The Sea-Story Megapack

by Jack Williamson

  There were women in the kitchen.

  “’Tis Judith’s mother, Dannie,” Aunt Esther All whispered. “’Tis on’y she. ’Tis on’y Elizabeth.”

  We had found her on the hills that morning.

  “She’ve come t’ die all of a suddent. ’Tis another of her spells. Oh, Lord! She’ve come t’ die.”

  There was no solemnity in this outer room.

  “She’ve woful need o’ salvation,” Aunt Esther pattered. “She’s doomed, lad, an she doesn’t repent. Parson Stump ought t’ be fetched t’ work on she.”

  There was grief—somewhere there was grief. I heard a sob; it came from a child’s breast. And there followed, then, some strange, rambling words of comfort in Elizabeth’s voice—a plea, it was, to never mind. Again a sob—Judith’s grief.

  “’Tis Judith,” Aunt Esther sighed. “She’ve gone an’ give way.”

  The child’s heart would break!

  “Mother always ’lowed, Dannie,” Moses whispered, “that they ought t’ be a parson handy—when It come.”

  ’Twas beyond the power of the fool to manage: who was now a fool, indeed—white and shivering in this Presence. I would fetch the parson, said I—and moved right willingly and in haste upon the errand. Aunt Esther followed me beyond the threshold. She caught my arm with such a grasp that I was brought up in surprise. We stood in the wind and rain. The light from the kitchen fell through the doorway into the black night. Aunt Esther’s lean, brown face, as the lamp betrayed, was working with eager and shameless curiosity. They had wondered, these women of Whisper Cove, overlong and without patience, to know what they wished to know but could not discover. “She’ve been wantin’ Skipper Nicholas,” says she. “She’ve been callin’ for Skipper Nicholas. She’ve been singin’ out, Dannie, like a wretch in tarture. Tell un t’ come. She’ve been wantin’ un sore. She’ve a thing on her mind. Tell un not t’ fail. ’Tis something she’ve t’ tell un. ‘I wants Skipper Nicholas!’ says she. ‘Fetch Nicholas! I wants a word with he afore I die.’ Hist!” Aunt Esther added, as though imparting some delight, “I ’low ’tis the secret.”

  I asked her concerning this secret.

  “It haves t’ do,” says she, “with Judith.”

  “An’ what’s that?”

  She whispered.

  “For shame!” I cried.

  “Ay, but,” says she, “you isn’t a woman!”

  “’Tis gossips’ employment, woman!”

  “’Tis a woman’s wish t’ know,” she answered.

  The thing concerned Judith: I was angered.…

  And now the door was shut in my face. ’Twas opened—closed again. The fool fled past me to his own place—scared off by the footsteps of Death, in the way of all fools. I was in haste—all at once—upon the road from Whisper Cove to Twist Tickle in a screaming gale of wind and rain. I was in Judith’s service: I made haste. ’Twas a rough road, as I have said—a road scrambling among forsaken hills, a path made by chance, narrow and crooked, wind-swept or walled by reaching alders and spruce limbs, which were wet and cold and heavy with the drip of the gale. Ah, but was I not whipped on that night by the dark and the sweeping rain and the wind on the black hills and the approach of death? I was whipped on, indeed! The road was perverse to hurrying feet: ’twas ill going for a crooked foot; but I ran—splashing through the puddles, stumbling over protruding rock, crawling over the hills—an unpitying course. Why did the woman cry out for my uncle? What would she confide? Was it, indeed, but the name of the man? Was it not more vital to Judith’s welfare, imperatively demanding disclosure? I hastened. Was my uncle at home? For Elizabeth’s peace at this dread pass I hoped he had won through the gale. In rising anxiety I ran faster. I tripped upon a root and went tumbling down Lovers’ Hill, coming to in a muddy torrent from Tom Tulk’s Head. Thereafter—a hundred paces—I caught sight of the lights of the Twist Tickle meeting-house. They glowed warm and bright in the scowling night that encompassed me.…

  ’Twas district-meeting time at Twist Tickle. The parsons of our Bay were gathered to devise many kindnesses for our folk—the salvation of souls and the nourishment of bodies and the praise of the God of us all. ’Twas in sincerity they came—there’s no disputing it—and in loving-kindness, however ingenuously, they sought our welfare. When I came from the unkind night into the light and warmth of that plain temple, Parson Lute, of Yellow Tail Tickle, whom I knew and loved, was seeking to persuade the shepherds of our souls that the spread of saving grace might surely be accomplished, from Toad Point to the Scarlet Woman’s Head, by means of unmitigated doctrine and more artful discourse. He was a youngish man, threadbare and puckered of garment—a quivering little aggregation of bones and blood-vessels, with a lean, lipless, high-cheeked face, its pale surface splashed with freckles; green eyes, red-rimmed, the lashes sparse and white; wide, restless nostrils. “Brethren,” said he, with a snap of the teeth, his bony hand clinched and shaking above his gigantic head, “con-vict ’em! Anyhow. In any way. By any means. Save ’em! That’s what we want in the church. Beloved,” he proceeded, his voice dropping to a hissing whisper, “save ’em. Con-vict ’em!” His head shot forward; ’twas a red, bristly head, with the hair growing low on the brow, like the spruce of an overhanging cliff. “It’s the only way,” he concluded, “to save ’em!” He sat down. “I’m hungry for souls!” he shouted from his seat, as an afterthought; and ’twas plain he would have said more had not a spasmodic cough put an end to his ecstasy.

  “Praise God!” they said.

  “’Low I got a cold,” Parson Lute gasped, his voice changed now by the weakness of an ailing man.

  I feared to interrupt; but still must boldly knock.

  “One moment, brethren!” Parson Stump apologized. “Ah, Daniel!” he cried; “is that you? What’s amiss, boy? You’ve no trouble, have you? And your uncle—eh? you’ve no trouble, boy, have you?” The brethren waited in silence while he tripped lightly over the worn cocoanut matting to the rear—perturbed, a little frown of impatience and bewilderment gathering between his eyes. The tails of his shiny black coat brushed the varnished pine pews, whereto, every Sunday, the simple folk of our harbor repaired in faith. Presently he tripped back again. The frown of bewilderment was deeper now—the perturbation turned anxious. For a moment he paused before the brethren. “Very awkward,” said he, at last. “Really, I’m very sorry.” He scratched his head, fore and aft—bit his lip. “I’m called to Whisper Cove,” he explained, pulling at his nose. “I’m sorry to interrupt the business of the meeting, just at this time, but I do not see how it can be got around. I s’pose we’d better adjourn until such a time as I—”

  The chairman would hear of no adjournment.

  “But,” Parson Stump complained, “I’m the secretary!”

  “We’ll go right on, brother.”

  “I can’t very well stay, brethren,” said Parson Stump, chagrined. “It’s a case of—of—of spiritual consolation.”

  “Ah!” ejaculated Parson Lute.

  “And I—”

  “Now, Brother Wile,” the chairman interrupted, “we’re ready to hear you.”

  “One moment,” said Parson Lute, rising. He struggled to suppress his cough. “Excuse me,” he gasped. And, “I don’t quite see, brethren,” he proceeded, “how this meeting can get along without the services of Brother Stump. It seems to me that this meeting needs Brother Stump. I am of opinion that Brother Stump owes it to the cause in general, and to the clergy of this district in particular, to report this discussion to the conference. It is my conviction, brethren, that Brother Stump—by his indefatigable industry, by his thorough acquaintance with the matters under discussion, by his spiritual insight into problems of this character, by his talent for expression—ought to be present through the whole of this discussion, in its entirety, and ought to present the views of this body to the conference in person.” And, “Look here, Brother Stump,” he concluded, turning, “why can’t I make this call for you?”

&n
bsp; “Well, of course, you could, Brother Lute,” Parson Stump admitted, his face beginning to clear, “but really I—”

  “Oh, come now, brother!”

  “Brother Lute,” said Parson Stump, with sincere affection, “I don’t like to think of you on the road to Whisper Cove tonight. I tell you, it—it—goes against the grain. You’re not well, brother. You’re not well at all. And it’s a long way—and there’s a gale of wind and rain outside—”

  “Come, come, now!”

  “A dirty night,” Parson Stump mused.

  “But it’s the Lord’s business!”

  “Of course,” Parson Stump yielded, “if you would be so kind, I—”

  Parson Lute’s face brightened. “Very well,” said he. “It’s all settled. Now, may I have a word with you? I’ll need some pointers.” To the five brethren: “One moment, brethren!”

  They moved towards the rear, and came to rest, heads close, within my hearing. Parson Lute put his arm over Parson Stump’s shoulder. “Now,” said he, briskly, rubbing his hands in a business-like way, “pointers, brother—pointers!”

  “Yes, yes, brother!” Parson Stump agreed. “Well, you’ll find my oilskins hanging in the hall. Mrs. Stump will give you the lantern—”

  “No, no! I don’t mean that. Who is this person? Man or woman?”

  “Maid,” said Parson Stump.

  “Ah!”

  Parson Stump whispered in Parson Lute’s ear. Parson Lute raised his eyebrows. He was made sad—and sighed. He was kind, was this parson, and sweetly wishful for the goodness and welfare of all the erring sons and daughters of men.

  “Has the woman repented?” he asked.

  “I fear not. In fact—no; she has not.”

  At once the battle-light began to shine in Parson Lute’s green eyes. “I see,” he snapped.

  “Rather difficult case, I fear,” said Parson Stump, despondently. “She—well, she—she isn’t quite right. Poor creature! Do you understand? A simple person. Not idiotic, you know. Not born that way, of course. Oh no! Born with all her senses quite intact. She was beautiful as a maid—sweet-natured, lovely in person, very modest and pious—very merry, too, and clever. But before the child came she—she—she began to wait. Do you understand? To wait—to wait for the return of—of some one. She said—I remember that she said—that he would come. She was really quite sure of it. And she waited—and waited. A promise, no doubt; and she had faith in it. For a long time she had faith in it. Rather pitiful, I think. I used to see her about a good deal. She was always waiting. I would meet her on the heads, in all weathers, keeping watch for schooners. The clerk of a trading-schooner, no doubt; but nobody knows. Waiting—waiting—always waiting! Poor creature! The man didn’t come back, of course; and then she got—well—flighty. Got flighty—quite flighty. The man didn’t come back, of course, you know; and she had waited—and waited—so long, so very long. Really, a very difficult case, brother! Something snapped and broken—something missing—something gone, you know. Poor creature! She—she—well, she waited too long. Couldn’t stand it, you see. It seems she loved the man—and trusted him—and, well, just loved him, you know, in the way women will. And now she’s flighty—quite flighty. A difficult case, I fear, and—”

  “I see,” Parson Lute interrupted. “An interesting case. Very sad, too. And you’ve not been able to convict her of her sin?”

  Parson Stump shook his head.

  “No impression whatever?”

  “No, brother.”

  “How,” Parson Lute demanded, with a start, “does she—ah—subsist?”

  “She fishes, brother, in quiet weather, and she is helped, though it is not generally known, by a picturesque old character of the place—a man not of the faith, a drunkard, I fear, but kind-hearted and generous to the needy.”

  “The woman ever converted before?”

  “Twice, brother,” Parson Stump answered; “but not now in a state of grace. She is quite obstinate,” he added, “and she has, I fear, peculiar views—very peculiar, I fear—on repentance. In fact, she loves the child, you see; and she fears that a confession of her sin—a confession of repentance, you know—might give the world to think that her love had failed—that she wished the child—well—unborn. She would not appear disloyal to Judith, I fear, even to save her soul. A peculiar case, is it not? A difficult case, I fear.”

  “I see,” said Parson Lute, tapping his nose reflectively. “The child is the obstacle. A valuable hint in that. Well, I may be able to do something, with God’s help.”

  “God bless you, brother!”

  They shook hands.…

  My uncle was returned from Topmast Harbor. I paused but to bid him urgently to the bedside of Elizabeth, then ran on to rejoin the parson at the turn of the road. By night, in a gale of wind and rain from the east, was no time for Parson Lute, of Yellow Tail Tickle, to be upon the long road to Whisper Cove. But the rough road, and the sweep of the wind, and the steep ascents, and the dripping limbs, and the forsaken places lying hid in the dark, and the mud and torrents, and the knee-deep, miry puddles seemed not to be perceived by him as he stumbled after me. He was praying aloud—importunately, as it is written. He would save the soul of Elizabeth, that man; the faith, the determination were within him. ’Twas fair pitiful the way he besought the Lord. And he made haste; he would pause only at the crests of the hills—to cough and to catch his breath. I was hard driven that night—straight into the wind, with the breathless parson forever at my heels. I shall never forget the exhibition of zeal. ’Twas divinely unselfish—’twas heroic as men have seldom shown heroism. Remembering what occurred thereafter, I number the misguided man with the holy martyrs. At the Cock’s Crest, whence the road tumbled down the cliff to Whisper Cove, the wind tore the breath out of Parson Lute, and the noise of the breakers, and the white of the sea beyond, without mercy, contemptuous, confused him utterly.

  He fell.

  “Tis near at hand, sir!” I pleaded with him.

  He was up in a moment. “Let us press on, Daniel,” said he, “to the salvation of that soul. Let us press on!”

  We began the descent.…

  XIII

  JUDITH ABANDONED

  I left the parson in the kitchen to win back his breath. He was near fordone, poor man! but still entreatingly prayed, in sentences broken by consumptive spasms, for wisdom and faith and the fire of the Holy Ghost in this dire emergency. When I entered the room where Elizabeth lay, ’twas to the grateful discovery that she had rallied: her breath came without wheeze or gasp; the labored, spasmodic beating of her heart no longer shook the bed. ’Twas now as though, I thought, they had troubled her with questions concerning her soul or her sin; for she was turned sullen—lying rigid and scowling, with her eyes fixed upon the whitewashed rafters, straying only in search of Judith, who sat near, grieving in dry sobs, affrighted.

  And ’twas said that this Elizabeth had within the span of my short life been a maid most lovely! There were no traces of that beauty and sprightliness remaining. I wondered, being a lad, that unkindness should work a change so sad in any one. ’Twas a mystery.… The room was cold. ’Twas ghostly, too—with Death hovering there invisible. Youth is mystified and appalled by the gaunt Thing. I shivered. Within, the gale sighed and moaned and sadly whispered; ’twas blowing in a melancholy way—foreboding some inevitable catastrophe. Set on a low ledge of the cliff, the cottage sagged towards the edge, as if to peer at the breakers; and clammy little draughts stole through the cracks of the floor and walls, crying as they came, and crept about, searching out the uttermost corners, with sighs and cold fingers.

  ’Twas a mean, poor place for a woman to lie in extremity.… And she had once been lovely—with warm, live youth, with twinkling eyes and modesty, with sympathy and merry ways to win the love o’ folk! Ay; but ’twas wondrous hard to believe.… ’Twas a mean station of departure, indeed—a bare, disjointed box of a room, low-ceiled, shadowy, barren of comfort, but yet white and neat, kept
by Judith’s clever, conscientious, loving hands. There was one small window, outlooking to sea, black-paned in the wild night, whipped with rain and spray. From without—from the vastness of sea and night—came a confused and distant wail, as of the lamentation of a multitude. Was this my fancy? I do not know; but yet it seemed to me—a lad who listened and watched—that a wise, pitying, unnumbered throng lamented.

  I could not rid my ears of this wailing.…

  Elizabeth had rallied; she might weather it out, said the five wives of Whisper Cove, who had gathered to observe her departure.

  “If,” Aunt Esther qualified, “she’s let be.”

  “Like she done las’ time,” William Buttle’s wife whispered. “I ’low our watchin’s wasted. Ah, this heart trouble! You never knows.”

  “If,” Aunt Esther repeated, “she’s let be.”

  We waited for the parson.

  “Have Skipper Nicholas come?” Elizabeth asked.

  “No, maid; ’tis not he, maid.” They would still taunt her! They would still taunt her, in the way of virtuous women; ’twas “Maid! Maid!” until the heart of a man of honor—of a man of any sort—was fair sickened of virtue and women. “’Tis the parson,” said they.

  Elizabeth sighed. “I wants a word along o’ Skipper Nicholas,” said she, faintly, “when he’ve come.”

  Parson Lute softly entered from the kitchen, wiping the rain from his face and hands, stepping on tiptoe over the bare floor. He was worn and downcast. No inspiration, it seemed, had been granted in answer to his praying. I loved him, of old, as did all the children of Twist Tickle, to whom he was known because of gentlest sympathy, shown on the roads in fair weather and foul at district-meeting time; and I was glad that he had come to ease the passage to heaven of the mother of Judith. The five women of Whisper Cove, taken unaware by this stranger, stood in a flutter of embarrassment. They were not unkind—they were curious concerning death and the power of parsons. He laid a kind hand on Judith’s head, shook hands with the women, and upon each bestowed a whispered blessing, being absently said; and the wives of Whisper Cove sat down and smoothed their skirts and folded their hands, all flushed and shaking with expectation. They wondered, no doubt, what he would accomplish—salvation or not: Parson Stump had failed. Parson Lute seemed for a moment to be unnerved by the critical attitude of his audience—made anxious for his reputation: a purely professional concern, inevitably habitual. He was not conscious of this, I am sure; he was too kind, too earnest in service, to consider his reputation. But yet he must do—when another had failed. The Lord had set him a hard task; but being earnest and kind, he had no contempt, no lack of love, I am sure, for the soul the Lord had given him to lose or to save—neither gross wish to excel, nor gross wish to excuse.