"And so you brought me up?" says I.

"Ay, Dannie," he answered, uneasily; "by blackmail o' the Honorable. I got t' go t' hell for it, but I've no regrets on that account," says he, in a muse, "for I've loved ye well, lad; an' as I sit here now, lookin' back, I knows that God was kind t' give me you t' work an' sin for. I'll go t' hell—ay, I'll go t' hell! Ye must never think, lad, when I gets down there, that I'm sorry for what I done. I'll not be sorry—not even in hell—for I'll think o' the years when you was a wee little lad, an' I'll be content t' remember. An' do you go away, now, lad," he added, "an' think it over. Ye'll not judge me now; ye'll come back, afore long, an' then judge me."

I moved to go.

"Dannie!" he called.

I turned.

"I've gone an' tol' Judy," says he, "lest she learn t' love ye for what ye was not."

'Twas no matter to me....

* * * * *

This, then, was the heart of my mystery! I had been fed and adorned and taught and reared in luxury by the murder of seven men and the merciless blackmail of an ambitious villain. What had fed me, warmed me, clothed me had been the product of this horrible rascality. And my father was the murderer, whom I had dreamed a hero, and my foster-father was the persecutor, whom I had loved for his kindly virtue. And paid for!—all paid for in my father's crime and damnation. This—all this—to make a gentleman of the ill-born, club-footed young whelp of a fishing skipper! I laughed as I walked away from this old Nick Top: laughed to recall my progress through these nineteen years—the proud, self-righteous stalking of my way.

'Twas a pretty figure I had cut, thinks I, with my rings and London clothes, in the presence of the Honorable, with whom I had dealt in pride and anger! 'Twas a pretty figure I had cut, all my life—the whelp of a ruined, prostituted skipper: the issue of a murderous barratry! What protection had the defenceless child that had been I against these machinations? What protest the boy, growing in guarded ignorance? What appeal the man in love, confronted by his origin and shameful fostering? Enraged by this, what I thought of my uncle's misguided object and care I may not here set down, because of the bitterness and injustice of the reflections; nay, but I dare not recall the mood and wicked resentment of that time.

And presently I came to the shore of the sea, where I sat down on the rock, staring out upon the waters. 'Twas grown dark then, of a still, religious night, with the black sea lapping the rocks, infinitely continuing in restlessness, and a multitude of stars serenely twinkling in the uttermost depths of the great sky. 'Twas of this I thought, I recall, but cannot tell why: that the sea was forever young, unchanging in all the passions of youth, from the beginning of time to the end of it; that the mountains were lifted high, of old, passionless, inscrutable, of unfeeling snow and rock, dwelling above the wish of the world; that the sweep of prairie, knowing no resentment, was fruitful to the weakest touch; that the forests fell without complaint; that the desert, hopeless, aged, contemptuous of the aspirations of this day, was of immutable bitterness, seeking some love long lost to it nor ever to be found again; but that the sea was as it had been when God poured it forth—young and lusty and passionate—the only thing in all the fleeting world immune from age and death and desuetude.

'Twas strange enough; but I knew, thank God! when the rocking, crooning sea took my heart as a harp in its hands, that all the sins and errors of earth were of creative intention and most beautiful, as are all the works of the God of us all. Nay, but, thinks I, the sins of life are more lovely than the righteous accomplishments. Removed by the starlit sky, wherein He dwells—removed because of its tender distance and beauty and placidity, because of its compassion and returning gift of faith, removed by the vast, feeling territory of sensate waters, whereupon He walks, because they express, eternally, His wrath and loving kindness—carried far away, in the quiet night, I looked back, and I understood, as never before—nor can I ever hope to know again—that God, being artist as we cannot be, had with the life of the world woven threads of sin and error to make it a pattern of supernal beauty, that His purpose might be fulfilled, His eyes delighted.

And 'twas with the healing of night and starry sky and the soft lullaby of the sea upon my spirit—'twas with this wide, clear vision of life, the gift of understanding, as concerned its exigencies—that I arose and went to my uncle....

* * * * *

I met Judith on the way: the maid was hid, waiting for me, in the deep shadow of the lilacs and the perfume of them, which I shall never forget, that bordered the gravelled path of our garden.

"You've come at last," says she. "He've been waiting for you—out there in the dark."

"Judith!" says I.

She came confidingly close to me.

"I've a word to say to you, maid," says I.

"An' you're a true man?" she demanded.

"'Tis a word," says I, "that's between a man an' a maid. 'Tis nothing more."

She held me off. "An' you're true," she demanded, "to them that have loved you?"

"As may or may not appear," I answered.

"Ah, Dannie," she whispered, "I cannot doubt you!"

I remember the scent of the lilacs—I remember the dusk—the starlit sky.

"I have a word," I repeated, "to say to you."

"An' what's that?" says she.

"'Tis that I wish a kiss," says I.

She put up her dear red lips.

"Ay," says I, "but 'tis a case of no God between us. You know what I am and have been. I ask a kiss."

Her lips still invited me.

"I love you, Judith," says I, "and always have."

Her lips came closer.

"I would be your husband," I declared.

"Kiss me, Dannie," she whispered.

"And there is no God," says I, "between us?"

"There is no God," she answered, "against us."

I kissed her.

"You'll do it again, will you not?" says she.

"I'll kiss your sweet tears," says I. "I'll kiss un away."

"Then kiss my tears."

I kissed them away.

"That's good," says she; "that's very good. An' now?"

"I'll speak with my uncle," says I, "as you knowed I would."

I sought my uncle.

"Sir," says I, "where's the writing?"

"'Tis in your father's Bible," he answered.

I got it from the Book and touched a flaring match to it. "'Tis the end of that, sir," says I. "You an' me, sir," says I, "will be shipmates to the end of the voyage."

He rose.

"You're not able, sir," says I.

"I is!" he declared.

'Twas with difficulty he got to his feet, but he managed it; and then he turned to me, though I could see him ill enough in the dark.

"Dannie, lad," says he, "I 'low I've fetched ye up very well. Ye is," says he, "a—"

"Hush!" says I; "don't say it."

"I will!" says he.

"Don't!" I pleaded.

"You is," he declared, "a gentleman!"

The night and the abominable revelations of it were ended for my uncle and me in this way....

* * * * *

And so it came about that the Honorable was troubled no more by our demands, whatever the political necessities that might assail him, whatever the sins of other days, the black youth of him, that might fairly beset and harass him. He was left in peace, to follow his career, restored to the possessions my uncle had wrested from him, in so far as we were able to make restitution. There was no more of it: we met him afterwards, in genial intercourse, but made no call upon his moneybags, as you may well believe. My uncle and I made a new partnership: that of Top & Callaway, of which you may have heard, for the honesty of our trade and the worth of the schooners we build. He is used to taking my hand, upon the little finger of which I still wear the seal-ring he was doubtful of in the days when Tom Bull inspected it. "A D for Dannie," says he, "an' a C for Callaway, an' betwixt the two," says he, "lyin' snug as you like, is a T for Top! An' that's the way I lies," says he, "ol' Top betwixt the Dannie an' the Callaway. An' as for the business in trade an' schooners that there little ol' damned Chesterfieldian young Dannie haves builded from a paddle-punt, with Judy t' help un," says he, "why don't ye be askin' me!" And the business I have builded is good, and the wife I have is good, and the children are good. I have no more to wish for than my uncle and wife and children. 'Tis a delight, when the day's work is done, to sit at table, as we used to do when I was a child, with the geometrical gentleman framed in their tempestuous sea beyond, and to watch my uncle, overcome by Judith's persuasion, in his old age, sip his dram o' hot rum. The fire glows, and the maid approves, and my uncle, with his ailing timber comfortably bestowed, beams largely upon us.

"Jus' a nip," says he. "Jus' a wee nip o' the best Jamaica afore I goes t' bed."

I pour the dram.

"For the stomach's sake, Dannie," says he, with a gravity that twinkles against his will, "accordin' t' the Apostle."

And we are glad that he has that wee nip o' rum t' comfort him....

* * * * *

'Twas blowing high to-day. Tumm, of the Quick as Wink, beat into harbor for shelter. 'Twas good to know that the genial fellow had come into Twist Tickle. I boarded him. 'Twas very dark and blustering and dismally cold at that time. The schooner was bound down to the French shore and the ports of the Labrador. I had watched the clouds gather and join and forewarn us of wind. 'Twas an evil time for craft to be abroad, and I was glad that Tumm was in harbor. "Ecod!" says he, "I been up t' see the fool. They've seven," says he. "Ecod! think o' that! I 'low Walrus Liz o' Whoopin' Harbor got all she wanted. Seven!" cries he. "Seven kids! Enough t' stock a harbor! An' they's talk o' one o' them," says he, "bein' trained for a parson." I think the man was proud of his instrumentality. "I've jus' come from the place," says he, "an' he've seven, all spick an' span," says he, "all shined an' polished like a cabin door-knob!" I had often thought of it, and now dwelt upon it when I left him. I remembered the beginnings of our lives, and I knew that out of the hopelessness some beauty had been wrought, in the way of the God of us all: which is the moral of my tale.

"Think o' that!" cries Tumm, of the Quick as Wink.

I did think of it.

"Think o' that!" he repeated.

I had left Tumm below. I was alone. The night was still black and windy; but of a sudden, as I looked up, the clouds parted, and from the deck of the Quick as Wink I saw, blind of vision as I was, that high over the open sea, hung in the depth and mystery of space, there was a star....

THE END