Read the book: «The Cruise of the Shining Light», page 17

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!”

“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.