All this I heard in passing.

"Ah, well, lads," says my uncle, "ye'll find winter skulkin' jus' over the horizon. An' he'll be down," he added, confidently, "within a day or two."

I led John Cather to the brink of Tom Tulk's cliff, where, in the smoky sunshine, I might talk in secret with him. 'Twas in my mind to confide my perplexity and miserable condition of heart, without reserve of feeling or mitigation of culpable behavior, and to lean upon his wisdom and tactful arts for guidance into some happier arrangement with the maid I loved. It seemed to me, I recall, as I climbed the last slope, that I had been, all my life, an impassive lover, as concerned the welfare of the maid: that I had been ill-tempered and unkind, marvellously quick to find offence, justified in this cruel and stupid conduct by no admirable quality or grace or achievement—a lad demanding all for nothing. I paused, I recall, at the cairn, to sigh, overcome and appalled by this revelation; and thereupon I felt such a rush of strenuous intention in my own behalf—a determination to strive and scheme—that I had scarce breath to reach the edge of the cliff, and could not, for the life of me, begin to narrate my desperate state to John Cather. But John Cather was not troubled by my silence: he was sprawled on the thick moss of the cliff, his head propped in his hands, smiling, like the alien he was, upon the ice at sea and the untimely blue loom of the main-land and the vaguely threatening color of the sky. I could not begin, wishful as I might be for his wise counsel: but must lie, like a corpse, beyond all feeling, contemplating that same uneasy prospect. I wished, I recall, that I might utter my errand with him, and to this day wish that I had been able: but then could not, being overwhelmed by this new and convincing vision of all my communion with the maid.

"By Jove!" John Cather ejaculated.

"What is it?" cries I.

"I must tell you," says he, rising to his elbow. "I can keep it no longer."

I waited.

"I'm in love," he declared. "Dannie," cries he, "I—I'm—in love!"

And now a peculiar change came upon the world, of which I must tell: whatever there had been of omen or beauty or curious departure from the natural appearance of sea and sky—whatever of interest or moment upon the brooding shore or abroad on the uttermost waters beyond it—quite vanished from my cognizance. 'Twas a drear day and place I dwelt in, a very dull world, not enlivened by peril or desirable object or the difficulty of toil, not excused or in any way made tolerable by a prospect of sacrificial employment. I had been ill brought up to meet this racking emergency. What had there been, in all my life, fostered in body and happiness, expanding in the indulgent love and pitiably misdirected purpose of my uncle, to fit me for this denial of pure and confident desire? I tried, God knows I tried! summoning to my help all the poor measure of nobility the good Lord had endowed me with and my uncle had cultivated—I tried, God knows! to receive the communication with some wish for my friend's advancement in happiness. In love: 'twas with Judith—there was no other maid of Twist Tickle to be loved by this handsome, learned, brilliantly engaging John Cather. Nay, but 'twas all plain to me now: my deformity and perversity—my ridiculously assured aspiration towards the maid. I had forgot John Cather—the youth and person of him, his talents and winning accomplishments of speech and manner.

"And there she comes!" cries he.

'Twas Judith on the Whisper Cove road.

"You'll wish me luck, Dannie?" says he, rising. "I'll catch her on the way. I'll tell her that I love her. I can wait no longer. Wish me luck!" says he. "Wish me luck!"

I took his hand.

"Wish me luck!" he repeated.

"I wish you luck," says I.

"Thanks," says he: and was off.

I lied in this way because I would not have Judith know that I grieved for her, lest she suffer, in days to come, for my disappointment....

* * * * *

I was faint and very thirsty, I recall: I wished that I might drink from a brook of snow-water. 'Twas Calling Brook I visualized, which flows from the melting ice of cold, dark crevices, musically falling, beneath a canopy of springing leaves, to the waters of Sister Bight. I wished to drink from Calling Brook, and to lie down, here alone and high above the sea, and to sleep, without dreaming, for a long, long time. I lay me down on the gray moss. I did not think of Judith and John Cather. I had forgotten them: I was numb to the passion and affairs of life. I suffered no agony of any sort; 'twas as though I had newly emerged from unconsciousness—the survivor of some natural catastrophe, fallen by act of God, conveying no blame to me—a survivor upon whom there still lingered a beneficent stupor of body. Presently I discovered myself in a new world, with which, thinks I, brisking up, I must become familiar, having no unmanly regret, but a courageous heart to fare through the maze of it; and like a curious child I peered about upon this strange habitation. Near by there was a gray, weathered stone in the moss: I reached to possess it—and was amazed to find that my hand neither overshot nor fell short, but accurately performed its service. I cast the stone towards heaven: 'twas a surprise to see it fall earthward in obedience to some law I could not in my daze define—some law I had with impatient labor, long, long ago, made sure I understood and would remember. I looked away to sea, stared into the sky, surveyed the hills: 'twas the self-same world I had known, constituted of the same materials, cohering in the self-same way, obedient to the self-same laws, fashioned and adorned the same as it had been. 'Twas the self-same world of sea and sky and rock, wherein I had so long dwelt—a world familiar to my feet and eyes and heart's experience: a world of tree-clad, greening hills, of known paths, of children's shouting and the chirp and song of spring-time. But there had come a change upon its spirit: nay! thinks I, quite proud of the conceit, its spirit had departed—the thing had died to me, and was become without meaning, an inimical mystery. Then I felt the nerves of my soul tingle with awakening: then I suffered very much.

And evening came....

* * * * *

By-and-by, having heartened myself with courageous plans, I stepped out, with the feet of a man, upon the Whisper Cove road. I had it in mind to enjoy with Judith and John Cather the tender disclosure of their love. I would kiss Judith, by Heaven! thinks I: I would kiss her smile and blushes, whatever she thought of the deed; and I would wring John Cather's fragile right hand until his teeth uncovered and he groaned for mercy. 'Twas fearsome weather, then, so that, overwrought in the spirit as I was, I did not fail to feel the oppression of it and the instinctive alarm it aroused. 'Twas very still and heavy and sullen and uneasy, 'twas pregnant of fears, like a moment of suspense: I started when an alder branch or reaching spruce limb struck me. In this bewildering weather there were no lovers on the road; the valleys, the shadowy nooks, the secluded reaches of path, lay vacant in the melancholy dusk. 'Twas not until I came to the last hill, whence the road tumbled down to a cluster of impoverished cottages, listlessly clinging to the barren rock of Whisper Cove, that I found Judith. John Cather was not about: the maid was with Aunt Esther All, the gossip, and was now so strangely agitated that I stopped in sheer amazement. That the child should be abject and agonized before the grim, cynical tattler of Whisper Cove! That she should gesticulate in a way so passionate! That she should fling her arms wide, that she should cover her face with her hands, that she should in some grievous disturbance beat upon her heart! I could not make it out. 'Twas a queer way, thinks I, to express the rapture of her fortune; and no suspicion enlightened me, because, I think, of the paralysis of despair upon my faculties.

I approached.

"Go 'way!" she cried.

I would not go away: 'twas Aunt Esther, the gossip, that went, and in a rout—with a frightened backward glance.

"Go 'way!" Judith pleaded. "I'm not able to bear it, Dannie. Oh, go back!"

'Twas an unworthy whim, and I knew it to be so, whatever the vagaries of maids may be, however natural and to be indulged, at these crises of emotion. She had sent John Cather away, it seemed, that she might be for a space alone, in the way of maids at such times, as I had been informed; and she would now deny to me the reflection of her happiness.

"'Tis unkind," I chided, "not to share this thing with me."

She started: I recall that her eyes were round and troubled with incomprehension.

"I've come to tell you, Judith," says I, "that I do not care."

'Twas a brave lie: I am proud of it.

"'Tis kind," she whispered.

We were alone. 'Twas dusk: 'twas dusk, to be sure, of a disquieting day, with the sky most confidently foreboding some new and surprising tactics in the ancient warfare of the wind against us; but Judith and I, being young and engaged with the passion of our years, had no consciousness of the signs and wonders of the weather. The weather concerns the old, the satisfied and disillusioned of life, the folk from whom the romance of being has departed. What care had we for the weather? 'Twas dusk, and we were alone at the turn of the road—a broad, rocky twist in the path, not without the softness of grass, where lovers had kissed in parting since fishing was begun from Twist Tickle and Whisper Cove. By the falling shades and a screen of young leaves we were hid from the prying eyes of Whisper Cove. 'Twas from me, then, that the maid withdrew into a deeper shadow, as though, indeed, 'twas not fit that we should be together. I was hurt: but fancied, being stupid and self-centred, that 'twas a pang of isolation to which I must grow used.

"Why, Judy," says I, "don't, for pity's sake, do that! Why, maid," I protested, "I don't care. I'm glad—I'm just glad!"

"Glad!" she faltered, staring.

"To be sure I'm glad," I cried.

She came close to me.

"I don't care," says I.

"You do not care!" she muttered, looking away. "You do not care!" she repeated, in a voice that was the faintest, most drear echo of my own.

"Not I!" I answered, stoutly. "Not a whit!"

She began to cry.

"Look up!" I besought her. "I do not care," I declared again, seeking in this way to ease her pity of me. "I do not care!"

'Twas a strange thing that happened then: first she kissed the cuff of my coat, in the extravagant way of a maid, and then all at once clapped her hands over her eyes, as though to conceal some guilt from a righteous person. I perceived this: I felt the shame she wished to hide, and for a moment wondered what that shame might be, but forgot, since the eyes were mine neither to have read nor to admire, but John Cather's. And what righteousness had I? None at all that she should stand ashamed before me. But there she stood, with her blue eyes hid—a maid in shame. I put my finger under her chin and tried to raise her face, but could not; nor could I with any gentleness withdraw her hands. She was crying: I wondered why. I stooped to peer between her fingers, but could see only tears and the hot color of her flushes. I could not fathom why she cried, except in excess of happiness or in adorable pity of me. The wind rose, I recall, as I puzzled; 'twas blowing through the gloaming in a soothing breeze from the west, as though to put the fears of us to sleep. A gentle gust, descending to our sheltered place, rustled the leaves and played with the maid's tawny hair; and upon this she looked up—and stepped into the open path, where, while her tears dried and her drooping helplessness vanished, she looked about the sky, and felt of the wind, to discover its direction and promise of strength. 'Twas a thing of tragical significance, as it seems to me now, looking back from the quiet mood in which I dwell; but then, having concern only to mitigate the maid's hysteria, following upon the stress of emotion I conceived she had undergone, this anxious survey of the weather had no meaning. I watched her: I lingered upon her beauty, softened, perfected, enhanced in spiritual quality by the brush of the dusk; and I could no longer wish John Cather joy, but knew that I must persist in the knightly endeavor.

"The wind's from the west," says she. "A free wind."

"For Topmast Harbor," says I; "but a mean breeze for folk bound elsewhere."

"A free wind for Topmast Harbor," she repeated.

"No matter," says I.

"'Tis a great thing," she replied, "for them that are bound to Topmast Harbor."

'Twas reproachfully spoken.

"You'll be going home now, maid," I entreated. "You'll leave me walk with you, will you not?"

She looked down in a troubled muse.

"You'll leave me follow, then," says I, "to see that you've no fear of the dark. 'Twill be dark soon, Judith, and I'm not wanting you to be afraid."

"Come!" cries she. "I will walk with you—home!"

She took my hand, and entwined her long fingers with mine, in the intimate, confiding way she was used to doing when we were a lad and a maid on the dark roads. Many a time, when we were lad and maid, had Judith walked forward, and I backward, to provide against surprise by the shapes of night; and many a dark time had she clutched my hand, nearing the lights of Twist Tickle, to make sure that no harm would befall her. And now, in this childish way, she held me; and she walked with me twenty paces on the path to Twist Tickle, whereupon she stopped, and led me back to that same nook of the road, and doggedly released me, and put an opposing hand on my breast.

"Do you bide here," says she; "and when I call, do you go home."

"An you wish it," I answered.

'Twas not more than twenty paces she walked towards the impoverished cottages of Whisper Cove: then turned, and came again to me. I wondered why she stood in this agony of indecision: but could not tell, nor can be blamed for the mystification, relentlessly as I blame myself.

"Dannie," she moaned, looking up, "I can go nowhere!"

"You may go home, maid," says I. "'Tis a queer thing if you may not go home."

"'Tis an unkind thing."

"Come!" I pleaded. "'Twill so very soon be dark on the road; and I'm not wantin' you t' wander in the dark."

"I cannot," says she. "I just cannot!"

"Judith," I chided, "you may. 'Tis an unseemly thing in you to say."

"But I cannot bear it, Dannie!"

"I would cry shame upon you, Judith," I scolded, "were I not so careful of your feelings."

She seemed now to command herself with a resolution of which tender maids like Judith should not be capable: 'tis too lusty and harsh a thing. I stood in awe of it. "Dannie," says she, "do you go home. I'll follow an I can. And if I do not come afore long, do you tell un to think that I spend the night with the wife of Moses Shoos. You may kiss me, Dannie, lad," says she, "an you cares t' do it."

I did care: but dared not.

"I'm wishin' for it," says she.

"But," I protested, "is you sure 'tis right?"

"'Tis quite right," she answered. "God understands."

"I'd be glad," says I.

"You may kiss me, then."

I kissed her. 'Tis a thing I regret: 'twas a kiss so lacking in earnest protraction—so without warmth and vigor. 'Twas the merest brushing of her cheek. I wish I had kissed her, like a man, in the fulness of desire I felt; but I was bound, in the last light of that day, to John Cather, in knightly honor.

"'Twas very nice," says she. "I wisht you'd do it again."

I did.

"Thank you, Dannie," she whispered.

"Judith!" I cried. "Judith! For shame, to thank me!"

"And now," says she, "you'll be off on the road. You'll make haste, will you not? And you'll think, will you not, that I spend the night with Mrs. Shoos? You'll not fret, Dannie: I'd grieve to think that you fretted. I'd not have you, for all the world, trouble about me. Not you," she repeated, her voice falling. "Not you, Dannie—dear. You'll be off, now," she urged, "for 'tis long past time for tea. And you'll tell un all, will you not, that I talked o' spendin' the night with Mrs. Moses Shoos at Whisper Cove?"

"An you wish it, Judith."

"Good-night!"

I pressed away....

* * * * *

When I came to our house on the neck of land by the Lost Soul, I turned at the threshold to survey the weather. I might have saved myself the pains and puzzle of that regard. The print of sea and sky was foreign: I could make nothing of it. 'Twas a quiet sea, breaking, in crooning lullaby, upon the rocks below my bedroom window. It portended no disturbance: I might sleep, thinks I, with the soft whispering to lull me, being willing for the magic shoes of sleep to take me far away from this agony as never man was before. The wind was blowing from the west: but not in gusts—a sailing breeze for the timid. I was glad that there was no venomous intention in the wind: 'twas a mild and dependable wind, grateful to such as fared easterly in the night. I wished that all men might fare that way, in the favoring breeze, but knew well enough that the purposes of men are contrary, the one to the other, making fair winds of foul, and foul of fair, so that there was no telling, of any event, whatever the apparent nature of it, whether sinister or benign, the preponderance of woe or happiness issuing from it. Over all a tender sky, spread with soft stretches of cloud, and set, in its uttermost depths, with stars. 'Twas dark enough now for the stars to shine, making the most of the moon's absence, which soon would rise. Star upon star: a multitude of serenely companionable lights, so twinkling and knowing, so slyly sure of the ultimate resolution of all the doubts and pains and perplexities of the sons of men! But still there was abroad an oppression: a forewarning, in untimely heat and strain, of disastrous weather. 'Twas that I felt when I turned from the contemplation of the stars to go within, that I might without improper delay inform our maid-servant of Judith's intention.

Then I joined my uncle....



XXIV

JOHN CATHER'S FATE

'Twas with a start that I realized the lateness of the hour. Time for liquor! 'Twas hard to believe. My uncle sat with his bottle and glass and little brown jug. The glass was empty and innocent of dregs; the stopper was still tight in the bottle, the jug brimming with clear water from our spring. He had himself fetched them from the pantry, it seemed, and was now awaiting, with genial patience, the arrival of company to give an air of conviviality to the evening's indulgence. I caught him in a smiling muse, his eye on the tip of his wooden leg; he was sailed, it seemed, to a clime of feeling far off from the stress out of which I had come. There was no question: I was not interrogated upon the lapse of the crew, as he called John Cather and Judy and me, from the politeness of attendance at dinner, which, indeed, he seemed to have forgotten in a train of agreeable recollections. He was in a humor as serene and cheerfully voluble as ever I met with in my life; and when he had bade me join him at the table to pour his first dram, he fell to on the narrative of some adventure, humorously occurring, off the Funks, long, long ago, in the days of his boyhood. I did not attend, nor did I pour the dram: being for the time deeply occupied with reflections upon the square, black bottle on the table before me—the cure of moods my uncle had ever maintained it would work.

I got up resolved.

"Where you goin', Dannie?" says my uncle, his voice all at once vacant of cheerfulness.

"To the pantry, sir," I answered.

"Ah!" says he. "Is it ginger-ale, Dannie?"

"No, sir."

"That's good," says he, blankly; "that's very good. For Judy," he added, "is fell into the habit o' tipplin' by day, an' the ginger-ale is all runned out."

I persevered on my way to the pantry.

"Dannie!" he called.

I turned.

"Is you quite sure, lad," he asked, with an anxious rubbing of his stubble of gray beard, "that 'tisn't ginger-ale?"

"I'm wanting a glass, sir," I replied, testily. "I see but one on the table."

"Ah!" he ejaculated. "A glass!"

I returned with the glass.

"Dannie," says my uncle, feigning a relief he dared not entertain, "you was wantin' a drop o' water, wasn't you?" He pushed the little brown jug towards me. "I 'lowed 'twas water," says he, hopefully, "when you up an' spoke about gettin' a glass from the pantry." He urged the jug in my direction. "Ay," he repeated, not hopefully now at all, but in a whisper more like despair, "I jus' 'lowed 'twas a drop o' water."

The jug remained in its place.

"Dannie," he entreated, with a thick forefinger still urging the jug on its course, "you is thirsty, I knows you is!"

I would not touch the jug.

"You been havin' any trouble, shipmate?" he gently asked.

"Yes, sir," I groaned. "Trouble, God knows!"

"Along o' Judy?"

'Twas along o' Judy.

"A drop o' water," says he, setting the glass almost within my hand, "will do you good."

'Twas so anxiously spoken that my courage failed me. I splashed water into the glass and swallowed it.

"That's good," says he; "that's very good."

I pushed the glass away with contempt for its virtue of comfort; and I laughed, I think, in a disagreeable way, so that the old man, unused to manifestations as harsh and irreligious as this, started in dismay.

"Good," he echoed, staring, unconvinced and without hope; "that's very good."

And now, a miserable determination returning, I fixed my eyes again on the square, black bottle of rum. 'Twas a thing that fairly fascinated my attention. The cure of despair was legendary, the palatable quality a thing of mere surmise: I had never experienced either; but in my childhood I had watched my uncle's fearsome moods vanish, as he downed his drams, one by one, giving way to a grateful geniality, which sent my own bogies scurrying off, and I had fancied, from the smack of his lips, and from the eager lifting of the glasses at the Anchor and Chain, the St. John's tap-room we frequented, that a drop o' rum was a thing to delight the dry tongue and gullet of every son of man. My uncle sat under the lamp: I remember his countenance, aside from the monstrous scars and disfigurements which the sea had dealt him—its anxious regard of me, its intense concern, its gathering purpose, the last of which I did not read at that moment, but now recall and understand. 'Twas quiet and orderly in the room: the geometrical gentlemen were there riding the geometrically tempestuous sea in a frame beyond my uncle's gargoylish head, and the tidied rocking-chair, which I was used to addressing as a belted knight o' the realm, austerely abode in a shadow. I was in some saving way, as often happens in our lives, conscious of these familiar things, to which we return and cling in the accidents befalling us and in the emergencies of feeling we must all survive. The room was as our maid-servant had left it, bright and warm and orderly: there was as yet no disarrangement by the conviviality we were used to. 'Tis not at all my wish to trouble you with the despair I suffered that night, with Judith gone from me: I would not utter it—'twas too deep and unusual and tragical to disturb a world with. But still I stared at that square, black bottle of rum, believing, as faith may be, in the surcease it contained.

I watched that bottle.

"Dannie," says my uncle, with a wish, no doubt, for a diversion, "is the moon up?"

I walked to the window. "'Tis up," I reported; "but 'tis hid by clouds, an' the wind's rising."

"The wind rising?" says he. "'Twill do us no harm."

Of course, my uncle did not know which of us was at sea.

"The wind," he repeated, "will do no harm."

I sat down again: and presently got my glass before me, and reached for the square, black bottle of rum. I could stand it no longer: I could really stand it no longer—the pain of this denial of my love was too much for any man to bear.

"I'll have a drop," says I, "for comfort."

My uncle's hand anticipated me.

"Ah!" says he. "For comfort, is it?"

Unhappily, he had the bottle in his hand. 'Twas quite beyond my reach—done with any courtesy. I must wait for him to set it down again. The jug was close enough, the glass, too; but the bottle was in watchful custody. My uncle shook the bottle, and held it to the lamp; he gauged its contents: 'twas still stout—he sighed. And now he set it on the table, with his great, three-fingered hand about the neck of it, so that all hope of possession departed from me: 'twas a clutch too close and meaning to leave me room for hope. I heard the wind, rising to a blow, but had no fret on that account: there was none of us at sea, thank God! we were all ashore, with no care for what the wind might do. I observed that my uncle was wrought up to a pitch of concern to which he was not used. He had gone pale, who was used, in exaltation of feeling, to go crimson and blue in the scars of him; but he had now gone quite white and coldly sweaty, in a ghastly way, with the black bottle held up before him, his wide little eyes upon it. I had never before known him to be in fact afraid; but he was now afraid, and I was persuaded of it, by his pallor, by his trembling hand, by the white and stare of his eyes, by the drooping lines of his poor, disfigured face. He turned from the bottle to look at me; but I could not withstand the poignancy of his regard: I looked away—feeling some shame, for which I could not account to myself. And then he sighed, and clapped the black bottle on the table, with a thump that startled me; and he looked towards me with a resolution undaunted and determined. I shall never forget, indeed, the expression he wore: 'twas one of perfect knightliness—as high and pure and courageous as men might wear, even in those ancient times when honorable endeavor (by the tales of John Cather) was a reward sufficient to itself.

I shall never forget: I could not forget.

"Dannie," says he, listlessly, "'tis wonderful warm in here. Cast up the window, lad."

'Twas not warm. There was no fire; and the weather had changed, and the wind came in at the open door, running in cold draughts about the house. 'Twas warm with the light of the lamp, to be sure; 'twas cosey and grateful in the room: but the entering swirl of wind was cold, and the emotional situation was such in bleakness and mystery as to make me shiver.

I opened the window.

"That's good," he sighed. "How's the tide?"

"'Tis the ebb, sir."

"Could ye manage t' see Digger Rock?" he inquired.

The moon, breaking out, disclosed it: 'twas a rock near by, submerged save at low-tide—I could see it.

"Very good," says he. "Could ye hit it?"

"I've nothing to shy, sir."

"But an you had?" he insisted.

My tutor entered the hall. I heard him go past the door. 'Twas in a quick, agitated step, not pausing to regard us, but continuing up the stair to his own room. I wondered why that was.

"Eh, Dannie?" says my uncle.

"I might, sir," I answered.

"Then," says he, "try it with this bottle!"

I cast the bottle.

"That's good," says he. "Ye're a wonderful shot, Dannie. I heared un go t' smash. That's good; that's very good!"

* * * * *

We sat, my uncle and I, for an hour after that, I fancy, without managing an exchange: I would address him, but he would not hear, being sunk most despondently in his great chair by the empty, black grate, with his eyes fixed in woe-begone musing upon the toes of his ailing timber; and he would from time to time insinuate an irrelevant word concerning the fishing, and, with complaint, the bewildering rise and fall of the price of fish, but the venture upon conversation was too far removed from the feeling of the moment to engage a reply. Presently, however, I commanded myself sufficiently to observe him with an understanding detached from my own bitterness; and I perceived that he sat hopeless and in fear, as in the days when I was seven, with his head fallen upon his breast and his eyes grown tragical, afraid, but now in raw kind and infinite measure, of the coming of night upon the world he sailed by day. I heard nothing from my tutor—no creak of the floor, no step, no periodical creaking of his rocking-chair. He had not, then, thinks I, cast off his clothes; he had not gone to reading for holy orders, as was, at intervals, his custom—he had thrown himself on his bed. But I neither cared nor wondered: I caught sight of my uncle's face again—half amazed, wholly despondent, but yet with a little glint of incredulous delight playing, in brief flashes, upon it—and I could think of nothing else, not even of Judith, in her agony of mysterious shame upon the Whisper Cove road, nor of her disquieting absence from the house, nor of the rising wind, nor of the drear world I must courageously face when I should awake from that night's sleep.

I considered my uncle.

"Do ye go t' bed, Dannie," says he, looking up at last. "Ye've trouble enough."

I rose, but did not wish to leave him comfortless in the rising wind. I had rather sit with him, since he needed me now, it seemed, more than ever before.

"Ye'll not trouble about me, lad?"

I would not be troubled.

"That's good," says he. "No need o' your troublin' about me. Ol' Nick Top's able t' take care o' hisself! That's very good."

I started away for bed, but turned at the door, as was my custom, to wish my uncle good-night. I said nothing, for he was in an indubitable way not to be disturbed—having forgotten me and the affection I sought at all times to give him. He was fallen dejectedly in his chair, repeating, "For behold the Lord will come with fire, and with his chariots like a whirlwind, to render his anger with fury, and his rebuke with the flames of fire." I paused at the door to watch him, and I saw that his maimed hand wandered over the table until it found his glass, and that he caught and raised the glass, and that he set it down again, and that he pushed the empty thing away.

I saw all that....

* * * * *

And I went to bed; but I did not go to sleep. In the first place, I could not, and, for better reason, my tutor got astir the moment my door was closed. I heard his cautious descent to the dining-room. The man had been waiting to get me out of the way; but I heard him go down, and that right easily, in the fall of his stockinged feet, and in the click of his door-latch, and in the creak of the stair. I cast my clothes off in haste, but lay wide awake in my bed—as who would not?—listening to the ominous murmur of voices from below. My tutor, it seemed, was placid and determined; my uncle was outraged. I heard the old man's voice rise in a rage, fall to a subdued complaint, patter along in beseeching. It seemed 'twas all to no purpose; my tutor was obdurate, and my uncle yielded to his demands, however unwillingly. There was the mutter of agreement, there was the click of my uncle's strong-box, there was the clink of gold coin. I listened for the pop of a new cork; but I did not hear it: I heard the jug of spring water exchange hands—no more than that. 'Twas very queer. But I was not concerned with it, after all. Let my uncle and John Cather deal with each other as they would, in any way engaging the clink of gold from my uncle's strong-box; 'twas for me, unconcerned, to look out of my window, to discover the weather. And this I did; and I found the weather threatening—very dark, with the moon hid by clouds, and blowing up in a way promising a strength of wind not to be disregarded by folk who would put to sea.

The end of this was that John Cather and my uncle came above. My tutor went straightway to his room, with steps that hastened past my door; but my uncle paused, pushed the door cautiously ajar, thrust in his head.

"Is you asleep, Dannie?" says he.

"No, sir. I'm wonderful wide awake."

"Ah, well!" he whispered, in such a way that I perceived his triumphant glee, though I could not see his face for the darkness of my room; "you might as well turn over an' go t' sleep."

"An' why, sir?" I asked.

"Like a babe, Dannie," says he, addressing me with fondness, as though I were a little child again—"jus' like a babe."

He walked to my window and looked out to sea.

"Dirty weather the morrow, sir," I ventured.

"The lights o' the mail-boat!" he exclaimed. "She've left Fortune Harbor. Ecod, b'y!"

He withdrew at once and in haste, and I heard him stump off to my tutor's quarters, where, for a long time after that, there occurred many and mysterious noises. I could not understand, but presently made the puzzle out: John Cather was packing up. 'Twas beyond doubt; the thump and creak, the reckless pulling of drawers, steps taken in careless hurry and confusion, the agitation of the pressing need of haste, all betrayed the business in hand. John Cather was packing up: he was rejected of Judith—he was going away! It hurt me sorely to think that the man would thus in impulsive haste depart, after these years of intimate companionship, with a regard so small for my wishes in the matter. Go to sleep like a babe? I could not go to sleep at all; I could but lie awake in trouble. John Cather was packing up; he was going away! My uncle helped him with his trunks down the stairs and to the stage-head, where, no doubt, my uncle's punt was waiting to board the belated mail-boat—the mean little trunk John Cather had come with, and the great leather one I had bought him in London. I was glad, at any rate, that my gifts—the books and clothes and what-not I had bought him abroad—were not to be left to haunt me. But that John Cather should not say good-bye! I could not forgive him that. I waited and waited, lying awake in the dark, for him to come. And come he did, when the trunks were carried away and the whistle of the mail-boat had awakened our harbor. He pushed my door open without knocking, knowing well enough that I was wide awake. 'Twas then dark in my room; he could not see me.

"Where are your matches?" says he.

I told him, but did not like the manner of his speech. 'Twas in a way to rouse the antagonism of any man, being most harsh and hateful.

"I can't find them," he complained.

"You'll find them well enough, John Cather," I chided, "an you looks with patience."

He had no patience, it seemed, but continued to fumble about, and at last, with his back turned to me, got my lamp lighted. For a moment he stood staring at the wall, as though he lacked the resolution to turn. And when he wheeled I knew that I looked upon the countenance of a man who had been broken on the wheel; and I was very much afraid. John Cather was splashed and streaked with the mud of the hills. 'Twas not this evidence of passionate wandering that alarmed me; 'twas his pallor and white lips, his agonized brows, the gloomy depth to which his bloodshot eyes had withdrawn.

"Now," says he, "I want to look at you."

I did not want to be looked at.

"Sit up!" he commanded.

I sat up in bed.

"Put the blanket down," says he. "I have come, I say, to look at you."

I uncovered to my middle.

"And this," says he, "is the body of you, is it?"

The lamp was moved close to my face. John Cather laughed, and began, in a way I may not set down, to comment upon me. 'Twas not agreeable. I tried to stop him. 'Twas unkind to me and 'twas most injurious to himself. He did us vile injustice. I stopped my ears against his raving, but could not shut it out. "And this is the body of you! This is the body of you!" Here was not the John Cather who had come to us clear-eyed and buoyant and kindly out of the great world; here was an evil John Cather—the John Cather of a new birth at Twist Tickle. 'Twas the man our land and hearts had made him; he had here among us come to his tragedy and was cast away. I knew that the change had been worked by love—and I wondered that love could accomplish the wreck of a soul. I tried to stop his ghastly laughter, to quiet his delirium of brutality; and presently he was still, but of exhaustion, not of shame. Again he brought the lamp close to my face, and read it, line upon line, until it seemed he could bear no longer to peruse it. What he saw there I do not know—what to give him hope or still to increase the depth of his hopelessness. He betrayed no feeling; but the memory of his pale despair continues with me to this day, and will to the end of my years. Love has never appeared to me in perfect beauty and gentleness since that night; it can wear an ugly guise, achieve a sinister purpose, I know.

John Cather set the lamp on the table, moving in a preoccupation from which I had been cast out.

"John Cather!" I called.

My uncle shouted from below.

"John!" I urged.

"Parson," my uncle roared, "ye'll lose your passage!"

Cather blew out the light.

"John," I pleaded, "you'll not go without saying good-bye?"

He stopped on the threshold; but I did not hear him turn. I called him again; he wheeled, came stumbling quickly to my bed, caught my hand.

"Forgive me, Dannie!" he groaned. "My heart is broken!"

He ran away: I never saw him again....

* * * * *

And now, indeed, was the world gone all awry! What had in the morning of that day been a prospect of joy was vanished in a drear mist of broken hopes. Here was John Cather departed in sore agony, for which was no cure that ever I heard of or could conceive. Here was John Cather gone with the wreck of a soul. A cynical, purposeless, brooding life he must live to his last day: there was no healing in all the world for his despair. Here with us—to whom, in the years of our intercourse, he gave nothing but gladness—his ruin had been wrought. 'Twas not by wish of us; but there was small comfort in the reflection, since John Cather must suffer the same. Here was John Cather gone; and here, presently, was my uncle, pacing the floor below. Up and down, up and down: I thought the pat of his wooden leg would go on forever—would forever, by night and day, express the restlessness of thirst. And here was Judy, abroad, in trouble I could not now divine—'twas a thing most strange and disturbing that she should stand in distress before me. I had accounted for it, but could not now explain—not with John Cather gone. I was mystified, not agitated by alarms. I would meet the maid on the Whisper Cove road in the morning, thinks I, and resolve the puzzle. I would discover more than that. I would discover whether or not I had blundered. But this new hope, springing confidently though it did, could not thrive in the wretchedness of John Cather's departure. I was not happy.

My uncle roughly awoke me at dawn.

"Sir?" I asked.

"Judy," says he, "haves disappeared."

He held me until he perceived that I had commanded myself....



XXV

TO SEA

Judith had vanished! Our maid-servant, astir in the child's behalf before dawn, in her anxious way, was returned breathless from Whisper Cove with the report. There was no Judith with the wife of Moses Shoos: nor had there been that night. 'Twas still but gray abroad—a drear dawn: promising a belated, sullen day. We awoke the harbor to search the hills, the ledges of the cliffs, the surf-washed shore. 'Twas my uncle hither, the maid-servant thither, myself beyond. Clamorous knocking, sudden lights in the cottages, lights pale in the murky daylight, and a subdued gathering of our kind men-folk: I remember it all—the winged haste, the fright of them that were aroused, the shadows and the stumbling of the farther roads, the sickly, sleepy lights in the windows, the troubled dawn. We dispersed: day broadened, broke gray and glum upon Twin Islands—but discovered no lost maid to us.

'Twas whispered about, soon, that the women had spoken evil of Judith in our harbor; and pursuing this ill-omened rumor, in a rage I could not command, I came at last upon the shameful truth: the women had spoken scandal of the maid, the which she had learned from Aunt Esther All, the Whisper Cove gossip. The misfortune of gentle Parson Stump, poor man! who had in the ear of Eli Flack's wife uttered a sweetly jocular word concerning Judith and the honorable intention of John Cather, who walked with her alone on the roads, about his love-making. But, unhappily, the parson being absent-minded, 'twas into the dame's deaf ear he spoke, and his humor became, in transmission, by pure misfortune, an evil charge.

There was then no help for it, old wives being what they are: authorized by the gentle parson, depending upon the report of a dame of character, the tittle-tattle spread and settled like a mist, defiling Judith to the remotest coves of Twin Islands. And Judith was vanished! I knew then, in the gray noon of that day, why the child had cried in that leafy nook of the Whisper Cove road that she could go nowhere.

I cursed myself.

"Stop, Dannie!" cries my uncle. "She's still on the hills—somewheres there, waitin' t' be sought out an' comforted an' fetched home."

I thought otherwise.

"She've lied down there," says he, "t' cry an' wait for me an' you."

I watched him pace the garden-path.

"An' I'm not able, the day, for sheer want o' rum," he muttered, "t' walk the hills."

I looked away to the sombre hills, where she might lie waiting for him and me; but my glance ran far beyond, to the low, gray sky and to a patch of darkening sea. And I cursed myself again—my stupidity and ease of passion and the mean conceit of myself by which I had been misled to the falsely meek conclusion of yesterday—I cursed myself, indeed, with a live wish for punishment, in that I had not succored the maid when she had so frankly plead for my strength. John Cather? what right had I to think that she had loved him? On the hills? nay, she was not there; she was not on the hills, waiting for my uncle and me—she was gone elsewhere, conserving her independence and self-respect, in the womanly way she had. My uncle fancied she was a clinging child: I knew her for a proud and impulsively wilful woman. With this gossip abroad to flout her, she would never wait on the hills for my uncle and me: 'twas the ultimate pain she could not bear in the presence of such as loved and trusted her; 'twas the event she had feared, remembering her mother, all her life long, dwelling in sensitive dread, as I knew. She would flee the shame of this accusation, without fear or lingering, unable to call upon the faith of us. 'Twas gathering in my mind that she had fled north, as the maids of our land would do, in the spring, with the Labrador fleet bound down for the fishing. 'Twas a reasonable purpose to possess her aimless feet. She would ship on a Labradorman: she might, for the wishing—she would go cook on a north-bound craft from Topmast Harbor, as many a maid of our coast was doing. And by Heaven! thinks I, she had.

Her mother's punt was gone from Whisper Cove.

"She've lied down there on the hills," my uncle protested, "t' cry an' wait. Ye're not searchin', Dannie, as ye ought. She've jus' lied down, I tell ye," he whimpered, "t' wait."

'Twas not so, I thought.

"She've her mother's shame come upon her," says he, "an' she've hid."

I wished it might be so.

"Jus' lied down an' hid," he repeated.

"No, no!" says I. "She'd never weakly hide her head from this."

He eyed me.

"Not Judith!" I expostulated.

"She'd never bear her mother's shame, Dannie," says he. "She'd run away an' hide. She—she—told me so."

I observed my uncle: he was gone with the need of rum—exhausted and unnerved: his face all pallid and splotched. 'Twas a ghastly thing to watch him stump the gravelled walk of our garden in the gray light of that day.

"Uncle Nicholas, sir," says I, for the moment forgetting the woe of Judith's hapless state in this new alarm, "do you come within an' have a dram."

"Ye're not knowin' how t' search," he complained. "Ye're but a pack o' dunderheads!"

"Come, sir!" I pleaded.

"Is ye been t' Skeleton Droch?" he demanded. "She've a habit o' readin' there. No!" he growled, in a temper; "you isn't had the sense t' go t' Skeleton Droch."

"A dram, sir," I ventured, "t' comfort you."

"An' ye bide here, ye dunderhead!" he accused.

I put my hand on his shoulder: he flung it off. I took his arm: he wrenched himself free in an indignant passion.

"Ye're needin' it, sir," says I.

"For God's sake, child!" he cried; "do you go find the maid an' leave me be. God knows I've trouble enough without ye!"

The maid was not at Skeleton Droch: neither on the hills, nor in the hiding-places of the valleys, nor lying broken on the ledges of the cliffs, nor swinging in the sea beneath—nor was she anywhere on the land of Twin Islands or in the waters that restlessly washed the boundary of gray rock. 'Twas near evening now, and a dreary, angrily windy time. Our men gathered from shore and inland barren—and there was no Judith, nor cold, wet body of Judith, anywhere to be found. 'Twas unthinkingly whispered, then, that the maid had fled with John Cather on the mail-boat: this on Tom Tulk's Head, in its beginning, and swiftly passed from tongue to tongue. Being overwrought when I caught the surmise—'twas lusty young Jack Bluff that uttered it before me—I persuaded the youth of his error, which, upon rising, he admitted, as did they all of that group, upon my request, forgiving me, too, I think, the cruel abruptness of my argument, being men of feeling, every one. The maid was not gone with John Cather, she was not on the hills of Twin Islands; she was then fled to Topmast Harbor for self-support, that larger settlement, whence many Labradormen put out at this season for the northerly fishing. And while, sheltered from the rising wind, the kind men-folk of our harbor talked with my uncle and me on Eli Flack's stage, there came into the tickle from Topmast Harbor, in quest of water, a punt and a man, being bound, I think, for Jimmie Tick's Cove. 'Twas by him reported that a maid of gentle breeding had come alone in a punt to Topmast in the night. And her hair? says I. She had hair, and a wonderful sight of it, says he. And big, blue eyes? says I. She had eyes, says he; an' she had a nose, so far as he could tell, which had clapped eyes on the maid, an' she had teeth an' feet, himself being able to vouch for the feet, which clipped it over the Topmast roads quite lively, soon after dawn, in search of a schooner bound down the Labrador.

I knew then into what service the Shining Light should be commissioned.

"Ay, lad," says my uncle.

"And will you ship, sir?"

"Why, Lord love us, shipmate!" he roared, indignantly, to the amazement of our folk; "is ye thinkin' I'm past my labor?"

I nodded towards Whisper Cove.

"The man," he agreed.

It came about thus that I sought out Moses Shoos, wishing for him upon this high adventure because of his chivalry. Nay, but in Twist Tickle, whatever the strength and courage and kindliness of our folk, there was no man so to be desired in a crucial emergency. The fool of the place was beyond purchase, beyond beseeching: kept apart by his folly from every unworthy motive to action. He was a man of pure leading, following a voice, a vision: I would have him upon this sacred adventure in search of the maid I loved. 'Twas no mean errand, no service to be paid for; 'twas a high calling—a ringing summons, it seemed to me, to perilous undertakings, rewarded by opportunity for peril in service of a fond, righteous cause. Nay, but I would have this unspoiled fool: I would have for companion the man who put his faith in visions, could I but win him. I believed in visions—in the deep, limpid, mysterious springs of conduct. I believed in visions—in the unreasoning progress, an advance in the way of life not calculated, but made in unselfish faith, with eyes lifted up from the vulgar, swarming, assailing advantages of existence. My uncle and the fool and I! there was no peril upon the sea to daunt us: we would find and fetch, to her own place, in perfect honor, the maid I loved. And of all this I thought, whatever the worth of it, as I ran upon the Whisper Cove road, in the evening of that gray, blustering day.

Moses was within.

"Here you is," he drawled. "I 'lowed you'd come. How's the weather?"

"'Twill blow big guns, Moses," I answered; "and I'll not deceive you."

"Well, well!" he sighed.

And would he go with us?

"I been waitin' for you, Dannie," says he. "I been sittin' here in the kitchen—waitin'."

'Twas a hopeful word.

"If mother was here," he continued, "she'd have 'lowed I'd better wait. 'You wait for Dannie,' mother would have 'lowed, 'until he comes.' An' so I been waitin'."

Well, there I was.

"That was on'y mother," he added; "an', o' course, I'm married now."

Walrus Liz of the Labrador came in. I rose—and was pleasantly greeted. She sat, then, and effaced herself.

"Mrs. Moses Shoos," says Moses, with a fond look upon that woman of ill-favor and infinite tenderness, "haves jus' got t' be consulted."

I was grown hopeless—remembering Tumm's story of the babies.

"In a case like this," Moses confided, "mother always 'lowed a man ought to."

"But your wife?" I demanded.

"Oh, my goodness, Dannie!" cries he. "For shame!"

"Tell me quickly, Moses."

"Mrs. Moses Shoos," he answered, with gravest dignity, "always 'lows, agreein' with me—that mother knowed!"

'Twas in this way that Moses Shoos shipped on the Shining Light....

* * * * *

Shortly now, by an arrangement long made and persistently continued, we had the Shining Light ready for sea—provisioned, her water-casks full. I ran through the house upon a last survey; and I found my uncle at the pantry door, his bag on his back, peering into the dark interior of the little room, in a way most melancholy and desirous, upon the long row of bottles of rum. He sighed, closed the door with scowling impatience, and stumped off to board the ship: I was not heroic, but subtracted one from that long row, and stowed it away in a bag I carried. We dropped the anchor of the Shining Light, and beat out, through the tickle, to the wide, menacing sea, with the night coming down and a gale of wind blowing lustily up from the gray northeast. 'Twas thus not in flight the Shining Light continued her cruise, 'twas in pursuit of the maid I loved: a thing infinitely more anxious and momentous—a thing that meant more than life or death to me, with the maid gone as cook on a Labrador craft. 'Twas sunset time; but there was no sunset—no fire in the western sky: no glow or effulgent glory or lurid threat. The whole world was gone a dreary gray, with the blackness of night descending: a darkening zenith, a gray horizon lined with cold, black cloud, a coast without tender mercy for the ships of men, a black sea roughening in a rage to the northeast blasts. 'Twas all hopeless and pitiless: an unfeeling sea, but troubled, it seemed to me, by depths of woe and purpose and difficulty we cannot understand. We were bound for Topmast Harbor, on a wind favorable enough for courageous hearts; and my uncle had the wheel, and the fool of Twist Tickle and I kept the deck to serve him. He did not call upon us to shorten sail, in answer to the old schooner's complaint; and I was glad that he did not, as was the fool also....

* * * * *

'Twas night when we put into Topmast Harbor; but my uncle and the fool and I awoke the place without regard for its way-harbor importance or number of houses. There was no maid there, said they; there had been a maid, come at dawn, but she was fortunately shipped, as she wished to be. What maid was that? They did not know. Was she a slender, tawny-haired, blue-eyed, most beauteous maid? They did but sleepily stare. I found a man, awakened from sound slumber, who remembered: ay, there was a maid of that description, who had shipped for cook on the Likely Lass. And whence the Likely Lass? Bonavist' Bay, says he, put in for rest: a seventy-tonner, put out on the favoring wind. And was there another woman aboard? Ecod! he did not know: 'twas a craft likely enough for any maid, other woman aboard or not. And so we set out again, in the night, dodging the rocks of that tickle, by my uncle's recollection, and presently found ourselves bound north, in search of the Likely Lass, towards a sea that was bitter with cold and dark and wind, aboard a schooner that was far past the labor of dealing with gusts and great waves.

And in the night it came on to blow very hard from the east, with a freezing sleet, which yet grew colder, until snow mixed with it, and at last came in stifling clouds. It blew harder: we drove on, submerged in racing froth to the hatches, sheathed in ice, riding on a beam, but my uncle, at the wheel, standing a-drip, in cloth of ice, as long ago he had stood, in the first of the cruise of the Shining Light, would have no sail off the craft, but humored her northward in chase of the Likely Lass. 'Twas a reeling, plunging, smothered progress through the breaking sea, in a ghostly mist of snow swirling in the timid yellow of our lights, shrouding us as if for death in the rush and seethe of that place. There was a rain of freezing spray upon us—a whipping rain of spray: it broke from the bows and swept past, stinging as it went. 'Twas as though the very night—the passion of it—congealed upon us. There was no reducing sail—not now, in this cold rage of weather. We were frozen stiff and white: 'twas on the course, with a clever, indulgent hand to lift us through, or 'twas founder in the crested waves that reached for us.

"Dannie!" my uncle shouted.

I sprang aft: but in the roar of wind and swish and thud of sea could not hear him.

"Put your ear close," he roared.

I heard that; and I put my anxious ear close.

"I'm gettin' kind o' cold," says he. "Is ye got a fire in the cabin?"

I had not.

"Get one," says he.

I got a fire alight in the cabin. 'Twas a red, roaring fire. I called my uncle from the cabin door. The old man gave the wheel to the fool and came below in a humor the most genial: he was grinning, indeed, under the crust of ice upon his beard; and he was rubbing his stiff hands in delight. He was fair happy to be abroad in the wind and sea with the Shining Light underfoot.

"Ye got it warm in here," says he.

"I got more than that, sir," says I. "I got a thing to please you."

Whereupon I fetched the bottle of rum from my bag.

"Rum!" cries he. "Well, well!"

I opened the bottle of rum.

"Afore ye pours," he began, "I 'low I'd best—God's sake! What's that?"

'Twas a great sea breaking over us.

"Moses!" my uncle hailed.

The schooner was on her course: the fool had clung to the wheel.

"Ice in that sea, Dannie," says my uncle. "An' ye got a bottle o' rum! Well, well! Wonderful sight o' ice t' the nor'ard. Ye'll find, I bet ye, that the fishin' fleet is cotched fast somewheres long about the straits. An' a bottle o' rum for a cold night! Well, well! I bet ye, Dannie," says he, "that the Likely Lass is gripped by this time. An' ye got a bottle o' rum!" cries he, in a beaming fidget. "Rum's a wonderful thing on a cold night, lad. Nothin' like it. I've tried it. Was a time," he confided, "when I was sort o' give t' usin' of it."

I made to pour him a dram.

"Leave me hold that there bottle," says he. "I wants t' smell of it."

'Twas an eager sniff.

"'Tis rum," says he, simply.

I raised the bottle above the glass.

"Come t' think of it, Dannie," says he, with a wistful little smile, "that there bottle o' rum will do more good where you had it than where I'd put it."

I corked the bottle and returned it to my bag.

"That's good," he sighed; "that's very good!"

I made him a cup o' tea....

When I got the wheel, with Moses Shoos forward and my uncle gone asleep below, 'twas near dawn. We were under reasonable sail, running blindly through the night: there were no heroics of carrying-on—my uncle was not the man to bear them. But we were frozen stiff—every block and rope of us. And 'twas then blowing up with angrier intention; and 'twas dark and very cold, I recall—and the air was thick with the dust of snow, so that 'twas hard to breathe. Congealing drops of spray came like bullets: I recall that they hurt me. I recall, too, that I was presently frozen to the deck, and that my mitts were stuck to the wheel—that I became fixed and heavy. The old craft had lost her buoyant will: she labored through the shadowy, ghostly crested seas, in a fashion the most weary and hopeless. I fancied I knew why: I fancied, indeed, that she had come close to her last harbor. And of this I soon made sure: I felt of her, just before the break of day, discovering, but with no selfish perturbation, that she was exhausted. I felt of her tired plunges, of the stagger of her, of her failing strength and will; and I perceived—by way of the wheel in my understanding hands—that she would be glad to abandon this unequal struggle of the eternal youth of the sea against her age and mortality. And the day broke; and with the gray light came the fool of Twist Tickle over the deck. 'Twas a sinister dawn: no land in sight—but a waste of raging sea to view—and the ship laden forward with a shameful burden of ice.

Moses spoke: I did not hear him in the wind, because, I fancy, of the ice in my ear.

"Don't hear ye!" I shouted.

"She've begun t' leak!" he screamed.

I knew that she had.

"No use callin' the skipper," says he. "All froze up. Leave un sleep."

I nodded.

"Goin' down," says he. "Knowed she would."

My uncle came on deck: he was smiling—most placid, indeed.

"Well, well!" he shouted. "Day, eh?"

"Leakin'," says Moses.

"Well, well!"

"Goin' down," Moses screamed.

"Knowed she would," my uncle roared. "Can't last long in this. What's that?"

'Twas floe ice.

"Still water," says he. "Leave me have that there wheel, Dannie. Go t' sleep!"

I would stand by him.

"Go t' sleep!" he commanded. "I'll wake ye afore she goes."

I went to sleep: but the fool, I recall, beat me at it; he was in a moment snoring....

* * * * *

When I awoke 'twas broad day—'twas, indeed, late morning. The Shining Light was still. My uncle and the fool sat softly chatting over the cabin table, with breakfast and steaming tea between. I heard the roar of the wind, observed beyond the framing door the world aswirl and white; but I felt no laboring heave, caught no thud and swish of water. The gale, at any rate, had not abated: 'twas blowing higher and colder. My uncle gently laughed, when I was not yet all awake, and the fool laughed, too; and they ate their pork and brewis and sipped their tea with relish, as if abiding in security and ease. I would fall asleep again: but got the smell of breakfast in my nose, and must get up; and having gone on deck I found in the narrow, white-walled circle of the storm a little world of ice and writhing space. The Shining Light was gripped: her foremast was snapped, her sails hanging stiff and frozen; she was listed, bedraggled, incrusted with ice—drifted high with snow. 'Twas the end of the craft: I knew it. And I went below to my uncle and the fool, sad at heart because of this death, but wishing very much, indeed, for my breakfast. 'Twas very warm and peaceful in the cabin, with pork and brewis on the table, my uncle chuckling, the fire most cheerfully thriving. I could hear the wind—the rage of it—but felt no stress of weather.

"Stove in, Dannie," says my uncle. "She'll sink when the ice goes abroad."

I asked for my fork.

"Fill up," my uncle cautioned. "Ye'll need it afore we're through."

'Twas to this I made haste.

"More pork than brewis, lad," he advised. "Pork takes more grindin'."

I attacked the pork.

"I got your bag ready," says he.

Then I had no cause to trouble....

* * * * *

'Twas deep night, the gale still blowing high with snow, when the wind changed. It ran to the north—shifted swiftly to the west. The ice-pack stirred: we felt the schooner shiver, heard the tumult of warning noises, as that gigantic, lethargic mass was aroused to unwilling motion by the lash of the west wind. The hull of the Shining Light collapsed. 'Twas time to be off. I awoke the fool—who had still soundly slept. The fool would douse the cabin fire, in a seemly way, and put out the lights; but my uncle forbade him, having rather, said he, watch the old craft go down with a warm glow issuing from her. Presently she was gone, all the warmth and comfort and hope of the world expiring in her descent: there was no more a Shining Light; and we three folk were cast away on a broad pan of ice, in the midst of night and driving snow. Of the wood they had torn from the schooner against this time, the fool builded a fire, beside which we cowered from the wind; and soon, the snow failing and the night falling clear and starlit, points of flickering light appeared on the ice beyond us. There were three, I recall, diminishing in the distance; and I knew, then, what I should do in search of Judith when the day came. Three schooners cast away beyond us; one might be the Likely Lass: I would search for Judith, thinks I, when day came. 'Twas very long in coming, and 'twas most bitter cold and discouraging in its arrival: a thin, gray light, with no hopeful hue of dawn in the east—frosty, gray light, spreading reluctantly over the white field of the world to a black horizon. I wished, I recall, while I waited for broader day, that some warm color might appear to hearten us, some tint, however pale and transient, to recall the kindlier mood of earth to us; and there came, in answer to my wishing, a flush of rose in the east, which waxed and endured, spreading its message, but failed, like a lamp extinguished, leaving the world all sombre and inimical, as it had been.

I must now be off alone upon my search: my wooden-legged uncle could not travel the ice—nor must the fool abandon him.

"I 'lowed ye would, lad," says he, "like any other gentleman."

I bade them both good-bye.

"Three schooners cast away t' the nor'ard," says he. "I'm hopin' ye'll find the Likely Lass. Good-bye, Dannie. I 'low I've fetched ye up very well. Good-bye, Dannie."

I was moved away now: but halted, like a dog between two masters.

"Good-bye!" he shouted. "God bless ye, Dannie—God bless ye!"

I turned away.

"God bless ye!" came faintly after me.

That night I found Judith with the crew of the Likely Lass, sound asleep, her head lying, dear child! on the comfortable breast of the skipper's wife. And she was very glad, she said, that I had come....



XXVI

THE DEVIL'S TEETH

'Twill not, by any one, be hard to recall that the great gale of that year, blowing unseasonably with snow, exhausted itself in three days, leaving the early birds of the Labrador fleet, whose northward flitting had been untimely, wrecked and dispersed upon the sea. In the reaction of still, blue weather we were picked up by the steamer Fortune, a sealing-craft commissioned by the government for rescue when surmise of the disaster grew large; but we got no word of my uncle and the fool of Twist Tickle until the fore-and-after Every Time put into St. John's with her flag flying half-mast in the warm sunshine. 'Twas said that she had the bodies of men aboard: and 'twas a grewsome truth—and the corpses of women, too, and of children. She brought more than the dead to port: she brought the fool, and the living flesh and spirit of my uncle—the old man's body ill-served by the cold, indeed, but his soul, at sight of me, springing into a blaze as warm and strong and cheerful as ever I had known. 'Twas all he needed, says he, t' work a cure: the sight of a damned little grinnin' Chesterfieldian young gentleman! Whatever the actual effect of this genteel spectacle, my uncle was presently on his feet again, though continuing much broken in vigor; and when he was got somewhat stronger we set out for Twist Tickle, to which we came, three days later, returning in honor to our own place.

The folk were glad that we were all come back to them....

* * * * *

I loved Judith: I loved the maid with what exalted wish soul and body of me understood—conceiving her perfect in every grace and spiritual adornment: a maid lifted like a star above the hearts of the world. I considered my life, and counted it unworthy, as all lives must be before her: I considered my love, but found no spot upon it. I loved the maid: and was now grown to be a man, able, in years and strength and skill of mind and hand, to cherish her; and I would speak to her of this passion and dear hope, but must not, because of the mystery concerning me. There came, then, an evening when I sought my uncle out to question him; 'twas a hushed and compassionate hour, I recall, the sunset waxing glorious above the remotest sea, and the night creeping with gentle feet upon the world, to spread its soft blanket of shadows.

I remembered the gray stranger's warning.

"Here I is, lad," cries my uncle, with an effort at heartiness, which, indeed, had departed from him, and would not come again. "Here I is—havin' a little dram o' rum with Nature!"

'Twas a draught of salt air he meant.

"Dannie," says he, in overwhelming uneasiness, his voice become hoarse and tremulous, "ye got a thing on your mind!"

I found him very old and ill and hopeless; 'twas with a shock that the thing came home to me: the man was past all labor of the hands, got beyond all ships and winds and fishing—confronting, now, with an anxious heart, God knows! a future of dependence, for life and love, upon the lad he had nourished to the man that was I. I remembered, again, the warning of that gray personage who had said that my contempt would gather at this hour; and I thought, as then I had in boyish faith most truly believed, that I should never treat my uncle with unkindness. 'Twas very still and glowing and beneficent upon the sea; 'twas not an hour, thinks I, whatever the prophecy concerning it, for any pain to come upon us. My uncle was fallen back in a great chair, on a patch of greensward overlooking the sea, to which he had turned his face; and 'twas a kindly prospect that lay before his aged eyes—a sweep of softest ocean, walled with gentle, drifting cloud, wherein were the fool's great Gates, wide open to the glory beyond.

"I'm wishing, sir," said I, "to wed Judith."

"'Tis a good hope," he answered.

I saw his hand wander over the low table beside him: I knew what it sought—and that by his will and for my sake it must forever seek without satisfaction.

"Sir," I implored, "I've no heart to ask her!"

He did not answer.

"And you know why, sir," I accused him. "You know why!"

"Dannie," says he, "ye've wished for this hour."

"And I am ready, sir."

He drew then from his pocket a small Bible, much stained and wrinkled by water, which he put on the table between us. "Dannie, lad," says he, "do ye now go t' your own little room, where ye was used t' lyin', long ago, when ye was a little lad." He lifted himself in the chair, turned upon me—his eyes frankly wet. "Do ye go there," says he, "an' kneel, like ye used t' do in the days when ye was but a little child, an' do ye say, once again, for my sake, Dannie, the twenty-third psa'm."

I rose upon this holy errand.

"'The Lord is my shepherd,'" my uncle repeated, looking away to the fool's great Gates, "'I shall not want.'"

That he should not.

"'He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters.'"

And so it should be.

"Dannie," my uncle burst out, flashing upon me with a twinkle, as when I was a lad, "I 'low I've fetched ye up very well: for say what ye will, 'twas a wonderful little anchor I give ye t' hold to!"

* * * * *

I went then to the little bed where as a child I lay waiting for sleep to come bearing fairy dreams. 'Twas still and dusky in the room: the window, looking out upon the wide, untroubled waters, was a square of glory; and the sea whispered melodiously below, as it had done long, long ago, when my uncle fended my childish heart from all the fears of night and day. I looked out upon the waste of sea and sky and rock, where the sombre wonder of the dusk was working, clouds in embers, cliffs and water turning to shadows; and I was comforted by this returning beauty. I repeated the twenty-third psalm, according to my teaching, reverently kneeling, as I was bid; and my heart responded, as it has never failed to do. I remembered: I remembered the windless dusks and fresh winds and black gales through which as a child I had here serenely gone to sleep because my uncle sat awake and watchful below. I remembered his concern and diffident caresses in the night when I had called to him to come: I remembered all that he had borne and done to provide the happiness and welfare he sought in loving patience to give the child he had. Once again, as when I was a child, the sea and sunset took my soul as a harp to stir with harmonious chords of faith; and I was not disquieted any more—nor in any way troubled concerning the disclosure of that black mystery in which I had thrived to this age of understanding. And 'twas in this mood—this grateful recollection of the multitudinous kindnesses of other years—that I got up from my knees to return to my uncle.

"Dannie," says he, having been waiting, it seemed, to tell me this, first of all, "ye'll remember—will ye not?—for your guidance an' comfort, that 'tis not a tie o' blood betwixt you an' ol' Nick Top. He's no kin t' shame ye: he's on'y a chance acquaintance."

The tale began at the waning of the evening glory....

* * * * *

"Your father an' me, lad," said my uncle, "was shipmates aboard the Will-o'-the-Wisp when she was cast away in a nor'east gale on the Devil's Teeth, near twenty year ago: him bein' the master an' me but a hand aboard. How old is you now, Dannie? Nineteen? Well, well! You was but six months come from above, lad, when that big wind blowed your father's soul t' hell; an' your poor mother was but six months laid away. We was bound up from the Labrador that night, with a cargo o' dry fish, picked up 'long shore in haste, t' fill out a foreign bark at Twillingate. 'Twas late in the fall o' the year, snow in the wind, the sea heapin' up in mountains, an' the night as black as a wolf's throat. Your father was crowdin' on, Dannie, in the way he had, bein' a wonderful driver, an' I 'lowed he was fetchin' too close t' the Harborless Shore for safety; but I wouldn't tell un so, lad, for I didn't know un so well as I knows you, bein' on'y a hand aboard, ye see, with a word or two t' le'ward of what ye might call a speakin' acquaintance with the skipper. I 'lowed he'd strike the Rattler; but he cleared the Rattler, by good luck, an' fetched up at dawn on the Devil's Teeth, a mean, low reef o' them parts, where the poor Will-o'-the-Wisp broke her back an' went on in splinters with the sea an' wind. 'Twas over soon, Dannie; 'twas all over soon, by kindness o' Providence: the ol' craft went t' pieces an' was swep' on t' le'ward by the big black waves."

In the pause my uncle's hand again searched the low table for the glass that was not there.

"I'm not wantin' t' tell ye," he muttered.

I would not beg him to stop.

"Me an' your father, Dannie," he continued, presently, dwelling upon the quiet sunset, now flaring with the last of its fire, "somehow cotched a grip o' the rock. 'Twas a mean reef t' be cast away on, with no dry part upon it: 'twas near flush with the sea, an' flat an' broad an' jagged, slimy with sea-weed; an' 'twas washed over by the big seas, an' swam in the low roll o' the black ones. I 'low, Dannie, that I was never afore cotched in such a swirl an' noise o' waters. 'Twas wonderful—the thunder an' spume an' whiteness o' them big waves in the dawn! An' 'twas wonderful—the power o' them—the wolfish way they'd clutch an' worry an' drag! 'Twas a mean, hard thing t' keep a grip on that smoothed rock; but I got my fingers in a crack o' the reef, an' managed t' hold on, bein' stout an' able, an' sort of savage for life—in them old days. Afore long, your poor father crep' close, lad, an' got his fingers in the same crack. 'Twas all done for you, Dannie, an' ye'll be sure t' bear it in mind—will ye not?—when ye thinks o' the man hereafter. I seed the big seas rub un on the reef, an' cut his head, an' break his ribs, as he come crawlin' towards me. 'Twas a long, long time afore he reached the place. Ye'll not forget it—will ye lad?—ye'll surely not forget it when ye thinks o' the man that was your father."

I looked at the sward, soft and green with summer, and roundabout upon the compassionate shadows of evening.

"'Nick,' says your father," my uncle continued, "'does ye hear them men?'

"They was all gone down, poor souls! I knowed.

"'Nine men o' the crew,' says he, 'drownin' there t' le'ward.'

"'Twas o' Mary Luff's son I thought, that poor lad! for I'd fetched un on the v'y'ge.

"'I hear un callin',' says he.

"'Twas but a fancy: they was no voices o' them drowned men t' le'ward.

"'Nick,' says he, 'I didn't mean t' wreck her here. I was 'lowin' t' strike the Long Cliff, where they's a chance for a man's life. Does ye hear me, Nick?' says he. 'I didn't mean t' do it here!'

"'Skipper,' says I, 'was ye meanin' t' wreck that there ship?'

"'Not here,' says he.

"'Was ye meanin' t' do it?' says I."

My uncle paused.

"Go on, sir," said I.

"Dannie," said he, "they come, then, three big seas, as seas will; an' I 'low"—he touched the crescent scar—"I got this here about that time."

'Twas quite enough for me.

"'Skipper,' says I," my uncle continued, "'what did ye go an' do it for?'

"'I got a young one t' St. John's,' says he.

"''Tis no excuse,' says I.

"'Ay,' says he, 'but I was 'lowin' t' make a gentleman of un. He's the on'y one I got,' says he, 'an' his mother's dead.'

"''Twas no way t' go about it,' says I.

"'Ye've no lad o' your own,' says he, 'an' ye don't know. They was a pot o' money in this, Top,' says he. 'I was 'lowin' t' make a gentleman o' my young one an I lived through; but I got t' go—I got t' go t' hell an' leave un. They's ice in these big seas,' says he, 'an I've broke my left arm, an' can't stand it much longer. But you'll live it out, Top; you'll live it out—I knows ye will. The wind's gone t' the nor'west, an' the sea's goin' down; an' they'll be a fleet o' Labrador craft up the morrow t' pick you up. An' I was 'lowin', Top,' says he, 'that you'd take my kid an' fetch un up as his mother would have un grow. They isn't no one else t' do it,' says he, 'an' I was 'lowin' you might try. I've broke my left arm,' says he, 'an' got my fingers froze, or I'd live t' do it myself. They's a pot o' money in this, Top,' says he. 'You tell the owner o' this here ship,' says he, 'an' he'll pay—he've got t' pay!'

"I had no wish for the task, Dannie—not bein' much on nursin' in them days.

"'I got t' go t' hell for this, Top,' says your father, 'an' I 'lowed ye'd ease the passage.'

"'Skipper, sir,' says I, 'is ye not got a scrap o' writin'?'

"He fetched out this here little Bible.

"'Top,' says he, 'I 'lowed I'd have a writin' t' make sure, the owner o' this here ship bein' on'y a fish speculator; an' I got it in this Bible.'

"'Then,' says I, 'I'll take that young one, Tom Callaway, if I weathers this here mess.'

"'Ay,' says he, 'but I'm not wishin' t' go t' hell for that.'

"'Twas come broad day now.

"'An I'm but able, Tom Callaway,' says I, 'I'll make a gentleman of un t' ease your pains.'

"'Would ye swear it?' says he.

"I put my hand on the Book; an' I knowed, Dannie, when I made ready t' take that oath, out there on the Devil's Teeth, that I'd give my soul t' hell for the wickedness I must do. I done it with my eyes wide open t' the burden o' evil I must take up; an' 'twas sort o' hard t' do, for I was by times a Christian man, Dannie, in them ol' days, much sot on church an' prayer an' the like o' that. But I seed that your poor father was bent on makin' a gentleman out o' you t' please your dead mother's wishes, an' I 'lowed, havin' no young un o' my own, that I didn't know much about the rights of it; an' I knowed he'd suffer forever the pains o' hell for what he done, whatever come of it, an' I 'lowed 'twould be a pity t' have the murder o' seven poor men go t' waste for want o' one brave soul t' face the devil. 'Nick,' thinks I, while your father, poor, doomed man! watched me—I can see here in the dusk the blood an' water on his white face—'Nick,' thinks I, 'an you was one o' them seven poor, murdered men, ye'd want the price o' your life paid t' that wee young one. From heaven or hell, Nick, accordin' t' which place ye harbored in,' thinks I, 'ye'd want t' watch that little life grow, an' ye'd like t' say t' yourself, when things went ill with ye,' thinks I, 'that the little feller ye died for was thrivin', anyhow, out there on earth.' An' I 'lowed, for your wee sake, Dannie, an' for the sake o' the seven poor, murdered men, whose wishes I read in the dead eyes that looked into mine, an' for the sake o' your poor, fond father, bound soon for hell, that I'd never let the comfort o' my mean soul stand in the way o' fetchin' good t' your little life out o' all this woe an' wickedness. I 'lowed, Dannie, then an' there, on the Devil's Teeth, that could I but manage to endure, I'd stand by your little body an' soul t' the end, whatever become o' me."

'Twas but a tale my uncle told: 'twas not an extenuation—not a plea.

"'Tide's risin', Nick,' says your father. 'I can't stand it much longer with my broken arm an' froze fingers. Nick,' says he, 'will ye swear?'

"I was afraid, Dannie, t' swear it.

"'Won't ye?' says he. 'He've his mother's eyes—an' he'll be a wonderful good lad t' you.'

"I couldn't, Dannie.

"'For God's sake, Nick!' says he, 'swear it, an' ease my way t' hell.'

"'I swear!' says I.

"'Then,' says he, 'you turn the screws on the owner o' that there ship. The writin' is all you needs. You make a gentleman o' my lad, God bless un! accordin' t' the wishes of his mother. Give un the best they is in Newf'un'land. Nothin' too good in all the world for Dannie. You bear in mind, Nick,' says he, 'that I'm roastin' in hell,' says he, 'payin' for his education!'"

My uncle's hand approached the low table, but was in impatience withdrawn; and the old man looked away—northward: to the place, far distant, where the sea still washed the Devil's Teeth.

"I've bore it in mind," he muttered.

Ay! and much more than that: the wreck of his own great soul upon my need had clouded twenty years of life with blackest terror of the unending pains of perdition.

"'Tis a lovely evening, Dannie," he sighed. "'Tis so still an' kind an' beautiful. I've often 'lowed, in weather like this, with the sea at peace an' a red sky givin' promise o' mercy for yet one day," said he, "that I'd like t' live forever—jus' live t' fish an' be an' hope."

"I wisht ye might!" I cried.

"An' t' watch ye grow, Dannie," said he, turning suddenly upon me, his voice fallen low and tremulous with affectionate feeling and pride. "Life," says he, so earnestly that I was made meek by the confession, "held nothin' at all for me but the Christian hope o' heaven until ye came; an' then, when I got ye, 'twas filled full o' mortal, unselfish, better aims. I've loved ye well, lad, in my own delight," says he. "I've loved ye in a wishful way," he repeated, "quite well."

I was humble in this presence....

* * * * *

"Your father," my uncle resumed, "couldn't stand the big seas. I cotched un by the jacket, an' held un with me, so long as I was able, though he 'lowed I might as well let un go t' hell, without drawin' out the fear o' gettin there. 'On'y a minute or two, Nick,' says he. 'Ye might as well let me get there. I'm cold, froze up, an' they's more ice comin' with this sea,' says he; 'they was a field o' small ice up along about the Sissors,' says he, 'an' I 'low it haves come down with the nor'east wind. The sea,' says he, 'will be full of it afore long. Ye better let me go,' says he. ''Tisn't by any means pleasant here, an' the on'y thing I wants, now that ye've took the oath,' says he, 'is t' get warm. Ye better let me go. I got t' go, anyhow,' says he, 'an' a hour or two don't make no difference.' An' so, with the babe that was you in mind, an' with my life t' save for your sake, I let un go t' le'ward, where the seven murdered men had gone down drowned. 'Twas awful lonesome without un, when the tide got high an' the seas was mean with chunks o' ice. Afore that," my uncle intensely declared, "I was admired o' water-side widows, on account o' looks; but," says he, touching his various disfigurements, "I was broke open here, an' I was broke open there, by bein' rubbed on the rocks an' clubbed by the ice at high-tide. When I was picked up by Tumm, o' the Quick as Wink (bein' bound up in fish), I 'lowed I might as well leave the cook, which is now dead, have his way with the butcher-knife an' sail-needle; an' so I come t' St. John's as ye sees me now, not a wonderful sight for looks, with my leg an' fingers gone, but ready, God knows! t' stand by the young un I was livin' t' take an' rear. Ye had been, all through it, Dannie," he added, simply, "the thing that made me hold on; for when your father was gone t' le'ward, an' I begun t' think o' ye, a wee babe t' St. John's, I got t' love ye, lad, as I've loved ye ever since.

"'Tis a lovely evening," he added; "'tis a wonderful civil and beautiful time, with all them clouds, like coals o' fire, in the west."

'Twas that: an evening without guile or menace—an hour most compassionate.

"The owner o' the Will-o'-the-Wisp," says my uncle, "wasn't no Honorable in them days; he was but a St. John's fish speculator with a taste for low politics. But he've become a Honorable since, on the fortune he've builded from that wreck, an' he's like t' end a knight o' the realm, if he've money enough t' carry on an' marry the widow he's after. 'Twas not hard t' deal with un—leastways, 'twas not hard when I loaded with rum, which I was used t' doin', Dannie, as ye know, afore I laid 'longside of un in the wee water-side place he'd fetch the money to. No, no! 'Twas not easy: I'd not have ye think it—'twas hard, 'twas bitter hard, Dannie, t' be engaged in that dirty business. I'd not have ye black your soul with it; an' I was 'lowin, Dannie, afore the parson left us, t' teach un how t' manage the Honorable, t' tell un about the liquor an' the bluster, t' show un how t' scare the Honorable on the Water Street pavement, t' teach un t' threaten an' swear the coward's money from his pocket, for I wasn't wantin' you, Dannie, t' know the trial an' wickedness o' the foul deed, bein' in love with ye too much t' have ye spoiled by sin. I 'low I had that there young black-an'-white parson near corrupted: I 'low I had un worked up t' yieldin' t' temptation, lad, when he up an' left us, along o' Judy. An' there's the black-an'-white parson, gone God knows where! an' here's ol' Nick Top, sittin' on the grass at evenin', laid by the heels all along o' two days o' wind on the ice!"