I sniffed a change of wind as we fell in together. ’Twould presently switch to the south (I fancied); and ’twould blow high from the sou’east before the night was done. The shadows were already long; and in the west—above the hills which shut the sea from sight—the blue of mellow weather and of the day was fading. And by the lengthened shadows I was reminded that ’twas an untimely errand the fool was upon. “’Tis a queer time,” said I, “t’ be goin’ t’ Eli’s. Sure, Moses, they’ll be at the board!”
“Dear man! But I’m wonderful crafty, Dannie,” he explained, with a sly twitch of the eye. “An they’re at table, lad, with fish an’ brewis sot out, I’m sure t’ cotch the maid within.”
“The maid?” I inquired.
“Ay, lad; ’tis a maid. I’m told they’s a new baggage come t’ Skipper Eli’s for a bit of a cruise.”
I caught a bashful flush mounting to his ears and the rumble of a chuckle in his throat.
“She’ve come from Tall Pine Harbor,” said he, “with a cask o’ liver; an’ I’m told she’ve her heart dead sot on matrimony.”
“Larry Hull’s maid?”
“No, lad; ’tis not she. She’ve declined. Las’ fall, Dannie, bein’ wind-bound in a easterly gale, I cotched she at Skipper Jonathan Stark’s. No; she’ve declined.”
“’Tis Maria Long, then,” said I.
“No, lad; she’ve declined, too.”
“Elizabeth Wutt?”
“She’ve declined.”
“’Tis not the Widow Tootle!”
“No; she’ve declined,” he answered, dismally. “But,” he added, with a sudden access of cheerfulness, “she come wonderful near it. ’Twas a close call for she! She ’lowed, Dannie, that an my beard had been red she might ha’ went an’ done it, takin’ chances with my wits. She might, says she, put up with a lack o’ wit; but a beard o’ proper color she must have for peace o’ mind. You sees, Dannie, Sam Tootle had a red beard, an’ the widow ’lowed she’d feel strange with a yellow one, bein’ accustomed t’ the other for twenty year. She’ve declined, ’tis true; but she come wonderful near t’ sayin the word. ’Twas quite encouragin’,” he added, then sighed.
“You keep on, Moses,” said I, to hearten him, “an’ you’ll manage it yet.”
“Mother,” he sighed, “used t’ ’low so.”
We were now come to a rise in the road, whence, looking back, I found the sky fast clouding up. ’Twas a wide view, falling between the black, jagged masses of Pretty Willie and the Lost Soul, cast in shadow—a reach of blood-red sea, with mounting clouds at the edge of the world, into which the swollen sun had dropped, to set the wind-blown tatters in a flare of red and gold. ’Twas all a sullen black below, tinged with purple and inky blue; but high above the flame and glow of the rags of cloud there hung a mottled sky, each fleecy puff a touch of warmer color upon the pale green beyond. The last of our folk were bound in from the grounds, with the brown sails spread to a rising breeze, the fleet of tiny craft converging upon the lower-harbor tickle; presently the men would be out of the roughening sea, pulling up the harbor to the stage-heads, there to land and split the catch. Ay, a change of wind, a switch to the sou’east, with the threat of a gale with rain; ’twould blow before dark, no doubt, and ’twas now all dusky in the east, where the sky was cold and gray. Soon the lamps would be alight in the kitchens of our harbor, where the men folk, cleansed of the sweat of the sea, would sit warm and dry with their wives and rosy lads and maids, caring not a whit for the wind and rain without, since they had what they had within.
“I’m knowin’ no other maid at Tall Pine Harbor,” said I, “that’s fit t’ wed.”
“’Tis a maid o’ the name o’ Pearl,” he confided; “an’ I’m told she’s fair on looks.”
“Pearl what, Moses?”
“I disremember, Dannie,” he answered, a bit put out. “The lads told me, out there on the grounds the day, when I got wind of her bein’ here, but I’ve clean forgot. It won’t matter, anyhow, will it, lad? for, sure, I’m able t’ ask.”
“An’ you’ve hopes?”
He trudged on, staring straight ahead, now silent and downcast. “Well, no, Dannie,” he answered, at last, “not what you might call hopes. So many, Dannie, haves declined, that I’d be s’prised t’ cotch one that wouldn’t slip the hook. But not havin’ cast for this one, lad, I’ve not give up. I’m told they’s no wonderful demand for the maid on accounts of temper and cross-eyes; an’ so I was sort of allowin’ she might have a mind t’ try a fool, him bein’ the on’y skipper t’ hand. Mother used t’ say if I kep’ on she ’lowed I’d haul one out in the end: an’ I ’low mother knowed. She never ’lowed I’d cotch a perfeck specimen, in p’int o’ looks, for them, says she, mates accordin’ t’ folly; but she did say, Dannie, that the maid I wed would come t’ know me jus’ the way mother knowed me, an t’ love me jus’ the way mother loved me, for my goodness. ’Twas kind o’ mother t’ think it: nobody else, Dannie, was ever so kind t’ me. I wonder why she was! Would you say, Dannie,” he asked, turning anxiously, “that a cross-eyed maid could be fair on looks? Not,” he added, quickly, “that I’d care a wonderful sight: for mother used t’ say that looks wiped off in the first washin’, anyhow.”
I did not answer.
“You wouldn’t say, would you, lad,” he went on, “that I was fair on looks?”
An ungainly little man, this Moses Shoos: stout enough about the chest, where a man’s strength needs lie, big-shouldered, long-armed, but scrawny and crooked in the legs and of an inconfident, stumbling gait, prone to halt, musing vacantly as he went. He was bravely clad upon his courtship: a suit of homespun from the Quick as Wink, given in fair dealing, as to quality, by Tumm, the clerk, but with reservations as to fit—everywhere (it seemed) unequal to its task, in particular at the wrists and lean shanks. His visage was in the main of a gravely philosophical cast, full at the forehead, pensive about the eyes, restless-lipped, covered upon cheeks and chin with a close, curly growth of yellow beard of a color with his hair: ’twas as though, indeed, he carried a weight of thought—of concern and helpless sympathy for the woes of folk. ’Twas set with a child’s eyes: of the unfaded blue, inquiring, unafraid, innocent, pathetic, reflecting the emotion of the moment; quick, too, but in no way to shame him, to fill with tears. He spoke in a colorless drawl, with small variation of pitch: a soft, low voice, of clear timbre, with a note of melancholy insistently sounding, whatever his mood. I watched him stumble on; and I wondered concerning the love his mother had for him, who got no other love, but did not wonder that he kept her close within his heart, for here was no mystery.
“Eh, Dannie?” he reminded me, with a timid little smile, in which was yet some glint of vanity.
“Oh, ay!” I answered; “you’re fair on looks.”
“Ay,” said he, in fine simplicity; “mother used t’ say so, too. She ’lowed,” he continued, “that I was a sight stronger on looks ’n any fool she ever knowed. It might have been on’y mother, but maybe not. The lads, Dannie, out there on the grounds, is wonderful fond o’ jokin’, an’ they says I’ve a power o’ looks; but mother,” he concluded, his voice grown caressive and reverent, “wouldn’t lie.”
It gave me a familiar pang—ay, it hurt me sore—to feel this loving confidence vibrate upon the strings within me, and to know that the echo in my heart was but an echo, after all, distant and blurred, of the reality of love which was this fool’s possession.
“An’ she said that?” I asked, in poignant envy.
“Oh, ay!” he answered. “Afore she knowed I was a fool, lad, she ’lowed she had the best kid t’ Twist Tickle.”
“An’ after?” I demanded.
“It didn’t seem t’ make no difference, Dannie, not a jot.”
I wisht I had a mother.
“I wisht, Dannie,” said he, in a break of feeling for me, “that you had a mother.”
“I wisht I had,” said I.
“I wisht,” said he, in the way of all m
en with mothers, as God knows why, “that you had one—just like mine.”
We were come to the turn in the road, where the path descended at haphazard, over the rocks and past the pigpen, to the cottage of Eli Flack, builded snugly in a lee from the easterly gales. For a moment, in the pause, the fool of Twist Tickle let his hand rest upon my shoulder, which never before had happened in all our intercourse, but withdrew it, as though awakened from this pitying affection to a sense of his presumption, which never, God witness! Did I teach him.
“Tis a grand sunset,” said he. “Look, Dannie; ’tis a sunset with gates!”
’Twas so: great black gates of cloud, edged with glowing color, with the quiet and light of harbor beyond.
“With gates!” he whispered.
’Twas the fancy of a fool; nay, ’twas the fancy (as chanced his need) of some strange wisdom.
“Dannie,” said he, “they’s times when I sees mother’s face peerin’ at me from them clouds—her own dear face as ’twas afore she died. She’s keepin’ watch from the windows o’ heaven—keepin’ watch, jus’ like she used t’ do. You’ll never tell, will you, lad? You’ll not shame me, will you? They’d laugh, out there on the grounds, an you told: for they’re so wonderful fond o’ laughter—out there on the grounds. I lives, somehow,” said he, brushing his hand in bewilderment over his eyes, “in the midst o’ laughter, but have no call t’ laugh. I wonder why, for mother didn’t laugh; an’ I wonder why they laughs so much. They’d laugh, Dannie, an you told un she was keepin’ watch; an’ so you will not: for I’ve growed, somehow, wonderful tired o’ laughter—since mother died. But ’tis so: I knows ’tis so! I sees her face in the light o’ sunsets—just as it used t’ be. She comes t’ the gate, when the black clouds arise t’ hide the mystery we’ve no call t’ know, an’ the dear Lord cares not what we fathom; an’ I sees her, Dannie, from my punt, still keepin’ watch upon me, just like she done from the window, afore she went an’ died. She was a wonderful hand, somehow, at keepin’ watch at the window. She’d watch me go an’ watch me come. I’ve often wondered why she done it. I’ve wondered, Dannie, an’ wondered, but never could tell why. Why, Dannie, I’ve knowed her t’ run out, by times, an’ say: ‘Come, dear, ’tis time you was within. Hush, lad, never care. They’ll never hurt you, dear,’ says she, ‘when you’re within—with me.’ An’, Dannie, t’ this day I’m feared t’ look into the sky, at evening, when I’ve been bad, lest I sees her saddened by my deeds; but when I’m good, I’m glad t’ see her face, for she smiles, lad, just like she used t’ do from the window—afore they buried her.”
“Ay,” said I; “I’ve no doubt, Moses—nar a doubt at all.”
The wind had risen; ’twas blowing from south by sou’east in meaning gusts: gusts intent upon riot, without compassion, loosed and conscious of release to work the will they had. The wind cares nothing for the needs of men; it has no other feeling than to vent its strength upon the strength of us—the lust (it seems to me) for a trial of passion, not knowing the enlistment of our hearts. ’Tis by the heart alone that we outlive the sea’s angry, crafty hate, for which there is no cause, since we would live at peace with it: for the heart remembers the kitchens of our land, and, defiant or not, evades the trial, repressed by love, as the sea knows no repression. ’Twas blowing smartly, with the promise of greater strength—’twas a time for reefs; ’twas a time for cautious folk, who loved their young, to walk warily upon the waters lest they be undone. The wind is a taunter; and the sea perversely incites in some folk—though ’tis hardly credible to such as follow her by day and night—strange desire to flaunt abroad, despite the bitter regard in which she holds the sons of men. I was glad that the folk of our harbor were within the tickle: for the sea of Ship’s Run, now turned black, was baring its white teeth. ’Twas an unkind place to be caught in a gale of wind; but our folk were wise—knowing in the wiles of the sea—and were not to be trapped in the danger fools despise.
“I’m on’y a fool,” said Moses Shoos; “but, Dannie, mother ’lowed, afore she died, that I was wonderful good t’ she. ‘Moses, lad,’ says mother, on that day, ‘fool or no fool, looks or not, you been wonderful good t’ me. I could never love you more; an’ I wouldn’t trade you, lad, for the brightest man o’ Twist Tickle. Does you hear me, dear?’ says she. ‘I wants you t’ remember. I loves you,’ says she; ‘an’ fool or no fool, I’d never trade you off, you’ve been so good t’ me.’”
“T’ be sure not!” cries I.
“Not mother,” said he; “not—my mother!”
I reminded him that ’twas time to be about his courtship, for the light was fading now, and ’twould soon be dark.
“Ay,” said he; “mother ’lowed ’twasn’t good for man t’ be alone. An’ I ’low she knowed.”
I watched him down the hill.…
I was but a motherless lad—not yet grown wise, but old enough, indeed, to want a mother—in some dim way (which even yet is not clear to my heart’s ignorance, nor ever will be, since I am born as I am) sensitive to feel the fathomless, boundless lack, poignantly conscious that my poor vision, at its clearest, was but a flash of insight. I used to try, I know, as a child, lying alone in the dark, when my uncle was gone to bed, to conjure from the shadows some yearning face, to feel a soft hand come gratefully from the hidden places of my room to smooth the couch and touch me with a healing touch, in cure of my uneasy tossing, to hear a voice crooning to my woe and restlessness; but never, ache and wish as I would, did there come from the dark a face, a hand, a voice which was my mother’s; nay, I must lie alone, a child forsaken in the night, wanting that brooding presence, in pain for which there was no ease at all in all the world. I watched the fool of Twist Tickle go gravely in at the kitchen door, upon his business, led by the memory of a wisdom greater than his own, beneficent, continuing, but not known to me, who was no fool; and I envied him—spite of his burden of folly—his legacy of love. ’Twas fallen into dusk: the hills were turning shapeless in the night, the glow all fled from the sky, the sea gone black. But still I waited—apart from the rock and shadows and great waters of the world God made—a child yearning for the face and hand and tender guidance of the woman who was his own, but yet had wandered away into the shades from which no need could summon her. It seemed to me, then, that the mothers who died, leaving sons, were unhappy in their death, nor ever could be content in their new state. I wanted mine—I wanted her!—wanted her as only a child can crave, but could not have her—not though I sorely wanted her.…
He came at last—and came in habitual dignity—punctiliously closing the door behind him and continuing on with grave steps.
“You here, Dannie?” he asked.
“Ay, Moses; still waitin’.”
“’Tis kind, lad.”
“I ’lowed I’d wait, Moses,” I ventured, “t’ find out.”
“’Tis grown thick,” said he. “’Twill blow from the east with fog an’ rain. You’re bound home, Dannie?”
“Ay,” said I; “’tis far past tea-time.”
We got under way.
“’Twill blow an uncivil sort o’ gale from the east,” he remarked, in a casual way. “We’ll have Sunk Rock breakin’ the morrow. ’Twill not be fit for fishin’ on the Off-an’-On grounds. But I ’low I’ll go out, anyhow. Nothin’ like a spurt o’ labor,” said he, “t’ distract the mind. Mother always said so; an’ she knowed.”
“The maid would not have you, Moses?”
“Mother always ’lowed,” he answered, “that ’twas wise t’ distract the mind in case o’ disappointment. I ’low I’ll overhaul the splittin’-table when I gets t’ home. She needs a scrubbin’.”
We came to the rise in the road.
“Mother,” said he, “’lowed that if ever I come in from Whisper Cove t’ build at Twist Tickle, she’d have the house sot here. I ’low I’ll put one up, some time, t’ have it ready ag’in’ the time I’m married. Mother ’lowed ’twas a good thing t’ be forehanded with they little
things.” The note of melancholy, always present, but often subdued, so that it sounded below the music of his voice, was now obtrusive: a monotonous repetition, compelling attention, insistent, an unvarying note of sadness. “Ay,” he continued; “mother ’lowed ’twas a good thing t’ have a view. She’d have it sot here, says she, facin’ the west, if ever I got enough ahead with the fish t’ think o’ buildin’. She’d have it sot, says she, so she could watch the sunset an’ keep a eye on the tickle t’ see my punt come in. She was wonderful on sunsets, was mother; an’ she was sort o’ sot, somehow, on keepin’ watch on me. Wonderful good o’ she, wasn’t it, Dannie, t’ want t’ keep watch—on me?” Again the note of melancholy, throbbing above the drawl—rising, indeed, into a wail. “So,” said he, “I ’low I’ll just put up a house, by-an’-by, for the wife I’m t’ have; an’ I’ll have it here, I’m thinkin’, for mother ’lowed my wife would want it with a view o’ the tickle, t’ watch my punt come in. Think she will, Dannie? Think she will?”
The mail-boat blew in the narrows.
“I must haste!” said I.
“An you must haste, Dannie,” said he, “run on. I’ll not make haste, for I’m ’lowin’ that a little spell o’ thinkin’ about mother will sort o’ do me good.”
I ran on, fast as my legs would carry me (which was not very fast). ’Twas the departing whistle; the mail-boat had come and gone—I saw her lights, shining warmly in the dark, grow small as she fared out through the narrows to the sea. It began to rain in great drops; overhead ’twas all black—roundabout a world of looming shadows, having lights, like stars, where the cottages were set on the hills. I made haste on my way; and as I pattered on over the uneven road to the neck of land by the Lost Soul, I blamed myself right heartily, regretting my uncle’s disappointment, in that the expected guest would already have arrived, landed by way of my uncle’s punt. And, indeed, the man was there, as I learned: for my uncle met me on the gravelled path of our garden, to bid me, but not with ill-temper, begone up-stairs and into clean linen and fitting garments, which were laid out and waiting (he said) on my bed. And when, descending in clean and proper array, bejewelled to suit the occasion, by my uncle’s command, I came to the best room, I found there a young man in black, scarce older, it seemed, than myself.
The Sea-Story Megapack Page 90