My powers of entertainment were on the ebb, but I doubled my diligence and we went on for another half-hour at least with banners flying, but still William did not reappear. Mrs. Hight frankly began to show fatigue.
“Somethin’ ’s happened, an’ he’s stopped to help her,” groaned the old lady, in the middle of what I had found to tell her about a rumor of disaffection with the minister of a town I merely knew by name in the weekly newspaper to which Mrs. Todd subscribed. “You step to the door, dear, an’ look if you can’t see ’em.” I promptly stepped, and once outside the house I looked anxiously in the direction which William had taken.
To my astonishment I saw all the sheep so near that I wonder we had not been aware in the house of every bleat and tinkle. And there, within a stone’s-throw, on the first long gray ledge that showed above the juniper, were William and the shepherdess engaged in pleasant conversation. At first I was provoked and then amused, and a thrill of sympathy warmed my whole heart. They had seen me and risen as if by magic; I had a sense of being the messenger of Fate. One could almost hear their sighs of regret as I appeared; they must have passed a lovely afternoon. I hurried into the house with the reassuring news that they were not only in sight but perfectly safe, with all the sheep.
VIII
MRS. HIGHT, LIKE MYSELF, was spent with conversation, and had ceased even the one activity of fanning herself. I brought a desired drink of water, and happily remembered some fruit that was left from my luncheon. She revived with splendid vigor, and told me the simple history of her later years since she had been smitten in the prime of her life by the stroke of paralysis, and her husband had died and left her alone with Esther and a mortgage on their farm. There was only one field of good land, but they owned a great region of sheep pasture and a little woodland. Esther had always been laughed at for her belief in sheep-raising when one by one their neighbors were giving up their flocks, and when everything had come to the point of despair she had raised all the money and bought all the sheep she could, insisting that Maine lambs were as good as any, and that there was a straight path by sea to Boston market. And by tending her flock herself she had managed to succeed; she had made money enough to pay off the mortgage five years ago, and now what they did not spend was safe in the bank. “It has been stubborn work, day and night, summer and winter, an’ now she’s beginnin’ to get along in years,” said the old mother sadly. “She’s tended me ’long o’ the sheep, an’ she’s been a good girl right along, but she ought to have been a teacher;” and Mrs. Hight sighed heavily and plied the fan again.
We heard voices, and William and Esther entered; they did not know that it was so late in the afternoon. William looked almost bold, and oddly like a happy young man rather than an ancient boy. As for Esther, she might have been Jeanne d’Arcy returned to her sheep, touched with age and gray with the ashes of a great remembrance. She wore the simple look of sainthood and unfeigned devotion. My heart was moved by the sight of her plain sweet face, weather-worn and gentle in its looks, her thin figure in its close dress, and the strong hand that clasped a shepherd’s staff, and I could only hold William in new reverence; this silent farmer-fisherman who knew, and he alone, the noble and patient heart that beat within her breast. I am not sure that they acknowledged even to themselves that they had always been lovers; they could not consent to anything so definite or pronounced; but they were happy in being together in the world. Esther was untouched by the fret and fury of life; she had lived in sunshine and rain among her silly sheep, and been refined instead of coarsened, while her touching patience with a rampingz old mother, stung by the sense of defeat and mourning her lost activities, had given back a lovely self-possession, and habit of sweet temper. I had seen enough of old Mrs. Hight to know that nothing a sheep might do could vex a person who was used to the uncertainties and severities of her companionship.
IX
MRS. HIGHT TOLD HER daughter at once that she had enjoyed a beautiful call, and got a great many new things to think of. This was said so frankly in my hearing that it gave a consciousness of high reward, and I was indeed recompensed by the grateful look in Esther’s eyes. We did not speak much together, but we understood each other. For the poor old woman did not read, and could not sew or knit with her helpless hand, and they were far from any neighbors, while her spirit was as eager in age as in youth, and expected even more from a disappointing world. She had lived to see the mortgage paid and money in the bank, and Esther’s success acknowledged on every hand, and there were still a few pleasures left in life. William had his mother, and Esther had hers, and they had not seen each other for a year, though Mrs. Hight had spoken of a year’s making no change in William even at his age. She must have been in the far eighties herself, but of a noble courage and persistence in the world she ruled from her stiff-backed rocking-chair.
William unloaded his gift of dried fish, each one chosen with perfect care, and Esther stood by, watching him, and then she walked across the field with us beside the wagon. I believed that I was the only one who knew their happy secret, and she blushed a little as we said good-by.
“I hope you ain’t goin’ to feel too tired, mother’s so deaf; no, I hope you won’t be tired,” she said kindly, speaking as if she well knew what tiredness was. We could hear the neglected sheep bleating on the hill in the next moment’s silence. Then she smiled at me, a smile of noble patience, of uncomprehended sacrifice, which I can never forget. There was all the remembrance of disappointed hopes, the hardships of winter, the loneliness of single-handedness in her look, but I understood, and I love to remember her worn face and her young blue eyes.
“Good-by, William,” she said gently, and William said good-by, and gave her a quick glance, but he did not turn to look back, though I did, and waved my hand as she was putting up the bars behind us. Nor did he speak again until we had passed through the dark woods and were on our way homeward by the main road. The grave yearly visit had been changed from a hope into a happy memory.
“You can see the sea from the top of her pasture hill,” said William at last.
“Can you?” I asked, with surprise.
“Yes, it’s very high land; the ledges up there show very plain in clear weather from the top of our island, and there’s a high up-standin’ tree that makes a landmark for the fishin’ grounds.” And William gave a happy sigh.
When we had nearly reached the Landing, my companion looked over into the back of the wagon and saw that the piece of sailcloth was safe, with which he had covered the dried fish. “I wish we had got some trout,” he said wistfully. “They always appease Almiry, and make her feel ’t was worth while to go.”
I stole a glance at William Blackett. We had not seen a solitary mosquito, but there was a dark stripe across his mild face, which might have been an old scar won long ago in battle.
THE FOREIGNER
I
ONE EVENING, AT THE end of August, in Dunnet Landing, I heard Mrs. Todd’s firm footstep crossing the small front entry outside my door, and her conventional cough which served as a herald’s trumpet, or a plain New England knock, in the harmony of our fellowship.
“Oh, please come in!” I cried, for it had been so still in the house that I supposed my friend and hostess had gone to see one of her neighbors. The first cold northeasterly storm of the season was blowing hard outside. Now and then there was a dash of great rain-drops and a flick of wet lilac leaves against the window, but I could hear that the sea was already stirred to its dark depths, and the great rollers were coming in heavily against the shore. One might well believe that Summer was coming to a sad end that night, in the darkness and rain and sudden access of autumnal cold. It seemed as if there must be danger offshore among the outer islands.
“Oh, there!” exclaimed Mrs. Todd, as she entered. “I know nothing ain’t ever happened out to Green Island since the world began, but I always do worry about mother in these great gales. You know those tidal waves occur sometimes down to the West Indies, an
d I get dwellin’ on ’em so I can’t set still in my chair, nor knit a common row to a stocking. William might get mooning, out in his small bo’t, and not observe how the sea was making, an’ meet with some accident. Yes, I thought I’d come in and set with you if you wa’n’t busy. No, I never feel any concern about ’em in winter ’cause then they’re prepared, and all ashore and everything snug. William ought to keep help, as I tell him; yes, he ought to keep help.”
I hastened to reassure my anxious guest by saying that Elijah Tilley had told me in the afternoon, when I came along the shore past the fishhouses, that Johnny Bowden and the Captain were out at Green Island; he had seen them beating up the bay, and thought they must have put into Burnt Island cove, but one of the lobster-men brought word later that he saw them hauling out at Green Island as he came by, and Captain Bowden pointed ashore and shook his head to say that he did not mean to try to get in. “The old Miranda just managed it, but she will have to stay at home a day or two and put new patches in her sail,” I ended, not without pride in so much circumstantial evidence.
Mrs. Todd was alert in a moment. “Then they’ll all have a very pleasant evening,” she assured me, apparently dismissing all fears of tidal waves and other seagoing disasters. “I was urging Alick Bowden to go ashore some day and see mother before cold weather. He’s her own nephew; she sets a great deal by him. And Johnny’s a great chum o’ William’s; don’t you know the first day we had Johnny out ’long of us, he took an’ give William his money to keep for him that he’d been a-savin’, and William showed it to me an’ was so affected I thought he was goin’ to shed tears? ’T was a dollar an’ eighty cents; yes, they’ll have a beautiful evenin’ all together, and like’s not the sea’ll be flat as a doorstep come morning.”
I had drawn a large wooden rocking-chair before the fire, and Mrs. Todd was sitting there jogging herself a little, knitting fast, and wonderfully placid of countenance. There came a fresh gust of wind and rain, and we could feel the small wooden house rock and hear it creak as if it were a ship at sea.
“Lord, hear the great breakers!” exclaimed Mrs. Todd. “How they pound!—there, there! I always run of an idea that the sea knows anger these nights and gets full o’ fight. I can hear the roteaa o’ them old black ledges way down the thoroughfare. Calls up all those stormy verses in the Book o’ Psalms;ab David he knew how old sea goin’ folks have to quake at the heart.”
I thought as I had never thought before of such anxieties. The families of sailors and coastwise adventurers by sea must always be worrying about somebody, this side of the world or the other. There was hardly one of Mrs. Todd’s elder acquaintances, men or women, who had not at some time or other made a sea voyage, and there was often no news until the voyagers themselves came back to bring it.
“There’s a roaring high overhead, and a roaring in the deep sea,” said Mrs. Todd solemnly, “and they battle together nights like this. No, I couldn’t sleep; some women folks always goes right to bed an’ to sleep, so’s to forget, but ’t ain’t my way. Well, it’s a blessin’ we don’t feel alike; there’s hardly any of our folks at sea to worry about, nowadays, but I can’t help my feelin’s, an’ I got thinking of mother all alone, if William had happened to be out lobsterin’ and couldn’t make the cove gettin’ back.”
“They will have a pleasant evening,” I repeated. “Captain Bowden is the best of good company.”
“Mother’ll make him some pancakes for his supper, like’s not,” said Mrs. Todd, clicking her knitting needles and giving a pull at her yarn. Just then the old cat pushed open the unlatched door and came straight toward her mistress’s lap. She was regarded severely as she stepped about and turned on the broad expanse, and then made herself into a round cushion of fur, but was not openly admonished. There was another great blast of wind overhead, and a puff of smoke came down the chimney.
“This makes me think o’ the night Mis’ Cap’n Tolland died,” said Mrs. Todd, half to herself. “Folks used to say these gales only blew when somebody’s a-dyin’, or the devil was a-comin’ for his own, but the worst man I ever knew died a real pretty mornin’ in June.”
“You have never told me any ghost stories,” said I; and such was the gloomy weather and the influence of the night that I was instantly filled with reluctance to have this suggestion followed. I had not chosen the best of moments; just before I spoke we had begun to feel as cheerful as possible. Mrs. Todd glanced doubtfully at the cat and then at me, with a strange absent look, and I was really afraid that she was going to tell me something that would haunt my thoughts on every dark stormy night as long as I lived.
“Never mind now; tell me to-morrow by daylight, Mrs. Todd,” I hastened to say, but she still looked at me full of doubt and deliberation.
“Ghost stories!” she answered. “Yes, I don’t know but I’ve heard a plenty of ’em first an’ last. I was just sayin’ to myself that this is like the night Mis’ Cap’n Tolland died. ’T was the great line stormac in September all of thirty, or maybe forty, year ago. I ain’t one that keeps much account o’ time.”
“Tolland? That’s a name I have never heard in Dunnet,” I said.
“Then you haven’t looked well about the old part o’ the buryin’ ground, no’theast corner,” replied Mrs. Todd. “All their women folks lies there; the sea’s got most o’ the men. They were a known family o’ shipmasters in early times. Mother had a mate, Ellen Tolland, that she mourns to this day; died right in her bloom with quick consumption, but the rest o’ that family was all boys but one, and older than she, an’ they lived hard seafarin’ lives an’ all died hard. They were called very smart seamen. I’ve heard that when the youngest went into one o’ the old shippin’ houses in Boston, the head o’ the firm called out to him: ‘Did you say Tolland from Dunnet? That’s recommendation enough for any vessel!’ There was some o’ them old shipmasters as tough as iron, an’ they had the name o’ usin’ their crews very severe, but there wa’n’t a man that wouldn’t rather sign with ’em an’ take his chances, than with the slack ones that didn’t know how to meet accidents.”
II
THERE WAS SO LONG a pause, and Mrs. Todd still looked so absent-minded, that I was afraid she and the cat were growing drowsy together before the fire, and I should have no reminiscences at all. The wind struck the house again, so that we both started in our chairs and Mrs. Todd gave a curious, startled look at me. The cat lifted her head and listened too, in the silence that followed, while after the wind sank we were more conscious than ever of the awful roar of the sea. The house jarred now and then, in a strange, disturbing way.
“Yes, they’ll have a beautiful evening out to the island,” said Mrs. Todd again; but she did not say it gayly. I had not seen her before in her weaker moments.
“Who was Mrs. Captain Tolland?” I asked eagerly, to change the current of our thoughts.
“I never knew her maiden name; if I ever heard it, I’ve gone an’ forgot; ’t would mean nothing to me,” answered Mrs. Todd.
“She was a foreigner, an’ he met with her out in the Island o’ Jamaica. They said she’d been left a widow with property. Land knows what become of it; she was French born, an’ her first husband was a Portugee, or somethin’.”
I kept silence now, a poor and insufficient question being worse than none.
“Cap’n John Tolland was the least smartest of any of ’em, but he was full smart enough, an’ commanded a good brig at the time, in the sugar trade; he’d taken out a cargo o’ pine lumber to the islands from somewheres up the river, an’ had been loadin’ for home in the port o’ Kingston, an’ had gone ashore that afternoon for his papers, an’ remained afterwards ’long of three friends o’ his, all shipmasters. They was havin’ their suppers together in a tavern; ’t was late in the evenin’ an’ they was more lively than usual, an’ felt boyish; and over opposite was another house full o’ company, real bright and pleasant lookin’, with a lot o’ lights, an’ they heard somebody singin’ very pretty to a gu
itar. They wa’n’t in no go-to-meetin’ condition, an’ one of ’em, he slapped the table an’ said, ‘Le’ ’s go over an’ hear that lady sing!’ an’ over they all went, good honest sailors, but three sheets in the wind, and stepped in as if they was invited, an’ made their bows inside the door, an’ asked if they could hear the music; they were all respectable well-dressed men. They saw the woman that had the guitar, an’ there was a company a-listenin’, regular highbindersad all of ’em; an’ there was a long table all spread out with big candlesticks like little trees o’ light, and a sight o’ glass an’ silver ware; an’ part o’ the men was young officers in uniform, an’ the colored folks was steppin’ round servin’ ’em, an’ they had the lady singin’. ’T was a wasteful scene, an’ a loud talkin’ company, an’ though they was three sheets in the wind themselves there wa’n’t one o’ them cap’ns but had sense to perceive it. The others had pushed back their chairs, an’ their decanters an’ glasses was standin’ thick about, an’ they was teasin’ the one that was singin’ as if they’d just got her in to amuse ’em. But they quieted down; one o’ the young officers had beautiful manners, an’ invited the four cap’ns to join ’em, very polite; ’t was a kind of public house, and after they’d all heard another song, he come to consult with ’em whether they wouldn’t git up and dance a hornpipe or somethin’ to the lady’s music.
The Country of the Pointed Firs and Selected Short Fiction Page 20