Presently my uncle and I made ready to set out for St. John’s upon the sinister business which twice a year engaged his evil talents at the wee waterside place wherein he was the sauciest dog in the pack. There was now no wandering upon the emotionless old hills of Twin Islands to prepare him, no departure from the fishing, no unseemly turning to the bottle, to factitious rage; but he brooded more despairingly in his chair by the window when the flare of western glory left the world. At evening, when he thought me gone upon my pleasure, I watched him from the shadows of the hall, grave with youth, wishing, all the while, that he might greet the night with gratitude for the mercy of it; and I listened to his muttering––and I saw that he was grown old and weak with age: unequal, it might be, to the wickedness he would command in my service. “For behold the Lord will come with fire, and with his chariots like a whirlwind, to render his anger with fury, and his rebuke with the flames of fire.” For me ’twas still sweet to watch the tender shadows creep upon the But I must not tell him so.... We left John Cather behind. “Uncle Nick,” says I, “I ’low we’d best have un along.” “An’ why?” cries he. “I don’t know,” says I, honestly puzzled. He looked at me quizzically. “Is you sure?” he asked. His eyes twinkled. “Is you sure you doesn’t know?” “I don’t know,” I answered, frowning. “I don’t know at all.” “Dannie,” says he, significantly, “’tisn’t time yet for John Cather t’ go t’ St. John’s. You got t’ take your chance.” “What chance?” I demanded. “I don’t know,” says he. I scowled. “But,” says he, “an I was you I wouldn’t fear on no account whatever. No,” he repeated, “I wouldn’t fear––an I was you.” So John Cather was left with Judy and the watchful “Dannie, lad,” says he, “you cling t’ that there little anchor I’m give ye t’ hold to.” I asked him mechanically what that was. “The twenty-third psa’m,” says he. To this I promised. “An’, Dannie,” says he, drawing the great bandanna handkerchief from his trousers-pocket to blow his nose, “don’t ye be gettin’ lonely: for Dannie––” I must sharply attend. “I’m for’ard,” he declared, “standin’ by!” He could not perceive, poor man! that I was no longer to be dealt with as a child. There befell me in the city a singular encounter. ’Twas of a soggy, dismal day: there was a searching wind abroad, I recall, to chill the marrow of impoverished folk, a gray light upon all the slimy world, a dispiriting fog flowing endlessly in scowling clouds over the hills to thicken and eddy and drip upon the streets and harbor. It being now at the crisis of my uncle’s intoxication, I was come from my hotel alone, wandering without aim, to speed the anxious hours. Abreast of the familiar door of the Anchor and Chain, where long ago I had gratefully drunk with Cap’n Jack Large, I paused; and I wondered, as I stared at the worn brass knob, now broken into beads of cold sweat with the weather, whether or not I might venture some persuasion upon my perverse uncle, but was all at once plucked by the tail of my coat, and turned in a rage to resent the impudence. ’Twas but a scrawny, brass-buttoned boy, however, with an errand for the lad with the rings, as they called me. I followed, to be sure, and I had not expected it. “Ha!” snaps he. “Here you are, eh?” To my amazement. “You know me?” he demanded. I did not know his quality, which seemed, however, by the state he dwelt in, by the deference he commanded from the scrawny, brass-buttoned, ill-nourished, tragically obsequious child who had fetched me, to be of distinction. “Sit down,” he bade me. I would not. “Well, well!” cries he. “You’ve manners as brief as your memory.” ’Twas a vivid recollection that had shorn my manner to the bare. My uncle had not been quick enough to sweep the lamp from the table: I remembered this man. ’Twas he who had of that windy night most cruelly damned me; ’twas he who had struck my uncle. “I’ve not forgot you, sir,” says I. He was gray: he was indeed most incredibly gray––gray of hair and eye and brow and flesh, gray of mood Enough, as it turned out; but ’twas all an unhappy mystery to me on that drear, clammy day. “Come, sir!” says I, in anger. “You’ve fetched me here?” He seemed not to hear. “What you wantin’ of me?” I brusquely asked. “Yes,” says he, sighing; “you are here, aren’t you?” He fingered the papers on his table in a way so desultory I had no such dreadful fear, and, being an unkind lad, frankly told him. “You dream,” he pursued, “that you were born to some station?” I would not have him know. “Daniel,” says he, with a faint twinkle of amusement and pity, “tell me of that wretched dream.” ’Twas a romantic hope that had lingered with me despite my wish to have it begone: but I would not tell this man. I had fancied, as what lad would not? but with no actual longing, because of love for Judith, that the ultimate revelation would lift me high in the world. But now, in the presence of this gray personage, under his twinkle and pitying grin, the fancy forever vanished from me. ’Twas comforting to know, at any rate, that I might wed Judith without outrage. There would be small difficulty, then, thinks I, in winning the maid; and ’twas most gratifying to know it. “Daniel,” says he, in distress, “has that rascally Top misled you to this ridiculously romantic conclusion?” “No, sir,” I answered. “You are the son,” he declared, with thin-lipped deliberation, I was glad to know that my mother had been both sweet and lovely. ’Twas a conception I had long cherished. ’Twas what Judith was––both sweet and lovely. “You will accuse him, I warn you!” he repeated. Still gray weather, I observed through the grimy panes: fog sweeping by with a northeast wind. For a moment I watched the dripping passengers on the opposite pavement. “Well,” says the gray stranger, with a harsh little laugh, “God help Top when the tale is told!” I should never, of course, treat my uncle with unkindness. “My boy,” he most earnestly besought me, “will you not heed me?” “I’ll hear you, sir,” I answered. “Attend, then,” says he. “I have brought you here to warn you, and my warning is but half spoken. Frankly, in this I have no concern for your happiness, with which I have nothing to do: I have been moved to this ungrateful and most dangerous interview by a purely selfish regard for my own career. Do you know the word? A political career of some slight importance,” he added, with a toss of the head, “which is now menaced, at a most critical moment, by that merciless, wicked old pirate whom you have shamelessly been deceived into calling your uncle Nicholas. To be frank with you, you are, and have been for several years, an obstacle. My warning, however, as you will believe, is advanced upon grounds advantageous to yourself. Put the illusions of this designing old bay-noddie away from It might be: I had long thought so. “And as for this grand tour abroad,” he began, with an insolently curling lip, “why, for God’s sake! don’t be a––” “Sir!” I interrupted, in a rage. There had been talk of a trip abroad: it seemed I was bound upon it, by advice of Sir Harry, to further my education and to cure my foot of its twist. “Well,” the gray personage laughed, “being what you are, remembering what I have with candor and exact honesty told you, if you can permit this old pirate––” I stopped him. I would have no more of it––not I, by Heaven! “This extortionate old––” “I’ll not hear it!” I roared. “In this fine faith,” sneers he, “I find at least the ’Twas most obscure. “I refer,” says he, “to the moment of grand climax when this pirate tells you where your diamonds came from. Your diamonds?” he flashed. “You may get quit of your diamonds; but the fine gentleman this low villain has fashioned of a fishing-skipper’s whelp will all your days keep company at your elbow. And you won’t love Top for this,” says he, with malevolent satisfaction; “you won’t love Top!” I walked to the window for relief from him. ’Twas all very well that he should discredit and damn my uncle in this way; ’twas all very well that he should raise spectres of unhappiness before me: but there, on the opposite pavement, abroad in the foggy wind, jostled by ill-tempered passengers, was this self-same old foster-father of mine, industriously tap-tapping the pavement with his staff, as he had periodically done, whatever the weather, since I could remember the years of my life. I listened to the angry tapping, watched the urchins and curious folk gather for the show; and I was moved to regard the mystifying spectacle with an indulgent grin. The gray stranger, however, at that instant got ear of the patter of the staff and the clamor of derision. He cried upon me sharply to stand from the window; but I misliked this harsh manner of authority, and would not budge: whereupon he sprang upon me, caught me about the middle, and violently flung me back. ’Twas too late to avert the catastrophe: my uncle had “The man’s stark mad!” he would repeat, in his panic of gesture and pacing. “The man’s stark mad to risk this!” My uncle softly closed the door behind him. “Ah, Dannie!” says he. “You here?” He was breathless, and gone a ghastly color; there was that about his scars and eyes, too, to make me wonder whether ’twas rage or fear had mastered him: I could not tell, but mightily wished to determine, since it seemed that some encounter impended. “Ye’re an unkind man,” says he, in a passionless way, to the gray stranger, who was now once more seated at his desk, fingering the litter of documents. “Ye’ve broke your word t’ me. I must punish ye for the evil ye’ve done this lad. I’ll not ask ye what ye’ve told un till I haves my way with ye; but then,” he declared, his voice betraying a tremor of indignation, “I’ll have the talk out o’ ye, word for word!” The gray stranger was agitated, but would not look up from his aimlessly wandering hand to meet my uncle’s lowering, reproachful eyes. “Dannie,” says my uncle, continuing in gentle speech, “pass the cushion from the big chair. Thank ’e, lad. I’m not wantin’ the man t’ hurt his head.” He cast the cushion to the floor. The man looked sullenly out of the window. “Five-foot-ten, sir,” my uncle repeated, with some cheerfulness. “Top,” was the vicious response, “you invite assassination.” My uncle put his hand on my shoulder. “’Tis not fit for ye t’ see, lad,” says he. “Ye’d best be off t’ the fresh air. ’Tis so wonderful stuffy here that ye’ll be growin’ pale an ye don’t look out. An’ I’m not wantin’ ye t’ see me knock a man down,” he repeated, with feeling. “I’m not wantin’ ye even t’ think that I’d do an unkind thing like that.” I moved to go. “Now, sir!” cries my uncle to the stranger. As I closed the door behind me the man was passing with snarling lips to the precise spot my uncle had indicated.... |