She's wantin' her
+mother. Leave she be!"
+
+The parson led Judith away.
+
+"For God's sake, parson," Elizabeth gasped, "leave she come! What you
+goin' t' do with she?" She made as though to throw off the coverlet
+and follow; but she was unable, and fell back in exhaustion. "Judith!"
+she called. "Judith!"
+
+The kitchen door was closed upon Judith; the obstacle had been
+removed.
+
+"Don't hurt she, parson," Elizabeth entreated, seeming, now, to be
+possessed of a delusion concerning the parson's purpose. "She've done
+no harm, sir. She've been a good child all her life."
+
+"Elizabeth," said the parson, firmly, "repent!"
+
+"What you done with my Judith?"
+
+"Repent!"
+
+Elizabeth's heart began to work beyond its strength. "For God's sake,
+parson!" she gasped; "you'll not hurt she, will you?"
+
+"Repent, I say!"
+
+"I'll repent, parson. What you goin' t' do with Judy? Don't hurt she,
+parson. I'll repent. Oh, bring she back, parson! I'll repent. For
+God's sake, parson!" It may be that despair gave her cunning--I do not
+know. The deception was not beyond her: she had been converted
+twice--she was used to the forms as practised in those days at Twist
+Tickle. She wanted her child, poor woman! and her mind was clouded
+with fear: she is not to be called evil for the trick. Nor is Parson
+Lute to be blamed for following earnestly all that she said--praying,
+all the while, that the issue might be her salvation. She had a
+calculating eye on the face of Parson Lute. "I believe!" she cried,
+watching him closely for some sign of relenting. "Help thou my
+unbelief." The parson's face softened. "Save me!" she whispered,
+exhausted. "Save my soul! I repent. Save my soul!" She seemed now to
+summon all her strength, for the parson had not yet called back the
+child. "Praise God!" she screamed, seeking now beyond doubt to
+persuade him of her salvation. "I repent! I'm saved! I'm saved!"
+
+"Praise God!" Parson Lute shouted.
+
+Elizabeth swayed--threw up her hands--fell back dead.
+
+"I tol' you so," said Aunt Esther, grimly.
+
+
+
+
+XIV
+
+THE TWENTY-THIRD PSALM
+
+
+Faith, but 'twas a bitter night! Men were drowning on our coast--going
+to death in the wreck of schooners. The sea broke in unmasked assault
+upon the great rocks of Whisper Cove; the gale worried the cottage on
+the cliff. But 'twas warm in the kitchen: the women had kept the fire
+for the cup o' tea to follow the event; 'twas warm, and the lamp made
+light and shadow, and the kettle bubbled and puffed, the wood
+crackled, the fire snored and glowed, all serenely, in disregard of
+death, as though no mystery had come to appal the souls of us.
+
+My uncle had Judith on his knee.
+
+"I'm not able," she sobbed.
+
+"An' ye'll not try?" he besought. "Ye'll not even try?"
+
+We were alone: the women were employed in the other room; the
+parson paced the floor, unheeding, his yellow teeth fretting his
+finger-nails, his lean lips moving in some thankful communication
+with the God he served.
+
+"Ah, but!" says my uncle, "ye'll _surely_ come t' live along o' me!"
+
+"No, no! I'll be livin' where I've always lived--with mother."
+
+"Ye cannot live alone."
+
+"Ay; but I'm able t' live alone--an' fish alone--like mother done."
+
+"'Twas not her wish, child," says my uncle. "She'd have ye live along
+o' me. 'Why, Judy,' she'd have ye know, 'do ye live along o' he. Do ye
+trust, little maid,' she'd have ye t' know, 'that there ol' Nick Top.
+He've a powerful bad look t' the eye in his head,' she'd say, 'an'
+he've the name o' the devil; but Lord love ye!' she'd say, 'he've a
+heart with room t' contain ye, an' a warm welcome t' dwell within.
+He've took good care o' little ol' Dannie,' she'd say, 'an' he'll take
+good care o' _you_. He'll never see ye hurt or wronged or misguided so
+long as he lives. Not,' she'd say, 'that there damned ol' rascal!' An'
+if ye come, Judy, dear," my uncle entreated, "I won't see ye
+wronged--I won't!" My uncle's little eyes were overrunning now--the
+little eyes he would not look into. The parson still paced the floor,
+still unheeding, still muttering fervent prayer of some strange sort;
+but my uncle, aged in sinful ways, was frankly crying. "Ye'll come,
+Judy, will ye not?" he begged. "Along o' ol' Nick Top, who would not
+see ye wronged? Ah, little girl!" he implored--and then her head fell
+against him--"ye'll surely never doubt Nick Top. An' ye'll come t' he,
+an' ye'll sort o' look after un, will ye not?--that poor ol' feller!"
+
+Judith was sobbing on his breast.
+
+"That poor, poor ol' feller!"
+
+She wept the more bitterly.
+
+"Poor little girl!" he crooned, patting her shoulder. "Ah, the poor
+little girl!"
+
+"I'll go!" cried Judith, in a passion of woe and gratitude. "I'll
+go--an' trust an' love an' care for you!"
+
+My uncle clasped her close. "'_The Lard is my shepherd,_'" says he,
+looking up, God knows to what! his eyes streaming, "'_I shall not
+want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside
+the still waters._'" By the wind, by the breaking of the troubled sea,
+the old man's voice was obscured. "'_Yea, though I walk through the
+valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for thou art with
+me: thy rod and thy staff they comfort me._'" Judith still sobbed,
+uncomforted; my uncle stroked her hair--and again she broke into
+passionate weeping. "'_Thou preparest a table before me in the
+presence of my enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup
+runneth over._'" Returned, again, in a lull of the gale, my fancy that
+I caught the lamentation of a multitude. "'_Surely goodness and mercy
+shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house
+of the Lord for ever._'"
+
+"Bless God!" cried the parson. "Bless God, brother!"
+
+"Ay," said my uncle, feelingly, "bless God!"
+
+The parson wrung my uncle's hand.
+
+"That there psa'm don't seem true, parson, b'y," says my uncle, "on a
+night like this here dirty night, with schooners in trouble at sea.
+Ever been t' sea in a gale o' wind, parson? Ah, well! it don't seem
+true--not in a gale o' wind, with this here poor, lonely little maid's
+mother lyin' there dead in the nex' room. It jus' don't seem true!"
+
+Parson Lute, poor man! started--stared, pained, anxious; in doubt, it
+may be, of the Christian congeniality of this man.
+
+"It don't seem true," says my uncle, "in the face of a easterly gale
+an' the death o' mothers. An', look you, parson," he declared, "I'll
+be--well, parson, I'll jus' be _jiggered_--if it do! There you haves
+it!"
+
+"Brother," the parson answered, accusingly, "it is in the Bible; it
+must be true."
+
+"'Tis _where_?" my uncle demanded, confounded.
+
+"In the Bible, sir."
+
+"An' it--it--must be--"
+
+"True, sir."
+
+My uncle sighed; and--for I know his loving-kindness--'twas a sigh
+that spoke a pain at heart.
+
+"It must be true," reiterated the wretched parson, now, it seemed,
+beset by doubt. "It _must_ be true!"
+
+"Why, by the dear God ye serve, parson!" roared my uncle, with healthy
+spirit, superior in faith, "I _knows_ 'tis true, Bible or St. John's
+noospaper!"
+
+Aunt Esther put her gray head in at the door. "Is the kettle b'ilin'?"
+says she.
+
+The kettle was boiling.
+
+"Ah!" says she--and disappeared.
+
+"'_Though I walk,_'" the parson repeated, his thin, freckled hands
+clasped, "'_through the valley of the shadow of death!_'"
+
+There was no doctor at Twist Tickle: so the parson lay dead--poor
+man!--of the exposure of that night, within three days, in the house
+of Parson Stump....
+
+
+
+
+XV
+
+A MEASURE OF PRECAUTION
+
+
+With the threats of the gray stranger in mind, my uncle now began
+without delay to refit the _Shining Light_: this for all the world as
+though 'twere a timely and reasonable thing to do. But 'twas neither
+timely, for the fish were running beyond expectation off Twist Tickle,
+nor reasonable, for the _Shining Light_ had been left to rot and foul
+in the water of Old Wives' Cove since my infancy. Whatever the
+pretence he made, the labor was planned and undertaken in anxious
+haste: there was, indeed, too much pretence--too suave an explanation,
+a hand too aimless and unsteady, an eye too blank, too large a flow of
+liquor--for a man who suffered no secret perturbation.
+
+"In case o' accident, Dannie," he explained, as though 'twere a thing
+of no importance. "Jus' in case o' accident. I wouldn't be upset,"
+says he, "an I was you."
+
+"Never you fear," says I.
+
+"No," says he; "you'll stand by, Dannie!"
+
+"That I will," I boasted.
+
+"Ye can't delude _me_," says he. "I knows _you_. I bet ye _you'll_
+stand by, whatever comes of it."
+
+'Tis quite beyond me to express my gratification. 'Twas a mysterious
+business altogether--this whim to make the _Shining Light_ ready
+for sea. I could make nothing of it at all. And why, thinks I, should
+the old craft all at once be troubled by all this pother of block and
+tackle and hammer and saw? 'Twas beyond me to fathom; but I was
+glad to discover, whatever the puzzle, that my uncle's faith in
+the lad he had nourished was got real and large. 'Twas not for that
+he bred me; but 'twas the only reward--and that a mean, poor one--he
+might have. And he was now come near, it seemed, to dependence upon
+me; there was that in his voice to show it--a little trembling, a
+little hopelessness, a little wistfulness: a little weakening of its
+quality of wrathful courage.
+
+"_You'll_ stand by," he had said; and, ay, but it fair saddened me to
+feel the appeal of his aging spirit to my growing years! There comes a
+time, no doubt, in the relationship of old and young, when the
+guardian is all at once changed into the cherished one. 'Tis a
+tragical thing--a thing to be resolved, to be made merciful and
+benign, only by the acquiescence of the failing spirit. There is then
+no interruption--no ripple upon the flowing river of our lives. As for
+my uncle, I fancy that he kept watch upon me, in those days, to read
+his future, to discover his achievement, in my disposition. Stand by?
+Ay, that I would! And being young I sought a deed to do: I wished the
+accident might befall to prove me.
+
+"Accident?" cries I. "Never you fear!"
+
+"I'll not fear," says he, "that ye'll not stand by."
+
+"Ay," I complained; "but never you fear at all!"
+
+"I'll not fear," he repeated, with a little twinkle of amusement,
+"that ye'll not stand by, as best ye're able."
+
+I felt now my strength--the greatness of my body and the soaring
+courage of my soul. This in the innocent way of a lad; and by grace of
+your recollection I shall not be blamed for it. Fourteen and something
+more? 'Twas a mighty age! What did it lack, thinks I, of power and
+wisdom? To be sure I strutted the present most haughtily and eyed the
+future with as saucy a flash as lads may give. The thing delighted my
+uncle; he would chuckle and clap me on the back and cry, "That's very
+good!" until I was wrought into a mood of defiance quite ridiculous.
+But still 'tis rather grateful to recall: for what's a lad's boasting
+but the honest courage of a man? I would serve my uncle; but 'twas not
+all: I would serve Judith. She was now come into our care: I would
+serve her.
+
+"They won't nothin' hurt _she_!" thinks I.
+
+I am glad to recall that this boyish love took a turn so chivalrous....
+
+                  *       *       *       *       *
+
+When 'twas noised abroad that my uncle was to refit the _Shining
+Light_, Twist Tickle grew hilarious. "Laugh an you will, lads," says
+my uncle, then about the business of distributing genial invitations
+to the hauling-down. "'Tis a gift o' the good Lord t' be able t' do
+it. The ol' girl out there haven't a wonderful lot to admire, an'
+she's nowhere near t' windward o' forty; but I'll show ye, afore I'm
+through, that she'll stand by in a dirty blow, an I jus' asks she t'
+try. Ye'll find, lads," says he, "when ye're so old as me, an' sailed
+t' foreign parts, that they's more to a old maid or a water-side widow
+than t' many a lass o' eighteen. The ol' girl out there haves a mean
+allowance o' beauty, but she've a character that isn't talked about
+after dark; an' when I buys her a pair o' shoes an' a new gown, why,
+ecod! lads, ye'll think she's a lady. 'Tis one way," says he, "that
+ladies is _made_."
+
+This occurred at Eli Flack's stage of an evening when a mean, small
+catch was split and the men-folk were gathered for gossip. 'Twas after
+sunset, with fog drifting in on a lazy wind: a glow of red in the
+west. Our folk were waiting for the bait-skiff, which had long been
+gone for caplin, skippered, this time, by the fool of Twist Tickle.
+
+"Whatever," says my uncle, "they'll be a darn o' rum for ye, saved and
+unsaved, when she've been hauled down an' scraped. An' will ye come t'
+the haulin'-down?"
+
+That they would!
+
+"I knowed ye would," says my uncle, as he stumped away, "saved an'
+unsaved."
+
+The bait-skiff conch-horn sounded. The boat had entered the narrows.
+'Twas coming slowly through the quiet evening--laden with bait for the
+fishing of to-morrow. Again the horn--echoing sweetly, faintly, among
+the hills of Twin Islands. 'Twas Moses Shoos that blew; there was no
+mistaking the long-drawn blast.
+
+                  *       *       *       *       *
+
+Ah, well! she needed the grooming, this _Shining Light_, whatever the
+occasion. 'Twas scandalous to observe her decay in idleness. She
+needed the grooming--this neglected, listless, slatternly old maid of
+a craft. A craft of parts, to be sure, as I had been told; but a craft
+left to slow wreck, at anchor in quiet water. Year by year, since I
+could remember the days of my life, in summer and winter weather she
+had swung with the tides or rested silent in the arms of the ice. I
+had come to Twist Tickle aboard, as the tale of my infancy ran, on the
+wings of a nor'east gale of some pretensions; and she had with heroic
+courage weathered a dirty blow to land me upon the eternal rocks of
+Twin Islands. For this--though but an ancient story, told by old folk
+to engage my presence in the punts and stages of our harbor--I loved
+her, as a man, Newfoundland born and bred, may with propriety love a
+ship.
+
+There are maids to be loved, no doubt, and 'tis very nice to love
+them, because they are maids, fashioned in a form most lovely by the
+good Lord, given a heart most childlike and true and loving and
+tenderly dependent, so that, in all the world, as I know, there is
+nothing so to be cherished with a man's last breath as a maid. I have
+loved a maid and speak with authority. But there is also a love of
+ships, though, being inland-born, you may not know it. 'Tis a
+surpassing faith and affection, inspired neither by beauty nor virtue,
+but wilful and mysterious, like the love of a maid. 'Tis much the
+same, I'm thinking: forgiving to the uttermost, prejudiced beyond the
+perception of any fault, savagely loyal. 'Twas in this way, at any
+rate, that my uncle regarded the _Shining Light_; and 'twas in this
+way, too, with some gentler shades of admiration, proceeding from an
+apt imagination, that I held the old craft in esteem.
+
+"Dannie," says my uncle, presently, as we walked homeward, "ye'll
+'blige me, lad, by keepin' a eye on the mail-boat."
+
+I wondered why.
+
+"You keep a eye," he whispered, winking in a way most grave and
+troubled, "on that there little mail-boat when she lands her
+passengers."
+
+"For what?" I asked.
+
+"Brass buttons," says he.
+
+'Twas now that the cat came out of the bag. Brass buttons? 'Twas the
+same as saying constables. This extraordinary undertaking was then a
+precaution against the accident of arrest. 'Twas inspired, no doubt,
+by the temper of that gray visitor with whom my uncle had dealt over
+the table in a fashion so surprising. I wondered again concerning that
+amazing broil, but to no purpose; 'twas 'beyond my wisdom and
+ingenuity to involve these opposite natures in a crime that might make
+each tolerable to the other and advantage them both. 'Twas plain, at
+any rate, that my uncle stood in jeopardy, and that of no trivial
+sort: else never would he have employed his scant savings upon the
+hull of the _Shining Light_. It grieved me to know it. 'Twas most sad
+and most perplexing. 'Twas most aggravating, too: for I must put no
+questions, but accept, in cheerful serenity, the revelations he would
+indulge me with, and be content with that.
+
+"An' if ye sees so much as a single brass button comin' ashore," says
+he, "ye'll give me a hail, will ye not, whereever I is?"
+
+This I would do.
+
+"Ye never can tell," he added, sadly, "what's in the wind."
+
+"I'm never allowed t' know," said I.
+
+He was quick to catch the complaint. "Ye're growin' up, Dannie," he
+observed; "isn't you, lad?"
+
+I fancied I was already grown.
+
+"Ah, well!" says he; "they'll come a time, lad, God help ye! when
+ye'll know."
+
+"I wisht 'twould hasten," said I.
+
+"I wisht 'twould never come at all," said he.
+
+'Twas disquieting....
+
+                  *       *       *       *       *
+
+Work on the _Shining Light_ went forward apace and with right good
+effect. 'Twas not long--it might be a fortnight--before her hull was
+as sound as rotten plank could be made with gingerly calking. 'Twas
+indeed a delicate task to tap the timbers of her: my uncle must
+sometimes pause for anxious debate upon the wisdom of venturing a
+stout blow. But copper-painted below the water-line, adorned above,
+she made a brave showing at anchor, whatever she might do at sea; and
+there was nothing for it, as my uncle said, but to have faith, which
+would do well enough: for faith, says he, could move mountains. When
+she had been gone over fore and aft, aloft and below, in my uncle's
+painstaking way--when she had been pumped and ballasted and cleared of
+litter and swabbed down and fitted with a new suit of sails--she so
+won upon our confidence that not one of us who dwelt on the neck of
+land by the Lost Soul would have feared to adventure anywhere aboard.
+
+The fool of Twist Tickle pulled a long face.
+
+"Hut, Moses!" I maintained; "she'll do very well. Jus' look at her!"
+
+"Mother always 'lowed," says he, "that a craft was like a woman. An'
+since mother died, I've come t' learn for myself, Dannie," he drawled,
+"that the more a woman haves in the way o' looks the less weather
+she'll stand. I've jus' come, now," says he, "from overhaulin' a
+likely maid at Chain Tickle."
+
+I looked up with interest.
+
+"Jinny Lawless," says he. "Ol' Skipper Garge's youngest by the
+third."
+
+My glance was still inquiring.
+
+"Ay, Dannie," he sighed; "she've declined."
+
+"You've took a look," I inquired, "at the maids o' Long Bill Hodge o'
+Sampson's Island?"
+
+He nodded.
+
+"An' they've--"
+
+"_All_ declined," says he.
+
+"Never you care, Moses," said I. "Looks or no looks, you'll find the
+_Shining Light_ stand by when _she_ puts to sea."
+
+"I'll not be aboard," says he.
+
+"You're not so sure about that!" quoth I.
+
+"I wouldn't ship," he drawled. "I'd never put t' sea on she: for
+mother," he added, "wouldn't like t' run the risk."
+
+"You dwell too much upon your mother," said I.
+
+"She's all I got in the way o' women," he answered. "All I got,
+Dannie--yet."
+
+"But when you gets a wife--"
+
+"Oh," he interrupted, "Mrs. Moses Shoos won't mind _mother_!"
+
+"Still an' all," I gravely warned him, "'tis a foolish thing t' do."
+
+"Well, Dannie," he drawled, in a way so plaintive that I found no
+answer to his argument, "I _is_ a fool. I'm told so every day, by men
+an' maids, wherever I goes; an' I jus' can't help _bein'_ foolish."
+
+"God made you," said I.
+
+"An' mother always 'lowed," said Moses, "that He knowed what He was up
+to. An', Dannie," says he, "she always 'lowed, anyhow, that _she_ was
+satisfied."
+
+'Twas of a Sunday evening--upon the verge of twilight: with the light
+of day still abroad, leaving the hills of Twin Islands clear-cut
+against the blue sky, but falling aslant, casting long shadows. Came,
+then, straggling from the graveyard in the valley by Thunder Head, the
+folk of our harbor. 'Twas all over, it seemed; they had buried old Tom
+Hossie. Moses and I sat together on the hill by Old Wives' Cove, in
+the calm of the day and weather: there was no wind stirring--no drip
+of oar to be heard, no noise of hammer, no laughter of children, no
+cry or call of labor. They had buried old Tom Hossie, whom no peril of
+that coast, savagely continuing through seventy years, had overcome or
+daunted, but age had gently drawn away. I had watched them bear the
+coffin by winding paths along the Tickle shore and up the hill,
+stopping here to rest and there to rest, for the way was long; and
+now, sitting in the yellow sunshine of that kind day, with the fool of
+Twist Tickle for company, I watched them come again, their burden
+deposited in the inevitable arms. I wondered if the spirit of old Tom
+Hossie rejoiced in its escape. I wondered if it continued in pitiable
+age or had returned to youth--to strength for action and wish for
+love. I wondered, with the passionate curiosity of a lad, as I watched
+the procession of simple folk disperse, far off, to supper and to the
+kisses of children, if the spirit of old Tom Hossie had rather sail
+the seas he had sailed and love the maids of our land or dwell in the
+brightest glory painted for us by the prophets. I could, then, being a
+lad, conceive no happier world than that in which I moved, no joy
+aside from its people and sea and sunlight, no rest apart from the
+mortal love of Judith; but, now, grown older, I fancy that the spirit
+of old Tom Hossie, wise with age and vastly weary of the labor and
+troublous delights of life, hungered and thirsted for death.
+
+The church bell broke upon this morbid meditation.
+
+"Hark!" says Moses. "'Tis the first bell."
+
+'Twas a melodious call to worship--throbbing sweetly across the
+placid water of our harbor, beating on, liquidly vibrant, to rouse the
+resting hills of Twin Islands.
+
+"You'll be off, Moses?"
+
+"Ay," says he; "for mother always 'lowed 'twas good for a man t' go t'
+church, an' I couldn't do nothin', Dannie, that mother wouldn't like.
+I seem, lad, t' hear her callin', in that bell. 'Come--dear!' says
+she, 'Come--dear! Come--dear!' Tis like she used t' call me from the
+door. 'Come, dear,' says she; 'you'll never be hurt,' says she, 'when
+you're within with me.' So I 'low I'll go t' church, Dannie, where
+mother would have me be. 'You don't _need_ t' leave the parson scare
+you, Moses,' says she; 'all you got t' do, dear,' says she, 'is t'
+remember that your mother loves you. You're so easy to scare, poor
+lad!' says she; 'but never forget _that_' says she, 'an' you'll never
+be feared o' God. In fair weather,' says she, 'a man may need no Hand
+t' guide un; but in times o' trouble,' says she, 'he've jus' got t'
+have a God. I found that out,' says she, 'jus' afore you was born an'
+jus' after I knowed you was a fool. So I 'low, Moses,' says she,
+'you'd best go t' church an' make friends with God, for then,' says
+she, 'you'll not feel mean t' call upon Him when the evil days comes.
+In times o' trouble,' says mother, 'a man jus' can't help singin' out
+for aid. An' 'tis a mean, poor man,' says she, 'that goes beggin' to a
+Stranger.' Hark t' the bell, Dannie! Does you not hear it? Does you
+not hear it call the folk t' come?"
+
+'Twas still ringing its tender invitation.
+
+"'Tis jus' like the voice o' mother," said the fool of Twist Tickle.
+"Like when she used t' call me from the door. 'Come, dear!' says she.
+Hark, Dannie! Hear her voice? 'Come--dear! Come--dear! Come--dear!'"
+
+God help me! but I heard no voice....
+
+                  *       *       *       *       *
+
+Well, now, my uncle was in no genial humor while the work on the
+_Shining Light_ was under way: for from our house, at twilight, when
+he paced the gravelled path, he could spy the punts come in from the
+grounds, gunwale laden, every one. 'Twas a poor lookout, said he, for
+a man with thirty quintal in his stage and the season passing; and he
+would, by lamplight, with many sighs and much impatient fuming,
+overhaul his accounts, as he said. 'Tis a mystery to me to this day
+how he managed it. I've no inkling of the system--nor capacity to
+guess it out. 'Twas all done with six round tin boxes and many sorts
+of shot; and he would drop a shot here and drop a shot there, and
+empty a box and fill one, and withdraw shot from the bags to drop in
+the boxes, and pick shot from the boxes to stow away in the bags, all
+being done in noisy exasperation, which would give way, presently, to
+despair, whereupon he would revive, drop shot with renewed vigor,
+counting aloud, the while, upon his seven fingers, until, in the end,
+he would come out of the engagement grimly triumphant. When, however,
+the _Shining Light_ was ready for sea, with but an anchor to ship for
+flight, he cast his accounts for the last time, and returned to his
+accustomed composure and gentle manner with us all.
+
+I lingered with him over his liquor that night; and I marked, when I
+moved his lamp near, that he was older than he had been.
+
+"You're all wore out, sir," said I.
+
+"No, Dannie," he answered; "but I'm troubled."
+
+I put his glass within reach. For a long time he disregarded it: but
+sat disconsolate, staring vacantly at the floor, fallen into some
+hopeless muse. I turned away; and in a moment, when I looked again, I
+found his eyes bent upon me, as if in anxious appraisement of my
+quality.
+
+"Ye _will_ stand by," he cried, "will ye not?"
+
+"I will!" I swore, in instant response.
+
+"Whatever comes t' your knowledge?"
+
+"Whatever comes!"
+
+He held his glass aloft--laughed in delighted defiance--tossed off the
+liquor. "Ecod!" cries he, most heartily; "'tis you an' me, ol'
+shipmate, ag'in the world! Twelve year ago," says he, "since you an'
+me got under way on this here little cruise in the _Shining Light_.
+'Twas you an' me then. 'Tis you an' me now. 'Twill be you an' me t'
+the end o' the v'y'ge. Here's t' fair winds or foul! Here's t' the
+ship an' the crew! Here's t' you an' here's t' me! Here's t' harbor
+for our souls!"
+
+'Twas inspiring. I had never known the like to come from my uncle.
+'Twas a thrilling toast. I wished I had a glass.
+
+"For it may be, lad," says my uncle, "that we'll have t' put t' sea!"
+
+But for many a month thereafter the _Shining Light_ lay at anchor
+where then she swung. No brass buttons came ashore from the mail-boat:
+no gray stranger intruded upon our peace. Life flowed quietly in new
+courses: in new courses, to be sure, with Judith and John Cather come
+into our house, but still serenely, as of old. The _Shining Light_
+rose and fell, day by day, with the tides of that summer, kept ready
+for our flight. In the end, she put to sea; but 'twas not in the way
+my uncle had foreseen. 'Twas not in flight; 'twas in pursuit. 'Twas a
+thing infinitely more anxious and momentous. 'Twas a thing that meant
+much more than life or death. In these distant days--from my chair,
+here, in our old house--by the window of my room--I look out upon the
+water of Old Wives' Cove, whence the _Shining Light_ has for many
+years been missing; and I remember the time she slipped her anchor and
+ran to sea with the night coming down and a gale of wind blowing
+lustily up from the gray northeast.
+
+
+
+
+XVI
+
+GREEN PASTURES: AN INTERLUDE
+
+
+In all this time Judith dwelt with us by the Lost Soul. When my
+uncle fetched her from Whisper Cove, he gravely gave her into the care
+of our maid-servant, long ago widowed by the sea, who had gone
+childless all her life, and was now come to the desolate years, when
+she would sit alone and wistful at twilight, staring out into the
+empty world, where only hopelessly deepening shadows were, until
+'twas long past time to light the lamp. In the child that was I she
+had found no ease or recompense, because of the mystery concerning me,
+which in its implication of wickedness revolted her, and because of
+my uncle's regulation of her demeanor in my presence, which tolerated
+no affectionate display; but when Judith came, orphaned and
+ill-nourished, the woman sat no longer in moods at evening, but busied
+herself in motherly service of the child, reawakened in the
+spirit. 'Twas thus to a watchful, willing guardianship, most
+tenderly maternal in solicitude and self-sacrifice, that Judith
+was brought by wise old Nick Top of Twist Tickle.
+
+My uncle would have no misunderstanding.
+
+"Uncle Nick," says I, "you'll be havin' a chair set for Judy in the
+cabin?"
+
+"No, lad," he answered; "not for little Judy."
+
+I expostulated most vigorously.
+
+"Dannie, lad," said he, with a gravity that left me no stomach for
+argument, "the maid goes steerage along o' me. This here little matter
+o' Judy," he added, gently, "belongs t' me. I'm not makin' a lady o'
+she. She haves nothin' t' do--nothin' t' do, thank God!--with what's
+gone afore."
+
+There was no word to say.
+
+"An ye're wantin' t' have Judy t' dinner, by times," he continued,
+winking a genial understanding of my love-lorn condition, "I 'low it
+might be managed by a clever hand."
+
+I asked him the way.
+
+"Slug-shot," says he.
+
+'Twas the merest hint.
+
+"Remove," says he, darkly, "one slug-shot from the box with the star,
+an' drop it," says he, his left eye closed again, "in the box with the
+cross."
+
+And there I had it!
+
+                  *       *       *       *       *
+
+You must know that by my uncle's severe direction I must never fail to
+appear at table in the evening save in the perfection of cleanliness
+as to face and hands and nails and teeth. "For what," says he, "have
+Skipper Chesterfield t' say on that p'int--underlined by Sir Harry?
+Volume II., page 24. A list o' the ornamental accomplishments. '_T' be
+extremely clean in your person._' There you haves it--underlined by
+Sir Harry!" He would examine me keenly, every nail and tooth of me,
+accepting neither excuse nor apology, and would never sit with me
+until I had passed inspection. In the beginning, 'twas my uncle's
+hand, laid upon me in virtuous chastisement, that persuaded me of the
+propriety of this genteel conduct; but presently, when I was grown
+used to the thing, 'twas fair impossible for me to approach the meat,
+in times of peace with place and weather, confronting no peril,
+hardship, laborious need, or discomfort, before this particular
+ornamental accomplishment had been indubitably achieved with
+satisfaction to my uncle and to myself.
+
+My uncle had, moreover, righteously compelled, with precisely similar
+tactics as to the employment of his right hand, an attire in harmony
+with the cleanliness of my person. "For what," says he, "have bully
+ol' Skipper Chesterfield t' say on that there little p'int? What have
+that there fashionable ol' gentleman t' hold--underlined by Sir Harry?
+Volume II, page 24. 'A list o' the ornamental accomplishments (without
+which no man livin' can either please or rise in the world), which
+hitherto I fear ye wants,'" quotes he, most glibly, "'an' which only
+require your care an' attention t' possess.' Volume II., page 24.
+'_An' perfeckly well dressed, accordin' t' the fashion, be that what
+it will._' There you haves it," says he, "an' underlined by Sir Harry
+hisself!" 'Twas a boresome thing, to be sure, as a lad of eleven, to
+come from boyish occupations to this maidenly concern for appearances:
+but now, when I am grown older, 'tis a delight to escape the sweat
+and uniform of the day's work; and I am grateful to the broad hand
+that scorched my childish parts to teach me the value and pleasures of
+gentility.
+
+At the same time, as you may believe, I was taught a manner of
+entering, in the way, by the hints of Sir Harry and the philosophy of
+the noble Lord Chesterfield, of a gentleman. It had to do with squared
+shoulders, the lift of the head, a strut, a proud and contemptuous
+glance. Many a night, as a child, when I fair fainted of vacancy and
+the steam and smell of salt pork was an agony hardly to be endured, I
+must prance in and out, to please my fastidious uncle, while he sat
+critical by the fire--in the unspeakable detachment of critics from
+the pressing needs (for example) of a man's stomach--and indulged his
+artistic perceptions to their completest satisfaction. He would watch
+me from his easy-chair by the fire as though 'twere the most
+delectable occupation the mind of man might devise: leaning forward in
+absorption, his ailing timber comfortably bestowed, his great head
+cocked, like a canary-bird's, his little eyes watchful and sparkling.
+
+"Once again, Dannie," says he. "Head throwed higher, lad. An' ye might
+use yer chest a bit more."
+
+Into the hall and back again.
+
+"Fair," says he. "I'll not deny that ye're doin' better. But Sir
+Harry, lad," says he, concerned, with a rub at his weathered nose,
+"uses more chest. Head high, lad; shoulders back, chest out. Come now!
+An' a mite more chest."
+
+This time at a large swagger.
+
+"Very good," says he, in a qualified way. "But could ye not scowl t'
+more purpose?"
+
+'Twas fair heroic to indulge him--with the room full of the smell of
+browned meat. But, says I, desperately, "I'll try, sir."
+
+"Jus' you think, Dannie," says he, "that that there ol' rockin'-chair
+with the tidy is a belted knight o' the realm. Come now! Leave me see
+how ye'd deal with _he_. An' a mite more chest, Dannie, if ye're
+able."
+
+A withering stare for the rocking-chair--superior to the point of
+impudence--and a blank look for the unfortunate assemblage of
+furniture.
+
+"Good!" cries my uncle. "Ecod! but I never knowed Sir Harry t' do it
+better. That there belted rockin'-chair o' the realm, Dannie, would
+swear you was a lord! An' now, lad," says he, fondly smiling, "ye may
+feed."[5]
+
+This watchful cultivation, continuing through years, had flowered in a
+pretty swagger, as you may well believe. In all my progress to this
+day I have not observed a more genteelly insolent carriage than that
+which memory gives to the lad that was I. I have now no regret: for
+when I am abroad, at times, for the health and pleasure of us all,
+'tis a not ungrateful thing, not unamusing, to be reminded, by the
+deferential service and regard this ill-suited manner wins for the
+outport man that I am, of those days when my fond uncle taught me to
+scowl and strut and cry, "What the devil d'ye mean, sir!" to impress
+my quality upon the saucy world. But when Judith came into our
+care--when first she sat with us at table, crushed, as a blossom, by
+the Hand that seems unkind: shy, tender-spirited, alien to our
+ways--'twas with a tragical shock I realized the appearance of high
+station my uncle's misguided effort and affection had stamped me
+with.
+
+She sat with my uncle in the steerage; and she was lovely, very gentle
+and lovely, I recall, sitting there, with exquisitely dropping grace,
+under the lamp--in the shower of soft, yellow light: by which her
+tawny hair was set aglow, and the shadows, lying below her great, blue
+eyes, were deepened, in sympathy with her appealing grief. Came, then,
+this Dannie Callaway, in his London clothes, arrived direct per S.S.
+_Cathian_: came this enamoured young fellow, with his educated stare,
+his legs (good and bad) long-trousered for the first time in his
+life, his fingers sparkling, his neck collared and his wrists
+unimpeachably cuffed, his chest "used" in such a way as never, God
+knows! had it swelled before. 'Twas with no desire to indulge his
+uncle that he had managed these adornments. Indeed not! 'Twas a wish,
+growing within his heart, to compass a winning and distinguished
+appearance in the presence of the maid he loved.
+
+By this magnificence the maid was abashed.
+
+"Hello!" says I, as I swaggered past the steerage.
+
+There was no response.
+
+"Is you happy, child," says I, catching the trick of the thing from my
+uncle, "along o' ol' Nick Top an' me an' John Cather?"
+
+My tutor laughed.
+
+"Eh, Judy?" says I.
+
+The maid's glance was fallen in embarrassment upon her plate.
+
+"Dannie," says my uncle, severely, "ye better get under way with your
+feedin'."
+
+The which, being at once hungry and obedient, I did: but presently,
+looking up, caught the poor maid unself-conscious. She no longer
+grieved--no longer sat sad and listless in her place. She was peering
+greedily into the cabin, as my uncle was wont to do, her slim, white
+neck something stretched and twisted (it seemed) to round a spreading
+cluster of buttercups. 'Twas a moving thing to observe. 'Twas not a
+shocking thing; 'twas a thing melting to the heart--'twas a thing,
+befalling with a maid, at once to provide a lad with chivalrous
+opportunity. The eyes were the great, blue eyes of Judith--grave, wide
+eyes, which, beneficently touching a lad, won reverent devotion,
+flushed the heart with zeal for righteousness. They were Judith's
+eyes, the same, as ever, in infinite depth of shadow, like the round
+sky at night, the same in light, like the stars that shine therein,
+the same in black-lashed mystery, like the firmament God made with His
+own hand. But still 'twas with a most marvellously gluttonous glance
+that she eyed the roast of fresh meat on the table before me. 'Twas no
+matter to _me_, to be sure! for a lad's love is not so easily
+alienated: 'tis an actual thing--not depending upon a neurotic
+idealization: therefore not to be disillusioned by these natural
+appearances.
+
+"Judy," says I, most genially, "is you ever tasted roast veal?"
+
+She was much abashed.
+
+"Is you never," I repeated, "tasted roast veal?"
+
+"No, sir," she whispered.
+
+"'_Sir_!'" cries I, astounded. "'Sir!'" I gasped. "Maid," says I, now
+in wrathful amazement forgetting her afflicted state, "is you lost
+your senses?"
+
+"N-n-no, sir," she stammered.
+
+"For shame!" I scolded. "T' call me so!"
+
+"Daniel," my uncle interjected, "volume II., page 24. '_A distinguished
+politeness o' manners._'"
+
+By this my tutor was vastly amused, and delightedly watched us, his
+twinkling glance leaping from face to face.
+
+"I'll not have it, Judy!" I warned her. "You'll vex me sore an you
+does it again."
+
+The maid would not look up.
+
+"Volume II., page 25," my uncle chided. "Underlined by Sir Harry.
+'_An' this address an' manner should be exceedin'ly respeckful._'"
+
+"Judy!" I implored.
+
+She ignored me.
+
+"An you calls me that again, maid," I threatened, in a rage, "you'll
+be sorry for it. I'll--"
+
+"Holy Scripture!" roared my uncle, reaching for his staff. "'_Spare
+the rod and spoil the child._'"
+
+I was not to be stopped by this. 'Twas an occasion too promising in
+disaster. She had sirred me like a house-maid. Sir? 'Twas past
+believing. That Judith should be so overcome by fine feathers and a
+roosterly strut! 'Twas shocking to discover the effect of my uncle's
+teaching. It seemed to me that the maid must at once be dissuaded from
+this attitude of inferiority or my solid hope would change into a
+dream. Inferiority? She must have no such fancy! Fixed within her mind
+'twould inevitably involve us in some catastrophe of feeling. The
+torrent of my wrath and supplication went tumbling on: there was no
+staying it. My uncle's hand fell short of his staff; he sat stiff and
+agape with astonished admiration: perceiving which, my tutor laughed
+until my hot words were fair extinguished in the noise he made. By
+this my uncle was set laughing: whence the infection spread to me. And
+then Judith peeped at me through the cluster of buttercups with the
+ghost of a roguish twinkle.
+
+"I'll call you Dannie," says she, slyly--"t' save you the lickin'!"
+
+"Daniel," cries my uncle, delighted, "one slug-shot. Box with the star
+t' the box with the cross. Judy," says he, "move aft alongside o' that
+there roast veal!"
+
+'Twas the beginning and end of this seeming difference of station....
+
+                  *       *       *       *       *
+
+John Cather took us in hand to profit us. 'Twas in the learning he
+had--'twas in every genteel accomplishment he had himself mastered in
+the wise world he came from--that we were instructed. I would have
+Judy for school-fellow: nor would I be denied--not I! 'Twas the plan I
+made when first I knew John Cather's business in our house: else,
+thinks I, 'twould be a mean, poor match we should make of it in the
+end. I would have her: and there, says I, with a toss and a stamp, to
+my uncle's delight, was an end of it! It came about in this way that
+we three spent the days together in agreeable employment: three young,
+unknowing souls--two lads and a maid. In civil weather, 'twas in the
+sunlight and breeze of the hills, 'twas in shady hollows, 'twas on the
+warm, dry rocks, which the breakers could not reach, 'twas on the
+brink of the cliff, that Cather taught us, leaving off to play, by my
+uncle's command, when we were tired of study; and when the wind blew
+with rain, or fog got the world all a-drip, or the task was
+incongruous with sunshine and fresh air (like multiplication), 'twas
+within doors that the lesson proceeded--in my library, which my uncle
+had luxuriously outfitted for me, when still I was an infant, against
+this very time.
+
+"John Cather," says I, one day, "you've a wonderful tongue in your
+head."
+
+'Twas on the cliff of Tom Tulk's Head. We had climbed the last slope
+hand in hand, with Judith between, and were now stretched out on the
+brink, resting in the cool blue wind from the sea.
+
+"A nimble tongue, Dannie," he replied, "I'll admit."
+
+"A wonderful tongue!" I repeated. "John Cather," I exclaimed, in
+envious admiration, "you've managed t' tell Judy in ten thousand ways
+that she's pretty."
+
+Judith blushed.
+
+"I wisht," says I, "that _I_ was so clever as that."
+
+"I know still another way," said he.
+
+"Ay; an' a hundred more!"
+
+"Another," said he, softly, turning to Judith, who would not look at
+him. "Shall I tell you, Judith?"
+
+She shook her head.
+
+"No?" said he. "Why not?"
+
+The answer was in a whisper--given while the maid's hot face was still
+turned away. "I'm not wantin' you to," she said.
+
+"Do, maid!" I besought her.
+
+"I'm not wantin' him to."
+
+"'Tis your eyes, I'll be bound!" said I. "'Twill be so clever that
+you'll be glad to hear."
+
+"But I'm not _wantin'_ him to," she persisted.
+
+My tutor smiled indulgently--but with a pitiful little trace of hurt
+remaining. 'Twas as though he must suffer the rebuff with no offended
+question. In the maid 'twas surely a wilful and bewildering thing to
+deny him. I could not make it out: but wished, in the breeze and
+sunlight of that day, that the wound had not been dealt. 'Twas an
+unkind thing in Judith, thinks I; 'twas a thing most cruel--thus to
+coquette with the friendship of John Cather.
+
+"Ah, Judy," I pleaded, "leave un have his way!"
+
+She picked at the moss.
+
+"Will ye not, maid?"
+
+"I'm afraid!" she whispered in my ear.
+
+"An' you'd stop for that!" I chided, not knowing what she meant: as
+how should a lad?
+
+It seemed she would.
+
+"'Tis an unkind thing," says I, "t' treat John Cather so. He've been
+good," says I, "t' _you_, Judy."
+
+"Dannie!" she wailed.
+
+"Don't, Dannie!" Cather entreated.
+
+"I'd have ye listen, Judy," said I, in earnest, kind reproach, "t'
+what John Cather says. I'd have ye heed his words. I'd have ye care
+for him." Being then a lad, unsophisticated in the wayward,
+mercilessly selfish passion of love, ignorant of the unmitigated
+savagery of the thing, I said more than that, in my folly. "I'd have
+ye love John Cather," says I, "as ye love me." 'Tis a curious thing to
+look back upon. That I should snarl the threads of our destinies! 'Tis
+an innocency hard to credit. But yet John Cather and I had no
+sensitive intuition to warn us. How should we--being men? 'Twas for
+Judith to perceive the inevitable catastrophe; 'twas for the maid, not
+misled by reason, schooled by feeling into the very perfection of
+wisdom, to control and direct the smouldering passion of John Cather
+and me in the way she would, according to the power God gives, in
+infinite understanding of the hearts of men, to a maid to wield. "I'd
+have ye love John Cather," says I, "as ye love me." It may be that a
+lad loves his friend more than any other. "I'd have ye t' know, Judy,"
+says I, gently, "that John Cather's my friend. I'd have ye t' know--"
+
+"Dannie," Cather interrupted, putting an affectionate hand on my
+shoulder, "you don't know what you're saying."
+
+Judith turned.
+
+"I do, John Cather," says I. "I knows full well."
+
+Judith's eyes, grown all at once wide and grave, looked with wonder
+into mine. I was made uneasy--and cocked my head, in bewilderment and
+alarm. 'Twas a glance that searched me deep. What was this? And why
+the warning? There was more than warning. 'Twas pain I found in
+Judith's great, blue eyes. What had grieved her? 'Twas reproach,
+too--and a flash of doubt. I could not read the riddle of it. Indeed,
+my heart began to beat in sheer fright, for the reproach and doubt
+vanished, even as I stared, and I confronted a sparkling anger. But
+presently, as often happened with that maid, tears flushed her eyes,
+and the long-lashed lids fell, like a curtain, upon her grief:
+whereupon she turned away, troubled, to peer at the sea, breaking far
+below, and would not look at me again. We watched her, John Cather and
+I, for an anxious space, while she sat brooding disconsolate at the
+edge of the cliff, a sweep of cloudless sky beyond. The slender,
+sweetly childish figure--with the tawny hair, I recall, all aglow with
+sunlight--filled the little world of our thought and vision. There was
+a patch of moss and rock, the green and gray of our land--there was
+Judith--there was an infinitude of blue space. John Cather's glance
+was frankly warm; 'twas a glance proceeding from clear, brave,
+guileless eyes--springing from a limpid soul within. It caressed the
+maid, in a fashion, thinks I, most brotherly. My heart warmed to the
+man; and I wondered that Judith should be unkind to him who was our
+friend.
+
+'Twas a mystery.
+
+"You will not listen, Judith?" he asked. "'Tis a very pretty thing I
+want to say."
+
+Judith shook her head.
+
+A flash of amusement crossed his face. "Please do!" he coaxed.
+
+"No!"
+
+"I'm quite proud of it," says he, with a laugh in his fine eyes. He
+leaned forward a little, and made as if to touch her, but withdrew his
+hand. "I did not know," says he, "that I was so clever. I have it all
+ready. I have every word in place. I'd like to say it--for my own
+pleasure, if not for yours. I think it would be a pity to let the
+pretty words waste themselves unsaid. I--I--hope you'll listen.
+I--I--really hope you will. And you will not?"
+
+"No!" she cried, sharply. "No, no!"
+
+"Why not?"
+
+"No!" she repeated; and she slipped her hand into mine, and hid them
+both snugly in the folds of her gown, where John Cather could not see.
+"God wouldn't like it, John Cather," says she, her little teeth all
+bare, her eyes aflash with indignation, her long fingers so closely
+entwined with mine that I wondered. "He wouldn't _'low_ it," says she,
+"an He knowed."
+
+I looked at John Cather in vague alarm.
+
+  [5] This Sir Harry Airworthy, K.C.M.G., I must forthwith explain, was
+      that distinguished colonial statesman whose retirement to
+      the quiet and bizarre enjoyments of life was so sincerely
+      deplored at the time. His taste for the picturesque characters
+      of our coast was discriminating and insatiable. 'Twas no
+      wonder, then, that he delighted in my uncle, whose familiar
+      companion he was in St. John's. I never knew him, never
+      clapped eyes on him, that I recall; he died abroad before I
+      was grown presentable. 'Twas kind in him, I have always
+      thought, to help my uncle in his task of transforming me, for
+      'twas done with no personal responsibility whatsoever in the
+      matter, but solely of good feeling. I owed him but one
+      grudge, and that a short-lived one, going back to the year
+      when I was seven: 'twas by advice o' Sir Harry that I was made
+      to tub myself, every morning, in the water of the season, be
+      it crusted with ice or not, with my uncle listening at the
+      door to hear the splash and gasp.
+
+
+
+
+XVII
+
+RUM AND RUIN
+
+
+In these days at Twist Tickle, his perturbation passed, my uncle was
+most blithe: for the _Shining Light_ was made all ready for sea, with
+but an anchor to slip, sails to raise, for flight from an army of St.
+John's constables; and we were a pleasant company, well fallen in
+together, in a world of fall weather. And, says he, if the conduct of
+a damned little Chesterfieldian young gentleman was a labor t' manage,
+actin' accordin' t' that there fashionable ol' lord of the realm, by
+advice o' Sir Harry, whatever the lad in the case, whether good or
+bad, why, then, a maid o' the place, ecod! was but a pastime t' rear,
+an' there, says he, you had it! 'Twas at night, when he was come in
+from the sea, and the catch was split, and we sat with him over his
+rum, that he beamed most widely. He would come cheerily stumping from
+his mean quarters above, clad in the best of his water-side slops, all
+ironed and brushed, his great face glossy from soap and water, his
+hair dripping; and he would fall into the arms of his great-chair by
+the fire with a genial grunt of satisfaction, turning presently to
+regard us, John Cather and Judy and me, with a grin so wide and
+sparkling and benevolently indulgent and affectionate--with an aspect
+so patriarchal--that our hearts would glow and our faces responsively
+shine.
+
+"Up with un, Dannie!" says he.
+
+I would lift the ailing bit of timber to the stool with gingerly
+caution.
+
+"Easy, lad!" groans he. "Ouch! All ship-shape," says he. "Is you got
+the little brown jug o' water?"
+
+'Twould surely be there.
+
+"Green pastures!" says he, so radiantly red, from his bristling gray
+stubble of hair to the folds of his chin, that I was reminded of a
+glowing coal. "There you haves it, Dannie!" cries he. "I knowed they
+was some truth in that there psa'm. Green pastures! '_He maketh me t'
+lie down in green pastures._' Them ol' bullies was wise as owls....
+Pass the bottle, Judy. Thank 'e, maid. Ye're a wonderful maid t'
+blush, thank God! for they's nothin' so pretty as that. I'm a old, old
+man, Judy; but t' this day, maid, 'tis fair painful t' keep from
+kissin' red cheeks, whenever I sees un. Judy," says he, with a wag,
+his hand on the bottle, "I'd rather be tempted by mermaids or
+angels--I cares not which--than by a mortal maid's red cheeks! 'Twould
+be wonderful easy," says he, "t' resist a angel.... Green pastures!
+Eh, Dannie, b'y? Times is changed, isn't they? Not like it used t' be,
+when you an' me sot here alone t' drink, an' you was on'y a wee little
+lad. I wisht ye was a wee little lad again, Dannie; but Lord love us!"
+cries he, indignant with the paradox, "when ye _was_ a wee little lad
+I wisht ye was growed. An' there you haves it!" says he, dolefully.
+"There you haves it!... I 'low, Dannie," says he, anxiously, his
+bottle halted in mid-air, "that _you'd_ best pour it out. I'm a sight
+too happy, the night," says he, "t' be trusted with a bottle."
+
+'Tis like he would have gone sober to bed had I not been there to
+measure his allowance.
+
+"Ye're not so wonderful free with the liquor," he pouted, "as ye used
+t' be."
+
+'Twas Judy who had put me up to it.
+
+"Ye might be a _drop_ more free!" my uncle accused.
+
+'Twas reproachful--and hurt me sore. That I should deny my uncle who
+had never denied me! I blamed the woman. 'Tis marvellous how this
+frailty persists. That Judith, Twist Tickle born, should deliberately
+introduce the antagonism--should cause my uncle to suffer, me to
+regret! 'Twas hard to forgive the maid her indiscretion. I was hurt:
+for, being a lad, not a maid of subtle perceptions, I would not have
+my uncle go lacking that which comforted his distress and melancholy.
+Faith! but I had myself been looking forward with a thirsty gullet to
+the day--drawn near, as I thought--when I should like a man drink hard
+liquor with him in the glow of our fire: as, indeed, had he, by frank
+confession, indiscreetly made when he was grown horrified or wroth
+with my intemperance with ginger-ale.
+
+"God save ye, Dannie!" he would expostulate, most heartily, most
+piously; "but I _wisht_ ye'd overcome the bilge-water habit."
+
+I would ignore him.
+
+"'Tis on'y a matter o' _will_," says he. "'Tis nothin' more than that.
+An' I'm fair ashamed," he groaned, in sincere emotion, "to think ye're
+shackled, hand an' foot, to a bottle o' ginger-ale. For shame, lad--t'
+come t' such a pass." He was honest in his expostulation; 'twas no
+laughing matter--'twas an anxiously grave concern for my welfare. He
+disapproved of the beverage--having never tasted it. "_You_," cries
+he, with a pout and puff of scorn, "an' your bilge-water! In irons
+with a bottle o' ginger-ale! Could ye but see yourself, Dannie, ye'd
+quit quick enough. 'Tis a ridiculous picture ye make--you an' your
+bottle. 'Twould not be hard t' give it up, lad," he would plead.
+"Ye'll manage it, Dannie, an ye'd but put your mind to it. Ye'd be
+nervous, I've no doubt, for a spell. But what's that? Eh, what's
+that--ag'in your health?"
+
+I would sip my ginger-ale unheeding.
+
+"An' what about Chesterfield?" says he.
+
+"I'll have another bottle, sir," says I.
+
+"Lord love us!" he would complain, in such distress that I wish I had
+not troubled him with this passion. "Ye're fair bound t' ruin your
+constitution with drink."
+
+Pop went the cork.
+
+"An' here's _me_" says he, in disgusted chagrin, "tryin' t' make a
+gentleman out o' ye!"
+
+Ah, well! 'twas now a mean, poor lookout for the cosey conviviality I
+had all my life promised myself with my uncle. Since the years when
+late o' nights I occupied the arms and broad knee of Cap'n Jack Large
+at the Anchor and Chain--with a steaming comfort within and a rainy
+wind blowing outside--my uncle and I had dwelt upon the time when I
+might drink hard liquor with him like a man. 'Twould be grand, says my
+uncle, to sit o' cold nights, when I was got big, with a bottle o'
+Long Tom between. A man grown--a man grown able for his bottle! For
+him, I fancy, 'twas a vision of successful achievement and the reward
+of it. Lord love us! says he, but the talk o' them times would be
+lovely. The very thought of it, says he--the thought o' Dannie
+Callaway grown big and manly and helpfully companionable--fair warmed
+him with delight. But now, at Twist Tickle, with the strong, sly hands
+of Judith upon our ways, with her grave eyes watching, now commending,
+now reproaching, 'twas a new future that confronted us. Ay, but that
+maid, dwelling responsibly with us men, touched us closely with
+control! 'Twas a sharp eye here, a sly eye there, a word, a twitch of
+her red lips, a lift of the brow and dark lashes--and a new ordering
+of our lives. 'Tis marvellous how she did it: but that she managed us
+into better habits, by the magic mysteriously natural to a maid, I
+have neither the wish nor the will to gainsay. I grieved that she
+should deprive my uncle of his comfort; but being a lad, devoted, I
+would not add one drop to my uncle's glass, while Judith sat under the
+lamp, red-cheeked in the heat of the fire, her great eyes wishful to
+approve, her mind most captivatingly engaged, as I knew, with the
+will of God, which was her own, dear heart! though she did not know
+it.
+
+"Dannie," says she, in private, "God wouldn't 'low un more'n a quarter
+of a inch at a time."
+
+"'Twas in the pantry while I got the bottle."
+
+"An' how," quoth I, "is you knowin' that?"
+
+"Why, child," she answered, "God tol' me so."
+
+I writhed. 'Twas a fancy so strange the maid had: but was yet so
+true and reverent and usefully efficient--so high in leading to her
+who led us with her into pure paths--that I must smile and adore
+her for it. 'Twas to no purpose, as I knew, to thresh over the
+improbability of the communication: Judith's eyes were round and
+clear and unwavering--full of most exalted truth, concern, and
+confidence. There was no pretence anywhere to be descried in their
+depths: nor evil nor subterfuge of any sort. And it seems to me, now,
+grown as I am to sager years, that had the Guide whose hand she held
+upon the rough road of her life communed with His sweet companion,
+'twould have been no word of reproach or direction he would whisper
+for her, who needed none, possessing all the wisdom of virtue,
+dear heart! but a warning in my uncle's behalf, as she would have it,
+against the bottle he served. The maid's whimsical fancy is not
+incomprehensible to me, neither tainted with irreverence nor untruth:
+'twas a thing flowering in the eyrie garden of her days at Whisper
+Cove--a thing, as I cannot doubt, of highest inspiration.
+
+"But," I protested, glibly, looking away, most wishful, indeed, to
+save my uncle pain, "I isn't able t' measure a quarter of a inch."
+
+"_I_ could," says she.
+
+"Not with the naked eye, maid!"
+
+"Well," says she, "you might try, jus' t' please God."
+
+To be sure I might: I might pour at a guess. But, unhappily (and it
+may be that there is some philosophy in this for a self-indulgent
+world), I was not in awe of Judith's fantastic conception of divinity,
+whatever I thought of my own, by whom, however, I was not conjured.
+Moreover, I loved my uncle, who had continued to make me happy all my
+life, and would venture far in the service of his comfort. The
+twinkling, benevolent aspect of the maid's Deity could not compel a
+lad to righteousness: I could with perfect complacency conduct myself
+perversely before it. And must we then, lads and men, worship a God of
+wrath, quick to punish, niggardly in fatherly forgiveness, lest we
+stray into evil ways? I do not know. 'Tis beyond me to guess the
+change to be worked in the world by a new conception of the eternal
+attributes.
+
+"An' will you not?" says she.
+
+It chanced, now, that she held the lamp near her face, so that
+her beauty was illumined and transfigured. 'Twas a beauty most
+tender--most pure and elfin and religious. 'Tis a mean, poor
+justification, I know, to say that I was in some mysterious way--by
+the magic resident in the beauty of a maid, and virulently,
+wickedly active within its sphere, which is the space the vision
+of a lad may carry--that I was by this magic incapacitated and
+overcome. 'Tis an excuse made by fallen lads since treason was
+writ of; 'tis a mere excuse, ennobling no traitorious act: since
+love, to be sure, has no precedence of loyalty in hearts of truth
+and manful aspiration. Love? surely it walks with glorious modesty
+in the train of honor--or is a brazen baggage. But, as it unhappily
+chanced, whatever the academic conception, the maid held the lamp
+too close for my salvation: so close that her blue, shadowy eyes
+bewildered me, and her lips, red and moist, with a gleam of white
+teeth between, I recall, tempted me quite beyond the endurance of
+self-respect. I slipped, indeed, most sadly in the path, and came a
+shamefaced, ridiculous cropper.
+
+"An' will you not," says she, "pour but a quarter of a inch t' the
+glass?"
+
+"I will," I swore, "for a kiss!"
+
+'Twas an outrageous betrayal of my uncle.
+
+"For shame!" cries she.
+
+"I will for a kiss," I repeated, my soul offered on a platter to the
+devil, "regardless o' the consequences."
+
+She matched my long words with a great one caught from my tutor. "God
+isn't inclined," says she, with a toss, "in favor o' kisses."
+
+And there you had it!
+
+                  *       *       *       *       *
+
+When we sat late, our maid-servant would indignantly whisk Judith off
+to bed--crying out upon us for our wickedness.
+
+"Cather," my uncle would drawl, Judith being gone, "ye're all wore out
+along o' too much study."
+
+"Not at all, Skipper Nicholas!" cries my tutor.
+
+"Study," says my uncle, in solemn commiseration, "is a bitter thing t'
+be cotched by. Ye're all wore out, parson, along o' the day's work."
+
+My tutor laughed.
+
+"Too much study for the brain," says my uncle, sympathetically, his
+eye on the bottle. "I 'low, parson, if I was you I'd turn in."
+
+Cather was unfailingly obedient.
+
+"Dannie," says my uncle, with reviving interest, "have he gone
+above?"
+
+"He have," says I.
+
+"Take a look," he whispered, "t' see that Judy's stowed away beyond
+hearin'."
+
+I would step into the hall--where was no nightgowned figure listening
+on the stair--to reassure him.
+
+"Dannie," says he, wickedly gleeful, "how's the bottle?"
+
+I would hold it up to the lamp and rattle its contents. "'Tis still
+stout, sir," says I. "'Tis a wonderful bottle."
+
+"Stout!" cries he, delighted. "Very good."
+
+"Still stout," says I; "an' the third night!"
+
+"Then," says he, pushing his glass towards me, "I 'low they's no real
+need o' puttin' me on short allowance. Be liberal, Dannie, b'y--be
+liberal when ye pours."
+
+I would be liberal.
+
+"'Tis somehow sort o' comfortable, lad," says he, eying me with honest
+feeling, "t' be sittin' down here with a ol' chum like you. 'Tis very
+good, indeed."
+
+I was glad that he thought so.
+
+And now I must tell that I loved Judith. 'Tis enough to say so--to
+write the bare words down. I'm not wanting to, to be sure: for it
+shames a man to speak boldly of sacred things like this. It shames a
+lad, it shames a maid, to expose the heart of either, save sacredly to
+each other. 'Tis all well enough, and most delightful, when the path
+is moonlit and secluded, when the warmth and thrill of a slender hand
+may be felt, when the stars wink tender encouragement from the depths
+of God's own firmament, when all the world is hushed to make the
+opportunity: 'tis then all well enough to speak of love. There is
+nothing, I know, to compare in ecstasy with the whisper and sigh and
+clinging touch of that time--to compare with the awe and mystery and
+solemnity of it. But 'tis sacrilegious and most desperately difficult
+and embarrassing, I find, at this distant day, to write of it. I had
+thought much upon love, at that wise age--fifteen, it was, I
+fancy--and it seemed to me, I recall, a thing to cherish within the
+heart of a man, to hide as a treasure, to dwell upon, alone, in
+moments of purest exaltation. 'Twas not a thing to bandy about where
+punts lay tossing in the lap of the sea; 'twas not a thing to tell the
+green, secretive old hills of Twin Islands; 'twas not a thing to which
+the doors of the workaday world might be opened, lest the ribaldry to
+which it come offend and wound it: 'twas a thing to conceal, far and
+deep, from the common gaze and comment, from the vulgar chances, the
+laugh and cynical exhaustion and bleared wit of the life we live. I
+loved Judith--her eyes and tawny hair and slender finger-tips, her
+whimsical way, her religious, loving soul. I loved her; and I would
+not have you think 'twas any failure of adoration to pour my uncle an
+honest dram of rum when she was stowed away in innocency of all the
+evil under the moon. 'Tis a thing that maids have nothing to do with,
+thinks I; 'tis a knowledge, indeed, that would defile them....
+
+                  *       *       *       *       *
+
+"Dannie," says my uncle, once, when we were left alone, "he've begun
+t' fall."
+
+I was mystified.
+
+"The parson," he explained, in a radiant whisper; "he've begun t'
+yield."
+
+"T' what?" I demanded.
+
+"Temptation. He've a dark eye, lad, as I 'lowed long ago, an' he've
+begun t' give way t' argument."
+
+"God's sake, Uncle Nick!" I cried, "leave the poor man be. He've done
+no harm."
+
+He scratched his stubble of hair, and contemplatively traced a crimson
+scar with his forefinger. "No," he mused, his puckered, weathered brow
+in a doubtful frown; "not so far. But," he added, looking cheerily up,
+"I've hopes that I'll manage un yet."
+
+"Leave un alone," I pleaded.
+
+"Ay," says he, with a hitch of his wooden leg; "but I _needs_ un."
+
+I protested.
+
+"Ye don't s'pose, Dannie," he complained, in a righteous flash, "that
+I'm able t' live forever, does ye?"
+
+I did not, but heartily wished he might; and by this sincere
+expression he was immediately mollified.
+
+"Well," says he, his left eyelid drooping in a knowing way, his whole
+round person, from his topmost bristle to his gouty wooden toe, braced
+to receive the shock of my congratulation, "I've gone an' worked that
+there black-an'-white young parson along! Sir Harry hisself," he
+declared, "couldn't have done it no better. Nor ol' Skipper
+Chesterfield, neither," says he.
+
+'Twas a pity.
+
+"No," he boasted, defiantly; "nor none o' them wise ol' bullies of
+old!"
+
+I sighed.
+
+"Dannie," says he, with the air of imparting a grateful secret, "I got
+that there black-an'-white young parson corrupted. I got un," he
+repeated, leaning forward, his fantastic countenance alight with pride
+and satisfaction--"I got un corrupted! I've got un t' say," says he,
+"that 'tis sometimes wise t' do evil that good may come. An' when a
+young feller says that," says he, with a grave, grave nodding, so that
+his disfigurements were all most curiously elongated, "he've sold his
+poor, mean soul t' the devil."
+
+"I wisht," I complained, "that you'd leave the poor man alone."
+
+"Why, Dannie," says my uncle, simply, "he's paid for!"
+
+"Paid for!" cries I.
+
+"Ay, lad," he chided; "t' be sure, that there young black-an'-white
+parson is paid for."
+
+I wondered how that might be.
+
+"Paid for!" my uncle repeated, in a quivering, indrawn breath, the man
+having fallen, all at once, into gloom and terror. "'Tis all paid
+for!"
+
+Here again was the disquieting puzzle of my childish years: my uncle,
+having now leaned forward to come close to me, was in a spasmodic way
+indicating the bowels of the earth with a turned thumb. Down, down: it
+seemed he pointed to infinite depths of space and woe. Down,
+down--continuing thus, with a slow, grevious wagging of the great,
+gray head the sea had in the brutal passion of some wild night
+maltreated. The familiar things of the room, the simple, companionable
+furniture of that known place, with the geometrically tempestuous
+ocean framed beyond, were resolved into a background of mysterious
+shadows as I stared; there was nothing left within the circle of my
+vision but a scared gargoyle, leaning into the red glow of the fire.
+My uncle's round little eyes protruded--started from the bristles and
+purpling scars and brown flesh of his broad face--as many a time
+before I had in sad bewilderment watched them do. Paid for--all the
+pride and comfort and strange advantages of my life! All paid for in
+the black heart of this mystery! And John Cather, too! I wondered
+again, with an eye upon my uncle's significantly active thumb, having
+no courage to meet his poignant glance, how that might be. According
+to my catechism, severely taught in other years, I must ask no
+questions, but must courteously await enlightenment at my uncle's
+pleasure; and 'twas most marvellously hard--this night of all the
+nights--to keep my soul unspotted from the sin of inquisitiveness.
+
+"Paid for," my uncle repeated, hoarse with awe, "by poor Tom
+Callaway!"
+
+'Twas kind in my father, thinks I, to provide thus bounteously for my
+welfare.
+
+"Poor Tom!" my uncle sighed, now recovering his composure. "Poor, poor
+ol' Tom--in the place he's to!"
+
+"Still an' all, Uncle Nick," I blundered, "I wisht you'd leave my
+tutor be."
+
+"Ye're but a child!" he snapped. "Put the stopper in the bottle. 'Tis
+time you was in bed."
+
+'Twas an unexpected rebuke. I was made angry with him, for the only
+time in all my life; and to revenge myself I held the bottle to the
+lamp, and deliberately measured its contents, before his astonished
+eyes, so that, though I left it with him, he could not drink another
+drop without my knowing it; and I stoppered the bottle, as tight as I
+was able, and left him to get his wooden toe from the stool with the
+least agony he could manage, and would not bank the fire or light his
+night-lamp. I loved my tutor, and would not have him corrupted; 'twas
+a hateful thought to conceive that he might come unwittingly to ruin
+at our hands. 'Twas a shame in my old uncle, thinks I, to fetch him to
+despair. John Cather's soul bargained for and bought! 'Twas indeed a
+shame to say it. There was no evil in him when he came clear-eyed from
+the great world beyond us; there should be no evil in him when he left
+us, whenever that might be, to renew the life he would not tell us
+of. I looked my uncle in the eye in a way that hurt and puzzled him. I
+wish I had not; but I did, as I pounded the cork home, and boldly
+slipped the screw into my pocket. He would go on short allowance, that
+night, thinks I: for his nails, broken by toil, would never pick the
+stopper out. And I prepared, in a rage, to fling out of the room,
+when--
+
+"Dannie!" he called.
+
+I halted.
+
+"What's this?" says he, gently. "It never happened afore, little
+shipmate, betwixt you an' me. What's this?" he begged. "I'm
+troubled."
+
+I pulled the cork of his bottle, and poured a dram, most liberally, to
+delight his heart; and I must turn my face away, somehow, to hide it
+from him, because of shame for this mean doubt of him, ungenerous and
+ill-begotten.
+
+"I'm troubled," he repeated. "What's this, lad?"
+
+I could not answer him.
+
+"Is I been unkind, Dannie?"
+
+"No," I sobbed. "'Tis that I've been wicked t' _you_!"
+
+He looked at me with eyes grown very grave. "Ah!" says he, presently,
+comprehending. "That's good," says he, in his slow, gentle way.
+"That's very good. But ye'll fret no more, will ye, Dannie? An' ye've
+growed too old t' cry. Go t' bed, lad. Ye're all wore out. I'll manage
+the lamp alone. God bless ye. Go t' bed."
+
+I waited.
+
+"That's good," he repeated, in a muse, staring deep into the red coals
+in the grate. "That's very good."
+
+I ran away--closed my door upon this wretched behavior, but could not
+shut its ghastly sauciness and treachery from the chambers of my
+memory. The habit of faith and affection was strong: I was no longer
+concerned for my friend John Cather, but was mightily ashamed of this
+failure in duty to the grotesque old hook-and-line man who had without
+reserve of sacrifice or strength nourished me to the lusty years of
+that night. As I lay in bed, I recall, downcast, self-accusing,
+flushed with shame, I watched the low clouds scud across the starlit
+sky, and I perceived, while the torn, wind-harried masses rushed
+restlessly on below the high, quiet firmament, that I had fallen far
+away from the serenity my uncle would teach me to preserve in every
+fortune.
+
+"I'll not fail again!" thinks I. "Not I!"
+
+'Twas an experience profitable or unprofitable, as you shall presently
+judge.
+
+
+
+
+XVIII
+
+A LEGACY OF LOVE
+
+
+Moses Shoos, I recall, carried the mail that winter. 'Twas a thankless
+task: a matter of thirty miles to Jimmie Tick's Cove and thirty back
+again. Miles hard with peril and brutal effort--a way of sleet and
+slush, of toilsome paths, of a swirling mist of snow, of stinging,
+perverse winds or frosty calm, of lowering days and the haunted dark
+o' night--to be accomplished, once a week, afoot and alone, by way of
+barren and wilderness and treacherous ice. 'Twas a thankless task,
+indeed; but 'twas a task to which the fool of Twist Tickle addressed
+himself with peculiar reverence.
+
+"Mother," says he, "always 'lowed that a man ought t' serve his Queen:
+an' mother knowed. 'Moses,' says she, afore she died, 'a good man
+haves just _got_ t' serve the Queen: for an good men don't,' says she,
+'the poor Lady is bound t' come t' grief along o' rascals. Poor,
+_poor_ Lady!' says she. 'She've a wonderful lot t' put up with along
+o' stupid folk an' rascals. I'm not knowin' how she bears it an'
+lives. 'Tis a mean, poor dunderhead, with heart an' brains in his
+gullet,' says she, 'that wouldn't serve the Queen. God save the
+Queen!' says mother. 'What's a man worth,' says she, 'that on'y
+serves hisself?'"
+
+Not much, thinks I!
+
+"An' mother knowed," says Moses, softly. "Ay, Dannie," he declared,
+with a proud little grin, "I bet you _mother_ knowed!"
+
+'Twas this exalted ideal of public service, fashioned in the wisdom of
+the simple by the amazing mother who bore him, that led the fool, as
+by the hand, from a wilderness of snow and night and bewildered
+visions, wherein no aspiration of his own shaped itself, to the warm
+hearth of Twist Tickle and the sleep of a child by night.
+
+                  *       *       *       *       *
+
+Once I watched him stagger, white and bent with weather and labor,
+from the ice of Ship's Run, his bag on his back, to the smoking roofs
+of Twist Tickle, which winter had spread with a snowy blanket and
+tucked in with anxious hands. 'Twas a bitter day, cold, windy, aswirl
+with the dust of snow, blinding as a mist. I sat with Judith in the
+wide, deeply cushioned window-seat of my lib'ry, as my uncle called
+the comfortable, book-shelved room he had, by advice o' Sir Harry,
+provided for my youth. John Cather was not about; and I caressed, I
+recall, the long, slender fingers of her hand, which unfailingly and
+without hesitation gave themselves to my touch. She would never deny
+me that, this maid; 'twas only kisses she would hold me from. She
+would snuggle close and warmly, when John Cather was not about, but
+would call her God to witness that kisses were prohibited where
+happiness would continue.
+
+"'Tis not _'lowed_, child," says she.
+
+Her cheek was so close, so round and soft and delicately tinted, that
+I touched my lips to it, quite unable to resist.
+
+"I don't mind _that_," says she.
+
+'Twas vastly encouraging.
+
+"'Twas so brotherly," she added.
+
+"Judy," I implored, "I'm in need of another o' that same kind."
+
+"No, no!" she cried. "You'd never find the spot!"
+
+'Twas with the maid, then, I sat in the window-seat of my warm room,
+content with the finger-tips I might touch and kiss as I would, lifted
+into a mood most holy and aspiring by the weight of her small head
+upon my shoulder, the bewildering light and mystery of her great, blue
+eyes, the touch and sweet excitement of her tawny hair, which brushed
+my cheek, as she well knew, this perverse maid! John Cather was not
+about, and the maid was yielding, as always in his absence; and I was
+very happy. 'Twas Moses we observed, all this time, doggedly
+staggering, upon patriotic duty, from the white, swirling weather of
+that unkind day, in the Queen's service, his bag on his back.
+
+"He've his mother t' guide un," says she.
+
+"An' his father?"
+
+"'Tis said that he was lost," she answered, "in the Year o' the Big
+Shore Catch; but I'm knowin' nothin' about that."
+
+I remembered the secret Elizabeth would impart to my uncle Nicholas.
+
+"_My_ father," says Judith, in challenge, "was a very good man."
+
+I was not disposed to deny it.
+
+"A very good man," she repeated, eying me sharply for any sign of
+incredulity.
+
+'Twas her fancy: I might indulge it.
+
+"I 'low, Dannie," says she, "that he was a wonderful handsome man,
+though I never seed un. God's sake!" cries she, defiantly, "he'd be
+hard t' beat for looks in this here harbor." She was positive; there
+was no uncertainty--'twas as though she had known him as fathers are
+known. And 'twas by no wish of mine, now, that our hands came close
+together, that her eyes were bent without reserve upon my own, that
+she snuggled up to my great, boyish body: 'twas wholly a wish of the
+maid. "'Twas blue eyes he had," says she, "an' yellow hair an' big
+shoulders. He was a parson, Dannie," she proceeded. "I 'low he must
+have been. He--he--_was_!" she declared; "he was a great, big parson
+with blue eyes." I would not be a parson, thinks I, whatever the maid
+might wish. "An' he 'lowed," she continued, pursuing her wilful fancy,
+"that he'd come back, some day, an' love my mother as she knowed he
+could." We watched Moses Shoos come across the harbor ice and break
+open the door of the postmaster's cottage. "But he was wrecked an'
+drowned," says Judith, "an' 'twas an end of my mother's hope. 'Twas
+on'y that," says she, "that she would tell Skipper Nicholas on the
+night she died. 'Twas just the wish that he would bring me up, as
+he've fetched up you, Dannie," she added: "jus' that--an' the name o'
+my father. I'm not sorry," says she, with her head on my shoulder,
+"that she never told the name."
+
+Elizabeth carried her secret into the greater mystery to which she
+passed; 'twas never known to us, nor to any one....
+
+                  *       *       *       *       *
+
+"Moses," says I, in delight, when the news got abroad, "I hears you
+got the contract for the mail?"
+
+"I is," says he.
+
+"An' how in the name o' Heaven," I demanded, "did you manage so great
+a thing?"
+
+There had been competition, I knew: there had been consideration and
+consultation--there had been the philosophy of the aged concerning the
+carrying of mail in past years, the saucy anarchy of the young with
+regard to the gruelling service, the chatter of wishful women upon the
+spending value of the return, the speculatively saccharine brooding of
+children--there had been much sage prophecy and infinitely knowing
+advice--there had been misleading and secrecy and sly devising--there
+had been envy, bickering, disruption of friendship--there had been a
+lavish waste and disregard of character--there had been all this, as I
+knew, and more pitiable still, in competition for the weekly four
+dollars of government money. 'Twas a most marvellous achievement,
+thinks I, that the fool of Twist Tickle had from this still weather of
+reason and tempest of feeling emerged with the laurel of wisdom (as
+my tutor said) to crown him. 'Twas fair hard to credit! I must know
+the device--the clever political trick--by which the wags and
+wiseacres of Twist Tickle had been discomfited. 'Twas with this hungry
+curiosity that I demanded of the fool of Twist Tickle how he had
+managed so great a thing.
+
+"Eh, Moses," says I; "how _was_ it?"
+
+"Dannie," he gravely explained, "'tis very simple. My bid," says he,
+impressively, "was the lowest."
+
+"An' how much was that, Moses?"
+
+"Mother," he observed, "didn't hold a wonderful lot with half
+measures."
+
+'Twas no answer to my question.
+
+"She always 'lowed," says he, with a mystifyingly elaborate wave and
+accent, "that _doin'_ was better than _gettin'_."
+
+I still must wait.
+
+"'Moses,' says she," he pursued, "'don't you mind the price o' fish;
+you _cotch_ un. Fish,' says she, 'is fish; but prices goes up an'
+down, accordin' t' the folly o' men. You _do_,' says she; 'an' you
+leave what you _gets_ t' take care of itself.' An' I 'low," says
+Moses, gently, a smile transfiguring his vacant face, "that mother
+knowed."
+
+'Twas all, it seemed to me, a defensive argument.
+
+"An' mother 'lowed, afore she died," he added, looking up to a gray
+sky, wherein a menace of snow dwelt, "that a good man would save his
+Queen from rascals."
+
+"Ay," I complained; "but what was the bid that won from Eli Flack?"
+
+"The bid?"
+
+"Ay; the bid."
+
+"Not expensive," says he.
+
+"But how much, Moses?"
+
+"Well, Dannie," he answered, with a sigh and a rub of his curly,
+yellow beard, "I 'lowed mother wouldn't charge much for servin' the
+Queen: for," says he, enlivened, "'twould be too much like common
+labor t' carry Her Majesty's mail at a price. An' I bid," he added,
+eying me vaguely, "accordin' t' what I 'lowed mother would have me do
+in the Queen's service. _Fac' is, Dannie_," says he, in a squall of
+confidence, "_I 'lowed I'd carry it free!_"
+
+                  *       *       *       *       *
+
+'Twas this contact with the world of Jimmie Tick's Cove that embarked
+the fool upon an adventurous enterprise. When, in the spring of that
+year, the sea being open, the _Quick as Wink_ made our harbor, the
+first of all the traders, Tumm, the clerk, was short-handed for a
+cook, having lost young Billy Rudd overboard, in a great sea, beating
+up in stress of weather to the impoverished settlement at Diamond Run.
+'Twas Moses, the choice of necessity, he shipped in the berth of that
+merry, tow-headed lad of tender voice, whose songs, poor boy! would
+never again be lifted, o' black nights in harbor, in the forecastle of
+the _Quick as Wink_. "Ay, Dannie," says Moses, "you'd never think it,
+maybe, but I'm shipped along o' Tumm for the French shore an' the
+Labrador ports. I've heared tell a wonderful lot about Mother Burke,
+but I've never seed the ol' rock; an' I've heared tell a wonderful lot
+about Coachman's Cove an' Conch an' Lancy Loop an' the harbors o' the
+straits shores, but I've never seed un with my own eyes, an' I'm sort
+o' wantin' t' know how they shapes up alongside o' Twist Tickle. I
+'low," says he, "you don't find many harbors in the world like Twist
+Tickle. Since I been travellin' t' Jimmie Tick's Cove with the mail,"
+he continued, with a stammer and flush, like a man misled from an
+austere path by the flesh-pots of earth, "I've cotched a sinful
+hankerin' t' see the world."
+
+I wished he had not.
+
+"But mother," he added, quickly, in self-defence, "always 'lowed a man
+_ought_ t' see the world. So," says he, "I'm shipped along o' Tumm,
+for better or for worse, an' I'm bound down north in the _Quick as
+Wink_ with the spring supplies."
+
+'Twas a far journey for that sensitive soul.
+
+"Dannie," he asked, in quick alarm, a fear so sudden and unexpected
+that I was persuaded of the propriety of my premonition, "what you
+thinkin' about? Eh, Dannie?" he cried. "What you lookin' that way
+for?"
+
+I would not tell him that I knew the skipper of the _Quick as Wink_,
+whose butt the fool must be.
+
+"You isn't 'lowin'," Moses began, "that mother--"
+
+"Not at all, Moses!" says I.
+
+'Twas instant and complete relief he got from this denial. "We sails,"
+says he, with all a traveller's importance, "at dawn o' to-morrow.
+I'll be gone from Twist Tickle by break o' day. I'll be gone t' new
+places--t' harbors I've heared tell of but never seed with my own
+eyes. I'm not quite knowin'," says he, doubtfully, "how I'll get along
+with the cookin'. Mother always 'lowed," he continued, with a greater
+measure of hope, "that I was more'n fair on cookin' a cup o' tea.
+'Moses,' says she, 'you can brew a cup o' tea so well as any fool I
+ever knowed.' But that was on'y mother," he added, in modest
+self-deprecation. "Jus' mother."
+
+I wished again that the fool had not fallen into the mercilessly
+facetious company of Skipper Saucy Bill North of the schooner _Quick
+as Wink_.
+
+"An', Dannie," says Moses, "I'm scared I'll fail with all but the
+tea."
+
+'Twas come near the evening of that mellow Sunday. On the Whisper Cove
+road and the greening hills of Twin Islands, where Moses and I had
+walked in simple companionship, the birds had been mating and nesting
+in the thick sunshine of the afternoon. Chirp and flutter and shrill
+song! 'Twas a time for the mating of birds. The haste and noise and
+pomposity of this busy love-making! The loud triumph and soft
+complaint of it! All the world of spruce and alder and sunlit spaces
+had been a-flutter. But the weather was now fallen gloomy, the sky
+overcast, the wind blowing in from the black, uneasy sea, where floes
+and gigantic bergs of ice drifted, like frozen ghosts, cold and dead
+and aimlessly driven; and the hopeful sunshine had left the hills, and
+the piping and chirping were stilled, and I heard no more fluttering
+wings or tender love-songs. The fool of Twist Tickle paused in the
+road to stare vacantly northward. 'Twas there dark with menacing
+clouds--thick, sombre clouds, tinged with a warning blue, rising
+implacably above the roughening black of the sea. He wondered, it may
+be, in his dull, weakling way, concerning the coasts beyond the grave
+curtain, which he must discover--new coasts, dealing with us
+variously, as we disclose them to our hearts. I watched him with
+misgiving. To be sure, the skipper of the _Quick as Wink_ was an
+unkind man, cynical and quick to seek selfish laughter, whatever the
+wound he dealt; but Tumm, our friend and the genial friend of all the
+world, thinks I, more hopefully, would not have the poor fool
+wronged.
+
+"Dannie," says Moses, turning, "I'm scared my cookin' won't quite fit
+the stomachs o' the crew o' the _Quick as Wink_."
+
+"Ay, Moses," says I, to hearten him; "but never a good man was that
+didn't fear a new task."
+
+He eyed me doubtfully.
+
+"An'," I began, "your mother, Moses--"
+
+"But," he interrupted, "mother wasn't quite t' be trusted in all
+things."
+
+"Not trusted!" I cried.
+
+"You'll not misunderstand me, Dannie?" he besought me, putting a hand
+on my shoulder. "You'll not misunderstand, will you? But mother wasn't
+quite t' be trusted," says he, "when it come t' the discussion," says
+he, pausing to permit a proper appreciation of the learned word,
+which he had appropriated from my tutor's vocabulary, "o' my
+accomplishments."
+
+It had never occurred before.
+
+"For mother," he explained, "was somehow wonderful fond o' me."
+
+The church-bell called him.
+
+"Hear her voice, Dannie?" said he. "Hear her voice in that there bell?
+'Come--dear!' says she. 'Come--dear! Come--dear!' Hear it ring out?
+'Come--dear! Come--dear! Come--dear!'"
+
+I bade him God-speed with a heart that misgave me.
+
+"I'll answer," said he, his face lifted to the sky, "to that voice!"
+
+                  *       *       *       *       *
+
+The clouds in the west broke, and through the rift a shaft of sunlight
+shot, glad to be free, and touched our world of sea and rock with
+loving finger-tips, but failed, as I turned homeward, hearing no voice
+of my unknown mother in the wandering call of the bell; and all the
+world went gray and sullenly mute, as it had been....
+
+
+
+
+XIX
+
+A WORD OF WARNING
+
+
+Presently my uncle and I made ready to set out for St. John's upon the
+sinister business which twice a year engaged his evil talents at the
+wee waterside place wherein he was the sauciest dog in the pack. There
+was now no wandering upon the emotionless old hills of Twin Islands to
+prepare him, no departure from the fishing, no unseemly turning to the
+bottle, to factitious rage; but he brooded more despairingly in his
+chair by the window when the flare of western glory left the world. At
+evening, when he thought me gone upon my pleasure, I watched him from
+the shadows of the hall, grave with youth, wishing, all the while,
+that he might greet the night with gratitude for the mercy of it; and
+I listened to his muttering--and I saw that he was grown old and weak
+with age: unequal, it might be, to the wickedness he would command in
+my service. "_For behold the Lord will come with fire, and with his
+chariots like a whirlwind, to render his anger with fury, and his
+rebuke with the flames of fire._" For me 'twas still sweet to watch
+the tender shadows creep upon the western fire, to see the great gray
+rocks dissolve, to hear the sea's melodious whispering; but to him the
+sea spoke harshly and the night came with foreboding. I wished that he
+would forsake the evil he followed for my sake. I would be a
+club-footed, paddle-punt fisherman, as the gray little man from St.
+John's had said, and be content with that fortune, could my uncle but
+look into the eyes of night without misgiving.
+
+But I must not tell him so....
+
+                  *       *       *       *       *
+
+We left John Cather behind.
+
+"Uncle Nick," says I, "I 'low we'd best have un along."
+
+"An' why?" cries he.
+
+"I don't know," says I, honestly puzzled.
+
+He looked at me quizzically. "Is you sure?" he asked. His eyes
+twinkled. "Is you sure you doesn't know?"
+
+"I don't know," I answered, frowning. "I don't know at all."
+
+"Dannie," says he, significantly, "'tisn't time yet for John Cather t'
+go t' St. John's. You got t' take your chance."
+
+"What chance?" I demanded.
+
+"I don't know," says he.
+
+I scowled.
+
+"But," says he, "an I was you I wouldn't fear on no account whatever.
+No," he repeated, "_I_ wouldn't fear--an I was you."
+
+So John Cather was left with Judy and the watchful maid-servant
+who loved her, having no child of her own, when my uncle and I fared
+out of the tickle upon the outside boat. I was troubled in the
+dark and wash and heave of that night, but could not for the life of
+me tell why. John Cather had bade me good-bye with a heartening laugh
+and clap on the shoulder. 'Twas with gratitude--and sure persuasion
+of unworthiness--that I remembered his affection. And Judy had given
+me a sisterly kiss of farewell which yet lingered upon my lips so
+warmly that in my perplexity I was conscious of it lying there and
+must like a thirsty man feel the place her moist mouth had touched.
+'Twas grief, thinks I, because of parting with my friend John Cather;
+and I puzzled no longer, but devoted myself to the accomplishment
+of manners, as I had been taught, and now attended with interest,
+having grown old and wise. 'Twas rainy weather, windy, with the sea
+in an ugly pother off the rocks of our hard coast. 'Twas wet,
+blustering weather, indeed, all the hapless time we were gone from
+Twist Tickle: the tap-rooms of St. John's, I recall, disagreeably
+steamed and reeked. My uncle put me to bed that night with a motherly
+injunction to recite the twenty-third psalm for safety against the
+perils of the sea and the machinations of wicked men, and to regard
+the precepts of the noble Lord Chesterfield for guidance in more
+difficult waters: the man being quite sober for the first time in all
+my life upon these occasions of departure.
+
+"Dannie, lad," says he, "you cling t' that there little anchor I'm
+give ye t' hold to."
+
+I asked him mechanically what that was.
+
+"The twenty-third psa'm," says he.
+
+To this I promised.
+
+"An', Dannie," says he, drawing the great bandanna handkerchief from
+his trousers-pocket to blow his nose, "don't ye be gettin' lonely: for
+Dannie--"
+
+I must sharply attend.
+
+"I'm for'ard," he declared, "standin' by!"
+
+He could not perceive, poor man! that I was no longer to be dealt with
+as a child.
+
+                  *       *       *       *       *
+
+There befell me in the city a singular encounter. 'Twas of a soggy,
+dismal day: there was a searching wind abroad, I recall, to chill the
+marrow of impoverished folk, a gray light upon all the slimy world, a
+dispiriting fog flowing endlessly in scowling clouds over the hills to
+thicken and eddy and drip upon the streets and harbor. It being now at
+the crisis of my uncle's intoxication, I was come from my hotel alone,
+wandering without aim, to speed the anxious hours. Abreast of the
+familiar door of the Anchor and Chain, where long ago I had gratefully
+drunk with Cap'n Jack Large, I paused; and I wondered, as I stared at
+the worn brass knob, now broken into beads of cold sweat with the
+weather, whether or not I might venture some persuasion upon my
+perverse uncle, but was all at once plucked by the tail of my coat,
+and turned in a rage to resent the impudence. 'Twas but a scrawny,
+brass-buttoned boy, however, with an errand for the lad with the
+rings, as they called me. I followed, to be sure, and was by this
+ill-nourished messenger led to the crossing of King Street with Water,
+where my uncle was used to tap-tapping the pavement. Thence in a
+moment we ascended to a group of office-rooms, on the opposite side of
+the street, wherein, having been ceremoniously ushered, I found the
+gray stranger who had called me a club-footed, ill-begotten young
+whelp, on that windy night at Twist Tickle, and had with meaning
+complacency threatened my uncle's assassination.
+
+I had not expected it.
+
+"Ha!" snaps he. "Here you are, eh?"
+
+To my amazement.
+
+"You know me?" he demanded.
+
+I did not know his quality, which seemed, however, by the state
+he dwelt in, by the deference he commanded from the scrawny,
+brass-buttoned, ill-nourished, tragically obsequious child who
+had fetched me, to be of distinction.
+
+"Sit down," he bade me.
+
+I would not.
+
+"Well, well!" cries he. "You've manners as brief as your memory."
+
+'Twas a vivid recollection that had shorn my manner to the bare. My
+uncle had not been quick enough to sweep the lamp from the table: I
+remembered this man. 'Twas he who had of that windy night most cruelly
+damned me; 'twas he who had struck my uncle.
+
+"I've not forgot you, sir," says I.
+
+He was gray: he was indeed most incredibly gray--gray of hair and eye
+and brow and flesh, gray of mood and outlook upon the world, forever
+dwelling, as it seemed, in a gray fog of suspicion and irascibility. I
+was gone over, from pate to shrinking club-foot, with more intimate
+and intelligently curious observation than ever a 'longshore jack or
+coast-wise skipper had achieved in the years when I wore rings. Never
+before had I suffered a stare more keen and unabashed: 'twas an
+assurance stripped of insolence by some tragical need and right. He
+sat beyond a broad, littered table, leaning forward upon it, his back
+to the riley light, his drawn face nestled within the lean, white
+hands of him; and 'twas now a brooding inspection I must bear--an
+unself-conscious thing, remote from my feeling, proceeding from eyes
+as gray as winter through narrow slits that rapidly snapped shut and
+flashed open in spasmodic winking. He was a man of fashion, of
+authority, of large affairs, it seemed--a gentleman, according to my
+uncle's code and fashion-plates. But he was now by my presence so
+wretchedly detached from the great world he moved in that for a moment
+I was stirred to pity him. What had this masterful little man, thinks
+I, to fear from Dannie Callaway of Twist Tickle?
+
+Enough, as it turned out; but 'twas all an unhappy mystery to me on
+that drear, clammy day.
+
+"Come, sir!" says I, in anger. "You've fetched me here?"
+
+He seemed not to hear.
+
+"What you wantin' of me?" I brusquely asked.
+
+"Yes," says he, sighing; "you are here, aren't you?" He fingered the
+papers on his table in a way so desultory and weak that once more I
+was moved to pity him. Then, with blank eyes, and hopelessly hanging
+lip, a lean finger still continuing to rustle the forgotten documents,
+he looked out of the window, where 'twas all murky and dismal, harbor
+and rocky hill beyond obliterated by the dispiriting fog. "I wish to
+warn you," he continued. "You think, perhaps," he demanded, looking
+sharply into my eyes, "that you are kin of mine?"
+
+I had no such dreadful fear, and, being an unkind lad, frankly told
+him.
+
+"You dream," he pursued, "that you were born to some station?"
+
+I would not have him know.
+
+"Daniel," says he, with a faint twinkle of amusement and pity, "tell
+me of that wretched dream."
+
+'Twas a romantic hope that had lingered with me despite my wish to
+have it begone: but I would not tell this man. I had fancied, as what
+lad would not? but with no actual longing, because of love for Judith,
+that the ultimate revelation would lift me high in the world. But now,
+in the presence of this gray personage, under his twinkle and pitying
+grin, the fancy forever vanished from me. 'Twas comforting to know, at
+any rate, that I might wed Judith without outrage. There would be
+small difficulty, then, thinks I, in winning the maid; and 'twas most
+gratifying to know it.
+
+"Daniel," says he, in distress, "has that rascally Top misled you to
+this ridiculously romantic conclusion?"
+
+"No, sir," I answered.
+
+"You are the son," he declared, with thin-lipped deliberation, by
+which I was persuaded and sorely chagrined, "of Tom Callaway, who was
+lost, with all hands but the chiefest rascal it has been my lot to
+encounter, in the wreck of the _Will-o'-the-Wisp_. Tom Callaway,
+master: he was your father. Your mother," he continued, "was a St.
+John's water-side maid--a sweet and lovely wife, who died when you
+were born. I was myself not indifferent to her most pure and tender
+charms. There is your pedigree," says he, his voice fallen kind. "No
+mystery, you see--no romance. Tom Callaway, master: he was your
+father. This man Top," he snapped, "this vulgar, drunken, villanous
+fellow, into whose hands you have unhappily fallen and by whose mad
+fancies you will inevitably be ruined, is the sole survivor of the
+_Will-o'-the-Wisp_, with which your father very properly went down. He
+is nothing to you--nothing--neither kith nor kin! He is an intruder
+upon you: he has no natural right to your affection; nor have you a
+natural obligation to regard him. He has most viciously corrupted you
+into the fantastic notion that you are of gentle and fortunate birth.
+With what heart, in God's name!" the gray man cried, clapping his lean
+hands in a passion, "he will face you when he must disclose the truth,
+I cannot conceive. Mad! The man is stark mad: for tell you he must,
+though he has in every way since your childhood fostered within you a
+sense of honor that will break in contempt upon him! Your attitude, I
+warn you, will work wretchedness to you both; you will accuse and
+flout him. Daniel," the man solemnly asked, "do you believe me?"
+
+I was glad to know that my mother had been both sweet and lovely.
+'Twas a conception I had long cherished. 'Twas what Judith was--both
+sweet and lovely.
+
+"You will accuse him, I warn you!" he repeated.
+
+Still gray weather, I observed through the grimy panes: fog sweeping
+by with a northeast wind. For a moment I watched the dripping
+passengers on the opposite pavement.
+
+"Well," says the gray stranger, with a harsh little laugh, "God help
+Top when the tale is told!"
+
+I should never, of course, treat my uncle with unkindness.
+
+"My boy," he most earnestly besought me, "will you not heed me?"
+
+"I'll hear you, sir," I answered.
+
+"Attend, then," says he. "I have brought you here to warn you, and my
+warning is but half spoken. Frankly, in this I have no concern for
+your happiness, with which I have nothing to do: I have been moved to
+this ungrateful and most dangerous interview by a purely selfish
+regard for my own career. Do you know the word? A political career of
+some slight importance," he added, with a toss of the head, "which is
+now menaced, at a most critical moment, by that merciless, wicked old
+pirate whom you have shamelessly been deceived into calling your uncle
+Nicholas. To be frank with you, you are, and have been for several
+years, an obstacle. My warning, however, as you will believe, is
+advanced upon grounds advantageous to yourself. Put the illusions of
+this designing old bay-noddie away from you," says he, now
+accentuating his earnestness with a lean, white forefinger. "Rid
+yourself of these rings and unsuitable garments: they disgrace you.
+When the means of their possession is disclosed to you--when the
+wretched crime of it is made known--you will suffer such humiliation
+as you did not dream a man could feel. Put 'em away. Put 'em out of
+sight and mind. Send that young man from London back to the business
+he came from. A tutor! Your tutor! Tom Callaway's son with an English
+tutor! You are being made a ghastly fool of; and I warn you that you
+will pay for every moment of the illusion. Poor lad!" cries he, in
+genuine distress. "Poor lad!"
+
+It might be: I had long thought so.
+
+"And as for this grand tour abroad," he began, with an insolently
+curling lip, "why, for God's sake! don't be a--"
+
+"Sir!" I interrupted, in a rage.
+
+There had been talk of a trip abroad: it seemed I was bound upon it,
+by advice of Sir Harry, to further my education and to cure my foot of
+its twist.
+
+"Well," the gray personage laughed, "being what you are, remembering
+what I have with candor and exact honesty told you, if you can permit
+this old pirate--"
+
+I stopped him. I would have no more of it--not I, by Heaven!
+
+"This extortionate old--"
+
+"I'll not hear it!" I roared.
+
+"In this fine faith," sneers he, "I find at least the gratifying
+prospect of being some day privileged to observe Top broil as on a
+griddle in hell."
+
+'Twas most obscure.
+
+"I refer," says he, "to the moment of grand climax when this pirate
+tells you where your diamonds came from. Your diamonds?" he flashed.
+"You may get quit of your diamonds; but the fine gentleman this low
+villain has fashioned of a fishing-skipper's whelp will all your days
+keep company at your elbow. And you won't love Top for this," says he,
+with malevolent satisfaction; "you won't love Top!"
+
+I walked to the window for relief from him. 'Twas all very well that
+he should discredit and damn my uncle in this way; 'twas all very well
+that he should raise spectres of unhappiness before me: but there, on
+the opposite pavement, abroad in the foggy wind, jostled by
+ill-tempered passengers, was this self-same old foster-father of mine,
+industriously tap-tapping the pavement with his staff, as he had
+periodically done, whatever the weather, since I could remember the
+years of my life. I listened to the angry tapping, watched the urchins
+and curious folk gather for the show; and I was moved to regard the
+mystifying spectacle with an indulgent grin. The gray stranger,
+however, at that instant got ear of the patter of the staff and the
+clamor of derision. He cried upon me sharply to stand from the window;
+but I misliked this harsh manner of authority, and would not budge:
+whereupon he sprang upon me, caught me about the middle, and violently
+flung me back. 'Twas too late to avert the catastrophe: my uncle had
+observed me, and was even then bound across the street, flying all
+sail, to the terrified confusion of the exalted political personage
+whose career he menaced. 'Twas a pitiable spectacle of fright and
+helpless uncertainty the man furnished, seeming at one moment bent on
+keeping my uncle out, whom he feared to admit, at another to wish him
+well in, whom he dared not exclude.
+
+"The man's stark mad!" he would repeat, in his panic of gesture and
+pacing. "The man's stark mad to risk this!"
+
+My uncle softly closed the door behind him. "Ah, Dannie!" says he.
+"You here?" He was breathless, and gone a ghastly color; there was
+that about his scars and eyes, too, to make me wonder whether 'twas
+rage or fear had mastered him: I could not tell, but mightily wished
+to determine, since it seemed that some encounter impended. "Ye're an
+unkind man," says he, in a passionless way, to the gray stranger, who
+was now once more seated at his desk, fingering the litter of
+documents. "Ye've broke your word t' me. I must punish ye for the evil
+ye've done this lad. I'll not ask ye what ye've told un till I haves
+my way with ye; but then," he declared, his voice betraying a tremor
+of indignation, "I'll have the talk out o' ye, word for word!" The
+gray stranger was agitated, but would not look up from his aimlessly
+wandering hand to meet my uncle's lowering, reproachful eyes.
+"Dannie," says my uncle, continuing in gentle speech, "pass the
+cushion from the big chair. Thank 'e, lad. I'm not wantin' the man t'
+hurt his head." He cast the cushion to the floor. "Now, sir," says
+he, gently, "an ye'll be good enough t' step within five-foot-ten o'
+that there red cushion, I'll knock ye down an' have it over with."
+
+The man looked sullenly out of the window.
+
+"Five-foot-ten, sir," my uncle repeated, with some cheerfulness.
+
+"Top," was the vicious response, "you invite assassination."
+
+My uncle put his hand on my shoulder. "'Tis not fit for ye t' see,
+lad," says he. "Ye'd best be off t' the fresh air. 'Tis so wonderful
+stuffy here that ye'll be growin' pale an ye don't look out. An' I'm
+not wantin' ye t' see me knock a man down," he repeated, with feeling.
+"I'm not wantin' ye even t' _think_ that I'd do an unkind thing like
+that."
+
+I moved to go.
+
+"Now, sir!" cries my uncle to the stranger.
+
+As I closed the door behind me the man was passing with snarling lips
+to the precise spot my uncle had indicated....
+
+
+
+
+XX
+
+NO 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.
+
+"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 the
+_Quick 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 sufficient to 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 the
+_Quick as Wink_ slipped 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 Nicholas drop 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.
+
+
+
+
+XXI
+
+FOOL'S FORTUNE
+
+
+"Close the door, Dannie," says Tumm, in the little cabin of the _Quick
+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
+the _Quick as Wink_ a 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 fond of 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 he
+_knowed_ he was a fool, an' _had_ knowed 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 you _that!_'
+
+"'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 never _did_ burn no water,' says the cook, 'afore I shipped
+along o' you in this here ol' flour-sieve of a _Quick as Wink._'
+
+"'This here _what?_' 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 is on'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't _help_ burnin' 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 I _could_ cook, 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 just _loves_
+you.'
+
+"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.
+
+"'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. You _got_ t' 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 a _man,_' 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.'
+
+"'Not _one_ maid t' wed a fool!' says the skipper.
+
+"'Nar a one,' says the cook.
+
+"'I'm s'prised,' says the skipper.
+
+"'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,
+'I _knows_ the maid t' do it.'
+
+"'I'd be wonderful glad t' find _she_,' 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 for _you_. An' she isn't
+a thousand miles,' says he, 'from where that ol' basket of a _Quick as
+Wink_ lies 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.
+
+"'Well,' says I, 'I'll see.'
+
+"I knowed Liz Jones from the time I fished Whoopin' Harbor with
+Skipper Bill Topsail in the _Love the Wind_, bein' cotched by the
+measles thereabouts, which she nursed me through; an' I 'lowed she
+_would_ wed 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' the _Love 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. I _will_ say 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 I _will_ say she has a bad foot, for she was born in
+a gale, I'm told, when the _Preacher_ was 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' she _is_ well-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' '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! in their hearts. An' he was in a wonderful
+state o' fright. I never _seed_ a 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' _feels_ that 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 the
+_Quick 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 the _Quick 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' speak 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, 'I _isn't_
+quite got all my wits. But,' says he, 'I wisht I had. An' I can't do
+no more.'
+
+"'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, '_you_ ithn'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. 'But
+_I_ ithn'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 'low _I_ ithn'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. 'It ithn'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. The _Quick as Wink_ was 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; an' he won't never have another
+chance. An' here's this maid,' thinks I, 'wantin' a baby; an' _she_
+won'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, _I_ don'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.'
+
+"'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, but
+_would_ like to change her pinny. So we said we'd as lief wait a
+spell, though a clean pinny wasn't _needed_. 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' _any_ sort 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.
+_I_ isn't afeared,' says he, 'an' _she_ isn't afeared; an' now I 'lows
+we'll have you marry us.'
+
+"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, 'will _say_ I'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 seed his 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' I _knows_ that mother
+wouldn't mind.'
+
+"'An' will you keep out o' the galley?'
+
+"'I 'low I'll _have_ to.'
+
+"'An' look you! cook, is you sure--is you _sure_,' says the 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' _make_ it
+hold,' says he, ''til we gets 'longside o' _some_ parson 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.
+
+"'What you cryin' about?' says the cook.
+
+"'I don't know,' says she; 'but I 'low 'tith becauthe now I knowth you
+_ith_ a 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 the _Quick as Wink_ we 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't _need_ no sense," said Tumm, looking up, at last; "for he've
+_had_ a mother, an' he've _got_ a memory."
+
+'Twas very true, I thought.
+
+
+
+
+XXII
+
+GATHERING 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 of mopping 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 Callaway _could_! 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 Twist Tickle, 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 the _Shining 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 exaltation God 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?"
+
+'Twas a question put in anxious doubt: I hesitated--wondering whether
+or not I had been good.
+
+"Isn't ye?" says he. "Ye'll tell _me_, 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.
+
+"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 played the 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've _not_!" I cried, indignantly. That the maid should so flout my
+new, proud walk! 'Twas a bitter reward: I remembered the long agony I
+had suffered to please her. "I've _not_ come 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 do it. 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."
+
+"Just _say_ you 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," says she--"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: he would 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--and remember 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!"
+
+
+
+
+XXIII
+
+THE TIDE-RIP
+
+
+Next day 'twas queer weather. 'Twas weather unaccountable, weather
+most mysteriously bent, weather that laughed at our bewilderment, as
+though 'twere sure of wreaking its own will against us by some trick
+recently devised. Never before had I known a time so subtly,
+viciously, confidently to withhold its omens. Queer weather, indeed!
+here, in early spring, with drift-ice still coming in vast floes from
+the north, queer weather to draw the sweat from us, while a midsummer
+blue loom of the main-land hung high and fantastically shaped in the
+thick air. Breathless, ominously colored weather! Why, the like, for
+stillness and beggarly expression of intention, had never been known
+to Twist Tickle: they talked with indignation of it on Eli Flack's
+stage; 'twas a day that bred wrecks, said they. Ay, and 'twas an
+outrage upon the poor fishermen of that coast: what was a man to do,
+said they--what was he to do with his salmon-gear and cod-traps--in
+this evil, wilful departure from traditional procedure? And what did
+the weather mean? would it blow wet or dry? would it come with snow?
+would the wind jump off shore or from the northeast? and how long, in
+the name o' Heaven, would the weather sulk in distance before breaking
+in honest wrath upon the coast? 'Twas enough, said they, to make a man
+quit the grounds; 'twas enough, with _this_ sort o' thing keepin' up,
+t' make a man turn carpenter or go t' Sydney!
+
+All this I heard in passing.
+
+"Ah, well, lads," says my uncle, "ye'll find winter skulkin' jus' over
+the horizon. An' he'll be down," he added, confidently, "within a day
+or two."
+
+I led John Cather to the brink of Tom Tulk's cliff, where, in the
+smoky sunshine, I might talk in secret with him. 'Twas in my mind to
+confide my perplexity and miserable condition of heart, without
+reserve of feeling or mitigation of culpable behavior, and to lean
+upon his wisdom and tactful arts for guidance into some happier
+arrangement with the maid I loved. It seemed to me, I recall, as I
+climbed the last slope, that I had been, all my life, an impassive
+lover, as concerned the welfare of the maid: that I had been
+ill-tempered and unkind, marvellously quick to find offence, justified
+in this cruel and stupid conduct by no admirable quality or grace or
+achievement--a lad demanding all for nothing. I paused, I recall, at
+the cairn, to sigh, overcome and appalled by this revelation; and
+thereupon I felt such a rush of strenuous intention in my own
+behalf--a determination to strive and scheme--that I had scarce breath
+to reach the edge of the cliff, and could not, for the life of me,
+begin to narrate my desperate state to John Cather. But John Cather
+was not troubled by my silence: he was sprawled on the thick moss of
+the cliff, his head propped in his hands, smiling, like the alien he
+was, upon the ice at sea and the untimely blue loom of the main-land
+and the vaguely threatening color of the sky. I could not begin,
+wishful as I might be for his wise counsel: but must lie, like a
+corpse, beyond all feeling, contemplating that same uneasy prospect. I
+wished, I recall, that I might utter my errand with him, and to this
+day wish that I had been able: but then could not, being overwhelmed
+by this new and convincing vision of all my communion with the maid.
+
+"By Jove!" John Cather ejaculated.
+
+"What is it?" cries I.
+
+"I must tell you," says he, rising to his elbow. "I can keep it no
+longer."
+
+I waited.
+
+"I'm in love," he declared. "Dannie," cries he, "I--I'm--_in love_!"
+
+And now a peculiar change came upon the world, of which I must tell:
+whatever there had been of omen or beauty or curious departure from
+the natural appearance of sea and sky--whatever of interest or moment
+upon the brooding shore or abroad on the uttermost waters beyond
+it--quite vanished from my cognizance. 'Twas a drear day and place I
+dwelt in, a very dull world, not enlivened by peril or desirable
+object or the difficulty of toil, not excused or in any way made
+tolerable by a prospect of sacrificial employment. I had been ill
+brought up to meet this racking emergency. What had there been, in all
+my life, fostered in body and happiness, expanding in the indulgent
+love and pitiably misdirected purpose of my uncle, to fit me for this
+denial of pure and confident desire? I tried, God knows I tried!
+summoning to my help all the poor measure of nobility the good Lord
+had endowed me with and my uncle had cultivated--I tried, God knows!
+to receive the communication with some wish for my friend's
+advancement in happiness. In love: 'twas with Judith--there was no
+other maid of Twist Tickle to be loved by this handsome, learned,
+brilliantly engaging John Cather. Nay, but 'twas all plain to me now:
+my deformity and perversity--my ridiculously assured aspiration
+towards the maid. I had forgot John Cather--the youth and person of
+him, his talents and winning accomplishments of speech and manner.
+
+"And there she comes!" cries he.
+
+'Twas Judith on the Whisper Cove road.
+
+"You'll wish me luck, Dannie?" says he, rising. "I'll catch her on the
+way. I'll tell her that I love her. I can wait no longer. Wish me
+luck!" says he. "Wish me luck!"
+
+I took his hand.
+
+"Wish me luck!" he repeated.
+
+"I wish you luck," says I.
+
+"Thanks," says he: and was off.
+
+I lied in this way because I would not have Judith know that I grieved
+for her, lest she suffer, in days to come, for my disappointment....
+
+                  *       *       *       *       *
+
+I was faint and very thirsty, I recall: I wished that I might drink
+from a brook of snow-water. 'Twas Calling Brook I visualized, which
+flows from the melting ice of cold, dark crevices, musically falling,
+beneath a canopy of springing leaves, to the waters of Sister Bight. I
+wished to drink from Calling Brook, and to lie down, here alone and
+high above the sea, and to sleep, without dreaming, for a long, long
+time. I lay me down on the gray moss. I did not think of Judith and
+John Cather. I had forgotten them: I was numb to the passion and
+affairs of life. I suffered no agony of any sort; 'twas as though I
+had newly emerged from unconsciousness--the survivor of some natural
+catastrophe, fallen by act of God, conveying no blame to me--a
+survivor upon whom there still lingered a beneficent stupor of body.
+Presently I discovered myself in a new world, with which, thinks I,
+brisking up, I must become familiar, having no unmanly regret, but a
+courageous heart to fare through the maze of it; and like a curious
+child I peered about upon this strange habitation. Near by there was a
+gray, weathered stone in the moss: I reached to possess it--and was
+amazed to find that my hand neither overshot nor fell short, but
+accurately performed its service. I cast the stone towards heaven:
+'twas a surprise to see it fall earthward in obedience to some law I
+could not in my daze define--some law I had with impatient labor,
+long, long ago, made sure I understood and would remember. I looked
+away to sea, stared into the sky, surveyed the hills: 'twas the
+self-same world I had known, constituted of the same materials,
+cohering in the self-same way, obedient to the self-same laws,
+fashioned and adorned the same as it had been. 'Twas the self-same
+world of sea and sky and rock, wherein I had so long dwelt--a world
+familiar to my feet and eyes and heart's experience: a world of
+tree-clad, greening hills, of known paths, of children's shouting and
+the chirp and song of spring-time. But there had come a change upon
+its spirit: nay! thinks I, quite proud of the conceit, its spirit had
+departed--the thing had died to me, and was become without meaning, an
+inimical mystery. Then I felt the nerves of my soul tingle with
+awakening: then I suffered very much.
+
+And evening came....
+
+                  *       *       *       *       *
+
+By-and-by, having heartened myself with courageous plans, I stepped
+out, with the feet of a man, upon the Whisper Cove road. I had it in
+mind to enjoy with Judith and John Cather the tender disclosure of
+their love. I would kiss Judith, by Heaven! thinks I: I would kiss her
+smile and blushes, whatever she thought of the deed; and I would wring
+John Cather's fragile right hand until his teeth uncovered and he
+groaned for mercy. 'Twas fearsome weather, then, so that, overwrought
+in the spirit as I was, I did not fail to feel the oppression of it
+and the instinctive alarm it aroused. 'Twas very still and heavy and
+sullen and uneasy, 'twas pregnant of fears, like a moment of suspense:
+I started when an alder branch or reaching spruce limb struck me. In
+this bewildering weather there were no lovers on the road; the
+valleys, the shadowy nooks, the secluded reaches of path, lay vacant
+in the melancholy dusk. 'Twas not until I came to the last hill,
+whence the road tumbled down to a cluster of impoverished cottages,
+listlessly clinging to the barren rock of Whisper Cove, that I found
+Judith. John Cather was not about: the maid was with Aunt Esther All,
+the gossip, and was now so strangely agitated that I stopped in sheer
+amazement. That the child should be abject and agonized before the
+grim, cynical tattler of Whisper Cove! That she should gesticulate in
+a way so passionate! That she should fling her arms wide, that she
+should cover her face with her hands, that she should in some grievous
+disturbance beat upon her heart! I could not make it out. 'Twas a
+queer way, thinks I, to express the rapture of her fortune; and no
+suspicion enlightened me, because, I think, of the paralysis of
+despair upon my faculties.
+
+I approached.
+
+"Go 'way!" she cried.
+
+I would not go away: 'twas Aunt Esther, the gossip, that went, and in
+a rout--with a frightened backward glance.
+
+"Go 'way!" Judith pleaded. "I'm not able to bear it, Dannie. Oh, go
+back!"
+
+'Twas an unworthy whim, and I knew it to be so, whatever the vagaries
+of maids may be, however natural and to be indulged, at these crises
+of emotion. She had sent John Cather away, it seemed, that she might
+be for a space alone, in the way of maids at such times, as I had been
+informed; and she would now deny to me the reflection of her
+happiness.
+
+"'Tis unkind," I chided, "not to share this thing with me."
+
+She started: I recall that her eyes were round and troubled with
+incomprehension.
+
+"I've come to tell you, Judith," says I, "that I do not care."
+
+'Twas a brave lie: I am proud of it.
+
+"'Tis kind," she whispered.
+
+We were alone. 'Twas dusk: 'twas dusk, to be sure, of a disquieting
+day, with the sky most confidently foreboding some new and surprising
+tactics in the ancient warfare of the wind against us; but Judith and
+I, being young and engaged with the passion of our years, had no
+consciousness of the signs and wonders of the weather. The weather
+concerns the old, the satisfied and disillusioned of life, the folk
+from whom the romance of being has departed. What care had we for the
+weather? 'Twas dusk, and we were alone at the turn of the road--a
+broad, rocky twist in the path, not without the softness of grass,
+where lovers had kissed in parting since fishing was begun from Twist
+Tickle and Whisper Cove. By the falling shades and a screen of young
+leaves we were hid from the prying eyes of Whisper Cove. 'Twas from
+me, then, that the maid withdrew into a deeper shadow, as though,
+indeed, 'twas not fit that we should be together. I was hurt: but
+fancied, being stupid and self-centred, that 'twas a pang of isolation
+to which I must grow used.
+
+"Why, Judy," says I, "don't, for pity's sake, do that! Why, maid," I
+protested, "I don't care. I'm glad--I'm just _glad_!"
+
+"Glad!" she faltered, staring.
+
+"To be sure I'm glad," I cried.
+
+She came close to me.
+
+"I don't care," says I.
+
+"You do not care!" she muttered, looking away. "You do not care!" she
+repeated, in a voice that was the faintest, most drear echo of my
+own.
+
+"Not I!" I answered, stoutly. "Not a whit!"
+
+She began to cry.
+
+"Look up!" I besought her. "I do not care," I declared again, seeking
+in this way to ease her pity of me. "I do _not_ care!"
+
+'Twas a strange thing that happened then: first she kissed the cuff of
+my coat, in the extravagant way of a maid, and then all at once
+clapped her hands over her eyes, as though to conceal some guilt from
+a righteous person. I perceived this: I felt the shame she wished to
+hide, and for a moment wondered what that shame might be, but forgot,
+since the eyes were mine neither to have read nor to admire, but John
+Cather's. And what righteousness had I? None at all that she should
+stand ashamed before me. But there she stood, with her blue eyes
+hid--a maid in shame. I put my finger under her chin and tried to
+raise her face, but could not; nor could I with any gentleness
+withdraw her hands. She was crying: I wondered why. I stooped to peer
+between her fingers, but could see only tears and the hot color of her
+flushes. I could not fathom why she cried, except in excess of
+happiness or in adorable pity of me. The wind rose, I recall, as I
+puzzled; 'twas blowing through the gloaming in a soothing breeze from
+the west, as though to put the fears of us to sleep. A gentle gust,
+descending to our sheltered place, rustled the leaves and played with
+the maid's tawny hair; and upon this she looked up--and stepped into
+the open path, where, while her tears dried and her drooping
+helplessness vanished, she looked about the sky, and felt of the wind,
+to discover its direction and promise of strength. 'Twas a thing of
+tragical significance, as it seems to me now, looking back from the
+quiet mood in which I dwell; but then, having concern only to mitigate
+the maid's hysteria, following upon the stress of emotion I conceived
+she had undergone, this anxious survey of the weather had no meaning.
+I watched her: I lingered upon her beauty, softened, perfected,
+enhanced in spiritual quality by the brush of the dusk; and I could no
+longer wish John Cather joy, but knew that I must persist in the
+knightly endeavor.
+
+"The wind's from the west," says she. "A free wind."
+
+"For Topmast Harbor," says I; "but a mean breeze for folk bound
+elsewhere."
+
+"A free wind for Topmast Harbor," she repeated.
+
+"No matter," says I.
+
+"'Tis a great thing," she replied, "for them that are bound to Topmast
+Harbor."
+
+'Twas reproachfully spoken.
+
+"You'll be going home now, maid," I entreated. "You'll leave me walk
+with you, will you not?"
+
+She looked down in a troubled muse.
+
+"You'll leave me follow, then," says I, "to see that you've no fear of
+the dark. 'Twill be dark soon, Judith, and I'm not wanting you to be
+afraid."
+
+"Come!" cries she. "I _will_ walk with you--home!"
+
+She took my hand, and entwined her long fingers with mine, in the
+intimate, confiding way she was used to doing when we were a lad and a
+maid on the dark roads. Many a time, when we were lad and maid, had
+Judith walked forward, and I backward, to provide against surprise by
+the shapes of night; and many a dark time had she clutched my hand,
+nearing the lights of Twist Tickle, to make sure that no harm would
+befall her. And now, in this childish way, she held me; and she walked
+with me twenty paces on the path to Twist Tickle, whereupon she
+stopped, and led me back to that same nook of the road, and doggedly
+released me, and put an opposing hand on my breast.
+
+"Do you bide here," says she; "and when I call, do you go home."
+
+"An you wish it," I answered.
+
+'Twas not more than twenty paces she walked towards the impoverished
+cottages of Whisper Cove: then turned, and came again to me. I
+wondered why she stood in this agony of indecision: but could not
+tell, nor can be blamed for the mystification, relentlessly as I blame
+myself.
+
+"Dannie," she moaned, looking up, "I can go nowhere!"
+
+"You may go home, maid," says I. "'Tis a queer thing if you may not go
+home."
+
+"'Tis an unkind thing."
+
+"Come!" I pleaded. "'Twill so very soon be dark on the road; and I'm
+not wantin' you t' wander in the dark."
+
+"I cannot," says she. "I just cannot!"
+
+"Judith," I chided, "you may. 'Tis an unseemly thing in you to say."
+
+"But I cannot bear it, Dannie!"
+
+"I would cry shame upon you, Judith," I scolded, "were _I_ not so
+careful of your feelings."
+
+She seemed now to command herself with a resolution of which tender
+maids like Judith should not be capable: 'tis too lusty and harsh a
+thing. I stood in awe of it. "Dannie," says she, "do you go home. I'll
+follow an I can. And if I do not come afore long, do you tell un to
+think that I spend the night with the wife of Moses Shoos. You may
+kiss me, Dannie, lad," says she, "an you cares t' do it."
+
+I did care: but dared not.
+
+"I'm wishin' for it," says she.
+
+"But," I protested, "is you sure 'tis right?"
+
+"'Tis quite right," she answered. "God understands."
+
+"I'd be glad," says I.
+
+"You may kiss me, then."
+
+I kissed her. 'Tis a thing I regret: 'twas a kiss so lacking in
+earnest protraction--so without warmth and vigor. 'Twas the merest
+brushing of her cheek. I wish I had kissed her, like a man, in the
+fulness of desire I felt; but I was bound, in the last light of that
+day, to John Cather, in knightly honor.
+
+"'Twas very nice," says she. "I wisht you'd do it again."
+
+I did.
+
+"Thank you, Dannie," she whispered.
+
+"Judith!" I cried. "Judith! For shame, to thank me!"
+
+"And now," says she, "you'll be off on the road. You'll make haste,
+will you not? And you'll think, will you not, that I spend the night
+with Mrs. Shoos? You'll not fret, Dannie: I'd grieve to think that you
+fretted. I'd not have you, for all the world, trouble about me. Not
+you," she repeated, her voice falling. "Not you, Dannie--dear. You'll
+be off, now," she urged, "for 'tis long past time for tea. And you'll
+tell un all, will you not, that I talked o' spendin' the night with
+Mrs. Moses Shoos at Whisper Cove?"
+
+"An you wish it, Judith."
+
+"Good-night!"
+
+I pressed away....
+
+                  *       *       *       *       *
+
+When I came to our house on the neck of land by the Lost Soul, I
+turned at the threshold to survey the weather. I might have saved
+myself the pains and puzzle of that regard. The print of sea and sky
+was foreign: I could make nothing of it. 'Twas a quiet sea, breaking,
+in crooning lullaby, upon the rocks below my bedroom window. It
+portended no disturbance: I might sleep, thinks I, with the soft
+whispering to lull me, being willing for the magic shoes of sleep to
+take me far away from this agony as never man was before. The wind
+was blowing from the west: but not in gusts--a sailing breeze for the
+timid. I was glad that there was no venomous intention in the wind:
+'twas a mild and dependable wind, grateful to such as fared easterly
+in the night. I wished that all men might fare that way, in the
+favoring breeze, but knew well enough that the purposes of men are
+contrary, the one to the other, making fair winds of foul, and foul of
+fair, so that there was no telling, of any event, whatever the
+apparent nature of it, whether sinister or benign, the preponderance
+of woe or happiness issuing from it. Over all a tender sky, spread
+with soft stretches of cloud, and set, in its uttermost depths, with
+stars. 'Twas dark enough now for the stars to shine, making the most
+of the moon's absence, which soon would rise. Star upon star: a
+multitude of serenely companionable lights, so twinkling and knowing,
+so slyly sure of the ultimate resolution of all the doubts and pains
+and perplexities of the sons of men! But still there was abroad an
+oppression: a forewarning, in untimely heat and strain, of disastrous
+weather. 'Twas that I felt when I turned from the contemplation of the
+stars to go within, that I might without improper delay inform our
+maid-servant of Judith's intention.
+
+Then I joined my uncle....
+
+
+
+
+XXIV
+
+JOHN CATHER'S FATE
+
+
+'Twas with a start that I realized the lateness of the hour. Time for
+liquor! 'Twas hard to believe. My uncle sat with his bottle and glass
+and little brown jug. The glass was empty and innocent of dregs; the
+stopper was still tight in the bottle, the jug brimming with clear
+water from our spring. He had himself fetched them from the pantry, it
+seemed, and was now awaiting, with genial patience, the arrival of
+company to give an air of conviviality to the evening's indulgence. I
+caught him in a smiling muse, his eye on the tip of his wooden leg; he
+was sailed, it seemed, to a clime of feeling far off from the stress
+out of which I had come. There was no question: I was not interrogated
+upon the lapse of the crew, as he called John Cather and Judy and me,
+from the politeness of attendance at dinner, which, indeed, he seemed
+to have forgotten in a train of agreeable recollections. He was in a
+humor as serene and cheerfully voluble as ever I met with in my life;
+and when he had bade me join him at the table to pour his first dram,
+he fell to on the narrative of some adventure, humorously occurring,
+off the Funks, long, long ago, in the days of his boyhood. I did not
+attend, nor did I pour the dram: being for the time deeply occupied
+with reflections upon the square, black bottle on the table before
+me--the cure of moods my uncle had ever maintained it would work.
+
+I got up resolved.
+
+"Where you goin', Dannie?" says my uncle, his voice all at once vacant
+of cheerfulness.
+
+"To the pantry, sir," I answered.
+
+"Ah!" says he. "Is it ginger-ale, Dannie?"
+
+"No, sir."
+
+"That's good," says he, blankly; "that's very good. For Judy," he
+added, "is fell into the habit o' tipplin' by day, an' the ginger-ale
+is all runned out."
+
+I persevered on my way to the pantry.
+
+"Dannie!" he called.
+
+I turned.
+
+"Is you quite sure, lad," he asked, with an anxious rubbing of his
+stubble of gray beard, "that 'tisn't ginger-ale?"
+
+"I'm wanting a glass, sir," I replied, testily. "I see but one on the
+table."
+
+"Ah!" he ejaculated. "A glass!"
+
+I returned with the glass.
+
+"Dannie," says my uncle, feigning a relief he dared not entertain,
+"you was wantin' a drop o' water, wasn't you?" He pushed the little
+brown jug towards me. "I _'lowed_ 'twas water," says he, hopefully,
+"when you up an' spoke about gettin' a glass from the pantry." He
+urged the jug in my direction. "Ay," he repeated, not hopefully now
+at all, but in a whisper more like despair, "I jus' _'lowed_ 'twas a
+drop o' water."
+
+The jug remained in its place.
+
+"Dannie," he entreated, with a thick forefinger still urging the jug
+on its course, "you is thirsty, I _knows_ you is!"
+
+I would not touch the jug.
+
+"You been havin' any trouble, shipmate?" he gently asked.
+
+"Yes, sir," I groaned. "Trouble, God knows!"
+
+"Along o' Judy?"
+
+'Twas along o' Judy.
+
+"A drop o' water," says he, setting the glass almost within my hand,
+"will do you good."
+
+'Twas so anxiously spoken that my courage failed me. I splashed water
+into the glass and swallowed it.
+
+"That's good," says he; "that's very good."
+
+I pushed the glass away with contempt for its virtue of comfort; and I
+laughed, I think, in a disagreeable way, so that the old man, unused
+to manifestations as harsh and irreligious as this, started in
+dismay.
+
+"Good," he echoed, staring, unconvinced and without hope; "that's very
+good."
+
+And now, a miserable determination returning, I fixed my eyes
+again on the square, black bottle of rum. 'Twas a thing that fairly
+fascinated my attention. The cure of despair was legendary, the
+palatable quality a thing of mere surmise: I had never experienced
+either; but in my childhood I had watched my uncle's fearsome moods
+vanish, as he downed his drams, one by one, giving way to a grateful
+geniality, which sent my own bogies scurrying off, and I had
+fancied, from the smack of his lips, and from the eager lifting of
+the glasses at the Anchor and Chain, the St. John's tap-room we
+frequented, that a drop o' rum was a thing to delight the dry tongue
+and gullet of every son of man. My uncle sat under the lamp: I
+remember his countenance, aside from the monstrous scars and
+disfigurements which the sea had dealt him--its anxious regard of
+me, its intense concern, its gathering purpose, the last of which I
+did not read at that moment, but now recall and understand. 'Twas
+quiet and orderly in the room: the geometrical gentlemen were
+there riding the geometrically tempestuous sea in a frame beyond my
+uncle's gargoylish head, and the tidied rocking-chair, which I was
+used to addressing as a belted knight o' the realm, austerely abode
+in a shadow. I was in some saving way, as often happens in our lives,
+conscious of these familiar things, to which we return and cling in
+the accidents befalling us and in the emergencies of feeling we must
+all survive. The room was as our maid-servant had left it, bright
+and warm and orderly: there was as yet no disarrangement by the
+conviviality we were used to. 'Tis not at all my wish to trouble you
+with the despair I suffered that night, with Judith gone from me: I
+would not utter it--'twas too deep and unusual and tragical to
+disturb a world with. But still I stared at that square, black bottle
+of rum, believing, as faith may be, in the surcease it contained.
+
+I watched that bottle.
+
+"Dannie," says my uncle, with a wish, no doubt, for a diversion, "is
+the moon up?"
+
+I walked to the window. "'Tis up," I reported; "but 'tis hid by
+clouds, an' the wind's rising."
+
+"The wind rising?" says he. "'Twill do us no harm."
+
+Of course, my uncle did not know which of us was at sea.
+
+"The wind," he repeated, "will do no harm."
+
+I sat down again: and presently got my glass before me, and reached
+for the square, black bottle of rum. I could stand it no longer: I
+could really stand it no longer--the pain of this denial of my love
+was too much for any man to bear.
+
+"I'll have a drop," says I, "for comfort."
+
+My uncle's hand anticipated me.
+
+"Ah!" says he. "For comfort, is it?"
+
+Unhappily, he had the bottle in his hand. 'Twas quite beyond my
+reach--done with any courtesy. I must wait for him to set it down
+again. The jug was close enough, the glass, too; but the bottle was
+in watchful custody. My uncle shook the bottle, and held it to the
+lamp; he gauged its contents: 'twas still stout--he sighed. And now he
+set it on the table, with his great, three-fingered hand about the
+neck of it, so that all hope of possession departed from me: 'twas
+a clutch too close and meaning to leave me room for hope. I heard
+the wind, rising to a blow, but had no fret on that account: there
+was none of us at sea, thank God! we were all ashore, with no care
+for what the wind might do. I observed that my uncle was wrought up
+to a pitch of concern to which he was not used. He had gone pale, who
+was used, in exaltation of feeling, to go crimson and blue in the
+scars of him; but he had now gone quite white and coldly sweaty, in a
+ghastly way, with the black bottle held up before him, his wide
+little eyes upon it. I had never before known him to be in fact
+afraid; but he was now afraid, and I was persuaded of it, by his
+pallor, by his trembling hand, by the white and stare of his eyes, by
+the drooping lines of his poor, disfigured face. He turned from the
+bottle to look at me; but I could not withstand the poignancy of
+his regard: I looked away--feeling some shame, for which I could not
+account to myself. And then he sighed, and clapped the black
+bottle on the table, with a thump that startled me; and he looked
+towards me with a resolution undaunted and determined. I shall never
+forget, indeed, the expression he wore: 'twas one of perfect
+knightliness--as high and pure and courageous as men might wear,
+even in those ancient times when honorable endeavor (by the tales
+of John Cather) was a reward sufficient to itself.
+
+I shall never forget: I could not forget.
+
+"Dannie," says he, listlessly, "'tis wonderful warm in here. Cast up
+the window, lad."
+
+'Twas not warm. There was no fire; and the weather had changed, and
+the wind came in at the open door, running in cold draughts about the
+house. 'Twas warm with the light of the lamp, to be sure; 'twas cosey
+and grateful in the room: but the entering swirl of wind was cold, and
+the emotional situation was such in bleakness and mystery as to make
+me shiver.
+
+I opened the window.
+
+"That's good," he sighed. "How's the tide?"
+
+"'Tis the ebb, sir."
+
+"Could ye manage t' see Digger Rock?" he inquired.
+
+The moon, breaking out, disclosed it: 'twas a rock near by, submerged
+save at low-tide--I could see it.
+
+"Very good," says he. "Could ye hit it?"
+
+"I've nothing to shy, sir."
+
+"But an you had?" he insisted.
+
+My tutor entered the hall. I heard him go past the door. 'Twas in a
+quick, agitated step, not pausing to regard us, but continuing up the
+stair to his own room. I wondered why that was.
+
+"Eh, Dannie?" says my uncle.
+
+"I might, sir," I answered.
+
+"Then," says he, "try it with this bottle!"
+
+I cast the bottle.
+
+"That's good," says he. "Ye're a wonderful shot, Dannie. I heared un
+go t' smash. That's good; that's _very_ good!"
+
+                  *       *       *       *       *
+
+We sat, my uncle and I, for an hour after that, I fancy, without
+managing an exchange: I would address him, but he would not hear,
+being sunk most despondently in his great chair by the empty, black
+grate, with his eyes fixed in woe-begone musing upon the toes of his
+ailing timber; and he would from time to time insinuate an irrelevant
+word concerning the fishing, and, with complaint, the bewildering rise
+and fall of the price of fish, but the venture upon conversation was
+too far removed from the feeling of the moment to engage a reply.
+Presently, however, I commanded myself sufficiently to observe him
+with an understanding detached from my own bitterness; and I perceived
+that he sat hopeless and in fear, as in the days when I was seven,
+with his head fallen upon his breast and his eyes grown tragical,
+afraid, but now in raw kind and infinite measure, of the coming of
+night upon the world he sailed by day. I heard nothing from my
+tutor--no creak of the floor, no step, no periodical creaking of his
+rocking-chair. He had not, then, thinks I, cast off his clothes; he
+had not gone to reading for holy orders, as was, at intervals, his
+custom--he had thrown himself on his bed. But I neither cared nor
+wondered: I caught sight of my uncle's face again--half amazed, wholly
+despondent, but yet with a little glint of incredulous delight
+playing, in brief flashes, upon it--and I could think of nothing else,
+not even of Judith, in her agony of mysterious shame upon the Whisper
+Cove road, nor of her disquieting absence from the house, nor of the
+rising wind, nor of the drear world I must courageously face when I
+should awake from that night's sleep.
+
+I considered my uncle.
+
+"Do ye go t' bed, Dannie," says he, looking up at last. "Ye've trouble
+enough."
+
+I rose, but did not wish to leave him comfortless in the rising wind.
+I had rather sit with him, since he needed me now, it seemed, more
+than ever before.
+
+"Ye'll not trouble about me, lad?"
+
+I would not be troubled.
+
+"That's good," says he. "No need o' your troublin' about _me_. Ol'
+Nick Top's able t' take care o' _his_self! That's very good."
+
+I started away for bed, but turned at the door, as was my custom, to
+wish my uncle good-night. I said nothing, for he was in an indubitable
+way not to be disturbed--having forgotten me and the affection I
+sought at all times to give him. He was fallen dejectedly in his
+chair, repeating, "_For behold the Lord will come with fire, and with
+his chariots like a whirlwind, to render his anger with fury, and his
+rebuke with the flames of fire._" I paused at the door to watch him,
+and I saw that his maimed hand wandered over the table until it found
+his glass, and that he caught and raised the glass, and that he set it
+down again, and that he pushed the empty thing away.
+
+I saw all that....
+
+                  *       *       *       *       *
+
+And I went to bed; but I did not go to sleep. In the first place, I
+could not, and, for better reason, my tutor got astir the moment my
+door was closed. I heard his cautious descent to the dining-room. The
+man had been waiting to get me out of the way; but I heard him go
+down, and that right easily, in the fall of his stockinged feet, and
+in the click of his door-latch, and in the creak of the stair. I cast
+my clothes off in haste, but lay wide awake in my bed--as who would
+not?--listening to the ominous murmur of voices from below. My tutor,
+it seemed, was placid and determined; my uncle was outraged. I heard
+the old man's voice rise in a rage, fall to a subdued complaint,
+patter along in beseeching. It seemed 'twas all to no purpose; my
+tutor was obdurate, and my uncle yielded to his demands, however
+unwillingly. There was the mutter of agreement, there was the click of
+my uncle's strong-box, there was the clink of gold coin. I listened
+for the pop of a new cork; but I did not hear it: I heard the jug of
+spring water exchange hands--no more than that. 'Twas very queer. But
+I was not concerned with it, after all. Let my uncle and John Cather
+deal with each other as they would, in any way engaging the clink of
+gold from my uncle's strong-box; 'twas for me, unconcerned, to look
+out of my window, to discover the weather. And this I did; and I found
+the weather threatening--very dark, with the moon hid by clouds, and
+blowing up in a way promising a strength of wind not to be disregarded
+by folk who would put to sea.
+
+The end of this was that John Cather and my uncle came above. My tutor
+went straightway to his room, with steps that hastened past my door;
+but my uncle paused, pushed the door cautiously ajar, thrust in his
+head.
+
+"Is you asleep, Dannie?" says he.
+
+"No, sir. I'm wonderful wide awake."
+
+"Ah, well!" he whispered, in such a way that I perceived his
+triumphant glee, though I could not see his face for the darkness of
+my room; "you might as well turn over an' go t' sleep."
+
+"An' why, sir?" I asked.
+
+"Like a babe, Dannie," says he, addressing me with fondness, as though
+I were a little child again--"jus' like a babe."
+
+He walked to my window and looked out to sea.
+
+"Dirty weather the morrow, sir," I ventured.
+
+"The lights o' the mail-boat!" he exclaimed. "She've left Fortune
+Harbor. Ecod, b'y!"
+
+He withdrew at once and in haste, and I heard him stump off to my
+tutor's quarters, where, for a long time after that, there occurred
+many and mysterious noises. I could not understand, but presently made
+the puzzle out: John Cather was packing up. 'Twas beyond doubt; the
+thump and creak, the reckless pulling of drawers, steps taken in
+careless hurry and confusion, the agitation of the pressing need of
+haste, all betrayed the business in hand. John Cather was packing up:
+he was rejected of Judith--he was going away! It hurt me sorely to
+think that the man would thus in impulsive haste depart, after these
+years of intimate companionship, with a regard so small for my wishes
+in the matter. Go to sleep like a babe? I could not go to sleep at
+all; I could but lie awake in trouble. John Cather was packing up; he
+was going away! My uncle helped him with his trunks down the stairs
+and to the stage-head, where, no doubt, my uncle's punt was waiting to
+board the belated mail-boat--the mean little trunk John Cather had
+come with, and the great leather one I had bought him in London. I
+was glad, at any rate, that my gifts--the books and clothes and
+what-not I had bought him abroad--were not to be left to haunt me. But
+that John Cather should not say good-bye! I could not forgive him
+that. I waited and waited, lying awake in the dark, for him to come.
+And come he did, when the trunks were carried away and the whistle of
+the mail-boat had awakened our harbor. He pushed my door open without
+knocking, knowing well enough that I was wide awake. 'Twas then dark
+in my room; he could not see me.
+
+"Where are your matches?" says he.
+
+I told him, but did not like the manner of his speech. 'Twas in a way
+to rouse the antagonism of any man, being most harsh and hateful.
+
+"I can't find them," he complained.
+
+"You'll find them well enough, John Cather," I chided, "an you looks
+with patience."
+
+He had no patience, it seemed, but continued to fumble about, and at
+last, with his back turned to me, got my lamp lighted. For a moment he
+stood staring at the wall, as though he lacked the resolution to turn.
+And when he wheeled I knew that I looked upon the countenance of a man
+who had been broken on the wheel; and I was very much afraid. John
+Cather was splashed and streaked with the mud of the hills. 'Twas not
+this evidence of passionate wandering that alarmed me; 'twas his
+pallor and white lips, his agonized brows, the gloomy depth to which
+his bloodshot eyes had withdrawn.
+
+"Now," says he, "I want to look at you."
+
+I did not want to be looked at.
+
+"Sit up!" he commanded.
+
+I sat up in bed.
+
+"Put the blanket down," says he. "I have come, I say, to look at
+you."
+
+I uncovered to my middle.
+
+"And _this_," says he, "is the body of you, is it?"
+
+The lamp was moved close to my face. John Cather laughed, and began,
+in a way I may not set down, to comment upon me. 'Twas not agreeable.
+I tried to stop him. 'Twas unkind to me and 'twas most injurious to
+himself. He did us vile injustice. I stopped my ears against his
+raving, but could not shut it out. "And this is the body of you! This
+is the body of you!" Here was not the John Cather who had come to us
+clear-eyed and buoyant and kindly out of the great world; here was an
+evil John Cather--the John Cather of a new birth at Twist Tickle.
+'Twas the man our land and hearts had made him; he had here among us
+come to his tragedy and was cast away. I knew that the change had been
+worked by love--and I wondered that love could accomplish the wreck of
+a soul. I tried to stop his ghastly laughter, to quiet his delirium of
+brutality; and presently he was still, but of exhaustion, not of
+shame. Again he brought the lamp close to my face, and read it, line
+upon line, until it seemed he could bear no longer to peruse it. What
+he saw there I do not know--what to give him hope or still to increase
+the depth of his hopelessness. He betrayed no feeling; but the memory
+of his pale despair continues with me to this day, and will to the end
+of my years. Love has never appeared to me in perfect beauty and
+gentleness since that night; it can wear an ugly guise, achieve a
+sinister purpose, I know.
+
+John Cather set the lamp on the table, moving in a preoccupation from
+which I had been cast out.
+
+"John Cather!" I called.
+
+My uncle shouted from below.
+
+"John!" I urged.
+
+"Parson," my uncle roared, "ye'll lose your passage!"
+
+Cather blew out the light.
+
+"John," I pleaded, "you'll not go without saying good-bye?"
+
+He stopped on the threshold; but I did not hear him turn. I called him
+again; he wheeled, came stumbling quickly to my bed, caught my hand.
+
+"Forgive me, Dannie!" he groaned. "My heart is broken!"
+
+He ran away: I never saw him again....
+
+                  *       *       *       *       *
+
+And now, indeed, was the world gone all awry! What had in the morning
+of that day been a prospect of joy was vanished in a drear mist of
+broken hopes. Here was John Cather departed in sore agony, for which
+was no cure that ever I heard of or could conceive. Here was John
+Cather gone with the wreck of a soul. A cynical, purposeless, brooding
+life he must live to his last day: there was no healing in all the
+world for his despair. Here with us--to whom, in the years of our
+intercourse, he gave nothing but gladness--his ruin had been wrought.
+'Twas not by wish of us; but there was small comfort in the
+reflection, since John Cather must suffer the same. Here was John
+Cather gone; and here, presently, was my uncle, pacing the floor
+below. Up and down, up and down: I thought the pat of his wooden leg
+would go on forever--would forever, by night and day, express the
+restlessness of thirst. And here was Judy, abroad, in trouble I could
+not now divine--'twas a thing most strange and disturbing that she
+should stand in distress before me. I had accounted for it, but could
+not now explain--not with John Cather gone. I was mystified, not
+agitated by alarms. I would meet the maid on the Whisper Cove road in
+the morning, thinks I, and resolve the puzzle. I would discover more
+than that. I would discover whether or not I had blundered. But this
+new hope, springing confidently though it did, could not thrive in the
+wretchedness of John Cather's departure. I was not happy.
+
+My uncle roughly awoke me at dawn.
+
+"Sir?" I asked.
+
+"Judy," says he, "haves disappeared."
+
+He held me until he perceived that I had commanded myself....
+
+
+
+
+XXV
+
+TO 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 had
+spoken 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, to 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.
+
+"She've lied down there on the hills," my uncle protested, "t' cry an'
+wait. Ye're not searchin', Dannie, as ye ought. She've _jus'_ 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--_told_ me 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' _how_ t' 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 the
+_sense_ t' go t' Skeleton Droch."
+
+"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 larger settlement, 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. She _had_ eyes, 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 the _Shining Light_ should 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. The 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?
+
+"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 I _been_ waitin'."
+
+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' _got_ t' be
+consulted."
+
+I was grown hopeless--remembering Tumm's story of the babies.
+
+"In a case like this," Moses confided, "mother always 'lowed a man
+_ought_ to."
+
+"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--that _mother_ knowed!"
+
+'Twas in this way that Moses Shoos shipped on the _Shining Light_....
+
+                  *       *       *       *       *
+
+Shortly now, by an arrangement long made and persistently continued,
+we had the _Shining Light_ ready for sea--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 the _Shining 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 the _Shining Light_ continued 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.
+He 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 the
+_Likely Lass_. And whence the _Likely 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 the _Likely 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 stifling clouds. 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 the _Shining
+Light_, would have no sail off the craft, but humored her northward in
+chase of the _Likely 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 old man 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 the _Shining Light_ underfoot.
+
+"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 the _Likely Lass_ is 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.
+
+"Leave me hold that there bottle," says he. "I wants t' smell of it."
+
+'Twas an eager sniff.
+
+"_'Tis_ rum," 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 was exhausted. 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!"
+
+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. The
+_Shining Light_ was 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. The _Shining Light_ was 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 could
+hear 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 the
+_Shining Light_ collapsed. '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 a _Shining
+Light_; and we three folk were cast away on a broad pan of ice, in the
+midst of night and driving snow. Of the 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 the
+_Likely 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 the _Likely Lass_. Good-bye, Dannie. 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 the _Likely 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....
+
+
+
+
+XXVI
+
+THE 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 steamer
+_Fortune_, 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-after _Every
+Time_ put 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! Whatever the 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.
+
+"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.
+
+"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 out upon 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 tie o' 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 the
+_Will-o'-the-Wisp_ when 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 poor
+_Will-o'-the-Wisp_ broke her back an' went on in splinters with the
+sea an' wind. 'Twas over soon, Dannie; 'twas all over soon, by
+kindness o' Providence: 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."
+
+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 it _here_!'
+
+"'Skipper,' says I, 'was ye meanin' t' wreck that there ship?'
+
+"'Not here,' says he.
+
+"'Was ye meanin' t' _do_ it?' 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.
+
+"''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' make sure, 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 for _that_.'
+
+"'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 I
+_didn't_ know 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 young one. 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' t' 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 stand the 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' the _Quick 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 un I 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' the _Will-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
+love with 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 the murder 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 in restlessness, 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
+know again--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.
+
+"'Tis that I wish a kiss," says I.
+
+She put up her dear red lips.
+
+"Ay," says I, "but 'tis a case of no God between us. You know what I
+am and have been. I ask a kiss."
+
+Her lips still invited me.
+
+"I love you, Judith," says I, "and always have."
+
+Her lips came closer.
+
+"I would be your husband," I declared.
+
+"Kiss me, Dannie," she whispered.
+
+"And there is no God," says I, "between us?"
+
+"There is no God," she answered, "against us."
+
+I kissed her.
+
+"You'll do it again, will you not?" says she.
+
+"I'll kiss your sweet tears," says I. "I'll kiss un away."
+
+"Then kiss my tears."
+
+I kissed them away.
+
+"That's good," says she; "that's very good. An' now?"
+
+"I'll speak with my uncle," says I, "as you knowed I would."
+
+I sought my uncle.
+
+"Sir," says I, "where's the writing?"
+
+"'Tis in your father's Bible," he answered.
+
+I got it from the Book and touched a flaring match to it. "'Tis the
+end of _that_, sir," says I. "You an' me, sir," says I, "will be
+shipmates to the end of the voyage."
+
+He rose.
+
+"You're not able, sir," says I.
+
+"I is!" he declared.
+
+'Twas with difficulty he got to his feet, but he managed it; and then
+he turned to me, though I could see him ill enough in the dark.
+
+"Dannie, lad," says he, "I 'low I've fetched ye up very well. Ye is,"
+says he, "a--"
+
+"Hush!" says I; "don't say it."
+
+"I will!" says he.
+
+"Don't!" I pleaded.
+
+"You _is_," he declared, "a gentleman!"
+
+The night and the abominable revelations of it were ended for my uncle
+and me in this way....
+
+                  *       *       *       *       *
+
+And so it came about that the Honorable was troubled no more by our
+demands, whatever the political necessities that might assail him,
+whatever the sins of other days, the black youth of him, that might
+fairly beset and harass him. He was left in peace, to follow his
+career, restored to the possessions my uncle had wrested from him, in
+so far as we were able to make restitution. There was no more of it:
+we met him afterwards, in genial intercourse, but made no call upon
+his moneybags, as you may well believe. My uncle and I made a new
+partnership: that of Top & Callaway, of which you may have heard, for
+the honesty of our trade and the worth of the schooners we build. He
+is used to taking my hand, upon the little finger of which I still
+wear the seal-ring he was doubtful of in the days when Tom Bull
+inspected it. "A D for Dannie," says he, "an' a C for Callaway, an'
+betwixt the two," says he, "lyin' snug as you like, is a T for Top!
+An' that's the way I lies," says he, "ol' Top betwixt the Dannie an'
+the Callaway. An' as for the business in trade an' schooners that
+there little ol' damned Chesterfieldian young Dannie haves builded
+from a paddle-punt, with Judy t' help un," says he, "why don't ye be
+askin' me!" And the business I have builded is good, and the wife I
+have is good, and the children are good. I have no more to wish for
+than my uncle and wife and children. 'Tis a delight, when the day's
+work is done, to sit at table, as we used to do when I was a child,
+with the geometrical gentleman framed in their tempestuous sea beyond,
+and to watch my uncle, overcome by Judith's persuasion, in his old
+age, sip his dram o' hot rum. The fire glows, and the maid approves,
+and my uncle, with his ailing timber comfortably bestowed, beams
+largely upon us.
+
+"Jus' a nip," says he. "Jus' a wee nip o' the best Jamaica afore I
+goes t' bed."
+
+I pour the dram.
+
+"For the stomach's sake, Dannie," says he, with a gravity that
+twinkles against his will, "accordin' t' the Apostle."
+
+And we are glad that he has that wee nip o' rum t' comfort him....
+
+                  *       *       *       *       *
+
+'Twas blowing high to-day. Tumm, of the _Quick as Wink_, beat into
+harbor for shelter. 'Twas good to know that the genial fellow had come
+into Twist Tickle. I boarded him. 'Twas very dark and blustering and
+dismally cold at that time. The schooner was bound down to the French
+shore and the ports of the Labrador. I had watched the clouds gather
+and join and forewarn us of wind. 'Twas an evil time for craft to be
+abroad, and I was glad that Tumm was in harbor. "Ecod!" says he, "I
+been up t' see the fool. They've seven," says he. "Ecod! think o'
+that! I 'low Walrus Liz o' Whoopin' Harbor got all she wanted. Seven!"
+cries he. "Seven kids! Enough t' stock a harbor! An' they's talk o'
+one o' them," says he, "bein' trained for a parson." I think the man
+was proud of his instrumentality. "I've jus' come from the place,"
+says he, "an' he've seven, all spick an' span," says he, "all shined
+an' polished like a cabin door-knob!" I had often thought of it, and
+now dwelt upon it when I left him. I remembered the beginnings of our
+lives, and I knew that out of the hopelessness some beauty had been
+wrought, in the way of the God of us all: which is the moral of my
+tale.
+
+"Think o' that!" cries Tumm, of the _Quick as Wink_.
+
+I did think of it.
+
+"Think o' that!" he repeated.
+
+I had left Tumm below. I was alone. The night was still black and
+windy; but of a sudden, as I looked up, the clouds parted, and from
+the deck of the _Quick as Wink_ I saw, blind of vision as I was, that
+high over the open sea, hung in the depth and mystery of space, there
+was a star....
+
+THE END
+
+
+
+
+
+End of Project Gutenberg's The Cruise of the Shining Light, by Norman Duncan
+
+*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CRUISE OF THE SHINING LIGHT ***
+
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