“Daughter,” he whispered, tenderly, to Elizabeth.
Elizabeth threw the coverlet over her head, so that only the tangled fringe of her hair was left to see; and she began to laugh—a coquettish trifling. Parson Lute gently uncovered the head.
“You isn’t Parson Stump,” Elizabeth tittered.
“Turn your face this way,” said Parson Lute.
She laughed.
“This way,” said Parson Lute.
“Go ’way!” Elizabeth laughed. “Go on with you!” She hid her flaming face. “You didn’t ought t’ see me in bed!” she gasped. “Go ’way!”
“My child,” said Parson Lute, patiently, “turn your face this way.”
She would not. “Go ’way!” said she.
“This way!” Parson Lute repeated.
It had been a quiet, slow command, not to go unheeded. The five women of Whisper Cove stiffened with amazement. Here, indeed, was a masterful parson! Parson Stump had failed; but not this parson—not this parson, who could command in the name of the Lord! They exchanged glances—exchanged nudges. Elizabeth’s laughter ceased. All the women of Whisper Cove waited breathless. There was silence; the commotion was all outside—wind and rain and breakers, a far-off passion, apart from the poor comedy within. The only sound in the room was the wheezing of the girl on the bed. Elizabeth turned; her brows were drawn, her eyes angry. Aunt Esther All, from her place at the foot of the bed, heard the ominous wheeze of her breath and observed the labor of her heart; and she was concerned, and nudged William Buttle’s wife, who would not heed her.
“’Tis not good for her,” Aunt Esther whispered.
“You leave me be!” Elizabeth complained.
Parson Lute took her hand.
“You quit that!” said Elizabeth.
“Hush, daughter,” the parson pleaded.
Into the interval of silence a gust of rain intruded.
“Have Nicholas come?” Elizabeth asked. “Haven’t he come yet?”
Aunt Esther shook her head.
“I wants un,” said Elizabeth, “when he’ve come.”
The parson began now soothingly to stroke the great, rough hand he held; but at once Elizabeth broke into bashful laughter, and he dropped it—and frowned.
“Woman,” he cried, in distress, “don’t you know that you are dying?”
Elizabeth’s glance ran to Judith, who rose, but sat again, wringing her hands. The mother turned once more to the parson; ’twas an apathetic gaze, fixed upon his restless nostrils.
“How is it with your soul?” he asked.
’Twas a word spoken most graciously, in the perfection of pious desire, of reverence, of passionate concern for the future of souls; but yet Elizabeth’s glance moved swiftly to the parson’s eyes, in a rage, and instantly shifted to his red hair, where it remained, fascinated.
“Are you trusting in your Saviour’s love?”
I accuse myself for speaking, in this bold way, of the unhappy question; but yet, why not? for ’twas asked in purest anxiety, in the way of Parson Lute, whom all children loved.
“Are you clinging,” says he, “to the Cross?”
Elizabeth listlessly stared at the rafters.
“Have you laid hold on the only Hope of escape?”
The child Judith—whose grief was my same agony—sobbed heart-brokenly.
“Judith!” Elizabeth called, her apathy vanished. “Poor little Judith!”
“No, my daughter,” the parson gently protested. “This is not the time,” said he. “Turn your heart away from these earthly affections,” he pleaded, his voice fallen to an earnest whisper. “Oh, daughter, fix your eyes upon the Cross!”
Elizabeth was sullen. “I wants Judith,” she complained.
“You have no time, now, my daughter, to think of these perishing human ties.”
“I wants Judith!”
“Mere earthly affection, daughter! ‘And if a man’—”
“An’ Judith,” the woman persisted, “wants me!”
“Nay,” the parson softly chided. He was kind—patient with her infirmity. ’Twas the way of Parson Lute. With gentleness, with a tactful humoring, he would yet win her attention. But, “Oh,” he implored, as though overcome by a flooding realization of the nature and awful responsibility of his mission, “can you not think of your soul?”
“Judith, dear!”
The child arose.
“No!” said the parson, quietly. “No, child!”
The wind shook the house to its crazy foundations and drove the crest of a breaker against the panes.
“I wants t’ tell she, parson!” Elizabeth wailed. “An I wants she—jus’ wants she—anyhow—jus’ for love!”
“Presently, daughter; not now.”
“She—she’s my child!”
“Presently, daughter.”
Judith wept again.
“Sir!” Elizabeth gasped—bewildered, terrified.
“Not now, daughter.”
All the anger and complaint had gone out of Elizabeth’s eyes; they were now filled with wonder and apprehension. Flashes of intelligence appeared and failed and came again. It seemed to me, who watched, that in some desperate way, with her broken mind, she tried to solve the mystery of this refusal. Then ’twas as though some delusion—some terror of her benighted state—seized upon her: alarm changed to despair; she rose in bed, but put her hand to her heart and fell back.
“He better stop it!” Aunt Esther All muttered.
The four wives of Whisper Cove bitterly murmured against her.
“He’s savin’ her soul,” said William Buttle’s wife.
They were interested, these wives, in the operation; they resented disturbance.
“Well,” Aunt Esther retorted, “I ’low, anyhow, he don’t know much about heart-trouble.”
Parson Lute, unconscious of this watchful observation, frankly sighed. The hearts of men, I know, contain no love more sweet and valuable than that which animated his desire. He mused for an interval. “Do you know the portion of the wicked?” he asked, in loving-kindness, without harshness whatsoever.
“Yes, sir.”
“What is it?”
It seemed she would appease him. She was ingratiating, now, with smile and answer. “Hell, sir,” she answered.
“Are you prepared for the change?”
’Twas a familiar question, no doubt. Elizabeth’s conversion had been diligently sought. But the lean face of Parson Lute, and the fear of what he might do, and the solemn quality of his voice, and his sincere and simple desire seemed so to impress Elizabeth that she was startled into new attention.
“Yes, sir,” she said.
It appeared to puzzle Parson Lute. He had been otherwise informed by Parson Stump. The woman was not in a state of grace.
“You have cast yourself upon the mercy of God?” he asked.
“No, sir.”
“Then how, my daughter, can you say that you are prepared?”
There was no answer.
“You have made your peace with an offended God?”
“No, sir.”
“But you say that you are prepared?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You have repented of your sin?”
“No, sir.”
Parson Lute turned impatient. “And yet,” he demanded, “you expect to go to heaven?”
“No, sir.”
“What!” cried Parson Lute.
“No, sir,” she said.
Parson Lute was incredulous. “To hell?” he asked.
“Eh?”
“To hell?”
Elizabeth hesitated. By some direct and primitively human way her benighted mind had reached its determination. But still she hesitated—frightened somewhat, it may be, by the conventionality of Whisper Cove and Twist Tickle.
“Yes, sir,” said she. “Most men goes there.”
“But you,” said he, in amaze, “are not a man!”
“Judith’s father were,” she answer
ed; “an’ I’m wantin’—oh, I’m wantin’—t’ see un once again!”
The five wives of Whisper Cove gasped.…
The outer door was flung open. Came a rush of wind—the noise and wet and lusty stirring of the night. It broke harshly in upon us; ’twas a crashing discord of might and wrath and cruel indifference—a mocking of this small tragedy. The door was sharply closed against the gale. I heard the wheeze and tread of my uncle in the kitchen. He entered—his broad face grave and anxious and grieved—but instantly fled, though I beckoned; for Parson Lute, overcome, it may be, by the impiety of Elizabeth, was upon his knees, fervently praying that the misguided soul might yet by some miraculous manifestation of grace be restored to propriety of view and of feeling. ’Twas a heartfelt prayer offered in faith, according to the enlightenment of the man—a confession of ignorance, a plea of human weakness, a humble, anxious cry for divine guidance that the woman might be plucked as a brand from the burning, to the glory of the Lord God Most Tender and Most High. Came, in the midst of it, a furious outburst; the wind rose—achieved its utmost pitch of power. I looked out: Whisper Cove, low between the black barriers, was churned white; and beyond—concealed by the night—the sea ran tumultuously. ’Twas a big, screaming wind, blowing in from the sea, unopposed by tree or hill. The cottage trembled to the gusts; the timbers complained; the lamp fluttered in the draught. Great waves, rolling in from the open, were broken on the rocks of Whisper Cove. Rain and spray, driven by the gale, drummed on the roof and rattled like hail on the window. And above this angry clamor of wind and sea rose the wailing, importunate prayer for the leading of the God of us all.…
When the parson had got to his feet again, Aunt Esther All diffidently touched his elbow. “Nicholas have come, sir,” said she.
“Nicholas?”
“Ay; the man she’ve sent for.”
Elizabeth caught the news. “I wants un,” she wheezed. “Go ’way, parson! I wants a word along o’ Nicholas all alone.”
“She’ve a secret, sir,” Aunt Esther whispered.
Judith moved towards the door; but the parson beckoned her back, and she stood doubtfully.
“Mister Top! Mister Top!” Elizabeth called, desperate to help herself, to whom no heed was given.
In the fury of the gale—the rush past of wind and rain—the failing voice was lost.
“I ’low,” Aunt Esther warned, “’twould be wise, sir—”
“Have the man wait in the kitchen.”
Elizabeth lay helplessly whimpering.
“But, sir,” Aunt Esther protested, “she’ve—”
“Have the man wait in the kitchen,” the parson impatiently repeated. “There is no time now for these worldly arrangements. No, no!” said he. “There is no time. The woman must be convicted!” He was changed: despondency had vanished—humility gone with it. In the eye of the man—the gesture—the risen voice—appeared some high authority to overawe us. He had the habit of authority, as have all parsons; but there was now some compelling, supernatural addition to weaken us. We did not dare oppose him, not one of us—not my uncle, whose head had been intruded, but was now at once withdrawn. The parson had come out of his prayer, it seemed, refreshed and inspired; he had remembered, it may be, that the child was the obstacle—the child whom Elizabeth would not slight to save her soul. “The woman must be saved,” said he. “She must be saved!” he cried, striking his fist into his palm, his body all tense, his teeth snapped shut, his voice strident. “The Lord is mighty and merciful—a forgiving God.” ’Twas an appeal (he looked far past the whitewashed rafters and the moving darkness of the night); ’twas a returning appeal—a little failure of faith, I think. “The Lord has heard me,” he declared, doggedly. “He has not turned away. The woman must—she shall—be saved!”
“Ay, but,” Aunt Esther expostulated; “she’ve been sort o’ wantin’ t’ tell—”
The parson’s green eyes were all at once bent in a penetrating way upon Aunt Esther; and she backed away, biting at her nails—daring no further protest.
“Judith, my child,” said the parson, “do you go to the kitchen.”
“No, no!” Judith wailed. “I’m wantin’ t’ stay.”
Elizabeth stretched out her arms.
“It distracts your mother’s attention, you see,” said the parson, kindly. “Do you go, my dear.”
“I will not go!”
“Judith!” Elizabeth called.
The parson caught the child’s arm.
“You leave me be!” Judith flashed, her white little teeth all bare.
“Do you go,” said the parson, coldly, “to the kitchen.”
“He’d better mind what he’s about!” Aunt Esther complained.
Elizabeth was now on her elbow, staring in alarm. Her breast was significantly heaving, and the great vein of her throat had begun to beat. “Don’t send she away, parson!” she pleaded. “She’s wantin’ her mother. Leave she be!”
The parson led Judith away.
“For God’s sake, parson,” Elizabeth gasped, “leave she come! What you goin’ t’ do with she?” She made as though to throw off the coverlet and follow; but she was unable, and fell back in exhaustion. “Judith!” she called. “Judith!”
The kitchen door was closed upon Judith; the obstacle had been removed.
“Don’t hurt she, parson,” Elizabeth entreated, seeming, now, to be possessed of a delusion concerning the parson’s purpose. “She’ve done no harm, sir. She’ve been a good child all her life.”
“Elizabeth,” said the parson, firmly, “repent!”
“What you done with my Judith?”
“Repent!”
Elizabeth’s heart began to work beyond its strength. “For God’s sake, parson!” she gasped; “you’ll not hurt she, will you?”
“Repent, I say!”
“I’ll repent, parson. What you goin’ t’ do with Judy? Don’t hurt she, parson. I’ll repent. Oh, bring she back, parson! I’ll repent. For God’s sake, parson!” It may be that despair gave her cunning—I do not know. The deception was not beyond her: she had been converted twice—she was used to the forms as practised in those days at Twist Tickle. She wanted her child, poor woman! And her mind was clouded with fear: she is not to be called evil for the trick. Nor is Parson Lute to be blamed for following earnestly all that she said—praying, all the while, that the issue might be her salvation. She had a calculating eye on the face of Parson Lute. “I believe!” she cried, watching him closely for some sign of relenting. “Help thou my unbelief.” The parson’s face softened. “Save me!” she whispered, exhausted. “Save my soul! I repent. Save my soul!” She seemed now to summon all her strength, for the parson had not yet called back the child. “Praise God!” she screamed, seeking now beyond doubt to persuade him of her salvation. “I repent! I’m saved! I’m saved!”
“Praise God!” Parson Lute shouted.
Elizabeth swayed—threw up her hands—fell back dead.
“I tol’ you so,” said Aunt Esther, grimly.
XIV
THE TWENTY-THIRD PSALM
Faith, but ’twas a bitter night! Men were drowning on our coast—going to death in the wreck of schooners. The sea broke in unmasked assault upon the great rocks of Whisper Cove; the gale worried the cottage on the cliff. But ’twas warm in the kitchen: the women had kept the fire for the cup o’ tea to follow the event; ’twas warm, and the lamp made light and shadow, and the kettle bubbled and puffed, the wood crackled, the fire snored and glowed, all serenely, in disregard of death, as though no mystery had come to appal the souls of us.
My uncle had Judith on his knee.
“I’m not able,” she sobbed.
“An’ ye’ll not try?” he besought. “Ye’ll not even try?”
We were alone: the women were employed in the other room; the parson paced the floor, unheeding, his yellow teeth fretting his finger-nails, his lean lips moving in some thankful communication with the God he served.
“Ah,
but!” says my uncle, “ye’ll surely come t’ live along o’ me!”
“No, no! I’ll be livin’ where I’ve always lived—with mother.”
“Ye cannot live alone.”
“Ay; but I’m able t’ live alone—an’ fish alone—like mother done.”
“’Twas not her wish, child,” says my uncle. “She’d have ye live along o’ me. ‘Why, Judy,’ she’d have ye know, ‘do ye live along o’ he. Do ye trust, little maid,’ she’d have ye t’ know, ‘that there ol’ Nick Top. He’ve a powerful bad look t’ the eye in his head,’ she’d say, ‘an’ he’ve the name o’ the devil; but Lord love ye!’ she’d say, ‘he’ve a heart with room t’ contain ye, an’ a warm welcome t’ dwell within. He’ve took good care o’ little ol’ Dannie,’ she’d say, ‘an’ he’ll take good care o’ you. He’ll never see ye hurt or wronged or misguided so long as he lives. Not,’ she’d say, ‘that there damned ol’ rascal!’ An’ if ye come, Judy, dear,” my uncle entreated, “I won’t see ye wronged—I won’t!” My uncle’s little eyes were overrunning now—the little eyes he would not look into. The parson still paced the floor, still unheeding, still muttering fervent prayer of some strange sort; but my uncle, aged in sinful ways, was frankly crying. “Ye’ll come, Judy, will ye not?” he begged. “Along o’ ol’ Nick Top, who would not see ye wronged? Ah, little girl!” he implored—and then her head fell against him—“ye’ll surely never doubt Nick Top. An’ ye’ll come t’ he, an’ ye’ll sort o’ look after un, will ye not?—that poor ol’ feller!”
The Sea-Story Megapack Page 95