I wondered how that might be.

"Paid for!" my uncle repeated, in a quivering, indrawn breath, the man having fallen, all at once, into gloom and terror. "'Tis all paid for!"

Here again was the disquieting puzzle of my childish years: my uncle, having now leaned forward to come close to me, was in a spasmodic way indicating the bowels of the earth with a turned thumb. Down, down: it seemed he pointed to infinite depths of space and woe. Down, down—continuing thus, with a slow, grevious wagging of the great, gray head the sea had in the brutal passion of some wild night maltreated. The familiar things of the room, the simple, companionable furniture of that known place, with the geometrically tempestuous ocean framed beyond, were resolved into a background of mysterious shadows as I stared; there was nothing left within the circle of my vision but a scared gargoyle, leaning into the red glow of the fire. My uncle's round little eyes protruded—started from the bristles and purpling scars and brown flesh of his broad face—as many a time before I had in sad bewilderment watched them do. Paid for—all the pride and comfort and strange advantages of my life! All paid for in the black heart of this mystery! And John Cather, too! I wondered again, with an eye upon my uncle's significantly active thumb, having no courage to meet his poignant glance, how that might be. According to my catechism, severely taught in other years, I must ask no questions, but must courteously await enlightenment at my uncle's pleasure; and 'twas most marvellously hard—this night of all the nights—to keep my soul unspotted from the sin of inquisitiveness.

"Paid for," my uncle repeated, hoarse with awe, "by poor Tom Callaway!"

'Twas kind in my father, thinks I, to provide thus bounteously for my welfare.

"Poor Tom!" my uncle sighed, now recovering his composure. "Poor, poor ol' Tom—in the place he's to!"

"Still an' all, Uncle Nick," I blundered, "I wisht you'd leave my tutor be."

"Ye're but a child!" he snapped. "Put the stopper in the bottle. 'Tis time you was in bed."

'Twas an unexpected rebuke. I was made angry with him, for the only time in all my life; and to revenge myself I held the bottle to the lamp, and deliberately measured its contents, before his astonished eyes, so that, though I left it with him, he could not drink another drop without my knowing it; and I stoppered the bottle, as tight as I was able, and left him to get his wooden toe from the stool with the least agony he could manage, and would not bank the fire or light his night-lamp. I loved my tutor, and would not have him corrupted; 'twas a hateful thought to conceive that he might come unwittingly to ruin at our hands. 'Twas a shame in my old uncle, thinks I, to fetch him to despair. John Cather's soul bargained for and bought! 'Twas indeed a shame to say it. There was no evil in him when he came clear-eyed from the great world beyond us; there should be no evil in him when he left us, whenever that might be, to renew the life he would not tell us of. I looked my uncle in the eye in a way that hurt and puzzled him. I wish I had not; but I did, as I pounded the cork home, and boldly slipped the screw into my pocket. He would go on short allowance, that night, thinks I: for his nails, broken by toil, would never pick the stopper out. And I prepared, in a rage, to fling out of the room, when—

"Dannie!" he called.

I halted.

"What's this?" says he, gently. "It never happened afore, little shipmate, betwixt you an' me. What's this?" he begged. "I'm troubled."

I pulled the cork of his bottle, and poured a dram, most liberally, to delight his heart; and I must turn my face away, somehow, to hide it from him, because of shame for this mean doubt of him, ungenerous and ill-begotten.

"I'm troubled," he repeated. "What's this, lad?"

I could not answer him.

"Is I been unkind, Dannie?"

"No," I sobbed. "'Tis that I've been wicked t' you!"

He looked at me with eyes grown very grave. "Ah!" says he, presently, comprehending. "That's good," says he, in his slow, gentle way. "That's very good. But ye'll fret no more, will ye, Dannie? An' ye've growed too old t' cry. Go t' bed, lad. Ye're all wore out. I'll manage the lamp alone. God bless ye. Go t' bed."

I waited.

"That's good," he repeated, in a muse, staring deep into the red coals in the grate. "That's very good."

I ran away—closed my door upon this wretched behavior, but could not shut its ghastly sauciness and treachery from the chambers of my memory. The habit of faith and affection was strong: I was no longer concerned for my friend John Cather, but was mightily ashamed of this failure in duty to the grotesque old hook-and-line man who had without reserve of sacrifice or strength nourished me to the lusty years of that night. As I lay in bed, I recall, downcast, self-accusing, flushed with shame, I watched the low clouds scud across the starlit sky, and I perceived, while the torn, wind-harried masses rushed restlessly on below the high, quiet firmament, that I had fallen far away from the serenity my uncle would teach me to preserve in every fortune.

"I'll not fail again!" thinks I. "Not I!"

'Twas an experience profitable or unprofitable, as you shall presently judge.



XVIII

A LEGACY OF LOVE

Moses Shoos, I recall, carried the mail that winter. 'Twas a thankless task: a matter of thirty miles to Jimmie Tick's Cove and thirty back again. Miles hard with peril and brutal effort—a way of sleet and slush, of toilsome paths, of a swirling mist of snow, of stinging, perverse winds or frosty calm, of lowering days and the haunted dark o' night—to be accomplished, once a week, afoot and alone, by way of barren and wilderness and treacherous ice. 'Twas a thankless task, indeed; but 'twas a task to which the fool of Twist Tickle addressed himself with peculiar reverence.

"Mother," says he, "always 'lowed that a man ought t' serve his Queen: an' mother knowed. 'Moses,' says she, afore she died, 'a good man haves just got t' serve the Queen: for an good men don't,' says she, 'the poor Lady is bound t' come t' grief along o' rascals. Poor, poor Lady!' says she. 'She've a wonderful lot t' put up with along o' stupid folk an' rascals. I'm not knowin' how she bears it an' lives. 'Tis a mean, poor dunderhead, with heart an' brains in his gullet,' says she, 'that wouldn't serve the Queen. God save the Queen!' says mother. 'What's a man worth,' says she, 'that on'y serves hisself?'"

Not much, thinks I!

"An' mother knowed," says Moses, softly. "Ay, Dannie," he declared, with a proud little grin, "I bet you mother knowed!"

'Twas this exalted ideal of public service, fashioned in the wisdom of the simple by the amazing mother who bore him, that led the fool, as by the hand, from a wilderness of snow and night and bewildered visions, wherein no aspiration of his own shaped itself, to the warm hearth of Twist Tickle and the sleep of a child by night.

* * * * *

Once I watched him stagger, white and bent with weather and labor, from the ice of Ship's Run, his bag on his back, to the smoking roofs of Twist Tickle, which winter had spread with a snowy blanket and tucked in with anxious hands. 'Twas a bitter day, cold, windy, aswirl with the dust of snow, blinding as a mist. I sat with Judith in the wide, deeply cushioned window-seat of my lib'ry, as my uncle called the comfortable, book-shelved room he had, by advice o' Sir Harry, provided for my youth. John Cather was not about; and I caressed, I recall, the long, slender fingers of her hand, which unfailingly and without hesitation gave themselves to my touch. She would never deny me that, this maid; 'twas only kisses she would hold me from. She would snuggle close and warmly, when John Cather was not about, but would call her God to witness that kisses were prohibited where happiness would continue.

"'Tis not 'lowed, child," says she.

Her cheek was so close, so round and soft and delicately tinted, that I touched my lips to it, quite unable to resist.

"I don't mind that," says she.

'Twas vastly encouraging.

"'Twas so brotherly," she added.

"Judy," I implored, "I'm in need of another o' that same kind."

"No, no!" she cried. "You'd never find the spot!"

'Twas with the maid, then, I sat in the window-seat of my warm room, content with the finger-tips I might touch and kiss as I would, lifted into a mood most holy and aspiring by the weight of her small head upon my shoulder, the bewildering light and mystery of her great, blue eyes, the touch and sweet excitement of her tawny hair, which brushed my cheek, as she well knew, this perverse maid! John Cather was not about, and the maid was yielding, as always in his absence; and I was very happy. 'Twas Moses we observed, all this time, doggedly staggering, upon patriotic duty, from the white, swirling weather of that unkind day, in the Queen's service, his bag on his back.

"He've his mother t' guide un," says she.

"An' his father?"

"'Tis said that he was lost," she answered, "in the Year o' the Big Shore Catch; but I'm knowin' nothin' about that."

I remembered the secret Elizabeth would impart to my uncle Nicholas.

"My father," says Judith, in challenge, "was a very good man."

I was not disposed to deny it.

"A very good man," she repeated, eying me sharply for any sign of incredulity.

'Twas her fancy: I might indulge it.

"I 'low, Dannie," says she, "that he was a wonderful handsome man, though I never seed un. God's sake!" cries she, defiantly, "he'd be hard t' beat for looks in this here harbor." She was positive; there was no uncertainty—'twas as though she had known him as fathers are known. And 'twas by no wish of mine, now, that our hands came close together, that her eyes were bent without reserve upon my own, that she snuggled up to my great, boyish body: 'twas wholly a wish of the maid. "'Twas blue eyes he had," says she, "an' yellow hair an' big shoulders. He was a parson, Dannie," she proceeded. "I 'low he must have been. He—he—was!" she declared; "he was a great, big parson with blue eyes." I would not be a parson, thinks I, whatever the maid might wish. "An' he 'lowed," she continued, pursuing her wilful fancy, "that he'd come back, some day, an' love my mother as she knowed he could." We watched Moses Shoos come across the harbor ice and break open the door of the postmaster's cottage. "But he was wrecked an' drowned," says Judith, "an' 'twas an end of my mother's hope. 'Twas on'y that," says she, "that she would tell Skipper Nicholas on the night she died. 'Twas just the wish that he would bring me up, as he've fetched up you, Dannie," she added: "jus' that—an' the name o' my father. I'm not sorry," says she, with her head on my shoulder, "that she never told the name."

Elizabeth carried her secret into the greater mystery to which she passed; 'twas never known to us, nor to any one....

* * * * *

"Moses," says I, in delight, when the news got abroad, "I hears you got the contract for the mail?"

"I is," says he.

"An' how in the name o' Heaven," I demanded, "did you manage so great a thing?"

There had been competition, I knew: there had been consideration and consultation—there had been the philosophy of the aged concerning the carrying of mail in past years, the saucy anarchy of the young with regard to the gruelling service, the chatter of wishful women upon the spending value of the return, the speculatively saccharine brooding of children—there had been much sage prophecy and infinitely knowing advice—there had been misleading and secrecy and sly devising—there had been envy, bickering, disruption of friendship—there had been a lavish waste and disregard of character—there had been all this, as I knew, and more pitiable still, in competition for the weekly four dollars of government money. 'Twas a most marvellous achievement, thinks I, that the fool of Twist Tickle had from this still weather of reason and tempest of feeling emerged with the laurel of wisdom (as my tutor said) to crown him. 'Twas fair hard to credit! I must know the device—the clever political trick—by which the wags and wiseacres of Twist Tickle had been discomfited. 'Twas with this hungry curiosity that I demanded of the fool of Twist Tickle how he had managed so great a thing.

"Eh, Moses," says I; "how was it?"

"Dannie," he gravely explained, "'tis very simple. My bid," says he, impressively, "was the lowest."

"An' how much was that, Moses?"

"Mother," he observed, "didn't hold a wonderful lot with half measures."

'Twas no answer to my question.

"She always 'lowed," says he, with a mystifyingly elaborate wave and accent, "that doin' was better than gettin'."

I still must wait.

"'Moses,' says she," he pursued, "'don't you mind the price o' fish; you cotch un. Fish,' says she, 'is fish; but prices goes up an' down, accordin' t' the folly o' men. You do,' says she; 'an' you leave what you gets t' take care of itself.' An' I 'low," says Moses, gently, a smile transfiguring his vacant face, "that mother knowed."

'Twas all, it seemed to me, a defensive argument.

"An' mother 'lowed, afore she died," he added, looking up to a gray sky, wherein a menace of snow dwelt, "that a good man would save his Queen from rascals."

"Ay," I complained; "but what was the bid that won from Eli Flack?"

"The bid?"

"Ay; the bid."

"Not expensive," says he.

"But how much, Moses?"

"Well, Dannie," he answered, with a sigh and a rub of his curly, yellow beard, "I 'lowed mother wouldn't charge much for servin' the Queen: for," says he, enlivened, "'twould be too much like common labor t' carry Her Majesty's mail at a price. An' I bid," he added, eying me vaguely, "accordin' t' what I 'lowed mother would have me do in the Queen's service. Fac' is, Dannie," says he, in a squall of confidence, "I 'lowed I'd carry it free!"

* * * * *

'Twas this contact with the world of Jimmie Tick's Cove that embarked the fool upon an adventurous enterprise. When, in the spring of that year, the sea being open, the Quick as Wink made our harbor, the first of all the traders, Tumm, the clerk, was short-handed for a cook, having lost young Billy Rudd overboard, in a great sea, beating up in stress of weather to the impoverished settlement at Diamond Run. 'Twas Moses, the choice of necessity, he shipped in the berth of that merry, tow-headed lad of tender voice, whose songs, poor boy! would never again be lifted, o' black nights in harbor, in the forecastle of the Quick as Wink. "Ay, Dannie," says Moses, "you'd never think it, maybe, but I'm shipped along o' Tumm for the French shore an' the Labrador ports. I've heared tell a wonderful lot about Mother Burke, but I've never seed the ol' rock; an' I've heared tell a wonderful lot about Coachman's Cove an' Conch an' Lancy Loop an' the harbors o' the straits shores, but I've never seed un with my own eyes, an' I'm sort o' wantin' t' know how they shapes up alongside o' Twist Tickle. I 'low," says he, "you don't find many harbors in the world like Twist Tickle. Since I been travellin' t' Jimmie Tick's Cove with the mail," he continued, with a stammer and flush, like a man misled from an austere path by the flesh-pots of earth, "I've cotched a sinful hankerin' t' see the world."

I wished he had not.

"But mother," he added, quickly, in self-defence, "always 'lowed a man ought t' see the world. So," says he, "I'm shipped along o' Tumm, for better or for worse, an' I'm bound down north in the Quick as Wink with the spring supplies."

'Twas a far journey for that sensitive soul.

"Dannie," he asked, in quick alarm, a fear so sudden and unexpected that I was persuaded of the propriety of my premonition, "what you thinkin' about? Eh, Dannie?" he cried. "What you lookin' that way for?"

I would not tell him that I knew the skipper of the Quick as Wink, whose butt the fool must be.

"You isn't 'lowin'," Moses began, "that mother—"

"Not at all, Moses!" says I.

'Twas instant and complete relief he got from this denial. "We sails," says he, with all a traveller's importance, "at dawn o' to-morrow. I'll be gone from Twist Tickle by break o' day. I'll be gone t' new places—t' harbors I've heared tell of but never seed with my own eyes. I'm not quite knowin'," says he, doubtfully, "how I'll get along with the cookin'. Mother always 'lowed," he continued, with a greater measure of hope, "that I was more'n fair on cookin' a cup o' tea. 'Moses,' says she, 'you can brew a cup o' tea so well as any fool I ever knowed.' But that was on'y mother," he added, in modest self-deprecation. "Jus' mother."

I wished again that the fool had not fallen into the mercilessly facetious company of Skipper Saucy Bill North of the schooner Quick as Wink.

"An', Dannie," says Moses, "I'm scared I'll fail with all but the tea."

'Twas come near the evening of that mellow Sunday. On the Whisper Cove road and the greening hills of Twin Islands, where Moses and I had walked in simple companionship, the birds had been mating and nesting in the thick sunshine of the afternoon. Chirp and flutter and shrill song! 'Twas a time for the mating of birds. The haste and noise and pomposity of this busy love-making! The loud triumph and soft complaint of it! All the world of spruce and alder and sunlit spaces had been a-flutter. But the weather was now fallen gloomy, the sky overcast, the wind blowing in from the black, uneasy sea, where floes and gigantic bergs of ice drifted, like frozen ghosts, cold and dead and aimlessly driven; and the hopeful sunshine had left the hills, and the piping and chirping were stilled, and I heard no more fluttering wings or tender love-songs. The fool of Twist Tickle paused in the road to stare vacantly northward. 'Twas there dark with menacing clouds—thick, sombre clouds, tinged with a warning blue, rising implacably above the roughening black of the sea. He wondered, it may be, in his dull, weakling way, concerning the coasts beyond the grave curtain, which he must discover—new coasts, dealing with us variously, as we disclose them to our hearts. I watched him with misgiving. To be sure, the skipper of the Quick as Wink was an unkind man, cynical and quick to seek selfish laughter, whatever the wound he dealt; but Tumm, our friend and the genial friend of all the world, thinks I, more hopefully, would not have the poor fool wronged.

"Dannie," says Moses, turning, "I'm scared my cookin' won't quite fit the stomachs o' the crew o' the Quick as Wink."

"Ay, Moses," says I, to hearten him; "but never a good man was that didn't fear a new task."

He eyed me doubtfully.

"An'," I began, "your mother, Moses—"

"But," he interrupted, "mother wasn't quite t' be trusted in all things."

"Not trusted!" I cried.

"You'll not misunderstand me, Dannie?" he besought me, putting a hand on my shoulder. "You'll not misunderstand, will you? But mother wasn't quite t' be trusted," says he, "when it come t' the discussion," says he, pausing to permit a proper appreciation of the learned word, which he had appropriated from my tutor's vocabulary, "o' my accomplishments."

It had never occurred before.

"For mother," he explained, "was somehow wonderful fond o' me."

The church-bell called him.

"Hear her voice, Dannie?" said he. "Hear her voice in that there bell? 'Come—dear!' says she. 'Come—dear! Come—dear!' Hear it ring out? 'Come—dear! Come—dear! Come—dear!'"

I bade him God-speed with a heart that misgave me.

"I'll answer," said he, his face lifted to the sky, "to that voice!"

* * * * *

The clouds in the west broke, and through the rift a shaft of sunlight shot, glad to be free, and touched our world of sea and rock with loving finger-tips, but failed, as I turned homeward, hearing no voice of my unknown mother in the wandering call of the bell; and all the world went gray and sullenly mute, as it had been....



XIX

A WORD OF WARNING

Presently my uncle and I made ready to set out for St. John's upon the sinister business which twice a year engaged his evil talents at the wee waterside place wherein he was the sauciest dog in the pack. There was now no wandering upon the emotionless old hills of Twin Islands to prepare him, no departure from the fishing, no unseemly turning to the bottle, to factitious rage; but he brooded more despairingly in his chair by the window when the flare of western glory left the world. At evening, when he thought me gone upon my pleasure, I watched him from the shadows of the hall, grave with youth, wishing, all the while, that he might greet the night with gratitude for the mercy of it; and I listened to his muttering—and I saw that he was grown old and weak with age: unequal, it might be, to the wickedness he would command in my service. "For behold the Lord will come with fire, and with his chariots like a whirlwind, to render his anger with fury, and his rebuke with the flames of fire." For me 'twas still sweet to watch the tender shadows creep upon the western fire, to see the great gray rocks dissolve, to hear the sea's melodious whispering; but to him the sea spoke harshly and the night came with foreboding. I wished that he would forsake the evil he followed for my sake. I would be a club-footed, paddle-punt fisherman, as the gray little man from St. John's had said, and be content with that fortune, could my uncle but look into the eyes of night without misgiving.

But I must not tell him so....

* * * * *

We left John Cather behind.

"Uncle Nick," says I, "I 'low we'd best have un along."

"An' why?" cries he.

"I don't know," says I, honestly puzzled.

He looked at me quizzically. "Is you sure?" he asked. His eyes twinkled. "Is you sure you doesn't know?"

"I don't know," I answered, frowning. "I don't know at all."

"Dannie," says he, significantly, "'tisn't time yet for John Cather t' go t' St. John's. You got t' take your chance."

"What chance?" I demanded.

"I don't know," says he.

I scowled.

"But," says he, "an I was you I wouldn't fear on no account whatever. No," he repeated, "I wouldn't fear—an I was you."

So John Cather was left with Judy and the watchful maid-servant who loved her, having no child of her own, when my uncle and I fared out of the tickle upon the outside boat. I was troubled in the dark and wash and heave of that night, but could not for the life of me tell why. John Cather had bade me good-bye with a heartening laugh and clap on the shoulder. 'Twas with gratitude—and sure persuasion of unworthiness—that I remembered his affection. And Judy had given me a sisterly kiss of farewell which yet lingered upon my lips so warmly that in my perplexity I was conscious of it lying there and must like a thirsty man feel the place her moist mouth had touched. 'Twas grief, thinks I, because of parting with my friend John Cather; and I puzzled no longer, but devoted myself to the accomplishment of manners, as I had been taught, and now attended with interest, having grown old and wise. 'Twas rainy weather, windy, with the sea in an ugly pother off the rocks of our hard coast. 'Twas wet, blustering weather, indeed, all the hapless time we were gone from Twist Tickle: the tap-rooms of St. John's, I recall, disagreeably steamed and reeked. My uncle put me to bed that night with a motherly injunction to recite the twenty-third psalm for safety against the perils of the sea and the machinations of wicked men, and to regard the precepts of the noble Lord Chesterfield for guidance in more difficult waters: the man being quite sober for the first time in all my life upon these occasions of departure.

"Dannie, lad," says he, "you cling t' that there little anchor I'm give ye t' hold to."

I asked him mechanically what that was.

"The twenty-third psa'm," says he.

To this I promised.

"An', Dannie," says he, drawing the great bandanna handkerchief from his trousers-pocket to blow his nose, "don't ye be gettin' lonely: for Dannie—"

I must sharply attend.

"I'm for'ard," he declared, "standin' by!"

He could not perceive, poor man! that I was no longer to be dealt with as a child.

* * * * *

There befell me in the city a singular encounter. 'Twas of a soggy, dismal day: there was a searching wind abroad, I recall, to chill the marrow of impoverished folk, a gray light upon all the slimy world, a dispiriting fog flowing endlessly in scowling clouds over the hills to thicken and eddy and drip upon the streets and harbor. It being now at the crisis of my uncle's intoxication, I was come from my hotel alone, wandering without aim, to speed the anxious hours. Abreast of the familiar door of the Anchor and Chain, where long ago I had gratefully drunk with Cap'n Jack Large, I paused; and I wondered, as I stared at the worn brass knob, now broken into beads of cold sweat with the weather, whether or not I might venture some persuasion upon my perverse uncle, but was all at once plucked by the tail of my coat, and turned in a rage to resent the impudence. 'Twas but a scrawny, brass-buttoned boy, however, with an errand for the lad with the rings, as they called me. I followed, to be sure, and was by this ill-nourished messenger led to the crossing of King Street with Water, where my uncle was used to tap-tapping the pavement. Thence in a moment we ascended to a group of office-rooms, on the opposite side of the street, wherein, having been ceremoniously ushered, I found the gray stranger who had called me a club-footed, ill-begotten young whelp, on that windy night at Twist Tickle, and had with meaning complacency threatened my uncle's assassination.

I had not expected it.

"Ha!" snaps he. "Here you are, eh?"

To my amazement.

"You know me?" he demanded.

I did not know his quality, which seemed, however, by the state he dwelt in, by the deference he commanded from the scrawny, brass-buttoned, ill-nourished, tragically obsequious child who had fetched me, to be of distinction.

"Sit down," he bade me.

I would not.

"Well, well!" cries he. "You've manners as brief as your memory."

'Twas a vivid recollection that had shorn my manner to the bare. My uncle had not been quick enough to sweep the lamp from the table: I remembered this man. 'Twas he who had of that windy night most cruelly damned me; 'twas he who had struck my uncle.

"I've not forgot you, sir," says I.

He was gray: he was indeed most incredibly gray—gray of hair and eye and brow and flesh, gray of mood and outlook upon the world, forever dwelling, as it seemed, in a gray fog of suspicion and irascibility. I was gone over, from pate to shrinking club-foot, with more intimate and intelligently curious observation than ever a 'longshore jack or coast-wise skipper had achieved in the years when I wore rings. Never before had I suffered a stare more keen and unabashed: 'twas an assurance stripped of insolence by some tragical need and right. He sat beyond a broad, littered table, leaning forward upon it, his back to the riley light, his drawn face nestled within the lean, white hands of him; and 'twas now a brooding inspection I must bear—an unself-conscious thing, remote from my feeling, proceeding from eyes as gray as winter through narrow slits that rapidly snapped shut and flashed open in spasmodic winking. He was a man of fashion, of authority, of large affairs, it seemed—a gentleman, according to my uncle's code and fashion-plates. But he was now by my presence so wretchedly detached from the great world he moved in that for a moment I was stirred to pity him. What had this masterful little man, thinks I, to fear from Dannie Callaway of Twist Tickle?

Enough, as it turned out; but 'twas all an unhappy mystery to me on that drear, clammy day.

"Come, sir!" says I, in anger. "You've fetched me here?"

He seemed not to hear.

"What you wantin' of me?" I brusquely asked.

"Yes," says he, sighing; "you are here, aren't you?" He fingered the papers on his table in a way so desultory and weak that once more I was moved to pity him. Then, with blank eyes, and hopelessly hanging lip, a lean finger still continuing to rustle the forgotten documents, he looked out of the window, where 'twas all murky and dismal, harbor and rocky hill beyond obliterated by the dispiriting fog. "I wish to warn you," he continued. "You think, perhaps," he demanded, looking sharply into my eyes, "that you are kin of mine?"

I had no such dreadful fear, and, being an unkind lad, frankly told him.

"You dream," he pursued, "that you were born to some station?"

I would not have him know.

"Daniel," says he, with a faint twinkle of amusement and pity, "tell me of that wretched dream."

'Twas a romantic hope that had lingered with me despite my wish to have it begone: but I would not tell this man. I had fancied, as what lad would not? but with no actual longing, because of love for Judith, that the ultimate revelation would lift me high in the world. But now, in the presence of this gray personage, under his twinkle and pitying grin, the fancy forever vanished from me. 'Twas comforting to know, at any rate, that I might wed Judith without outrage. There would be small difficulty, then, thinks I, in winning the maid; and 'twas most gratifying to know it.

"Daniel," says he, in distress, "has that rascally Top misled you to this ridiculously romantic conclusion?"

"No, sir," I answered.

"You are the son," he declared, with thin-lipped deliberation, by which I was persuaded and sorely chagrined, "of Tom Callaway, who was lost, with all hands but the chiefest rascal it has been my lot to encounter, in the wreck of the Will-o'-the-Wisp. Tom Callaway, master: he was your father. Your mother," he continued, "was a St. John's water-side maid—a sweet and lovely wife, who died when you were born. I was myself not indifferent to her most pure and tender charms. There is your pedigree," says he, his voice fallen kind. "No mystery, you see—no romance. Tom Callaway, master: he was your father. This man Top," he snapped, "this vulgar, drunken, villanous fellow, into whose hands you have unhappily fallen and by whose mad fancies you will inevitably be ruined, is the sole survivor of the Will-o'-the-Wisp, with which your father very properly went down. He is nothing to you—nothing—neither kith nor kin! He is an intruder upon you: he has no natural right to your affection; nor have you a natural obligation to regard him. He has most viciously corrupted you into the fantastic notion that you are of gentle and fortunate birth. With what heart, in God's name!" the gray man cried, clapping his lean hands in a passion, "he will face you when he must disclose the truth, I cannot conceive. Mad! The man is stark mad: for tell you he must, though he has in every way since your childhood fostered within you a sense of honor that will break in contempt upon him! Your attitude, I warn you, will work wretchedness to you both; you will accuse and flout him. Daniel," the man solemnly asked, "do you believe me?"

I was glad to know that my mother had been both sweet and lovely. 'Twas a conception I had long cherished. 'Twas what Judith was—both sweet and lovely.

"You will accuse him, I warn you!" he repeated.

Still gray weather, I observed through the grimy panes: fog sweeping by with a northeast wind. For a moment I watched the dripping passengers on the opposite pavement.

"Well," says the gray stranger, with a harsh little laugh, "God help Top when the tale is told!"

I should never, of course, treat my uncle with unkindness.

"My boy," he most earnestly besought me, "will you not heed me?"

"I'll hear you, sir," I answered.

"Attend, then," says he. "I have brought you here to warn you, and my warning is but half spoken. Frankly, in this I have no concern for your happiness, with which I have nothing to do: I have been moved to this ungrateful and most dangerous interview by a purely selfish regard for my own career. Do you know the word? A political career of some slight importance," he added, with a toss of the head, "which is now menaced, at a most critical moment, by that merciless, wicked old pirate whom you have shamelessly been deceived into calling your uncle Nicholas. To be frank with you, you are, and have been for several years, an obstacle. My warning, however, as you will believe, is advanced upon grounds advantageous to yourself. Put the illusions of this designing old bay-noddie away from you," says he, now accentuating his earnestness with a lean, white forefinger. "Rid yourself of these rings and unsuitable garments: they disgrace you. When the means of their possession is disclosed to you—when the wretched crime of it is made known—you will suffer such humiliation as you did not dream a man could feel. Put 'em away. Put 'em out of sight and mind. Send that young man from London back to the business he came from. A tutor! Your tutor! Tom Callaway's son with an English tutor! You are being made a ghastly fool of; and I warn you that you will pay for every moment of the illusion. Poor lad!" cries he, in genuine distress. "Poor lad!"

It might be: I had long thought so.

"And as for this grand tour abroad," he began, with an insolently curling lip, "why, for God's sake! don't be a—"

"Sir!" I interrupted, in a rage.

There had been talk of a trip abroad: it seemed I was bound upon it, by advice of Sir Harry, to further my education and to cure my foot of its twist.

"Well," the gray personage laughed, "being what you are, remembering what I have with candor and exact honesty told you, if you can permit this old pirate—"

I stopped him. I would have no more of it—not I, by Heaven!

"This extortionate old—"

"I'll not hear it!" I roared.

"In this fine faith," sneers he, "I find at least the gratifying prospect of being some day privileged to observe Top broil as on a griddle in hell."

'Twas most obscure.

"I refer," says he, "to the moment of grand climax when this pirate tells you where your diamonds came from. Your diamonds?" he flashed. "You may get quit of your diamonds; but the fine gentleman this low villain has fashioned of a fishing-skipper's whelp will all your days keep company at your elbow. And you won't love Top for this," says he, with malevolent satisfaction; "you won't love Top!"

I walked to the window for relief from him. 'Twas all very well that he should discredit and damn my uncle in this way; 'twas all very well that he should raise spectres of unhappiness before me: but there, on the opposite pavement, abroad in the foggy wind, jostled by ill-tempered passengers, was this self-same old foster-father of mine, industriously tap-tapping the pavement with his staff, as he had periodically done, whatever the weather, since I could remember the years of my life. I listened to the angry tapping, watched the urchins and curious folk gather for the show; and I was moved to regard the mystifying spectacle with an indulgent grin. The gray stranger, however, at that instant got ear of the patter of the staff and the clamor of derision. He cried upon me sharply to stand from the window; but I misliked this harsh manner of authority, and would not budge: whereupon he sprang upon me, caught me about the middle, and violently flung me back. 'Twas too late to avert the catastrophe: my uncle had observed me, and was even then bound across the street, flying all sail, to the terrified confusion of the exalted political personage whose career he menaced. 'Twas a pitiable spectacle of fright and helpless uncertainty the man furnished, seeming at one moment bent on keeping my uncle out, whom he feared to admit, at another to wish him well in, whom he dared not exclude.

"The man's stark mad!" he would repeat, in his panic of gesture and pacing. "The man's stark mad to risk this!"

My uncle softly closed the door behind him. "Ah, Dannie!" says he. "You here?" He was breathless, and gone a ghastly color; there was that about his scars and eyes, too, to make me wonder whether 'twas rage or fear had mastered him: I could not tell, but mightily wished to determine, since it seemed that some encounter impended. "Ye're an unkind man," says he, in a passionless way, to the gray stranger, who was now once more seated at his desk, fingering the litter of documents. "Ye've broke your word t' me. I must punish ye for the evil ye've done this lad. I'll not ask ye what ye've told un till I haves my way with ye; but then," he declared, his voice betraying a tremor of indignation, "I'll have the talk out o' ye, word for word!" The gray stranger was agitated, but would not look up from his aimlessly wandering hand to meet my uncle's lowering, reproachful eyes. "Dannie," says my uncle, continuing in gentle speech, "pass the cushion from the big chair. Thank 'e, lad. I'm not wantin' the man t' hurt his head." He cast the cushion to the floor. "Now, sir," says he, gently, "an ye'll be good enough t' step within five-foot-ten o' that there red cushion, I'll knock ye down an' have it over with."

The man looked sullenly out of the window.

"Five-foot-ten, sir," my uncle repeated, with some cheerfulness.

"Top," was the vicious response, "you invite assassination."

My uncle put his hand on my shoulder. "'Tis not fit for ye t' see, lad," says he. "Ye'd best be off t' the fresh air. 'Tis so wonderful stuffy here that ye'll be growin' pale an ye don't look out. An' I'm not wantin' ye t' see me knock a man down," he repeated, with feeling. "I'm not wantin' ye even t' think that I'd do an unkind thing like that."

I moved to go.

"Now, sir!" cries my uncle to the stranger.

As I closed the door behind me the man was passing with snarling lips to the precise spot my uncle had indicated....



XX

NO APOLOGY

My uncle knocked on my door at the hotel and, without waiting to be bidden, thrust in his great, red, bristling, monstrously scarred head. 'Twas an intrusion most diffident and fearful: he was like a mischievous boy come for chastisement.

"You here, Dannie?" he gently inquired.

"Come in, sir," says I.

'Twas awkwardly—with a bashful grin and halting, doubtful step—that he stumped in.

"Comfortable?" he asked, looking about. "No complaint t' make ag'in this here hotel?"

I had no complaint.

"Not troubled, is you?"

I was not troubled.

"Isn't bothered, is you?" he pursued, with an inviting wink. "Not bothered about nothin', lad, is you?"

Nor bothered.

"Come now!" cries he, dissembling great candor and heartiness, "is you got any questions t' ask ol' Nick Top?"

"No, sir," I answered, quite confidently.

"Dannie, lad," says my uncle, unable to contain his delight, with which, indeed, his little eyes brimmed over, "an ye'd jus' be so damned good as t' tweak that there—"

I pulled the bell-cord.

"A nip o' the best Jamaica," says he.

Old Elihu Wall fetched the red dram.

"Lad," says my uncle, his glass aloft, his eyes resting upon me in pride, his voice athrill with passionate conviction, "here's t' you! That's good o' you," says he. "That's very good. I 'low I've fetched ye up very well. Ecod!" he swore, with most reverent and gentle intention, "ye'll be a gentleman afore ye knows it!"

He downed the liquor with a grin that came over his lurid countenance like a burst of low sunshine.

"A gentleman," he repeated, "in spite o' Chesterfield!"

When my uncle was gone, I commanded my reflections elsewhere, prohibited by honor from dwelling upon the wretched mystery in which I was enmeshed. They ran with me to the fool of Twist Tickle. The weather had turned foul: 'twas blowing up from the north in a way to make housed folk shiver for their fellows at sea. Evil sailing on the Labrador! I wondered how the gentle weakling fared as cook of the Quick as Wink. I wondered in what harbor he lay, in the blustering night, or off what coast he tossed. I wondered what trouble he had within his heart. I wished him home again: but yet remembered, with some rising of hope, that his amazing legacy of wisdom had in all things been sufficient to his need. Had he not in peace and usefulness walked the paths of the world where wiser folk had gone with bleeding feet? 'Twas dwelling gratefully upon this miracle of wisdom and love, a fool's inheritance, that I, who had no riches of that kind, fell asleep, without envy or perturbation, that night.

* * * * *

'Twas not long I had to wait to discover the fortune of the fool upon that voyage. We were not three days returned from the city when the Quick as Wink slipped into our harbor. She had been beating up all afternoon; 'twas late of a dark night when she dropped anchor. John Cather was turned in, Judith long ago whisked off to bed by our maid-servant; my uncle and I sat alone together when the rattle of the chain apprised us that the schooner was in the shelter of the Lost Soul.

By-and-by Moses came.

"You've been long on the road," says I.

"Well, Dannie," he explained, looking at his cap, which he was awkwardly twirling, "I sort o' fell in with Parson Stump by the way, an' stopped for a bit of a gossip."

I begged him to sit with us.

"No," says he; "but I'm 'bliged t' you. Fac' is, Dannie," says he, gravely, "I isn't got time."

My uncle was amazed.

"I've quit the ship," Moses went on, "not bein' much of a hand at cookin'. I'll be t' home now," says he, "an' I'd be glad t' have you an' Skipper Nicholas drop in, some day soon, when you're passin' Whisper Cove."

We watched him twirl his cap.

"You'd find a wonderful warm welcome," says he, "from Mrs. Moses Shoos!"

With that he was gone.



XXI

FOOL'S FORTUNE

"Close the door, Dannie," says Tumm, in the little cabin of the Quick as Wink, late that night, when the goods were put to rights, and the bottle was on the counter, and the schooner was nodding sleepily in the spent waves from the open sea. "This here yarn o' the weddin' o' Moses Shoos is not good for everybody t' hear." He filled the glasses—chuckling all the time deep in his chest. "We was reachin' up t' Whoopin' Harbor," he began, being a great hand at a story, "t' give the Quick as Wink a night's lodgin', it bein' a wonderful windish night; clear enough, the moon sailin' a cloudy sky, but with a bank o' fog sneakin' round Cape Muggy like a fish-thief. An' we wasn't in no haste, anyhow, t' make Sinners' Tickle, for we was the first trader down this season, an' 'twas pick an' choose for we, with a clean bill t' every harbor from Starvation Cove t' the Settin' Hen. So the skipper he says we'll hang the ol' girl up t' Whoopin' Harbor 'til dawn; an' we'll all have a watch below, says he, with a cup o' tea, says he, if the cook can bile the water 'ithout burnin' it. Now, look you! Saucy Bill North is wonderful fond of his little joke; an' 'twas this here habit o' burnin' the water he'd pitched on t' plague the poor cook with, since we put out o' Twist Tickle on the v'y'ge down.

"'Cook, you dunderhead!' says the skipper, with a wink t' the crew, which I was sorry t' see, 'you been an' scarched the water agin.'

"Shoos he looked like he'd give up for good on the spot—just like he knowed he was a fool, an' had knowed it for a long, long time—sort o' like he was sorry for we an' sick of hisself.

"'Cook,' says the skipper, 'you went an' done it agin. Yes, you did! Don't you go denyin' of it. You'll kill us, cook,' says he, 'if you goes on like this. They isn't nothin' worse for the system,' says he, 'than this here burned water. The almanacs,' says he, shakin' his finger at the poor cook, ''ll tell you that!'

"'I 'low I did burn that water, skipper,' says the cook, 'if you says so. But I isn't got all my wits,' says he; 'an' God knows I'm doin' my best!'

"'I always did allow, cook,' says the skipper, 'that God knowed more'n I ever thunk.'

"'An' I never did burn no water,' says the cook, 'afore I shipped along o' you in this here ol' flour-sieve of a Quick as Wink.'

"'This here what?' snaps the skipper.

"'This here ol' basket,' says the cook.

"'Basket!' says the skipper. Then he hummed a bit o' 'Fishin' for the Maid I Loves,' 'ithout thinkin' much about the toon. 'Cook,' says he 'I loves you. You is on'y a half-witted chance-child,' says he, 'but I loves you like a brother.'

"'Does you, skipper?' says the cook, with a nice, soft little smile, like the poor fool he was. 'I isn't by no means hatin' you, skipper,' says he. 'But I can't help burnin' the water,' says he, 'an' I 'low it fair hurts me t' get blame for it. I'm sorry for you an' the crew,' says he, 'an' I wisht I hadn't took the berth. But when I shipped along o' you,' says he, 'I 'lowed I could cook, for mother always told me so, an' I 'lowed she knowed. I'm doin' my best, anyhow, accordin' t' how she'd have me do, an' I 'low if the water gets scarched,' says he, 'the galley fire's bewitched.'

"'Basket!' says the skipper. 'Ay, ay, cook,' says he. 'I just loves you.'

"They wasn't a man o' the crew liked t' hear the skipper say that; for, look you! the skipper doesn't know nothin' about feelin's, an' the cook has more feelin's 'n a fool can make handy use of aboard a tradin' craft. There sits the ol' man, smoothin' his big, red beard, singin' 'I'm Fishin' for the Maid I Loves,' while he looks at poor Moses Shoos, which was washin' up the dishes, for we was through with the mug-up. An' the devil was in his eyes—the devil was fair grinnin' in them little blue eyes. Lord! it made me sad t' see it, for I knowed the cook was in for bad weather, an' he isn't no sort o' craft t' be out o' harbor in a gale o' wind like that.

"'Cook,' says the skipper.

"'Ay, sir?' says the cook.

"'Cook,' says the skipper, 'you ought t' get married.'

"'I on'y wisht I could,' says the cook.

"'You ought t' try, cook,' says the skipper, 'for the sake o' the crew. We'll all die,' says he, 'afore we sights ol' Bully Dick agin,' says he, 'if you keeps on burnin' the water. You got t' get married, cook, t' the first likely maid you sees on the Labrador,' says he, 't' save the crew. She'd do the cookin' for you. It'll be the loss o' all hands,' says he, 'an you don't. This here burned water,' says he, 'will be the end of us, cook, an you keeps it up.'

"'I'd be wonderful glad t' 'blige you, skipper,' says the cook, 'an' I'd like t' 'blige all hands. 'Twon't be by my wish,' says he, 'that anybody'll die o' the grub they gets, for mother wouldn't like it.'

"'Cook,' says the skipper, 'shake! I knows a man,' says he, 'when I sees one. Any man,' says he, 'that would put on the irons o' matrimony,' says he, 't' 'blige a shipmate,' says he, 'is a better man 'n me, an' I loves un like a brother.'

"The cook was cheered up considerable.

"'Cook,' says the skipper, 'I 'pologize. Yes, I do, cook,' says he, 'I 'pologize.'

"'I isn't got no feelin' ag'in' matrimony,' says the cook. 'But I isn't able t' get took. I been tryin' every maid t' Twist Tickle,' says he, 'an' they isn't one,' says he, 'will wed a fool.'

"'Not one maid t' wed a fool!' says the skipper.

"'Nar a one,' says the cook.

"'I'm s'prised,' says the skipper.

"'Nar a maid t' Twist Tickle,' says the cook, 'will wed a fool, an' I 'low they isn't one,' says he, 'on the Labrador.'

"'It's been done afore, cook,' says the skipper, 'an' I 'low 'twill be done agin, if the world don't come to an end t' oncet. Cook,' says he, 'I knows the maid t' do it.'

"'I'd be wonderful glad t' find she,' says the cook. 'Mother,' says he, 'always 'lowed a man didn't ought t' live alone.'

"'Ay, b'y,' says the skipper, 'I got the girl for you. An' she isn't a thousand miles,' says he, 'from where that ol' basket of a Quick as Wink lies at anchor,' says he, 'in Whoopin' Harbor. She isn't what you'd call handsome an' tell no lie,' says he, 'but—'

"'Never you mind about that, skipper,' says the cook.

"'No,' says the skipper, 'she isn't handsome, as handsome goes, even in these parts, but—'

"'Never you mind, skipper,' says the cook: 'for mother always 'lowed that looks come off in the first washin'.'

"'I 'low that Liz Jones would take you, cook,' says the skipper. 'You ain't much on wits, but you got a good-lookin' figure-head; an' I 'low she'd be more'n willin' t' skipper a craft like you. You better go ashore, cook, when you gets cleaned up, an' see what she says. Tumm,' says he, 'is sort o' shipmates with Liz,' says he, 'an' I 'low he'll see you through the worst of it.'

"'Will you, Tumm?' says the cook.

"'Well,' says I, 'I'll see.'

"I knowed Liz Jones from the time I fished Whoopin' Harbor with Skipper Bill Topsail in the Love the Wind, bein' cotched by the measles thereabouts, which she nursed me through; an' I 'lowed she would wed the cook if he asked her, so, thinks I, I'll go ashore with the fool t' see that she don't. No; she isn't handsome—not Liz. I'm wonderful fond o' yarnin' o' good-lookin' maids, as you knows, Skipper Nicholas, sir; but I can't say much o' Liz: for Liz is so far t' l'eward o' beauty that many a time, lyin' sick there in the fo'c's'le o' the Love the Wind, I wished the poor girl would turn inside out, for, thinks I, the pattern might be a sight better on the other side. I will say she is big and well-muscled; an' muscles, t' my mind, counts enough t' make up for black eyes, but not for cross-eyes, much less for fuzzy whiskers. It ain't in my heart t' make sport o' Liz; but I will say she has a bad foot, for she was born in a gale, I'm told, when the Preacher was hangin' on off a lee shore 'long about Cape Harrigan, an' the sea was raisin' the devil. An', well—I hates t' say it, but—well, they call her 'Walrus Liz.' No; she isn't handsome, she haven't got no good looks; but once you gets a look into whichever one o' them cross-eyes you is able to cotch, you see a deal more'n your own face; an' she is well-muscled, an' I 'low I'm goin' t' tell you so, for I wants t' name her good p'ints so well as her bad. Whatever—

"'Cook,' says I, 'I'll go along o' you.'

"With that Moses Shoos fell to on the dishes, an' 'twasn't long afore he was ready to clean hisself; which done, he was ready for the courtin'. But first he got out his dunny-bag, an' he fished in there 'til he pulled out a blue stockin', tied in a hard knot; an' from the toe o' that there blue stockin' he took a brass ring. 'I 'low,' says he, talkin' to hisself, in the half-witted way he has, 'it won't do no hurt t' give her mother's ring. "Moses," says mother, "you better take the ring off my finger. It isn't no weddin'-ring," says she, "for I never was what you might call wed by a real parson in the fashionable way, but on'y accordin' t' the customs o' the land," says she, "an' I got it from the Jew t' make believe I was wed in the way they does it in these days; for it didn't do nobody no hurt, an' it sort o' pleased me. You better take it, Moses, b'y," says she, "for the dirt o' the grave would only spile it," says she, "an' I'm not wantin' it no more. Don't wear it at the fishin', dear," says she, "for the fishin' is wonderful hard," says she, "an' joolery don't stand much wear an' tear." 'Oh, mother!' says the cook, 'I done what you wanted!' Then the poor fool sighed an' looked up at the skipper. 'I 'low, skipper,' says he, ''twouldn't do no hurt t' give the ring to a man's wife, would it? For mother wouldn't mind, would she?'

"The skipper didn't answer that.

"'Come, cook,' says I, 'leave us get under way,' for I couldn't stand it no longer.

"So the cook an' me put out in the punt t' land at Whoopin' Harbor, with the crew wishin' the poor cook well with their lips, but thinkin', God knows what! in their hearts. An' he was in a wonderful state o' fright. I never seed a man so took by scare afore. For, look you! poor Moses thinks she might have un. 'I never had half a chance afore,' says he. 'They've all declined in a wonderful regular way. But now,' says he, 'I 'low I'll be took. I jus' feels that way; an', Tumm, I—I—I'm scared!' I cheered un up so well as I could; an' by-an'-by we was on the path t' Liz Jones's house, up on Gray Hill, where she lived alone, her mother bein' dead an' her father shipped on a bark from St. John's t' the West Indies. An' we found Liz sittin' on a rock at the turn o' the road, lookin' down from the hill at the Quick as Wink; all alone—sittin' there in the moonlight, all alone—thinkin' o' God knows what!

"'Hello, Liz!' says I.

"'Hello, Tumm!' says she. 'What vethel'th that?'

"'That's the Quick as Wink, Liz,' says I. 'An' here's the cook o' that there craft,' says I, 'come up the hill t' speak t' you.'

"'That's right,' says the cook. 'Tumm, you're right.'

"'T' thpeak t' me!' says she.

"I wisht she hadn't spoke quite that way. Lord! it wasn't nice. It makes a man feel bad t' see a woman put her hand on her heart for a little thing like that.

"'Ay, Liz,' says I, 't' speak t' you. An' I'm thinkin', Liz,' says I, 'he'll say things no man ever said afore—t' you.'

"'That's right, Tumm,' says the cook. 'I wants t' speak as man t' man,' says he, 't' stand by what I says,' says he, 'accordin' as mother would have me do!'

"Liz got off the rock. Then she begun t' kick at the path; an' she was lookin' down, but I 'lowed she had an eye on Moses all the time. 'For,' thinks I, 'she's sensed the thing out, like all the women.'

"'I'm thinkin',' says I, 'I'll go up the road a bit.'

"'Oh no, you won't, Tumm,' says she. 'You thtay right here. Whath the cook wantin' o' me?'

"'Well,' says the cook, 'I 'low I wants t' get married.'

"'T' get married!' says she.

"'T' get married,' says the cook, 'accordin' as mother would have me; an' I 'low you'll do.'

"'Me?' says she.

"'Liz,' says he, as solemn as church, 'I means you.'

"It come to her all of a suddent—an' she begun t' breathe hard, an' pressed her hands against her breast an' shivered. But she looked away t' the moon, an' somehow that righted her.

"'You better thee me in daylight,' says she.

"'Don't you mind about that,' says he. 'Mother always 'lowed that sort o' thing didn't matter: an' she knowed.'

"She put a finger under his chin an' tipped his face t' the light.

"'You ithn't got all your thentheth, ith you?' says she.

"'Well,' says he, 'bein' born on Hollow-eve,' says he, 'I isn't quite got all my wits. But,' says he, 'I wisht I had. An' I can't do no more.'

"'An' you wanth t' wed me?' says she. 'Ith you sure you doth?'

"'I got mother's ring,' says the cook, 't' prove it.'

"'Tumm,' says Liz t' me, 'you ithn't wantin' t' get married, ith you?'

"'No, Liz,' says I. 'Not,' says I, 't' you.'

"'No,' says she. 'Not—t' me.' She took me round the turn in the road. 'Tumm,' says she, 'I 'low I'll wed that man. I wanth t' get away from here,' says she, lookin' over the hills. 'I wanth t' get t' the thouthern outporth, where there'th life. They ithn't no life here. An' I'm tho wonderful tired o' all thith! Tumm,' says she, 'no man ever afore athked me t' marry un, an' I 'low I better take thith one. He'th on'y a fool,' says she, 'but not even a fool ever come courtin' me, an' I 'low nobody but a fool would. On'y a fool, Tumm!' says she. 'But I ithn't got nothin' t' boatht of. God made me,' says she, 'an' I ithn't mad that He done it. I 'low He meant me t' take the firth man that come, an' be content. I 'low I ithn't got no right t' thtick up my nothe at a fool. For, Tumm,' says she, 'God made that fool, too. An', Tumm,' says she, 'I wanth thomethin' elthe. Oh, I wanth thomethin' elthe! I hateth t' tell you, Tumm,' says she, 'what it ith. But all the other maidth hath un, Tumm, an' I wanth one, too. I 'low they ithn't no woman happy without one, Tumm. An' I ithn't never had no chanth afore. No chanth, Tumm, though God knowth they ithn't nothin' I wouldn't do,' says she, 't' get what I wanth! I'll wed the fool,' says she. 'It ithn't a man I wanth tho much; no, it ithn't a man. Ith—'

"'What you wantin', Liz?' says I.

"'It ithn't a man, Tumm,' says she.

"'No?' says I. 'What is it, Liz?'

"'Ith a baby,' says she.

"God! I felt bad when she told me that...."

* * * * *

Tumm stopped, sighed, picked at a knot in the table. There was silence in the cabin. The Quick as Wink was still nodding to the swell—lying safe at anchor in a cove of Twist Tickle. We heard the gusts scamper over the deck and shake the rigging; we caught, in the intervals, the deep-throated roar of breakers, far off—all the noises of the gale. And Tumm picked at the knot with his clasp-knife; and we sat watching, silent, all. And I felt bad, too, because of the maid at Whooping Harbor—a rolling waste of rock, with the moonlight lying on it, stretching from the whispering mystery of the sea to the greater desolation beyond; and an uncomely maid, alone and wistful, wishing, without hope, for that which the hearts of women must ever desire....

* * * * *

"Ay," Tumm drawled, "it made me feel bad t' think o' what she'd been wantin' all them years; an' then I wished I'd been kinder t' Liz.... An', 'Tumm,' thinks I, 'you went an' come ashore t' stop this here thing; but you better let the skipper have his little joke, for 'twill on'y s'prise him, an' it won't do nobody else no hurt. Here's this fool,' thinks I, 'wantin' a wife; an' he won't never have another chance. An' here's this maid,' thinks I, 'wantin' a baby; an' she won't never have another chance. 'Tis plain t' see,' thinks I, 'that God A'mighty, who made un, crossed their courses; an' I 'low, ecod!' thinks I, 'that 'twasn't a bad idea He had. If He's got to get out of it somehow,' thinks I, 'why, I don't know no better way. Tumm,' thinks I, 'you sheer off. Let Nature,' thinks I, 'have course an' be glorified.' So I looks Liz in the eye—an' says nothin'.

"'Tumm,' says she, 'doth you think he—'

"'Don't you be scared o' nothin',' says I. 'He's a lad o' good feelin's,' says I, 'an' he'll treat you the best he knows how. Is you goin' t' take un?'

"'I wathn't thinkin' o' that,' says she. 'I wathn't thinkin' o' not. I wath jutht,' says she, 'wonderin'.'

"'They isn't no sense in that, Liz,' says I. 'You just wait an' find out.'

"'What'th hith name?' says she.

"'Shoos,' says I. 'Moses Shoos.'

"With that she up with her pinny an' begun t' cry like a young swile.

"'What you cryin' for, Liz?' says I.

"I 'low I couldn't tell what 'twas all about. But she was like all the women. Lord! 'tis the little things that makes un weep when it comes t' the weddin'.

"'Come, Liz,' says I, 'what you cryin' about?'

"'I lithp,' says she.

"'I knows you does, Liz,' says I; 'but it ain't nothin' t' cry about.'

"'I can't say Joneth,' says she.

"'No,' says I; 'but you'll be changin' your name,' says I, 'an' it won't matter no more.'

"'An' if I can't say Joneth,' says she, 'I can't thay—'

"'Can't say what?' says I.

"'Can't thay Thooth!' says she.

"Lord! No more she could. An' t' say Moses Shoos! An' t' say Mrs. Moses Shoos! Lord! It give me a pain in the tongue t' think of it.

"'Jutht my luck,' says she; 'but I'll do my betht.'

"So we went back an' told poor Moses Shoos that he didn't have t' worry no more about gettin' a wife; an' he said he was more glad than sorry, an', says he, she'd better get her bonnet, t' go aboard an' get married right away. An' she 'lowed she didn't want no bonnet, but would like to change her pinny. So we said we'd as lief wait a spell, though a clean pinny wasn't needed. An' when she got back, the cook said he 'lowed the skipper could marry un well enough 'til we overhauled a real parson; an' she thought so, too, for, says she, 'twouldn't be longer than a fortnight, an' any sort of a weddin', says she, would do 'til then. An' aboard we went, the cook an' me pullin' the punt, an' she steerin'; an' the cook he crowed an' cackled all the way, like a half-witted rooster; but the maid didn't even cluck, for she was too wonderful solemn t' do anything but look at the moon.

"'Skipper,' said the cook, when we got in the fo'c's'le, 'here she is. I isn't afeared,' says he, 'an' she isn't afeared; an' now I 'lows we'll have you marry us.'

"Up jumps the skipper; but he was too much s'prised t' say a word.

"'An' I'm thinkin',' says the cook, with a nasty little wink, such as never I seed afore get into the eyes o' Moses Shoos, 'that they isn't a man in this here fo'c's'le,' says he, 'will say I'm afeared.'

"'Cook,' says the skipper, takin' the cook's hand, 'shake! I never knowed a man like you afore,' says he. 'T' my knowledge, you're the on'y man in the Labrador fleet would do it. I'm proud,' says he, 't' take the hand o' the man with nerve enough t' marry Walrus Liz o' Whoopin' Harbor.'

"But 'twas a new Moses he had t' deal with. The devil got in the fool's eyes—a jumpin' little brimstone devil, ecod! I never knowed the man could look that way.

"'Ay, lad,' says the skipper, 'I'm proud t' know the man that isn't afeared o' Walrus—'

"'Don't you call her that!' says the cook. 'Don't you do it, skipper!'

"I was lookin' at Liz. She was grinnin' in a holy sort o' way. Never seed nothin' like that afore—no, lads, not in all my life.

"'An' why not, cook?' says the skipper.

"'It ain't her name,' says the cook.

"'It ain't?' says the skipper. 'But I been sailin' the Labrador for twenty year,' says he, 'an' I 'ain't never heared her called nothin' but Walrus—'

"'Don't you do it, skipper!'

"The devil got into the cook's hands then. I seed his fingers clawin' the air in a hungry sort o' way. An' it looked t' me like squally weather for the skipper.

"'Don't you do it no more, skipper,' says the cook. 'I isn't got no wits,' says he, an' I'm feelin' wonderful queer!'

"The skipper took a look ahead into the cook's eyes. 'Well, cook,' says he, 'I 'low,' says he, 'I won't.'

"Liz laughed—an' got close t' the fool from Twist Tickle. An' I seed her touch his coat-tail, like as if she loved it, but didn't dast do no more.

"'What you two goin' t' do?' says the skipper.

"'We 'lowed you'd marry us,' says the cook, ''til we come across a parson.'

"'I will,' says the skipper. 'Stand up here,' says he. 'All hands stand up!' says he. 'Tumm,' says he, 'get me the first Book you comes across.'

"I got un a Book.

"'Now, Liz,' says he, 'can you cook?'

"'Fair t' middlin',' says she. 'I won't lie.'

"'Twill do,' says he. 'An' does you want t' get married t' this here dam' fool?'

"'An it pleathe you,' says she.

"'Shoos,' says the skipper, 'will you let this woman do the cookin'?'

"'Well, skipper,' says the cook, 'I will; for I don't want nobody t' die o' my cookin' on this here v'y'ge, an' I knows that mother wouldn't mind.'

"'An' will you keep out o' the galley?'

"'I 'low I'll have to.'

"'An' look you! cook, is you sure—is you sure,' says the skipper, with a shudder, lookin' at the roof, 'that you wants t' marry this here—'

"'Don't you do it, skipper!' says the cook. 'Don't you say that no more! By the Lord!' says he, 'I'll kill you if you does!'

"'Is you sure,' says the skipper, 'that you wants t' marry this here—woman?'

"'I will.'

"'Well,' says the skipper, kissin' the Book, 'I 'low me an' the crew don't care; an' we can't help it, anyhow.'

"'What about mother's ring?' says the cook. 'She might's well have that,' says he, 'if she's careful about the wear an' tear. For joolery,' says he t' Liz, 'don't stand it.'

"'It can't do no harm,' says the skipper.

"'Ith we married, thkipper?' says Liz, when she got the ring on.

"'Well,' says the skipper, 'I 'low that knot'll hold 'til we puts into Twist Tickle, where Parson Stump can mend it, right under my eye. For,' says he, 'I got a rope's-end an' a belayin'-pin t' make it hold,' says he, ''til we gets 'longside o' some parson that knows more about matrimonial knots 'n me. We'll pick up your goods, Liz,' says he, 'on the s'uthard v'y'ge. An' I hopes, ol' girl,' says he, 'that you'll be able t' boil the water 'ithout burnin' it.'

"'Ay, Liz,' says the cook, 'I been makin' a awful fist o' b'ilin' the water o' late.'

"She give him one look—an' put her clean pinny to her eyes.

"'What you cryin' about?' says the cook.

"'I don't know,' says she; 'but I 'low 'tith becauthe now I knowth you ith a fool!'

"'She's right, Tumm,' says the cook. 'She's got it right! Bein' born on Hollow-eve,' says he, 'I couldn't be nothin' else. But, Liz,' says he, 'I'm glad I got you, fool or no fool.'

"So she wiped her eyes, an' blowed her nose, an' give a little sniff, an' looked up an' smiled.

"'I isn't good enough for you,' says the poor cook. 'But, Liz,' says he, 'if you kissed me,' says he, 'I wouldn't mind a bit. An' they isn't a man in this here fo'c's'le,' says he, lookin' round, 'that'll say I'd mind. Not one,' says he, with the little devil jumpin' in his eyes.

"Then she stopped cryin' for good.

"'Go ahead, Liz!' says he. 'I ain't afeared. Come on!' says he. 'Give us a kiss!'

"'Motheth Thooth,' says she, 'you're the firtht man ever athked me t' give un a kith!'

"She kissed un. 'Twas like a pistol-shot. An', Lord! her poor face was shinin'...."

* * * * *

In the cabin of the Quick as Wink we listened to the wind as it scampered over the deck; and my uncle and I watched Tumm pick at the knot in the table.

"He don't need no sense," said Tumm, looking up, at last; "for he've had a mother, an' he've got a memory."

'Twas very true, I thought.



XXII

GATHERING WINDS

'Twas by advice of Sir Harry, with meet attention to the philosophy of Lord Chesterfield in respect to the particular accomplishments essential to one who would both please and rise in the world, that my uncle commanded the grand tour to further my education and to cure my twisted foot. "'Tis the last leg o' the beat, lad;" he pleaded; "ye'll be a gentleman, made t' order, accordin' t' specifications, when 'tis over with; an' I'll be wonderful glad," says he, wearily, "when 'tis done, for I'll miss ye sore, lad—ecod! but I'll miss ye sore." Abroad, then, despite the gray warning, went John Cather and I, tutor and young gentleman, the twain not to be distinguished from a company of high birth. 'Twas a ghastly thing: 'twas a thing so unfit and grotesque that I flush to think of it—a thing, of all my uncle's benefits, I wish undone and cannot to this day condone. But that implacable, most tender old ape, when he bade us God-speed on the wharf, standing with legs and staff triangularly disposed to steady him, rippled with pride and admiration to observe the genteel performance of our departure, and in the intervals of mopping his red, sweaty, tearful countenance, exhibited, in unwitting caricature, the defiant consciousness of station he had with infinite pains sought to have me master.

"Made t' order, lad," says he, at last, when he took my hand, "accordin' t' the plans an' specifications o' them that knows, an' quite regardless of expense."

I patted him on the shoulder.

"I wisht," says he, with a regretful wag, "that Tom Callaway could see ye now. You an' your tooter! If on'y Tom Callaway could! I bet ye 'twould perk un up a bit in the place he's to! 'Twould go a long way towards distractin' his mind," says he, "from the fire an' fumes they talks so much about in church."

You will be good enough to believe, if you please, that there were sympathetic tears in my uncle's eyes....

* * * * *

Upon this misguided mission we were gone abroad two years and a fortnight (deducting one day): and pursuing it we travelled far. And we came to magnificent cities, and beheld the places and things that are written of in books, and ate of curious foods, and observed many sorts of people and singular customs, and fell in with strange companions, and sojourned in many houses; but from the spectacle of the world I caught no delight, nor won a lesson, nor gained in anything, save, it may be, in knowledge of the book of my own heart. As we went our way in new paths, my mind dwelt continually with Judith, whom I loved; the vision of her face, wistful and most fair in the mirage of Twist Tickle, and the illusion of her voice, whispering from the vacant world, were the realities of these wanderings—the people and palaces a fantasy. Of this I said nothing to John Cather, who was himself cast down by some obscure ailment of the spirit, so that I would not add to his melancholy with my love-sickness, but rather sought by cheerful behavior to mitigate the circumstances of his sighs, which I managed not at all. And having journeyed far in this unhappy wise, we came again to the spacious sea and sky and clean air of Twist Tickle, where Judith was with my uncle on the neck of land by the Lost Soul, and the world returned to its familiar guise of coast and ocean and free winds, and the Shining Light, once more scraped and refitted against the contingencies of my presence, awaited the ultimate event in the placid waters of Old Wives' Cove....

* * * * *

Judith was grown to womanly age and ways and perfected in every maidenly attraction. When she came shyly from the shadows of the house into the glowing sunset and spring weather of our landing, I stopped, amazed, in the gravelled walk of our garden, because of the incredible beauty of the maid, now first revealed in bloom, and because of her modesty, which was yet slyly aglint with coquetry, and because of the tender gravity of her years, disclosed in the first poignant search of the soul I had brought back from my long journeying. I thought, I recall, at the moment of our meeting, that laboring in a mood of highest exaltation God had of the common clay fashioned a glory of person unsuspected of the eager, evil world out of which I had come: I rejoiced, I know, that He had in this bleak remoteness hidden it from the eyes of the world. I fancied as she came—'twas all in a flash—that into this rare creation He had breathed a spirit harmonious with the afflatus of its conception. And being thus overcome and preoccupied, I left the maid's coy lips escape me, but kissed her long, slender-fingered hand, which she withdrew, at once, to give to John Cather, who was most warm and voluble in greeting. I was by this hurt; but John Cather was differently affected: it seemed he did not care. He must be off to the hills, says he, and he must go alone, instantly, at the peril of his composure, to dwell with his mind, says he, upon the thoughts that most elevated and gratified him. I watched him off upon the Whisper Cove road with improper satisfaction, for, thinks I, most ungenerously, I might now, without the embarrassment of his presence, which she had hitherto rejected, possess Judith's lips; but the maid was shy and perverse, and would have none of it, apprising me sweetly of her determination.

By this I was again offended.

"Judy," says my uncle, when we were within, "fetch the bottle. Fetch the bottle, maid!" cries he; "for 'tis surely an occasion."

Judith went to the pantry.

"Dannie," my uncle inquired, leaning eagerly close when she was gone from the room, "is ye been good?"

'Twas a question put in anxious doubt: I hesitated—wondering whether or not I had been good.

"Isn't ye?" says he. "Ye'll tell me, won't ye? I'll love ye none the less for the evil ye've done."

Still I could not answer.

"I've been wantin' t' know," says he, his three-fingered fist softly beating the table, shaking in an intense agitation of suspense. "I've been waitin' an' waitin' for months—jus' t' hear ye say!"

I was conscious of no evil accomplished.

"Ye've a eye, Dannie!" says he.

I exposed my soul.

"That's good," says he, emphatically; "that's very good. I 'low I've fetched ye up very well."

Judith came with the bottle and little brown jug: she had displaced me from this occupation.

"O' course," says my uncle, in somewhat doubtful and ungenerous invitation, "ye'll be havin' a little darn ol' rum with a ol' shipmate. Ye've doubtless learned manners abroad," says he.

'Twas a delight to hear the fond fellow tempt me against his will: I smiled.

"Jus' a little darn, Dannie," he repeated, but in no convivial way. "Jus' a little nip—with a ol' shipmate?"

I laughed most heartily to see Judith's sisterly concern for me.

"A wee drop?" my uncle insisted, more confidently.

"I'm not used to it, sir," says I.

"That's good," he declared; "that's very good. Give the devil his due, Dannie: I've fetched ye up very well."

'Twas with delight he challenged a disputation....

* * * * *

After this ceremony I sat with Judith on the peak of the Lost Soul. My uncle paced the gravelled walk, in the gathering dusk below, whence, by an ancient courtesy, he might benignantly spy upon the love-making. We were definite against the lingering twilight: I smiled to catch the old man pausing in the path with legs spread wide and glowing face upturned. But I had no smile for the maid, poor child! nor any word to say, save only to express a tenderness it seemed she would not hear. 'Twas very still in the world: there was no wind stirring, no ripple upon the darkening water, no step on the roads, no creak of oar-withe, no call or cry or laugh of humankind, no echo anywhere; and the sunset clouds trooped up from the rim of the sea with ominous stealth, throwing off their garments of light as they came, advancing, grim and gray, upon the shadowy coast. Across the droch, lifted high above the maid and me, his slender figure black against the pale-green sky, stood John Cather on the brink of Tom Tulk's cliff, with arms extended in some ecstasy to the smouldering western fire. A star twinkled serenely in the depths of space beyond, seeming, in the mystery of that time, to be set above his forehead; and I was pleased to fancy, I recall, that 'twas a symbol and omen of his nobility. Thus the maid and I: thus we four folk, who played the simple comedy—unknowing, every one, in the departing twilight of that day.

I reproached the maid. "Judith," says I, "you've little enough, it seems, to say to me."

"There is nothing," she murmured, "for a maid to say."

"There is much," I chided, "for a man to hear."

"Never a word, Dannie, lad," she repeated, "that a maid may tell."

I turned away.

"There is a word," says she, her voice fallen low and very sweet, soft as the evening light about us, "that a lad might speak."

"And what's that, Judith?"

"'Tis a riddle," she answered; "and I fear, poor child!" says she, compassionately, "that you'll find it hard to rede."

'Twas unkind, I thought, to play with me.

"Ah, Dannie, child!" she sighed, a bit wounded and rebuffed, it seems to me now, for she smiled in a way more sad and tenderly reproachful than anything, as she looked away, in a muse, to the fading colors in the west. "Ah, Dannie," she repeated, her face grown grave and wistful, "you've come back the same as you went away. Ye've come back," says she, with a brief little chuckle of gratification, "jus' the same!"

I thrust out my foot: she would not look at it.

"The self-same Dannie," says she, her eyes steadfastly averted.

"I've not!" I cried, indignantly. That the maid should so flout my new, proud walk! 'Twas a bitter reward: I remembered the long agony I had suffered to please her. "I've not come back the same," says I. "I've come back changed. Have you not seen my foot?" I demanded. "Look, maid!" I beat the rock in a passion with that new foot of mine—straight and sound and capable for labor as the feet of other men. It had all been done for her—all borne to win the love I had thought withheld, or stopped from fullest giving, because of this miserable deformity. A maid is a maid, I had known—won as maids are won. "Look at it!" cries I. "Is it the same as it was? Is it crooked any more? Is it the foot of a man or a cripple?" She would not look: but smiled into my eyes—with a mist of tears gathering within her own. "No," I complained; "you will not look. You would not look when I walked up the path. I wanted you to look; but you would not. You would not look when I put my foot on the table before your very eyes. My uncle looked, and praised me; but you would not look." 'Twas a frenzy of indignation I had worked myself into by this time. I could not see, any more, the silent glow of sunset color, the brooding shadows, the rising masses of cloud, darkening as they came: I have, indeed, forgotten, and strangely so, the appearance of sea and sky at that moment. "You would not look," I accused the maid, "when I leaped the brook. I leaped the brook as other men may leap it; but you would not look. You would not look when I climbed the hill. Who helped you up the Lost Soul turn? Was it I? Never before did I do it. All my life I have crawled that path. Was it the club-footed young whelp who helped you?" I demanded. "Was it that crawling, staggering, limping travesty of the strength of men? But you do not care," I complained. "You do not care about my foot at all! Oh, Judith," I wailed, in uttermost agony, "you do not care!"

I knew, then, looking far away into the sea and cloud of the world, that the night was near.

"No," says she.

"Judith!" I implored. "Judith ... Judith!"

"No," says she, "I cannot care."

"Just say you do," I pleaded, "to save me pain."

"I will not tell you otherwise."

I was near enough to feel her tremble—to see her red lips draw away, in stern conviction, from her white little teeth.

"You do not care?" I asked her.

"I do not care."

'Twas a shock to hear the words repeated. "Not care!" I cried out.

"I do not care," says she, turning, all at once, from the sullen crimson of the sky, to reproach me. "Why should I care?" she demanded. "I have never cared—never cared—about your foot!"

I should have adored her for this: but did not know enough.

"Come!" says she, rising; "there is no sunset now. 'Tis all over with. The clouds have lost their glory. There is nothing to see. Oh, Dannie, lad," says she—"Dannie, boy, there is nothing here to see! We must go home."

I was cast down.

"No glory in the world!" says she.

"No light," I sighed; "no light, at all, Judith, in this gloomy place."

And we went home....

* * * * *

For twelve days after that, while the skirt of winter still trailed the world, the days being drear and gray, with ice at sea and cold rain falling upon the hills, John Cather kept watch on Judith and me. 'Twas a close and anxiously keen surveillance. 'Twas, indeed, unremitting and most daring, by night and day: 'twas a staring and peering and sly spying, 'twas a lurking, 'twas a shy, not unfriendly, eavesdropping, an observation without enmity or selfish purpose, ceasing not at all, however, upon either, and most poignant when the maid and I were left together, alone, as the wretched man must have known, in the field of sudden junctures of feeling. I remember his eyes—dark eyes, inquiring in a kindly way—staring from the alders of the Whisper Cove road, from the dripping hills, from the shadowy places of our house: forever in anxious question upon us. By this I was troubled, until, presently, I divined the cause: the man was disquieted, thinks I, to observe my happiness gone awry, but would not intrude even so much as a finger upon the tangle of the lives of the maid and me, because of the delicacy of his nature and breeding. 'Twas apparent, too, that he was ill: he would go white and red without cause, and did mope or overflow with a feverish jollity, and would improperly overfeed at table or starve his emaciating body. But after a time, when he had watched us narrowly to his heart's content, he recovered his health and amiability, and was the same as he had been. Judith and I were then cold and distant in behavior with each other, but unfailing in politeness: 'twas now a settled attitude, preserved by each towards the other, and betraying no feeling of any sort whatever.

"John Cather," says I, "you've been ill."

He laughed. "You are a dull fellow!" says he, in his light way. "'Tis the penalty of honesty, I suppose; and nature has fined you heavily. I have not been ill: I have been troubled."

"By what, John Cather?"

"I fancied," he answered, putting his hands on my shoulders, very gravely regarding me as he spoke, "that I must sacrifice my hope. 'Twas a hope I had long cherished, Dannie, and was become like life to me." His voice was fallen deep and vibrant and soft; and the feeling with which it trembled, and the light in the man's eyes, and the noble poise of his head, and the dramatic arrangement of his sentences, so affected me that I must look away. "Miserable necessity!" says he. "A drear prospect! And with no more than a sigh to ease the wretched fate! And yet," says he, quite heartily, "the thing had a pretty look to it. Really, a beautiful look. There was a fine reward. A good deed carries it. Always remember that, Dannie—and remember that I told you. There was a fine reward. No encouragement of applause, Dannie—just a long sigh in secret: then a grim age of self-command. By jove! but there was a splendid compensation. A compensation within myself, I mean—a recollection of at least one heroically unselfish act. There would have been pain, of course; but I should never have forgotten that I had played a man's part—better than a man's part: a hero's part, a god's part. And that might have been sufficiently comforting: I do not know—perhaps. I'll tell you about it, Dannie: the thing was to have been done," he explained, in sincere emotion, every false appearance gone from him, "for whom, do you think?"

I did not know.

"For a friend," says he.

"But John Cather," says I, "'twas too much to require of you."

His eyes twinkled.

"You've no trouble now, have you?" I asked.

"Not I!" cries he. "I have read a new fortune for myself. Trouble? Not I! I am very happy, Dannie."

"That's good," says I; "that's very good!"



XXIII

THE TIDE-RIP

Next day 'twas queer weather. 'Twas weather unaccountable, weather most mysteriously bent, weather that laughed at our bewilderment, as though 'twere sure of wreaking its own will against us by some trick recently devised. Never before had I known a time so subtly, viciously, confidently to withhold its omens. Queer weather, indeed! here, in early spring, with drift-ice still coming in vast floes from the north, queer weather to draw the sweat from us, while a midsummer blue loom of the main-land hung high and fantastically shaped in the thick air. Breathless, ominously colored weather! Why, the like, for stillness and beggarly expression of intention, had never been known to Twist Tickle: they talked with indignation of it on Eli Flack's stage; 'twas a day that bred wrecks, said they. Ay, and 'twas an outrage upon the poor fishermen of that coast: what was a man to do, said they—what was he to do with his salmon-gear and cod-traps—in this evil, wilful departure from traditional procedure? And what did the weather mean? would it blow wet or dry? would it come with snow? would the wind jump off shore or from the northeast? and how long, in the name o' Heaven, would the weather sulk in distance before breaking in honest wrath upon the coast? 'Twas enough, said they, to make a man quit the grounds; 'twas enough, with this sort o' thing keepin' up, t' make a man turn carpenter or go t' Sydney!