Fourteen, then, and something more: a footloose lad of Twist Tickle––free to sail and wander, to do and dream, to read the riddles of my years, blithe and unalarmed. ’Tis beyond the will and wish of me to forget the day I lay upon the Knob o’ Lookout, from afar keeping watch on the path to Whisper Cove––the taste of it, salty and cool, the touch of it upon my cheek and in my hair, the sunlight and scampering wind: the simple haps and accidents, the perception, awakening within me, and the portent. ’Twas blowing high and merrily from the west––a yellow wind from the warm west and from the golden mist and low blue line of coast at the other side of the bay. It rippled the azure floor between, and flung the spray of the breakers into the sunshine, and heartily clapped the gray cliff, and pulled the ears of the spruce, and went swinging on, in joyous mood, to the gray spaces of the great sea beyond Twin Islands. I shall not forget: for faith! the fates were met in conspiracy with the day to plot the mischief of my life. There was no warning, no question to ease the issue Judith (as I know) washed her mother’s face and hands with conscientious care: ’twas her way. Doubtless, in the way she had, she chattered, the while, a torrent of affectionate reproof and direction, which gave no moment for promise or complaint, and at last, with a raised finger and a masterful little flash of the eye, bade the flighty woman keep out of mischief for the time. What then, ’tis easy to guess: she exhausted the resources of soap and water in her own adornment (for she smelled of suds in the cabin of the Shining Light), and set out by the path from Whisper Cove to Twist Tickle, with never a glance behind, but a prim, sharp outlook, from shyly downcast eyes, upon all the world ahead. A staid, slim little maid, with softly fashioned shoulders, carried sedately, her small head drooping with shy grace, like a flower upon its slender stalk, seeming as she went her dainty way to perceive neither scene nor incident of the passage, but yet observing all in swift, sly little flashes. “An’ a-ha!” thinks I, “she’s bound for the Shining Light!” It was blowing: on the edge of the cliff, where the path was lifted high above the sea, winding through sunlit space, the shameless old wind, turned skyward by the gray cliff, made bold, in the way the wind knows and will practise, wherever it blows. The wind cared I followed. In the cabin of the Shining Light, cross-legged on the table, in the midst of the order she had accomplished, her hands neatly folded in her lap, Judith sat serene. She had heard my clatter on the gang-plank, my shuffle and heavy tread on the deck. ’Twas I, she knew: there was no mistaking, God help me! the fall of my feet on road or deck. It may be that her heart I feigned astonishment. “Hello!” quoth I; “what you doin’ here?” She turned away––the eager expectation all fled from her face: I saw it vanish. “Eh?” says I. She sniffed: ’twas a frank sniff of contempt––pain, like a half-heard sob, mixed with the scorn of it. “What you doin’ here?” I stood reproached; she had achieved it in a glance––a little shaft of light, darting upon me, departing, having dealt its wound. “Well, maid,” cries I, the smart of her glance and silence enraging me, “is you got no tongue?” She puckered her brows, pursed her lips; she sighed––and concerned herself with her hair-ribbon, quite placid once more. ’Twas a trick well known to me. ’Twas a trick aggravating to the temper. ’Twas a maid’s trick––an ensnaring, deadly trick. ’Twas a trick ominous of my imminent confusion. “Eh?” I demanded. “Dannie, child,” she admonished, gently, “God hates a liar!” I might have known. “T’ make believe,” cries she, “that I’d not be here! How could you!” “’Tis not a lie.” “’Tis a white lie, child,” she chided. “You’ve come, Dannie, poor lad! t’ be a white liar. ’Tis a woful state––an’ a parlous thing. For, child, if you keeps on––” She had paused. ’Twas a trick to fetch the question. I asked it. “You’ll be a blue one,” says she. “An’ then––” “What then?” “Blue-black, child. An’ then––” I waited. “Oh, Dannie, lad!” cries she, her little hands clasped, a pitiful quaver in her voice, so that I felt consigned to woe, indeed, for this misdoing, “you’ll be a liar as black as––” There was no more of it. “You dare not say it!” I taunted. I did not wish that she should: not I! but still, being a lad, would have her come close enough to sauce the devil. But I would not have her say that word. Indeed, I need not have troubled. ’Twas not in her mind to be so unmaidenly, with a lad at hand to serve her purpose. “No,” says she, “I dare not; but you, Dannie, bein’ a lad––” Her voice trailed off expectantly. “Black as hell?” She nodded. “Come, maid,” says I, “you’ve called me a liar.” “I wasn’t wantin’ to.” “No odds,” says I. “An’ if I’m a liar,” says I, “I ’low I’m a fool for it?” “You is.” “Then, my maid,” cries I, in triumph, “you’ll be keepin’ me company in hell! You’ve called me a fool. ‘An’ whoso calleth his brother a fool––’” “Oh no,” says she, quite undisturbed. “’Tis not so.” “Not so?” “Why, no, child! Didn’t you know?” “But it says so!” “Dannie, child,” says she, with unruffled superiority, “I come down from heaven one year an’ five months after God sent you. An’ God told me, Dannie, just afore I left Un at the Gate, that He’d changed His mind about that.” The particular color of this stupendous prevarication I am still unable to determine.... Here in the cabin of the Shining Light was my workshop. On the bench, stout-hulled and bravely masted, was a bark to be rigged. My fingers itched to be dealing with the delicate labor. ’Twas no time now, thought I, all at once, to dally with the child. The maid was a sweet maid, an amiably irritating maid, well enough, in her way, to idle with; but the building of the ship was a substantial delight, subject to the mastery of a man with hands and a will, the end a sure achievement––no vague, elusive thing, sought in madness, vanishing in the grasp. I would be about this man’s-work. Never was such a ship as this ship Now the afternoon was near spent. My hands were idle––my eyes and heart far astray from the labor of the time. It was very still and dreamful in the cabin. The chinks were red with the outer glow, and a stream of mote-laden sunlight, aslant, came in at the companionway. It fell upon Judith. “Judy,” I whispered, bending close, “I ’low I might as well––might as well have––” She looked up in affright. “Have a kiss,” said I. “Oh no!” she gasped. “Why not? Sure I’m able for it!” “Ay,” she answered, in her wisdom yielding this; “but, Dannie, child, ’tisn’t ’lowed.” “Why not?” Her eyes turned round with religious awe. “God,” said she, with a solemn wag, “wouldn’t like it.” “I’d never stop for that.” “May be,” she chided; “but I ’low, lad, we ought t’ ’blige Un once in a while. ’Tis no more than kind. An’ what’s a kiss t’ lack? Pooh!” I was huffed. “Ah, well, then!” said she, “an your heart’s set on it, Dannie, I’ve no mind t’ stop you. But––” I moved forward, abashed, but determined. “But,” she continued, with an emphasis that brought me to a stop, “I ’low I better ask God, t’ make sure.” ’Twas the way she had in emergencies. “Do,” said I, dolefully. The God of the lad that was I––the God of his childish vision, when, in the darkness of night, he lifted his eyes in prayer, seeking the leading of a Shepherd––was a forbidding God: white, gigantic, in the shape of an old, old man, the Ancient of Days, in a flowing robe, seated scowling upon a throne, aloft on a rolling cloud, with an awful mist of darkness all roundabout. But Judith, as I knew, visualized in a more felicitous way. The God to whom she appealed was a rotund, florid Presently my patience was worn. “What news?” I inquired. “Hist!” she whispered. “He’s lookin’ at me through His glasses.” I waited an interval. “What now, Judy?” “Hist!” says she. “He’s wonderful busy makin’ up His mind. Leave Un be, Dannie!” ’Twas trying, indeed! I craved the kiss. Nor by watching the child’s puckered face could I win a hint to ease the suspense that rode me. Upon the will of Judith’s Lord God Almighty in tweed knickerbockers “Judy, maid,” I implored, “will He never have done?” “You’ll be makin’ Un mad, Dannie,” she warned. “I can wait no longer.” “He’s scowlin’.” I wished I had not interrupted. “I ’low,” she reported, “He’ll shake His head in a minute.” ’Twas a tender way to break ill news. “Ay,” she sighed, opening her eyes. “He’ve gone an’ done it. I knowed it. He’ve said I hadn’t better not. I’m wonderful sorry you’ve t’ lack the kiss, Dannie. I’m wonderful sorry, Dannie,” she repeated, in a little quiver of pity, “for you!” She was pitiful: there’s no forgetting that compassion, its tearful concern and wistfulness. I was bewildered. More wishful beseeching must surely have softened a Deity with a sunburned nose and a double chin! Indeed, I was bewildered by this fantasy of weeping and nonsense. For the little break in her voice and the veil of tears upon her eyes I cannot account. ’Twas the way she had as a maid: and concerning this I have found it folly to speculate. Of the boundaries of sincerity and pretence within her heart I have no knowledge. There was no pretence (I think); ’twas all reality––the feigning and the feeling––for Judith walked in a confusion of the truths of life with visions. There came a time––a moment in our lives––when “Dannie,” she ventured, softly, “you’re able t’ take it.” “Ay––but will not.” “You’re wonderful strong, Dannie, an’ I’m but a maid.” “I’ll wrest no kisses,” said I, with a twitch of scorn, “from maids.” She smiled. ’Twas a passing burst of rapture, which, vanishing, left her wan and aged beyond her years. “No,” she whispered, but not to me, “he’d not do that. He’d not––do that! An’ I’d care little enough for the Dannie Callaway that would.” “You cares little enough as ’tis,” said I. “You cares nothing at all. You cares not a jot.” She smiled again: but now as a wilful, flirting maid. “As for carin’ for you, Dannie,” she mused, dissembling candor, “I do––an’ I don’t.” The unholy spell that a maid may weave! The shameless trickery of this! “I’ll tell you,” she added, “the morrow.” And she would keep me in torture! “There’ll be no to-morrow for we,” I flashed, in a passion. “You cares nothing for Dannie Callaway. ’Tis my foot,” I cried, stamping in rage and resentment. “’Tis my twisted foot. I’m nothin’ but a cripple!” She cried out at this. “A limpin’ cripple,” I groaned, “t’ be laughed at by all the maids o’ Twist Tickle!” She began now softly to weep. I moved towards the ladder––with the will to abandon her. “Dannie,” she called, “take the kiss.” I would not. “Take two,” she begged. “Maid,” said I, severely, “what about your God?” “Ah, but––” she began. “No, no!” cries I. “None o’ that, now!” “You’ll not listen!” she pouted. “’Twill never do, maid!” “An you’d but hear me, child,” she complained, “I’d ’splain––” “What about your God?” She turned demure––all in a flash. “I’ll ask Un,” said she, most piously. “You––you––you’ll not run “I’ll bide here,” says I. “Then,” says she, “I’ll ask Un.” The which she did, in her peculiar way. ’Twas a ceremony scandalously brief and hurried. Once I caught (I thought) a slit in her eye––a peep-hole through which she spied upon me. Presently she looked up with a shy little grin. “God says, Dannie,” she reported, speaking with slow precision, the grin now giving place to an expression of solemnity and highest rapture, “that He ’lows He didn’t know what a fuss you’d make about a little thing like a kiss. He’ve been wonderful bothered o’ late by overwork, Dannie, an’ He’s sorry for what He done, an’ ’lows you might overlook it this time. ‘You tell Dannie, Judy,’ says He, ‘that he’ve simply no idea what a God like me haves t’ put up with. They’s a woman t’ Thunder Arm,’ says He, ‘that’s been worryin’ me night an’ day t’ keep her baby from dyin’, an’ I simply can’t make up my mind. She’ll make me mad an she doesn’t look out,’ says He, ‘an’ then I’ll kill it. An’ I’ve the heathen, Judy––all them heathen––on my mind. ’Tis enough t’ drive any God mad. An’ jus’ now,’ says He, ‘I’ve got a wonderful big gale blowin’ on the Labrador, an’ I’m near drove deaf,’ says He, ‘by the noise them fishermen is makin’. What with the Labradormen an’ the woman t’ Thunder Arm an’ the heathen ’tis fair awful. An’ now comes Dannie,’ says He, ‘t’ make me sick o’ my berth! You tell Dannie,’ says he, ‘t’ take the kiss an’ be done with it. ’Twas not persuasive. “’Tis a white kiss,” said she, seeking, in her way, to deck the thing with attractions. I would not turn. “’Tis all silk.” It budged me not, though I craved the kiss with a mounting sense of need, a vision of despair. It budged me not: I would not be beguiled. “An’ oh, Dannie!” she besought, with her hands appealing, “’tis awful expensive!” I returned. “Take it,” she sobbed. I pecked her lips. “Volume II., page 26!” roared my uncle, his broad red face appearing at that moment in the companionway. “You done well, Dannie! ’Tis quite t’ the taste o’ Skipper Chesterfield. You’re sailin’ twelve knots by the log, lad, on the course you’re steerin’!” So I did not have another; but the one, you may believe! had done the mischief. I am informed that there are strange folk who do not visualize after the manner of Judith and me. ’Tis a wonder how they conceive, at all! |