"Praise God!" they said.

"'Low I got a cold," Parson Lute gasped, his voice changed now by the weakness of an ailing man.

I feared to interrupt; but still must boldly knock.

"One moment, brethren!" Parson Stump apologized. "Ah, Daniel!" he cried; "is that you? What's amiss, boy? You've no trouble, have you? And your uncle—eh? you've no trouble, boy, have you?" The brethren waited in silence while he tripped lightly over the worn cocoanut matting to the rear—perturbed, a little frown of impatience and bewilderment gathering between his eyes. The tails of his shiny black coat brushed the varnished pine pews, whereto, every Sunday, the simple folk of our harbor repaired in faith. Presently he tripped back again. The frown of bewilderment was deeper now—the perturbation turned anxious. For a moment he paused before the brethren. "Very awkward," said he, at last. "Really, I'm very sorry." He scratched his head, fore and aft—bit his lip. "I'm called to Whisper Cove," he explained, pulling at his nose. "I'm sorry to interrupt the business of the meeting, just at this time, but I do not see how it can be got around. I s'pose we'd better adjourn until such a time as I—"

The chairman would hear of no adjournment.

"But," Parson Stump complained, "I'm the secretary!"

"We'll go right on, brother."

"I can't very well stay, brethren," said Parson Stump, chagrined. "It's a case of—of—of spiritual consolation."

"Ah!" ejaculated Parson Lute.

"And I—"

"Now, Brother Wile," the chairman interrupted, "we're ready to hear you."

"One moment," said Parson Lute, rising. He struggled to suppress his cough. "Excuse me," he gasped. And, "I don't quite see, brethren," he proceeded, "how this meeting can get along without the services of Brother Stump. It seems to me that this meeting needs Brother Stump. I am of opinion that Brother Stump owes it to the cause in general, and to the clergy of this district in particular, to report this discussion to the conference. It is my conviction, brethren, that Brother Stump—by his indefatigable industry, by his thorough acquaintance with the matters under discussion, by his spiritual insight into problems of this character, by his talent for expression—ought to be present through the whole of this discussion, in its entirety, and ought to present the views of this body to the conference in person." And, "Look here, Brother Stump," he concluded, turning, "why can't I make this call for you?"

"Well, of course, you could, Brother Lute," Parson Stump admitted, his face beginning to clear, "but really I—"

"Oh, come now, brother!"

"Brother Lute," said Parson Stump, with sincere affection, "I don't like to think of you on the road to Whisper Cove to-night. I tell you, it—it—goes against the grain. You're not well, brother. You're not well at all. And it's a long way—and there's a gale of wind and rain outside—"

"Come, come, now!"

"A dirty night," Parson Stump mused.

"But it's the Lord's business!"

"Of course," Parson Stump yielded, "if you would be so kind, I—"

Parson Lute's face brightened. "Very well," said he. "It's all settled. Now, may I have a word with you? I'll need some pointers." To the five brethren: "One moment, brethren!"

They moved towards the rear, and came to rest, heads close, within my hearing. Parson Lute put his arm over Parson Stump's shoulder. "Now," said he, briskly, rubbing his hands in a business-like way, "pointers, brother—pointers!"

"Yes, yes, brother!" Parson Stump agreed. "Well, you'll find my oil-skins hanging in the hall. Mrs. Stump will give you the lantern—"

"No, no! I don't mean that. Who is this person? Man or woman?"

"Maid," said Parson Stump.

"Ah!"

Parson Stump whispered in Parson Lute's ear. Parson Lute raised his eyebrows. He was made sad—and sighed. He was kind, was this parson, and sweetly wishful for the goodness and welfare of all the erring sons and daughters of men.

"Has the woman repented?" he asked.

"I fear not. In fact—no; she has not."

At once the battle-light began to shine in Parson Lute's green eyes. "I see," he snapped.

"Rather difficult case, I fear," said Parson Stump, despondently. "She—well, she—she isn't quite right. Poor creature! Do you understand? A simple person. Not idiotic, you know. Not born that way, of course. Oh no! born with all her senses quite intact. She was beautiful as a maid—sweet-natured, lovely in person, very modest and pious—very merry, too, and clever. But before the child came she—she—she began to wait. Do you understand? To wait—to wait for the return of—of some one. She said—I remember that she said—that he would come. She was really quite sure of it. And she waited—and waited. A promise, no doubt; and she had faith in it. For a long time she had faith in it. Rather pitiful, I think. I used to see her about a good deal. She was always waiting. I would meet her on the heads, in all weathers, keeping watch for schooners. The clerk of a trading-schooner, no doubt; but nobody knows. Waiting—waiting—always waiting! Poor creature! The man didn't come back, of course; and then she got—well—flighty. Got flighty—quite flighty. The man didn't come back, of course, you know; and she had waited—and waited—so long, so very long. Really, a very difficult case, brother! Something snapped and broken—something missing—something gone, you know. Poor creature! She—she—well, she waited too long. Couldn't stand it, you see. It seems she loved the man—and trusted him—and, well, just loved him, you know, in the way women will. And now she's flighty—quite flighty. A difficult case, I fear, and—"

"I see," Parson Lute interrupted. "An interesting case. Very sad, too. And you've not been able to convict her of her sin?"

Parson Stump shook his head.

"No impression whatever?"

"No, brother."

"How," Parson Lute demanded, with a start, "does she—ah—subsist?"

"She fishes, brother, in quiet weather, and she is helped, though it is not generally known, by a picturesque old character of the place—a man not of the faith, a drunkard, I fear, but kind-hearted and generous to the needy."

"The woman ever converted before?"

"Twice, brother," Parson Stump answered; "but not now in a state of grace. She is quite obstinate," he added, "and she has, I fear, peculiar views—very peculiar, I fear—on repentance. In fact, she loves the child, you see; and she fears that a confession of her sin—a confession of repentance, you know—might give the world to think that her love had failed—that she wished the child—well—unborn. She would not appear disloyal to Judith, I fear, even to save her soul. A peculiar case, is it not? A difficult case, I fear."

"I see," said Parson Lute, tapping his nose reflectively. "The child is the obstacle. A valuable hint in that. Well, I may be able to do something, with God's help."

"God bless you, brother!"

They shook hands....

* * * * *

My uncle was returned from Topmast Harbor. I paused but to bid him urgently to the bedside of Elizabeth, then ran on to rejoin the parson at the turn of the road. By night, in a gale of wind and rain from the east, was no time for Parson Lute, of Yellow Tail Tickle, to be upon the long road to Whisper Cove. But the rough road, and the sweep of the wind, and the steep ascents, and the dripping limbs, and the forsaken places lying hid in the dark, and the mud and torrents, and the knee-deep, miry puddles seemed not to be perceived by him as he stumbled after me. He was praying aloud—importunately, as it is written. He would save the soul of Elizabeth, that man; the faith, the determination were within him. 'Twas fair pitiful the way he besought the Lord. And he made haste; he would pause only at the crests of the hills—to cough and to catch his breath. I was hard driven that night—straight into the wind, with the breathless parson forever at my heels. I shall never forget the exhibition of zeal. 'Twas divinely unselfish—'twas heroic as men have seldom shown heroism. Remembering what occurred thereafter, I number the misguided man with the holy martyrs. At the Cock's Crest, whence the road tumbled down the cliff to Whisper Cove, the wind tore the breath out of Parson Lute, and the noise of the breakers, and the white of the sea beyond, without mercy, contemptuous, confused him utterly.

He fell.

"Tis near at hand, sir!" I pleaded with him.

He was up in a moment. "Let us press on, Daniel," said he, "to the salvation of that soul. Let us press on!"

We began the descent....



XIII

JUDITH ABANDONED

I left the parson in the kitchen to win back his breath. He was near fordone, poor man! but still entreatingly prayed, in sentences broken by consumptive spasms, for wisdom and faith and the fire of the Holy Ghost in this dire emergency. When I entered the room where Elizabeth lay, 'twas to the grateful discovery that she had rallied: her breath came without wheeze or gasp; the labored, spasmodic beating of her heart no longer shook the bed. 'Twas now as though, I thought, they had troubled her with questions concerning her soul or her sin; for she was turned sullen—lying rigid and scowling, with her eyes fixed upon the whitewashed rafters, straying only in search of Judith, who sat near, grieving in dry sobs, affrighted.

And 'twas said that this Elizabeth had within the span of my short life been a maid most lovely! There were no traces of that beauty and sprightliness remaining. I wondered, being a lad, that unkindness should work a change so sad in any one. 'Twas a mystery.... The room was cold. 'Twas ghostly, too—with Death hovering there invisible. Youth is mystified and appalled by the gaunt Thing. I shivered. Within, the gale sighed and moaned and sadly whispered; 'twas blowing in a melancholy way—foreboding some inevitable catastrophe. Set on a low ledge of the cliff, the cottage sagged towards the edge, as if to peer at the breakers; and clammy little draughts stole through the cracks of the floor and walls, crying as they came, and crept about, searching out the uttermost corners, with sighs and cold fingers.

'Twas a mean, poor place for a woman to lie in extremity.... And she had once been lovely—with warm, live youth, with twinkling eyes and modesty, with sympathy and merry ways to win the love o' folk! Ay; but 'twas wondrous hard to believe.... 'Twas a mean station of departure, indeed—a bare, disjointed box of a room, low-ceiled, shadowy, barren of comfort, but yet white and neat, kept by Judith's clever, conscientious, loving hands. There was one small window, outlooking to sea, black-paned in the wild night, whipped with rain and spray. From without—from the vastness of sea and night—came a confused and distant wail, as of the lamentation of a multitude. Was this my fancy? I do not know; but yet it seemed to me—a lad who listened and watched—that a wise, pitying, unnumbered throng lamented.

I could not rid my ears of this wailing....

* * * * *

Elizabeth had rallied; she might weather it out, said the five wives of Whisper Cove, who had gathered to observe her departure.

"If," Aunt Esther qualified, "she's let be."

"Like she done las' time," William Buttle's wife whispered. "I 'low our watchin's wasted. Ah, this heart trouble! You never knows."

"If," Aunt Esther repeated, "she's let be."

We waited for the parson.

"Have Skipper Nicholas come?" Elizabeth asked.

"No, maid; 'tis not he, maid." They would still taunt her! They would still taunt her, in the way of virtuous women; 'twas "Maid! Maid!" until the heart of a man of honor—of a man of any sort—was fair sickened of virtue and women. "'Tis the parson," said they.

Elizabeth sighed. "I wants a word along o' Skipper Nicholas," said she, faintly, "when he've come."

Parson Lute softly entered from the kitchen, wiping the rain from his face and hands, stepping on tiptoe over the bare floor. He was worn and downcast. No inspiration, it seemed, had been granted in answer to his praying. I loved him, of old, as did all the children of Twist Tickle, to whom he was known because of gentlest sympathy, shown on the roads in fair weather and foul at district-meeting time; and I was glad that he had come to ease the passage to heaven of the mother of Judith. The five women of Whisper Cove, taken unaware by this stranger, stood in a flutter of embarrassment. They were not unkind—they were curious concerning death and the power of parsons. He laid a kind hand on Judith's head, shook hands with the women, and upon each bestowed a whispered blessing, being absently said; and the wives of Whisper Cove sat down and smoothed their skirts and folded their hands, all flushed and shaking with expectation. They wondered, no doubt, what he would accomplish—salvation or not: Parson Stump had failed. Parson Lute seemed for a moment to be unnerved by the critical attitude of his audience—made anxious for his reputation: a purely professional concern, inevitably habitual. He was not conscious of this, I am sure; he was too kind, too earnest in service, to consider his reputation. But yet he must do—when another had failed. The Lord had set him a hard task; but being earnest and kind, he had no contempt, no lack of love, I am sure, for the soul the Lord had given him to lose or to save—neither gross wish to excel, nor gross wish to excuse.

"Daughter," he whispered, tenderly, to Elizabeth.

Elizabeth threw the coverlet over her head, so that only the tangled fringe of her hair was left to see; and she began to laugh—a coquettish trifling. Parson Lute gently uncovered the head.

"You isn't Parson Stump," Elizabeth tittered.

"Turn your face this way," said Parson Lute.

She laughed.

"This way," said Parson Lute.

"Go 'way!" Elizabeth laughed. "Go on with you!" She hid her flaming face. "You didn't ought t' see me in bed!" she gasped. "Go 'way!"

"My child," said Parson Lute, patiently, "turn your face this way."

She would not. "Go 'way!" said she.

"This way!" Parson Lute repeated.

It had been a quiet, slow command, not to go unheeded. The five women of Whisper Cove stiffened with amazement. Here, indeed, was a masterful parson! Parson Stump had failed; but not this parson—not this parson, who could command in the name of the Lord! They exchanged glances—exchanged nudges. Elizabeth's laughter ceased. All the women of Whisper Cove waited breathless. There was silence; the commotion was all outside—wind and rain and breakers, a far-off passion, apart from the poor comedy within. The only sound in the room was the wheezing of the girl on the bed. Elizabeth turned; her brows were drawn, her eyes angry. Aunt Esther All, from her place at the foot of the bed, heard the ominous wheeze of her breath and observed the labor of her heart; and she was concerned, and nudged William Buttle's wife, who would not heed her.

"'Tis not good for her," Aunt Esther whispered.

"You leave me be!" Elizabeth complained.

Parson Lute took her hand.

"You quit that!" said Elizabeth.

"Hush, daughter," the parson pleaded.

Into the interval of silence a gust of rain intruded.

"Have Nicholas come?" Elizabeth asked. "Haven't he come yet?"

Aunt Esther shook her head.

"I wants un," said Elizabeth, "when he've come."

The parson began now soothingly to stroke the great, rough hand he held; but at once Elizabeth broke into bashful laughter, and he dropped it—and frowned.

"Woman," he cried, in distress, "don't you know that you are dying?"

Elizabeth's glance ran to Judith, who rose, but sat again, wringing her hands. The mother turned once more to the parson; 'twas an apathetic gaze, fixed upon his restless nostrils.

"How is it with your soul?" he asked.

'Twas a word spoken most graciously, in the perfection of pious desire, of reverence, of passionate concern for the future of souls; but yet Elizabeth's glance moved swiftly to the parson's eyes, in a rage, and instantly shifted to his red hair, where it remained, fascinated.

"Are you trusting in your Saviour's love?"

I accuse myself for speaking, in this bold way, of the unhappy question; but yet, why not? for 'twas asked in purest anxiety, in the way of Parson Lute, whom all children loved.

"Are you clinging," says he, "to the Cross?"

Elizabeth listlessly stared at the rafters.

"Have you laid hold on the only Hope of escape?"

The child Judith—whose grief was my same agony—sobbed heart-brokenly.

"Judith!" Elizabeth called, her apathy vanished. "Poor little Judith!"

"No, my daughter," the parson gently protested. "This is not the time," said he. "Turn your heart away from these earthly affections," he pleaded, his voice fallen to an earnest whisper. "Oh, daughter, fix your eyes upon the Cross!"

Elizabeth was sullen. "I wants Judith," she complained.

"You have no time, now, my daughter, to think of these perishing human ties."

"I wants Judith!"

"Mere earthly affection, daughter! 'And if a man'—"

"An' Judith," the woman persisted, "wants me!"

"Nay," the parson softly chided. He was kind—patient with her infirmity. 'Twas the way of Parson Lute. With gentleness, with a tactful humoring, he would yet win her attention. But, "Oh," he implored, as though overcome by a flooding realization of the nature and awful responsibility of his mission, "can you not think of your soul?"

"Judith, dear!"

The child arose.

"No!" said the parson, quietly. "No, child!"

The wind shook the house to its crazy foundations and drove the crest of a breaker against the panes.

"I wants t' tell she, parson!" Elizabeth wailed. "An I wants she—jus' wants she—anyhow—jus' for love!"

"Presently, daughter; not now."

"She—she's my child!"

"Presently, daughter."

Judith wept again.

"Sir!" Elizabeth gasped—bewildered, terrified.

"Not now, daughter."

All the anger and complaint had gone out of Elizabeth's eyes; they were now filled with wonder and apprehension. Flashes of intelligence appeared and failed and came again. It seemed to me, who watched, that in some desperate way, with her broken mind, she tried to solve the mystery of this refusal. Then 'twas as though some delusion—some terror of her benighted state—seized upon her: alarm changed to despair; she rose in bed, but put her hand to her heart and fell back.

"He better stop it!" Aunt Esther All muttered.

The four wives of Whisper Cove bitterly murmured against her.

"He's savin' her soul," said William Buttle's wife.

They were interested, these wives, in the operation; they resented disturbance.

"Well," Aunt Esther retorted, "I 'low, anyhow, he don't know much about heart-trouble."

Parson Lute, unconscious of this watchful observation, frankly sighed. The hearts of men, I know, contain no love more sweet and valuable than that which animated his desire. He mused for an interval. "Do you know the portion of the wicked?" he asked, in loving-kindness, without harshness whatsoever.

"Yes, sir."

"What is it?"

It seemed she would appease him. She was ingratiating, now, with smile and answer. "Hell, sir," she answered.

"Are you prepared for the change?"

'Twas a familiar question, no doubt. Elizabeth's conversion had been diligently sought. But the lean face of Parson Lute, and the fear of what he might do, and the solemn quality of his voice, and his sincere and simple desire seemed so to impress Elizabeth that she was startled into new attention.

"Yes, sir," she said.

It appeared to puzzle Parson Lute. He had been otherwise informed by Parson Stump. The woman was not in a state of grace.

"You have cast yourself upon the mercy of God?" he asked.

"No, sir."

"Then how, my daughter, can you say that you are prepared?"

There was no answer.

"You have made your peace with an offended God?"

"No, sir."

"But you say that you are prepared?"

"Yes, sir."

"You have repented of your sin?"

"No, sir."

Parson Lute turned impatient. "And yet," he demanded, "you expect to go to heaven?"

"No, sir."

"What!" cried Parson Lute.

"No, sir," she said.

Parson Lute was incredulous. "To hell?" he asked.

"Eh?"

"To hell?"

Elizabeth hesitated. By some direct and primitively human way her benighted mind had reached its determination. But still she hesitated—frightened somewhat, it may be, by the conventionality of Whisper Cove and Twist Tickle.

"Yes, sir," said she. "Most men goes there."

"But you," said he, in amaze, "are not a man!"

"Judith's father were," she answered; "an' I'm wantin'—oh, I'm wantin'—t' see un once again!"

The five wives of Whisper Cove gasped....

* * * * *

The outer door was flung open. Came a rush of wind—the noise and wet and lusty stirring of the night. It broke harshly in upon us; 'twas a crashing discord of might and wrath and cruel indifference—a mocking of this small tragedy. The door was sharply closed against the gale. I heard the wheeze and tread of my uncle in the kitchen. He entered—his broad face grave and anxious and grieved—but instantly fled, though I beckoned; for Parson Lute, overcome, it may be, by the impiety of Elizabeth, was upon his knees, fervently praying that the misguided soul might yet by some miraculous manifestation of grace be restored to propriety of view and of feeling. 'Twas a heartfelt prayer offered in faith, according to the enlightenment of the man—a confession of ignorance, a plea of human weakness, a humble, anxious cry for divine guidance that the woman might be plucked as a brand from the burning, to the glory of the Lord God Most Tender and Most High. Came, in the midst of it, a furious outburst; the wind rose—achieved its utmost pitch of power. I looked out: Whisper Cove, low between the black barriers, was churned white; and beyond—concealed by the night—the sea ran tumultuously. 'Twas a big, screaming wind, blowing in from the sea, unopposed by tree or hill. The cottage trembled to the gusts; the timbers complained; the lamp fluttered in the draught. Great waves, rolling in from the open, were broken on the rocks of Whisper Cove. Rain and spray, driven by the gale, drummed on the roof and rattled like hail on the window. And above this angry clamor of wind and sea rose the wailing, importunate prayer for the leading of the God of us all....

* * * * *

When the parson had got to his feet again, Aunt Esther All diffidently touched his elbow. "Nicholas have come, sir," said she.

"Nicholas?"

"Ay; the man she've sent for."

Elizabeth caught the news. "I wants un," she wheezed. "Go 'way, parson! I wants a word along o' Nicholas all alone."

"She've a secret, sir," Aunt Esther whispered.

Judith moved towards the door; but the parson beckoned her back, and she stood doubtfully.

"Mister Top! Mister Top!" Elizabeth called, desperate to help herself, to whom no heed was given.

In the fury of the gale—the rush past of wind and rain—the failing voice was lost.

"I 'low," Aunt Esther warned, "'twould be wise, sir—"

"Have the man wait in the kitchen."

Elizabeth lay helplessly whimpering.

"But, sir," Aunt Esther protested, "she've—"

"Have the man wait in the kitchen," the parson impatiently repeated. "There is no time now for these worldly arrangements. No, no!" said he. "There is no time. The woman must be convicted!" He was changed: despondency had vanished—humility gone with it. In the eye of the man—the gesture—the risen voice—appeared some high authority to overawe us. He had the habit of authority, as have all parsons; but there was now some compelling, supernatural addition to weaken us. We did not dare oppose him, not one of us—not my uncle, whose head had been intruded, but was now at once withdrawn. The parson had come out of his prayer, it seemed, refreshed and inspired; he had remembered, it may be, that the child was the obstacle—the child whom Elizabeth would not slight to save her soul. "The woman must be saved," said he. "She must be saved!" he cried, striking his fist into his palm, his body all tense, his teeth snapped shut, his voice strident. "The Lord is mighty and merciful—a forgiving God." 'Twas an appeal (he looked far past the whitewashed rafters and the moving darkness of the night); 'twas a returning appeal—a little failure of faith, I think. "The Lord has heard me," he declared, doggedly. "He has not turned away. The woman must—she shall—be saved!"

"Ay, but," Aunt Esther expostulated; "she've been sort o' wantin' t' tell—"

The parson's green eyes were all at once bent in a penetrating way upon Aunt Esther; and she backed away, biting at her nails—daring no further protest.

"Judith, my child," said the parson, "do you go to the kitchen."

"No, no!" Judith wailed. "I'm wantin' t' stay."

Elizabeth stretched out her arms.

"It distracts your mother's attention, you see," said the parson, kindly. "Do you go, my dear."

"I will not go!"

"Judith!" Elizabeth called.

The parson caught the child's arm.

"You leave me be!" Judith flashed, her white little teeth all bare.

"Do you go," said the parson, coldly, "to the kitchen."

"He'd better mind what he's about!" Aunt Esther complained.

Elizabeth was now on her elbow, staring in alarm. Her breast was significantly heaving, and the great vein of her throat had begun to beat. "Don't send she away, parson!" she pleaded. "She's wantin' her mother. Leave she be!"

The parson led Judith away.

"For God's sake, parson," Elizabeth gasped, "leave she come! What you goin' t' do with she?" She made as though to throw off the coverlet and follow; but she was unable, and fell back in exhaustion. "Judith!" she called. "Judith!"

The kitchen door was closed upon Judith; the obstacle had been removed.

"Don't hurt she, parson," Elizabeth entreated, seeming, now, to be possessed of a delusion concerning the parson's purpose. "She've done no harm, sir. She've been a good child all her life."

"Elizabeth," said the parson, firmly, "repent!"

"What you done with my Judith?"

"Repent!"

Elizabeth's heart began to work beyond its strength. "For God's sake, parson!" she gasped; "you'll not hurt she, will you?"

"Repent, I say!"

"I'll repent, parson. What you goin' t' do with Judy? Don't hurt she, parson. I'll repent. Oh, bring she back, parson! I'll repent. For God's sake, parson!" It may be that despair gave her cunning—I do not know. The deception was not beyond her: she had been converted twice—she was used to the forms as practised in those days at Twist Tickle. She wanted her child, poor woman! and her mind was clouded with fear: she is not to be called evil for the trick. Nor is Parson Lute to be blamed for following earnestly all that she said—praying, all the while, that the issue might be her salvation. She had a calculating eye on the face of Parson Lute. "I believe!" she cried, watching him closely for some sign of relenting. "Help thou my unbelief." The parson's face softened. "Save me!" she whispered, exhausted. "Save my soul! I repent. Save my soul!" She seemed now to summon all her strength, for the parson had not yet called back the child. "Praise God!" she screamed, seeking now beyond doubt to persuade him of her salvation. "I repent! I'm saved! I'm saved!"

"Praise God!" Parson Lute shouted.

Elizabeth swayed—threw up her hands—fell back dead.

"I tol' you so," said Aunt Esther, grimly.



XIV

THE TWENTY-THIRD PSALM

Faith, but 'twas a bitter night! Men were drowning on our coast—going to death in the wreck of schooners. The sea broke in unmasked assault upon the great rocks of Whisper Cove; the gale worried the cottage on the cliff. But 'twas warm in the kitchen: the women had kept the fire for the cup o' tea to follow the event; 'twas warm, and the lamp made light and shadow, and the kettle bubbled and puffed, the wood crackled, the fire snored and glowed, all serenely, in disregard of death, as though no mystery had come to appal the souls of us.

My uncle had Judith on his knee.

"I'm not able," she sobbed.

"An' ye'll not try?" he besought. "Ye'll not even try?"

We were alone: the women were employed in the other room; the parson paced the floor, unheeding, his yellow teeth fretting his finger-nails, his lean lips moving in some thankful communication with the God he served.

"Ah, but!" says my uncle, "ye'll surely come t' live along o' me!"

"No, no! I'll be livin' where I've always lived—with mother."

"Ye cannot live alone."

"Ay; but I'm able t' live alone—an' fish alone—like mother done."

"'Twas not her wish, child," says my uncle. "She'd have ye live along o' me. 'Why, Judy,' she'd have ye know, 'do ye live along o' he. Do ye trust, little maid,' she'd have ye t' know, 'that there ol' Nick Top. He've a powerful bad look t' the eye in his head,' she'd say, 'an' he've the name o' the devil; but Lord love ye!' she'd say, 'he've a heart with room t' contain ye, an' a warm welcome t' dwell within. He've took good care o' little ol' Dannie,' she'd say, 'an' he'll take good care o' you. He'll never see ye hurt or wronged or misguided so long as he lives. Not,' she'd say, 'that there damned ol' rascal!' An' if ye come, Judy, dear," my uncle entreated, "I won't see ye wronged—I won't!" My uncle's little eyes were overrunning now—the little eyes he would not look into. The parson still paced the floor, still unheeding, still muttering fervent prayer of some strange sort; but my uncle, aged in sinful ways, was frankly crying. "Ye'll come, Judy, will ye not?" he begged. "Along o' ol' Nick Top, who would not see ye wronged? Ah, little girl!" he implored—and then her head fell against him—"ye'll surely never doubt Nick Top. An' ye'll come t' he, an' ye'll sort o' look after un, will ye not?—that poor ol' feller!"

Judith was sobbing on his breast.

"That poor, poor ol' feller!"

She wept the more bitterly.

"Poor little girl!" he crooned, patting her shoulder. "Ah, the poor little girl!"

"I'll go!" cried Judith, in a passion of woe and gratitude. "I'll go—an' trust an' love an' care for you!"

My uncle clasped her close. "'The Lard is my shepherd,'" says he, looking up, God knows to what! his eyes streaming, "'I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters.'" By the wind, by the breaking of the troubled sea, the old man's voice was obscured. "'Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for thou art with me: thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.'" Judith still sobbed, uncomforted; my uncle stroked her hair—and again she broke into passionate weeping. "'Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of my enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.'" Returned, again, in a lull of the gale, my fancy that I caught the lamentation of a multitude. "'Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.'"

"Bless God!" cried the parson. "Bless God, brother!"

"Ay," said my uncle, feelingly, "bless God!"

The parson wrung my uncle's hand.

"That there psa'm don't seem true, parson, b'y," says my uncle, "on a night like this here dirty night, with schooners in trouble at sea. Ever been t' sea in a gale o' wind, parson? Ah, well! it don't seem true—not in a gale o' wind, with this here poor, lonely little maid's mother lyin' there dead in the nex' room. It jus' don't seem true!"

Parson Lute, poor man! started—stared, pained, anxious; in doubt, it may be, of the Christian congeniality of this man.

"It don't seem true," says my uncle, "in the face of a easterly gale an' the death o' mothers. An', look you, parson," he declared, "I'll be—well, parson, I'll jus' be jiggered—if it do! There you haves it!"

"Brother," the parson answered, accusingly, "it is in the Bible; it must be true."

"'Tis where?" my uncle demanded, confounded.

"In the Bible, sir."

"An' it—it—must be—"

"True, sir."

My uncle sighed; and—for I know his loving-kindness—'twas a sigh that spoke a pain at heart.

"It must be true," reiterated the wretched parson, now, it seemed, beset by doubt. "It must be true!"

"Why, by the dear God ye serve, parson!" roared my uncle, with healthy spirit, superior in faith, "I knows 'tis true, Bible or St. John's noospaper!"

Aunt Esther put her gray head in at the door. "Is the kettle b'ilin'?" says she.

The kettle was boiling.

"Ah!" says she—and disappeared.

"'Though I walk,'" the parson repeated, his thin, freckled hands clasped, "'through the valley of the shadow of death!'"

There was no doctor at Twist Tickle: so the parson lay dead—poor man!—of the exposure of that night, within three days, in the house of Parson Stump....



XV

A MEASURE OF PRECAUTION

With the threats of the gray stranger in mind, my uncle now began without delay to refit the Shining Light: this for all the world as though 'twere a timely and reasonable thing to do. But 'twas neither timely, for the fish were running beyond expectation off Twist Tickle, nor reasonable, for the Shining Light had been left to rot and foul in the water of Old Wives' Cove since my infancy. Whatever the pretence he made, the labor was planned and undertaken in anxious haste: there was, indeed, too much pretence—too suave an explanation, a hand too aimless and unsteady, an eye too blank, too large a flow of liquor—for a man who suffered no secret perturbation.

"In case o' accident, Dannie," he explained, as though 'twere a thing of no importance. "Jus' in case o' accident. I wouldn't be upset," says he, "an I was you."

"Never you fear," says I.

"No," says he; "you'll stand by, Dannie!"

"That I will," I boasted.

"Ye can't delude me," says he. "I knows you. I bet ye you'll stand by, whatever comes of it."

'Tis quite beyond me to express my gratification. 'Twas a mysterious business altogether—this whim to make the Shining Light ready for sea. I could make nothing of it at all. And why, thinks I, should the old craft all at once be troubled by all this pother of block and tackle and hammer and saw? 'Twas beyond me to fathom; but I was glad to discover, whatever the puzzle, that my uncle's faith in the lad he had nourished was got real and large. 'Twas not for that he bred me; but 'twas the only reward—and that a mean, poor one—he might have. And he was now come near, it seemed, to dependence upon me; there was that in his voice to show it—a little trembling, a little hopelessness, a little wistfulness: a little weakening of its quality of wrathful courage.

"You'll stand by," he had said; and, ay, but it fair saddened me to feel the appeal of his aging spirit to my growing years! There comes a time, no doubt, in the relationship of old and young, when the guardian is all at once changed into the cherished one. 'Tis a tragical thing—a thing to be resolved, to be made merciful and benign, only by the acquiescence of the failing spirit. There is then no interruption—no ripple upon the flowing river of our lives. As for my uncle, I fancy that he kept watch upon me, in those days, to read his future, to discover his achievement, in my disposition. Stand by? Ay, that I would! And being young I sought a deed to do: I wished the accident might befall to prove me.

"Accident?" cries I. "Never you fear!"

"I'll not fear," says he, "that ye'll not stand by."

"Ay," I complained; "but never you fear at all!"

"I'll not fear," he repeated, with a little twinkle of amusement, "that ye'll not stand by, as best ye're able."

I felt now my strength—the greatness of my body and the soaring courage of my soul. This in the innocent way of a lad; and by grace of your recollection I shall not be blamed for it. Fourteen and something more? 'Twas a mighty age! What did it lack, thinks I, of power and wisdom? To be sure I strutted the present most haughtily and eyed the future with as saucy a flash as lads may give. The thing delighted my uncle; he would chuckle and clap me on the back and cry, "That's very good!" until I was wrought into a mood of defiance quite ridiculous. But still 'tis rather grateful to recall: for what's a lad's boasting but the honest courage of a man? I would serve my uncle; but 'twas not all: I would serve Judith. She was now come into our care: I would serve her.

"They won't nothin' hurt she!" thinks I.

I am glad to recall that this boyish love took a turn so chivalrous....

* * * * *

When 'twas noised abroad that my uncle was to refit the Shining Light, Twist Tickle grew hilarious. "Laugh an you will, lads," says my uncle, then about the business of distributing genial invitations to the hauling-down. "'Tis a gift o' the good Lord t' be able t' do it. The ol' girl out there haven't a wonderful lot to admire, an' she's nowhere near t' windward o' forty; but I'll show ye, afore I'm through, that she'll stand by in a dirty blow, an I jus' asks she t' try. Ye'll find, lads," says he, "when ye're so old as me, an' sailed t' foreign parts, that they's more to a old maid or a water-side widow than t' many a lass o' eighteen. The ol' girl out there haves a mean allowance o' beauty, but she've a character that isn't talked about after dark; an' when I buys her a pair o' shoes an' a new gown, why, ecod! lads, ye'll think she's a lady. 'Tis one way," says he, "that ladies is made."

This occurred at Eli Flack's stage of an evening when a mean, small catch was split and the men-folk were gathered for gossip. 'Twas after sunset, with fog drifting in on a lazy wind: a glow of red in the west. Our folk were waiting for the bait-skiff, which had long been gone for caplin, skippered, this time, by the fool of Twist Tickle.

"Whatever," says my uncle, "they'll be a darn o' rum for ye, saved and unsaved, when she've been hauled down an' scraped. An' will ye come t' the haulin'-down?"

That they would!

"I knowed ye would," says my uncle, as he stumped away, "saved an' unsaved."

The bait-skiff conch-horn sounded. The boat had entered the narrows. 'Twas coming slowly through the quiet evening—laden with bait for the fishing of to-morrow. Again the horn—echoing sweetly, faintly, among the hills of Twin Islands. 'Twas Moses Shoos that blew; there was no mistaking the long-drawn blast.

* * * * *

Ah, well! she needed the grooming, this Shining Light, whatever the occasion. 'Twas scandalous to observe her decay in idleness. She needed the grooming—this neglected, listless, slatternly old maid of a craft. A craft of parts, to be sure, as I had been told; but a craft left to slow wreck, at anchor in quiet water. Year by year, since I could remember the days of my life, in summer and winter weather she had swung with the tides or rested silent in the arms of the ice. I had come to Twist Tickle aboard, as the tale of my infancy ran, on the wings of a nor'east gale of some pretensions; and she had with heroic courage weathered a dirty blow to land me upon the eternal rocks of Twin Islands. For this—though but an ancient story, told by old folk to engage my presence in the punts and stages of our harbor—I loved her, as a man, Newfoundland born and bred, may with propriety love a ship.

There are maids to be loved, no doubt, and 'tis very nice to love them, because they are maids, fashioned in a form most lovely by the good Lord, given a heart most childlike and true and loving and tenderly dependent, so that, in all the world, as I know, there is nothing so to be cherished with a man's last breath as a maid. I have loved a maid and speak with authority. But there is also a love of ships, though, being inland-born, you may not know it. 'Tis a surpassing faith and affection, inspired neither by beauty nor virtue, but wilful and mysterious, like the love of a maid. 'Tis much the same, I'm thinking: forgiving to the uttermost, prejudiced beyond the perception of any fault, savagely loyal. 'Twas in this way, at any rate, that my uncle regarded the Shining Light; and 'twas in this way, too, with some gentler shades of admiration, proceeding from an apt imagination, that I held the old craft in esteem.

"Dannie," says my uncle, presently, as we walked homeward, "ye'll 'blige me, lad, by keepin' a eye on the mail-boat."

I wondered why.

"You keep a eye," he whispered, winking in a way most grave and troubled, "on that there little mail-boat when she lands her passengers."

"For what?" I asked.

"Brass buttons," says he.

'Twas now that the cat came out of the bag. Brass buttons? 'Twas the same as saying constables. This extraordinary undertaking was then a precaution against the accident of arrest. 'Twas inspired, no doubt, by the temper of that gray visitor with whom my uncle had dealt over the table in a fashion so surprising. I wondered again concerning that amazing broil, but to no purpose; 'twas 'beyond my wisdom and ingenuity to involve these opposite natures in a crime that might make each tolerable to the other and advantage them both. 'Twas plain, at any rate, that my uncle stood in jeopardy, and that of no trivial sort: else never would he have employed his scant savings upon the hull of the Shining Light. It grieved me to know it. 'Twas most sad and most perplexing. 'Twas most aggravating, too: for I must put no questions, but accept, in cheerful serenity, the revelations he would indulge me with, and be content with that.

"An' if ye sees so much as a single brass button comin' ashore," says he, "ye'll give me a hail, will ye not, whereever I is?"

This I would do.

"Ye never can tell," he added, sadly, "what's in the wind."

"I'm never allowed t' know," said I.

He was quick to catch the complaint. "Ye're growin' up, Dannie," he observed; "isn't you, lad?"

I fancied I was already grown.

"Ah, well!" says he; "they'll come a time, lad, God help ye! when ye'll know."

"I wisht 'twould hasten," said I.

"I wisht 'twould never come at all," said he.

'Twas disquieting....

* * * * *

Work on the Shining Light went forward apace and with right good effect. 'Twas not long—it might be a fortnight—before her hull was as sound as rotten plank could be made with gingerly calking. 'Twas indeed a delicate task to tap the timbers of her: my uncle must sometimes pause for anxious debate upon the wisdom of venturing a stout blow. But copper-painted below the water-line, adorned above, she made a brave showing at anchor, whatever she might do at sea; and there was nothing for it, as my uncle said, but to have faith, which would do well enough: for faith, says he, could move mountains. When she had been gone over fore and aft, aloft and below, in my uncle's painstaking way—when she had been pumped and ballasted and cleared of litter and swabbed down and fitted with a new suit of sails—she so won upon our confidence that not one of us who dwelt on the neck of land by the Lost Soul would have feared to adventure anywhere aboard.

The fool of Twist Tickle pulled a long face.

"Hut, Moses!" I maintained; "she'll do very well. Jus' look at her!"

"Mother always 'lowed," says he, "that a craft was like a woman. An' since mother died, I've come t' learn for myself, Dannie," he drawled, "that the more a woman haves in the way o' looks the less weather she'll stand. I've jus' come, now," says he, "from overhaulin' a likely maid at Chain Tickle."

I looked up with interest.

"Jinny Lawless," says he. "Ol' Skipper Garge's youngest by the third."

My glance was still inquiring.

"Ay, Dannie," he sighed; "she've declined."

"You've took a look," I inquired, "at the maids o' Long Bill Hodge o' Sampson's Island?"

He nodded.

"An' they've—"

"All declined," says he.

"Never you care, Moses," said I. "Looks or no looks, you'll find the Shining Light stand by when she puts to sea."

"I'll not be aboard," says he.

"You're not so sure about that!" quoth I.

"I wouldn't ship," he drawled. "I'd never put t' sea on she: for mother," he added, "wouldn't like t' run the risk."

"You dwell too much upon your mother," said I.

"She's all I got in the way o' women," he answered. "All I got, Dannie—yet."

"But when you gets a wife—"

"Oh," he interrupted, "Mrs. Moses Shoos won't mind mother!"

"Still an' all," I gravely warned him, "'tis a foolish thing t' do."

"Well, Dannie," he drawled, in a way so plaintive that I found no answer to his argument, "I is a fool. I'm told so every day, by men an' maids, wherever I goes; an' I jus' can't help bein' foolish."

"God made you," said I.

"An' mother always 'lowed," said Moses, "that He knowed what He was up to. An', Dannie," says he, "she always 'lowed, anyhow, that she was satisfied."

'Twas of a Sunday evening—upon the verge of twilight: with the light of day still abroad, leaving the hills of Twin Islands clear-cut against the blue sky, but falling aslant, casting long shadows. Came, then, straggling from the graveyard in the valley by Thunder Head, the folk of our harbor. 'Twas all over, it seemed; they had buried old Tom Hossie. Moses and I sat together on the hill by Old Wives' Cove, in the calm of the day and weather: there was no wind stirring—no drip of oar to be heard, no noise of hammer, no laughter of children, no cry or call of labor. They had buried old Tom Hossie, whom no peril of that coast, savagely continuing through seventy years, had overcome or daunted, but age had gently drawn away. I had watched them bear the coffin by winding paths along the Tickle shore and up the hill, stopping here to rest and there to rest, for the way was long; and now, sitting in the yellow sunshine of that kind day, with the fool of Twist Tickle for company, I watched them come again, their burden deposited in the inevitable arms. I wondered if the spirit of old Tom Hossie rejoiced in its escape. I wondered if it continued in pitiable age or had returned to youth—to strength for action and wish for love. I wondered, with the passionate curiosity of a lad, as I watched the procession of simple folk disperse, far off, to supper and to the kisses of children, if the spirit of old Tom Hossie had rather sail the seas he had sailed and love the maids of our land or dwell in the brightest glory painted for us by the prophets. I could, then, being a lad, conceive no happier world than that in which I moved, no joy aside from its people and sea and sunlight, no rest apart from the mortal love of Judith; but, now, grown older, I fancy that the spirit of old Tom Hossie, wise with age and vastly weary of the labor and troublous delights of life, hungered and thirsted for death.

The church bell broke upon this morbid meditation.

"Hark!" says Moses. "'Tis the first bell."

'Twas a melodious call to worship—throbbing sweetly across the placid water of our harbor, beating on, liquidly vibrant, to rouse the resting hills of Twin Islands.

"You'll be off, Moses?"

"Ay," says he; "for mother always 'lowed 'twas good for a man t' go t' church, an' I couldn't do nothin', Dannie, that mother wouldn't like. I seem, lad, t' hear her callin', in that bell. 'Come—dear!' says she, 'Come—dear! Come—dear!' Tis like she used t' call me from the door. 'Come, dear,' says she; 'you'll never be hurt,' says she, 'when you're within with me.' So I 'low I'll go t' church, Dannie, where mother would have me be. 'You don't need t' leave the parson scare you, Moses,' says she; 'all you got t' do, dear,' says she, 'is t' remember that your mother loves you. You're so easy to scare, poor lad!' says she; 'but never forget that' says she, 'an' you'll never be feared o' God. In fair weather,' says she, 'a man may need no Hand t' guide un; but in times o' trouble,' says she, 'he've jus' got t' have a God. I found that out,' says she, 'jus' afore you was born an' jus' after I knowed you was a fool. So I 'low, Moses,' says she, 'you'd best go t' church an' make friends with God, for then,' says she, 'you'll not feel mean t' call upon Him when the evil days comes. In times o' trouble,' says mother, 'a man jus' can't help singin' out for aid. An' 'tis a mean, poor man,' says she, 'that goes beggin' to a Stranger.' Hark t' the bell, Dannie! Does you not hear it? Does you not hear it call the folk t' come?"

'Twas still ringing its tender invitation.

"'Tis jus' like the voice o' mother," said the fool of Twist Tickle. "Like when she used t' call me from the door. 'Come, dear!' says she. Hark, Dannie! Hear her voice? 'Come—dear! Come—dear! Come—dear!'"

God help me! but I heard no voice....

* * * * *

Well, now, my uncle was in no genial humor while the work on the Shining Light was under way: for from our house, at twilight, when he paced the gravelled path, he could spy the punts come in from the grounds, gunwale laden, every one. 'Twas a poor lookout, said he, for a man with thirty quintal in his stage and the season passing; and he would, by lamplight, with many sighs and much impatient fuming, overhaul his accounts, as he said. 'Tis a mystery to me to this day how he managed it. I've no inkling of the system—nor capacity to guess it out. 'Twas all done with six round tin boxes and many sorts of shot; and he would drop a shot here and drop a shot there, and empty a box and fill one, and withdraw shot from the bags to drop in the boxes, and pick shot from the boxes to stow away in the bags, all being done in noisy exasperation, which would give way, presently, to despair, whereupon he would revive, drop shot with renewed vigor, counting aloud, the while, upon his seven fingers, until, in the end, he would come out of the engagement grimly triumphant. When, however, the Shining Light was ready for sea, with but an anchor to ship for flight, he cast his accounts for the last time, and returned to his accustomed composure and gentle manner with us all.

I lingered with him over his liquor that night; and I marked, when I moved his lamp near, that he was older than he had been.

"You're all wore out, sir," said I.

"No, Dannie," he answered; "but I'm troubled."

I put his glass within reach. For a long time he disregarded it: but sat disconsolate, staring vacantly at the floor, fallen into some hopeless muse. I turned away; and in a moment, when I looked again, I found his eyes bent upon me, as if in anxious appraisement of my quality.

"Ye will stand by," he cried, "will ye not?"

"I will!" I swore, in instant response.

"Whatever comes t' your knowledge?"

"Whatever comes!"

He held his glass aloft—laughed in delighted defiance—tossed off the liquor. "Ecod!" cries he, most heartily; "'tis you an' me, ol' shipmate, ag'in the world! Twelve year ago," says he, "since you an' me got under way on this here little cruise in the Shining Light. 'Twas you an' me then. 'Tis you an' me now. 'Twill be you an' me t' the end o' the v'y'ge. Here's t' fair winds or foul! Here's t' the ship an' the crew! Here's t' you an' here's t' me! Here's t' harbor for our souls!"

'Twas inspiring. I had never known the like to come from my uncle. 'Twas a thrilling toast. I wished I had a glass.

"For it may be, lad," says my uncle, "that we'll have t' put t' sea!"

But for many a month thereafter the Shining Light lay at anchor where then she swung. No brass buttons came ashore from the mail-boat: no gray stranger intruded upon our peace. Life flowed quietly in new courses: in new courses, to be sure, with Judith and John Cather come into our house, but still serenely, as of old. The Shining Light rose and fell, day by day, with the tides of that summer, kept ready for our flight. In the end, she put to sea; but 'twas not in the way my uncle had foreseen. 'Twas not in flight; 'twas in pursuit. 'Twas a thing infinitely more anxious and momentous. 'Twas a thing that meant much more than life or death. In these distant days—from my chair, here, in our old house—by the window of my room—I look out upon the water of Old Wives' Cove, whence the Shining Light has for many years been missing; and I remember the time she slipped her anchor and ran to sea with the night coming down and a gale of wind blowing lustily up from the gray northeast.



XVI

GREEN PASTURES: AN INTERLUDE

In all this time Judith dwelt with us by the Lost Soul. When my uncle fetched her from Whisper Cove, he gravely gave her into the care of our maid-servant, long ago widowed by the sea, who had gone childless all her life, and was now come to the desolate years, when she would sit alone and wistful at twilight, staring out into the empty world, where only hopelessly deepening shadows were, until 'twas long past time to light the lamp. In the child that was I she had found no ease or recompense, because of the mystery concerning me, which in its implication of wickedness revolted her, and because of my uncle's regulation of her demeanor in my presence, which tolerated no affectionate display; but when Judith came, orphaned and ill-nourished, the woman sat no longer in moods at evening, but busied herself in motherly service of the child, reawakened in the spirit. 'Twas thus to a watchful, willing guardianship, most tenderly maternal in solicitude and self-sacrifice, that Judith was brought by wise old Nick Top of Twist Tickle.

My uncle would have no misunderstanding.

"Uncle Nick," says I, "you'll be havin' a chair set for Judy in the cabin?"

"No, lad," he answered; "not for little Judy."

I expostulated most vigorously.

"Dannie, lad," said he, with a gravity that left me no stomach for argument, "the maid goes steerage along o' me. This here little matter o' Judy," he added, gently, "belongs t' me. I'm not makin' a lady o' she. She haves nothin' t' do—nothin' t' do, thank God!—with what's gone afore."

There was no word to say.

"An ye're wantin' t' have Judy t' dinner, by times," he continued, winking a genial understanding of my love-lorn condition, "I 'low it might be managed by a clever hand."

I asked him the way.

"Slug-shot," says he.

'Twas the merest hint.

"Remove," says he, darkly, "one slug-shot from the box with the star, an' drop it," says he, his left eye closed again, "in the box with the cross."

And there I had it!

* * * * *

You must know that by my uncle's severe direction I must never fail to appear at table in the evening save in the perfection of cleanliness as to face and hands and nails and teeth. "For what," says he, "have Skipper Chesterfield t' say on that p'int—underlined by Sir Harry? Volume II., page 24. A list o' the ornamental accomplishments. 'T' be extremely clean in your person.' There you haves it—underlined by Sir Harry!" He would examine me keenly, every nail and tooth of me, accepting neither excuse nor apology, and would never sit with me until I had passed inspection. In the beginning, 'twas my uncle's hand, laid upon me in virtuous chastisement, that persuaded me of the propriety of this genteel conduct; but presently, when I was grown used to the thing, 'twas fair impossible for me to approach the meat, in times of peace with place and weather, confronting no peril, hardship, laborious need, or discomfort, before this particular ornamental accomplishment had been indubitably achieved with satisfaction to my uncle and to myself.

My uncle had, moreover, righteously compelled, with precisely similar tactics as to the employment of his right hand, an attire in harmony with the cleanliness of my person. "For what," says he, "have bully ol' Skipper Chesterfield t' say on that there little p'int? What have that there fashionable ol' gentleman t' hold—underlined by Sir Harry? Volume II, page 24. 'A list o' the ornamental accomplishments (without which no man livin' can either please or rise in the world), which hitherto I fear ye wants,'" quotes he, most glibly, "'an' which only require your care an' attention t' possess.' Volume II., page 24. 'An' perfeckly well dressed, accordin' t' the fashion, be that what it will.' There you haves it," says he, "an' underlined by Sir Harry hisself!" 'Twas a boresome thing, to be sure, as a lad of eleven, to come from boyish occupations to this maidenly concern for appearances: but now, when I am grown older, 'tis a delight to escape the sweat and uniform of the day's work; and I am grateful to the broad hand that scorched my childish parts to teach me the value and pleasures of gentility.

At the same time, as you may believe, I was taught a manner of entering, in the way, by the hints of Sir Harry and the philosophy of the noble Lord Chesterfield, of a gentleman. It had to do with squared shoulders, the lift of the head, a strut, a proud and contemptuous glance. Many a night, as a child, when I fair fainted of vacancy and the steam and smell of salt pork was an agony hardly to be endured, I must prance in and out, to please my fastidious uncle, while he sat critical by the fire—in the unspeakable detachment of critics from the pressing needs (for example) of a man's stomach—and indulged his artistic perceptions to their completest satisfaction. He would watch me from his easy-chair by the fire as though 'twere the most delectable occupation the mind of man might devise: leaning forward in absorption, his ailing timber comfortably bestowed, his great head cocked, like a canary-bird's, his little eyes watchful and sparkling.

"Once again, Dannie," says he. "Head throwed higher, lad. An' ye might use yer chest a bit more."

Into the hall and back again.

"Fair," says he. "I'll not deny that ye're doin' better. But Sir Harry, lad," says he, concerned, with a rub at his weathered nose, "uses more chest. Head high, lad; shoulders back, chest out. Come now! An' a mite more chest."

This time at a large swagger.

"Very good," says he, in a qualified way. "But could ye not scowl t' more purpose?"

'Twas fair heroic to indulge him—with the room full of the smell of browned meat. But, says I, desperately, "I'll try, sir."

"Jus' you think, Dannie," says he, "that that there ol' rockin'-chair with the tidy is a belted knight o' the realm. Come now! Leave me see how ye'd deal with he. An' a mite more chest, Dannie, if ye're able."

A withering stare for the rocking-chair—superior to the point of impudence—and a blank look for the unfortunate assemblage of furniture.

"Good!" cries my uncle. "Ecod! but I never knowed Sir Harry t' do it better. That there belted rockin'-chair o' the realm, Dannie, would swear you was a lord! An' now, lad," says he, fondly smiling, "ye may feed."[5]

This watchful cultivation, continuing through years, had flowered in a pretty swagger, as you may well believe. In all my progress to this day I have not observed a more genteelly insolent carriage than that which memory gives to the lad that was I. I have now no regret: for when I am abroad, at times, for the health and pleasure of us all, 'tis a not ungrateful thing, not unamusing, to be reminded, by the deferential service and regard this ill-suited manner wins for the outport man that I am, of those days when my fond uncle taught me to scowl and strut and cry, "What the devil d'ye mean, sir!" to impress my quality upon the saucy world. But when Judith came into our care—when first she sat with us at table, crushed, as a blossom, by the Hand that seems unkind: shy, tender-spirited, alien to our ways—'twas with a tragical shock I realized the appearance of high station my uncle's misguided effort and affection had stamped me with.

She sat with my uncle in the steerage; and she was lovely, very gentle and lovely, I recall, sitting there, with exquisitely dropping grace, under the lamp—in the shower of soft, yellow light: by which her tawny hair was set aglow, and the shadows, lying below her great, blue eyes, were deepened, in sympathy with her appealing grief. Came, then, this Dannie Callaway, in his London clothes, arrived direct per S.S. Cathian: came this enamoured young fellow, with his educated stare, his legs (good and bad) long-trousered for the first time in his life, his fingers sparkling, his neck collared and his wrists unimpeachably cuffed, his chest "used" in such a way as never, God knows! had it swelled before. 'Twas with no desire to indulge his uncle that he had managed these adornments. Indeed not! 'Twas a wish, growing within his heart, to compass a winning and distinguished appearance in the presence of the maid he loved.

By this magnificence the maid was abashed.

"Hello!" says I, as I swaggered past the steerage.

There was no response.

"Is you happy, child," says I, catching the trick of the thing from my uncle, "along o' ol' Nick Top an' me an' John Cather?"

My tutor laughed.

"Eh, Judy?" says I.

The maid's glance was fallen in embarrassment upon her plate.

"Dannie," says my uncle, severely, "ye better get under way with your feedin'."

The which, being at once hungry and obedient, I did: but presently, looking up, caught the poor maid unself-conscious. She no longer grieved—no longer sat sad and listless in her place. She was peering greedily into the cabin, as my uncle was wont to do, her slim, white neck something stretched and twisted (it seemed) to round a spreading cluster of buttercups. 'Twas a moving thing to observe. 'Twas not a shocking thing; 'twas a thing melting to the heart—'twas a thing, befalling with a maid, at once to provide a lad with chivalrous opportunity. The eyes were the great, blue eyes of Judith—grave, wide eyes, which, beneficently touching a lad, won reverent devotion, flushed the heart with zeal for righteousness. They were Judith's eyes, the same, as ever, in infinite depth of shadow, like the round sky at night, the same in light, like the stars that shine therein, the same in black-lashed mystery, like the firmament God made with His own hand. But still 'twas with a most marvellously gluttonous glance that she eyed the roast of fresh meat on the table before me. 'Twas no matter to me, to be sure! for a lad's love is not so easily alienated: 'tis an actual thing—not depending upon a neurotic idealization: therefore not to be disillusioned by these natural appearances.

"Judy," says I, most genially, "is you ever tasted roast veal?"

She was much abashed.

"Is you never," I repeated, "tasted roast veal?"

"No, sir," she whispered.

"'Sir!'" cries I, astounded. "'Sir!'" I gasped. "Maid," says I, now in wrathful amazement forgetting her afflicted state, "is you lost your senses?"

"N-n-no, sir," she stammered.

"For shame!" I scolded. "T' call me so!"

"Daniel," my uncle interjected, "volume II., page 24. 'A distinguished politeness o' manners.'"

By this my tutor was vastly amused, and delightedly watched us, his twinkling glance leaping from face to face.

"I'll not have it, Judy!" I warned her. "You'll vex me sore an you does it again."

The maid would not look up.

"Volume II., page 25," my uncle chided. "Underlined by Sir Harry. 'An' this address an' manner should be exceedin'ly respeckful.'"

"Judy!" I implored.

She ignored me.

"An you calls me that again, maid," I threatened, in a rage, "you'll be sorry for it. I'll—"

"Holy Scripture!" roared my uncle, reaching for his staff. "'Spare the rod and spoil the child.'"

I was not to be stopped by this. 'Twas an occasion too promising in disaster. She had sirred me like a house-maid. Sir? 'Twas past believing. That Judith should be so overcome by fine feathers and a roosterly strut! 'Twas shocking to discover the effect of my uncle's teaching. It seemed to me that the maid must at once be dissuaded from this attitude of inferiority or my solid hope would change into a dream. Inferiority? She must have no such fancy! Fixed within her mind 'twould inevitably involve us in some catastrophe of feeling. The torrent of my wrath and supplication went tumbling on: there was no staying it. My uncle's hand fell short of his staff; he sat stiff and agape with astonished admiration: perceiving which, my tutor laughed until my hot words were fair extinguished in the noise he made. By this my uncle was set laughing: whence the infection spread to me. And then Judith peeped at me through the cluster of buttercups with the ghost of a roguish twinkle.

"I'll call you Dannie," says she, slyly—"t' save you the lickin'!"

"Daniel," cries my uncle, delighted, "one slug-shot. Box with the star t' the box with the cross. Judy," says he, "move aft alongside o' that there roast veal!"

'Twas the beginning and end of this seeming difference of station....

* * * * *

John Cather took us in hand to profit us. 'Twas in the learning he had—'twas in every genteel accomplishment he had himself mastered in the wise world he came from—that we were instructed. I would have Judy for school-fellow: nor would I be denied—not I! 'Twas the plan I made when first I knew John Cather's business in our house: else, thinks I, 'twould be a mean, poor match we should make of it in the end. I would have her: and there, says I, with a toss and a stamp, to my uncle's delight, was an end of it! It came about in this way that we three spent the days together in agreeable employment: three young, unknowing souls—two lads and a maid. In civil weather, 'twas in the sunlight and breeze of the hills, 'twas in shady hollows, 'twas on the warm, dry rocks, which the breakers could not reach, 'twas on the brink of the cliff, that Cather taught us, leaving off to play, by my uncle's command, when we were tired of study; and when the wind blew with rain, or fog got the world all a-drip, or the task was incongruous with sunshine and fresh air (like multiplication), 'twas within doors that the lesson proceeded—in my library, which my uncle had luxuriously outfitted for me, when still I was an infant, against this very time.

"John Cather," says I, one day, "you've a wonderful tongue in your head."

'Twas on the cliff of Tom Tulk's Head. We had climbed the last slope hand in hand, with Judith between, and were now stretched out on the brink, resting in the cool blue wind from the sea.

"A nimble tongue, Dannie," he replied, "I'll admit."

"A wonderful tongue!" I repeated. "John Cather," I exclaimed, in envious admiration, "you've managed t' tell Judy in ten thousand ways that she's pretty."

Judith blushed.

"I wisht," says I, "that I was so clever as that."

"I know still another way," said he.

"Ay; an' a hundred more!"

"Another," said he, softly, turning to Judith, who would not look at him. "Shall I tell you, Judith?"

She shook her head.

"No?" said he. "Why not?"

The answer was in a whisper—given while the maid's hot face was still turned away. "I'm not wantin' you to," she said.

"Do, maid!" I besought her.

"I'm not wantin' him to."

"'Tis your eyes, I'll be bound!" said I. "'Twill be so clever that you'll be glad to hear."

"But I'm not wantin' him to," she persisted.

My tutor smiled indulgently—but with a pitiful little trace of hurt remaining. 'Twas as though he must suffer the rebuff with no offended question. In the maid 'twas surely a wilful and bewildering thing to deny him. I could not make it out: but wished, in the breeze and sunlight of that day, that the wound had not been dealt. 'Twas an unkind thing in Judith, thinks I; 'twas a thing most cruel—thus to coquette with the friendship of John Cather.

"Ah, Judy," I pleaded, "leave un have his way!"

She picked at the moss.

"Will ye not, maid?"

"I'm afraid!" she whispered in my ear.

"An' you'd stop for that!" I chided, not knowing what she meant: as how should a lad?

It seemed she would.

"'Tis an unkind thing," says I, "t' treat John Cather so. He've been good," says I, "t' you, Judy."

"Dannie!" she wailed.

"Don't, Dannie!" Cather entreated.

"I'd have ye listen, Judy," said I, in earnest, kind reproach, "t' what John Cather says. I'd have ye heed his words. I'd have ye care for him." Being then a lad, unsophisticated in the wayward, mercilessly selfish passion of love, ignorant of the unmitigated savagery of the thing, I said more than that, in my folly. "I'd have ye love John Cather," says I, "as ye love me." 'Tis a curious thing to look back upon. That I should snarl the threads of our destinies! 'Tis an innocency hard to credit. But yet John Cather and I had no sensitive intuition to warn us. How should we—being men? 'Twas for Judith to perceive the inevitable catastrophe; 'twas for the maid, not misled by reason, schooled by feeling into the very perfection of wisdom, to control and direct the smouldering passion of John Cather and me in the way she would, according to the power God gives, in infinite understanding of the hearts of men, to a maid to wield. "I'd have ye love John Cather," says I, "as ye love me." It may be that a lad loves his friend more than any other. "I'd have ye t' know, Judy," says I, gently, "that John Cather's my friend. I'd have ye t' know—"

"Dannie," Cather interrupted, putting an affectionate hand on my shoulder, "you don't know what you're saying."

Judith turned.

"I do, John Cather," says I. "I knows full well."

Judith's eyes, grown all at once wide and grave, looked with wonder into mine. I was made uneasy—and cocked my head, in bewilderment and alarm. 'Twas a glance that searched me deep. What was this? And why the warning? There was more than warning. 'Twas pain I found in Judith's great, blue eyes. What had grieved her? 'Twas reproach, too—and a flash of doubt. I could not read the riddle of it. Indeed, my heart began to beat in sheer fright, for the reproach and doubt vanished, even as I stared, and I confronted a sparkling anger. But presently, as often happened with that maid, tears flushed her eyes, and the long-lashed lids fell, like a curtain, upon her grief: whereupon she turned away, troubled, to peer at the sea, breaking far below, and would not look at me again. We watched her, John Cather and I, for an anxious space, while she sat brooding disconsolate at the edge of the cliff, a sweep of cloudless sky beyond. The slender, sweetly childish figure—with the tawny hair, I recall, all aglow with sunlight—filled the little world of our thought and vision. There was a patch of moss and rock, the green and gray of our land—there was Judith—there was an infinitude of blue space. John Cather's glance was frankly warm; 'twas a glance proceeding from clear, brave, guileless eyes—springing from a limpid soul within. It caressed the maid, in a fashion, thinks I, most brotherly. My heart warmed to the man; and I wondered that Judith should be unkind to him who was our friend.

'Twas a mystery.

"You will not listen, Judith?" he asked. "'Tis a very pretty thing I want to say."

Judith shook her head.

A flash of amusement crossed his face. "Please do!" he coaxed.

"No!"

"I'm quite proud of it," says he, with a laugh in his fine eyes. He leaned forward a little, and made as if to touch her, but withdrew his hand. "I did not know," says he, "that I was so clever. I have it all ready. I have every word in place. I'd like to say it—for my own pleasure, if not for yours. I think it would be a pity to let the pretty words waste themselves unsaid. I—I—hope you'll listen. I—I—really hope you will. And you will not?"

"No!" she cried, sharply. "No, no!"

"Why not?"

"No!" she repeated; and she slipped her hand into mine, and hid them both snugly in the folds of her gown, where John Cather could not see. "God wouldn't like it, John Cather," says she, her little teeth all bare, her eyes aflash with indignation, her long fingers so closely entwined with mine that I wondered. "He wouldn't 'low it," says she, "an He knowed."

I looked at John Cather in vague alarm.

[5] This Sir Harry Airworthy, K.C.M.G., I must forthwith explain, was that distinguished colonial statesman whose retirement to the quiet and bizarre enjoyments of life was so sincerely deplored at the time. His taste for the picturesque characters of our coast was discriminating and insatiable. 'Twas no wonder, then, that he delighted in my uncle, whose familiar companion he was in St. John's. I never knew him, never clapped eyes on him, that I recall; he died abroad before I was grown presentable. 'Twas kind in him, I have always thought, to help my uncle in his task of transforming me, for 'twas done with no personal responsibility whatsoever in the matter, but solely of good feeling. I owed him but one grudge, and that a short-lived one, going back to the year when I was seven: 'twas by advice o' Sir Harry that I was made to tub myself, every morning, in the water of the season, be it crusted with ice or not, with my uncle listening at the door to hear the splash and gasp.



XVII

RUM AND RUIN

In these days at Twist Tickle, his perturbation passed, my uncle was most blithe: for the Shining Light was made all ready for sea, with but an anchor to slip, sails to raise, for flight from an army of St. John's constables; and we were a pleasant company, well fallen in together, in a world of fall weather. And, says he, if the conduct of a damned little Chesterfieldian young gentleman was a labor t' manage, actin' accordin' t' that there fashionable ol' lord of the realm, by advice o' Sir Harry, whatever the lad in the case, whether good or bad, why, then, a maid o' the place, ecod! was but a pastime t' rear, an' there, says he, you had it! 'Twas at night, when he was come in from the sea, and the catch was split, and we sat with him over his rum, that he beamed most widely. He would come cheerily stumping from his mean quarters above, clad in the best of his water-side slops, all ironed and brushed, his great face glossy from soap and water, his hair dripping; and he would fall into the arms of his great-chair by the fire with a genial grunt of satisfaction, turning presently to regard us, John Cather and Judy and me, with a grin so wide and sparkling and benevolently indulgent and affectionate—with an aspect so patriarchal—that our hearts would glow and our faces responsively shine.

"Up with un, Dannie!" says he.

I would lift the ailing bit of timber to the stool with gingerly caution.

"Easy, lad!" groans he. "Ouch! All ship-shape," says he. "Is you got the little brown jug o' water?"

'Twould surely be there.

"Green pastures!" says he, so radiantly red, from his bristling gray stubble of hair to the folds of his chin, that I was reminded of a glowing coal. "There you haves it, Dannie!" cries he. "I knowed they was some truth in that there psa'm. Green pastures! 'He maketh me t' lie down in green pastures.' Them ol' bullies was wise as owls.... Pass the bottle, Judy. Thank 'e, maid. Ye're a wonderful maid t' blush, thank God! for they's nothin' so pretty as that. I'm a old, old man, Judy; but t' this day, maid, 'tis fair painful t' keep from kissin' red cheeks, whenever I sees un. Judy," says he, with a wag, his hand on the bottle, "I'd rather be tempted by mermaids or angels—I cares not which—than by a mortal maid's red cheeks! 'Twould be wonderful easy," says he, "t' resist a angel.... Green pastures! Eh, Dannie, b'y? Times is changed, isn't they? Not like it used t' be, when you an' me sot here alone t' drink, an' you was on'y a wee little lad. I wisht ye was a wee little lad again, Dannie; but Lord love us!" cries he, indignant with the paradox, "when ye was a wee little lad I wisht ye was growed. An' there you haves it!" says he, dolefully. "There you haves it!... I 'low, Dannie," says he, anxiously, his bottle halted in mid-air, "that you'd best pour it out. I'm a sight too happy, the night," says he, "t' be trusted with a bottle."

'Tis like he would have gone sober to bed had I not been there to measure his allowance.

"Ye're not so wonderful free with the liquor," he pouted, "as ye used t' be."

'Twas Judy who had put me up to it.

"Ye might be a drop more free!" my uncle accused.

'Twas reproachful—and hurt me sore. That I should deny my uncle who had never denied me! I blamed the woman. 'Tis marvellous how this frailty persists. That Judith, Twist Tickle born, should deliberately introduce the antagonism—should cause my uncle to suffer, me to regret! 'Twas hard to forgive the maid her indiscretion. I was hurt: for, being a lad, not a maid of subtle perceptions, I would not have my uncle go lacking that which comforted his distress and melancholy. Faith! but I had myself been looking forward with a thirsty gullet to the day—drawn near, as I thought—when I should like a man drink hard liquor with him in the glow of our fire: as, indeed, had he, by frank confession, indiscreetly made when he was grown horrified or wroth with my intemperance with ginger-ale.

"God save ye, Dannie!" he would expostulate, most heartily, most piously; "but I wisht ye'd overcome the bilge-water habit."

I would ignore him.

"'Tis on'y a matter o' will," says he. "'Tis nothin' more than that. An' I'm fair ashamed," he groaned, in sincere emotion, "to think ye're shackled, hand an' foot, to a bottle o' ginger-ale. For shame, lad—t' come t' such a pass." He was honest in his expostulation; 'twas no laughing matter—'twas an anxiously grave concern for my welfare. He disapproved of the beverage—having never tasted it. "You," cries he, with a pout and puff of scorn, "an' your bilge-water! In irons with a bottle o' ginger-ale! Could ye but see yourself, Dannie, ye'd quit quick enough. 'Tis a ridiculous picture ye make—you an' your bottle. 'Twould not be hard t' give it up, lad," he would plead. "Ye'll manage it, Dannie, an ye'd but put your mind to it. Ye'd be nervous, I've no doubt, for a spell. But what's that? Eh, what's that—ag'in your health?"

I would sip my ginger-ale unheeding.

"An' what about Chesterfield?" says he.

"I'll have another bottle, sir," says I.

"Lord love us!" he would complain, in such distress that I wish I had not troubled him with this passion. "Ye're fair bound t' ruin your constitution with drink."

Pop went the cork.

"An' here's me" says he, in disgusted chagrin, "tryin' t' make a gentleman out o' ye!"

Ah, well! 'twas now a mean, poor lookout for the cosey conviviality I had all my life promised myself with my uncle. Since the years when late o' nights I occupied the arms and broad knee of Cap'n Jack Large at the Anchor and Chain—with a steaming comfort within and a rainy wind blowing outside—my uncle and I had dwelt upon the time when I might drink hard liquor with him like a man. 'Twould be grand, says my uncle, to sit o' cold nights, when I was got big, with a bottle o' Long Tom between. A man grown—a man grown able for his bottle! For him, I fancy, 'twas a vision of successful achievement and the reward of it. Lord love us! says he, but the talk o' them times would be lovely. The very thought of it, says he—the thought o' Dannie Callaway grown big and manly and helpfully companionable—fair warmed him with delight. But now, at Twist Tickle, with the strong, sly hands of Judith upon our ways, with her grave eyes watching, now commending, now reproaching, 'twas a new future that confronted us. Ay, but that maid, dwelling responsibly with us men, touched us closely with control! 'Twas a sharp eye here, a sly eye there, a word, a twitch of her red lips, a lift of the brow and dark lashes—and a new ordering of our lives. 'Tis marvellous how she did it: but that she managed us into better habits, by the magic mysteriously natural to a maid, I have neither the wish nor the will to gainsay. I grieved that she should deprive my uncle of his comfort; but being a lad, devoted, I would not add one drop to my uncle's glass, while Judith sat under the lamp, red-cheeked in the heat of the fire, her great eyes wishful to approve, her mind most captivatingly engaged, as I knew, with the will of God, which was her own, dear heart! though she did not know it.

"Dannie," says she, in private, "God wouldn't 'low un more'n a quarter of a inch at a time."

"'Twas in the pantry while I got the bottle."

"An' how," quoth I, "is you knowin' that?"

"Why, child," she answered, "God tol' me so."

I writhed. 'Twas a fancy so strange the maid had: but was yet so true and reverent and usefully efficient—so high in leading to her who led us with her into pure paths—that I must smile and adore her for it. 'Twas to no purpose, as I knew, to thresh over the improbability of the communication: Judith's eyes were round and clear and unwavering—full of most exalted truth, concern, and confidence. There was no pretence anywhere to be descried in their depths: nor evil nor subterfuge of any sort. And it seems to me, now, grown as I am to sager years, that had the Guide whose hand she held upon the rough road of her life communed with His sweet companion, 'twould have been no word of reproach or direction he would whisper for her, who needed none, possessing all the wisdom of virtue, dear heart! but a warning in my uncle's behalf, as she would have it, against the bottle he served. The maid's whimsical fancy is not incomprehensible to me, neither tainted with irreverence nor untruth: 'twas a thing flowering in the eyrie garden of her days at Whisper Cove—a thing, as I cannot doubt, of highest inspiration.

"But," I protested, glibly, looking away, most wishful, indeed, to save my uncle pain, "I isn't able t' measure a quarter of a inch."

"I could," says she.

"Not with the naked eye, maid!"

"Well," says she, "you might try, jus' t' please God."

To be sure I might: I might pour at a guess. But, unhappily (and it may be that there is some philosophy in this for a self-indulgent world), I was not in awe of Judith's fantastic conception of divinity, whatever I thought of my own, by whom, however, I was not conjured. Moreover, I loved my uncle, who had continued to make me happy all my life, and would venture far in the service of his comfort. The twinkling, benevolent aspect of the maid's Deity could not compel a lad to righteousness: I could with perfect complacency conduct myself perversely before it. And must we then, lads and men, worship a God of wrath, quick to punish, niggardly in fatherly forgiveness, lest we stray into evil ways? I do not know. 'Tis beyond me to guess the change to be worked in the world by a new conception of the eternal attributes.

"An' will you not?" says she.

It chanced, now, that she held the lamp near her face, so that her beauty was illumined and transfigured. 'Twas a beauty most tender—most pure and elfin and religious. 'Tis a mean, poor justification, I know, to say that I was in some mysterious way—by the magic resident in the beauty of a maid, and virulently, wickedly active within its sphere, which is the space the vision of a lad may carry—that I was by this magic incapacitated and overcome. 'Tis an excuse made by fallen lads since treason was writ of; 'tis a mere excuse, ennobling no traitorious act: since love, to be sure, has no precedence of loyalty in hearts of truth and manful aspiration. Love? surely it walks with glorious modesty in the train of honor—or is a brazen baggage. But, as it unhappily chanced, whatever the academic conception, the maid held the lamp too close for my salvation: so close that her blue, shadowy eyes bewildered me, and her lips, red and moist, with a gleam of white teeth between, I recall, tempted me quite beyond the endurance of self-respect. I slipped, indeed, most sadly in the path, and came a shamefaced, ridiculous cropper.

"An' will you not," says she, "pour but a quarter of a inch t' the glass?"

"I will," I swore, "for a kiss!"

'Twas an outrageous betrayal of my uncle.

"For shame!" cries she.

"I will for a kiss," I repeated, my soul offered on a platter to the devil, "regardless o' the consequences."

She matched my long words with a great one caught from my tutor. "God isn't inclined," says she, with a toss, "in favor o' kisses."

And there you had it!

* * * * *

When we sat late, our maid-servant would indignantly whisk Judith off to bed—crying out upon us for our wickedness.

"Cather," my uncle would drawl, Judith being gone, "ye're all wore out along o' too much study."

"Not at all, Skipper Nicholas!" cries my tutor.

"Study," says my uncle, in solemn commiseration, "is a bitter thing t' be cotched by. Ye're all wore out, parson, along o' the day's work."

My tutor laughed.

"Too much study for the brain," says my uncle, sympathetically, his eye on the bottle. "I 'low, parson, if I was you I'd turn in."

Cather was unfailingly obedient.

"Dannie," says my uncle, with reviving interest, "have he gone above?"

"He have," says I.

"Take a look," he whispered, "t' see that Judy's stowed away beyond hearin'."

I would step into the hall—where was no nightgowned figure listening on the stair—to reassure him.

"Dannie," says he, wickedly gleeful, "how's the bottle?"

I would hold it up to the lamp and rattle its contents. "'Tis still stout, sir," says I. "'Tis a wonderful bottle."

"Stout!" cries he, delighted. "Very good."

"Still stout," says I; "an' the third night!"

"Then," says he, pushing his glass towards me, "I 'low they's no real need o' puttin' me on short allowance. Be liberal, Dannie, b'y—be liberal when ye pours."

I would be liberal.

"'Tis somehow sort o' comfortable, lad," says he, eying me with honest feeling, "t' be sittin' down here with a ol' chum like you. 'Tis very good, indeed."

I was glad that he thought so.

And now I must tell that I loved Judith. 'Tis enough to say so—to write the bare words down. I'm not wanting to, to be sure: for it shames a man to speak boldly of sacred things like this. It shames a lad, it shames a maid, to expose the heart of either, save sacredly to each other. 'Tis all well enough, and most delightful, when the path is moonlit and secluded, when the warmth and thrill of a slender hand may be felt, when the stars wink tender encouragement from the depths of God's own firmament, when all the world is hushed to make the opportunity: 'tis then all well enough to speak of love. There is nothing, I know, to compare in ecstasy with the whisper and sigh and clinging touch of that time—to compare with the awe and mystery and solemnity of it. But 'tis sacrilegious and most desperately difficult and embarrassing, I find, at this distant day, to write of it. I had thought much upon love, at that wise age—fifteen, it was, I fancy—and it seemed to me, I recall, a thing to cherish within the heart of a man, to hide as a treasure, to dwell upon, alone, in moments of purest exaltation. 'Twas not a thing to bandy about where punts lay tossing in the lap of the sea; 'twas not a thing to tell the green, secretive old hills of Twin Islands; 'twas not a thing to which the doors of the workaday world might be opened, lest the ribaldry to which it come offend and wound it: 'twas a thing to conceal, far and deep, from the common gaze and comment, from the vulgar chances, the laugh and cynical exhaustion and bleared wit of the life we live. I loved Judith—her eyes and tawny hair and slender finger-tips, her whimsical way, her religious, loving soul. I loved her; and I would not have you think 'twas any failure of adoration to pour my uncle an honest dram of rum when she was stowed away in innocency of all the evil under the moon. 'Tis a thing that maids have nothing to do with, thinks I; 'tis a knowledge, indeed, that would defile them....

* * * * *

"Dannie," says my uncle, once, when we were left alone, "he've begun t' fall."

I was mystified.

"The parson," he explained, in a radiant whisper; "he've begun t' yield."

"T' what?" I demanded.

"Temptation. He've a dark eye, lad, as I 'lowed long ago, an' he've begun t' give way t' argument."

"God's sake, Uncle Nick!" I cried, "leave the poor man be. He've done no harm."

He scratched his stubble of hair, and contemplatively traced a crimson scar with his forefinger. "No," he mused, his puckered, weathered brow in a doubtful frown; "not so far. But," he added, looking cheerily up, "I've hopes that I'll manage un yet."

"Leave un alone," I pleaded.

"Ay," says he, with a hitch of his wooden leg; "but I needs un."

I protested.

"Ye don't s'pose, Dannie," he complained, in a righteous flash, "that I'm able t' live forever, does ye?"

I did not, but heartily wished he might; and by this sincere expression he was immediately mollified.

"Well," says he, his left eyelid drooping in a knowing way, his whole round person, from his topmost bristle to his gouty wooden toe, braced to receive the shock of my congratulation, "I've gone an' worked that there black-an'-white young parson along! Sir Harry hisself," he declared, "couldn't have done it no better. Nor ol' Skipper Chesterfield, neither," says he.

'Twas a pity.

"No," he boasted, defiantly; "nor none o' them wise ol' bullies of old!"

I sighed.

"Dannie," says he, with the air of imparting a grateful secret, "I got that there black-an'-white young parson corrupted. I got un," he repeated, leaning forward, his fantastic countenance alight with pride and satisfaction—"I got un corrupted! I've got un t' say," says he, "that 'tis sometimes wise t' do evil that good may come. An' when a young feller says that," says he, with a grave, grave nodding, so that his disfigurements were all most curiously elongated, "he've sold his poor, mean soul t' the devil."

"I wisht," I complained, "that you'd leave the poor man alone."

"Why, Dannie," says my uncle, simply, "he's paid for!"

"Paid for!" cries I.

"Ay, lad," he chided; "t' be sure, that there young black-an'-white parson is paid for."