* * * * *

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.