’Twas by advice of Sir Harry, with meet attention to the philosophy of Lord Chesterfield in respect to the particular accomplishments essential to one who would both please and rise in the world, that my uncle commanded the grand tour to further my education and to cure my twisted foot. “’Tis the last leg o’ the beat, lad;” he pleaded; “ye’ll be a gentleman, made t’ order, accordin’ t’ specifications, when ’tis over with; an’ I’ll be wonderful glad,” says he, wearily, “when ’tis done, for I’ll miss ye sore, lad––ecod! but I’ll miss ye sore.” Abroad, then, despite the gray warning, went John Cather and I, tutor and young gentleman, the twain not to be distinguished from a company of high birth. ’Twas a ghastly thing: ’twas a thing so unfit and grotesque that I flush to think of it––a thing, of all my uncle’s benefits, I wish undone and cannot to this day condone. But that implacable, most tender old ape, when he bade us God-speed on the wharf, standing with legs and staff triangularly disposed to steady him, rippled with pride and admiration to observe the genteel performance of our departure, and in the intervals of “Made t’ order, lad,” says he, at last, when he took my hand, “accordin’ t’ the plans an’ specifications o’ them that knows, an’ quite regardless of expense.” I patted him on the shoulder. “I wisht,” says he, with a regretful wag, “that Tom Callaway could see ye now. You an’ your tooter! If on’y Tom Callaway could! I bet ye ’twould perk un up a bit in the place he’s to! ’Twould go a long way towards distractin’ his mind,” says he, “from the fire an’ fumes they talks so much about in church.” You will be good enough to believe, if you please, that there were sympathetic tears in my uncle’s eyes.... Upon this misguided mission we were gone abroad two years and a fortnight (deducting one day): and pursuing it we travelled far. And we came to magnificent cities, and beheld the places and things that are written of in books, and ate of curious foods, and observed many sorts of people and singular customs, and fell in with strange companions, and sojourned in many houses; but from the spectacle of the world I caught no delight, nor won a lesson, nor gained in anything, save, it may be, in knowledge of the book of my own heart. As we went our way in new paths, my mind dwelt continually with Judith, whom I loved; the vision of her face, wistful and most fair in the mirage of Twist Judith was grown to womanly age and ways and perfected in every maidenly attraction. When she came shyly from the shadows of the house into the glowing sunset and spring weather of our landing, I stopped, amazed, in the gravelled walk of our garden, because of the incredible beauty of the maid, now first revealed in bloom, and because of her modesty, which was yet slyly aglint with coquetry, and because of the tender gravity of her years, disclosed in the first poignant search of the soul I had brought back from my long journeying. I thought, I recall, at the moment of our meeting, that laboring in a mood of highest exaltation By this I was again offended. “Judy,” says my uncle, when we were within, “fetch the bottle. Fetch the bottle, maid!” cries he; “for ’tis surely an occasion.” Judith went to the pantry. “Dannie,” my uncle inquired, leaning eagerly close when she was gone from the room, “is ye been good?” ’Twas a question put in anxious doubt: I hesitated––wondering whether or not I had been good. “Isn’t ye?” says he. “Ye’ll tell me, won’t ye? I’ll love ye none the less for the evil ye’ve done.” Still I could not answer. “I’ve been wantin’ t’ know,” says he, his three-fingered fist softly beating the table, shaking in an intense agitation of suspense. “I’ve been waitin’ an’ waitin’ for months––jus’ t’ hear ye say!” I was conscious of no evil accomplished. “Ye’ve a eye, Dannie!” says he. I exposed my soul. “That’s good,” says he, emphatically; “that’s very good. I ’low I’ve fetched ye up very well.” Judith came with the bottle and little brown jug: she had displaced me from this occupation. “O’ course,” says my uncle, in somewhat doubtful and ungenerous invitation, “ye’ll be havin’ a little darn ol’ rum with a ol’ shipmate. Ye’ve doubtless learned manners abroad,” says he. ’Twas a delight to hear the fond fellow tempt me against his will: I smiled. “Jus’ a little darn, Dannie,” he repeated, but in no convivial way. “Jus’ a little nip––with a ol’ shipmate?” I laughed most heartily to see Judith’s sisterly concern for me. “A wee drop?” my uncle insisted, more confidently. “I’m not used to it, sir,” says I. “That’s good,” he declared; “that’s very good. Give the devil his due, Dannie: I’ve fetched ye up very well.” ’Twas with delight he challenged a disputation.... After this ceremony I sat with Judith on the peak of the Lost Soul. My uncle paced the gravelled walk, in the gathering dusk below, whence, by an ancient courtesy, he might benignantly spy upon the love-making. We were definite against the lingering twilight: I smiled to catch the old man pausing in the path with legs spread wide and glowing face upturned. But I had no smile for the maid, poor child! nor any word to say, save only to express a tenderness it seemed she would not hear. ’Twas very still in the world: there was no wind stirring, no ripple upon the darkening water, no step on the roads, no creak of oar-withe, no call or cry or laugh of humankind, no echo anywhere; and the sunset clouds trooped up from the rim of the sea with ominous stealth, throwing off their garments of light as they came, advancing, grim and gray, upon the shadowy coast. Across the droch, lifted high above the maid and me, his slender figure black against the pale-green sky, stood John Cather on the brink of Tom Tulk’s cliff, with arms extended in some ecstasy to the smouldering western fire. A star twinkled serenely in the depths of space beyond, seeming, in the mystery of that time, to be set above his forehead; and I was pleased to fancy, I recall, that ’twas a symbol and omen of his nobility. Thus the maid and I: thus we four folk, who played I reproached the maid. “Judith,” says I, “you’ve little enough, it seems, to say to me.” “There is nothing,” she murmured, “for a maid to say.” “There is much,” I chided, “for a man to hear.” “Never a word, Dannie, lad,” she repeated, “that a maid may tell.” I turned away. “There is a word,” says she, her voice fallen low and very sweet, soft as the evening light about us, “that a lad might speak.” “And what’s that, Judith?” “’Tis a riddle,” she answered; “and I fear, poor child!” says she, compassionately, “that you’ll find it hard to rede.” ’Twas unkind, I thought, to play with me. “Ah, Dannie, child!” she sighed, a bit wounded and rebuffed, it seems to me now, for she smiled in a way more sad and tenderly reproachful than anything, as she looked away, in a muse, to the fading colors in the west. “Ah, Dannie,” she repeated, her face grown grave and wistful, “you’ve come back the same as you went away. Ye’ve come back,” says she, with a brief little chuckle of gratification, “jus’ the same!” I thrust out my foot: she would not look at it. “The self-same Dannie,” says she, her eyes steadfastly averted. “I’ve not!” I cried, indignantly. That the maid I knew, then, looking far away into the sea and cloud of the world, that the night was near. “No,” says she. “Judith!” I implored. “Judith ... Judith!” “No,” says she, “I cannot care.” “Just say you do,” I pleaded, “to save me pain.” “I will not tell you otherwise.” I was near enough to feel her tremble––to see her red lips draw away, in stern conviction, from her white little teeth. “You do not care?” I asked her. “I do not care.” ’Twas a shock to hear the words repeated. “Not care!” I cried out. “I do not care,” says she, turning, all at once, from the sullen crimson of the sky, to reproach me. “Why should I care?” she demanded. “I have never cared––never cared––about your foot!” I should have adored her for this: but did not know enough. “Come!” says she, rising; “there is no sunset now. ’Tis all over with. The clouds have lost their glory. There is nothing to see. Oh, Dannie, lad,” says I was cast down. “No glory in the world!” says she. “No light,” I sighed; “no light, at all, Judith, in this gloomy place.” And we went home.... For twelve days after that, while the skirt of winter still trailed the world, the days being drear and gray, with ice at sea and cold rain falling upon the hills, John Cather kept watch on Judith and me. ’Twas a close and anxiously keen surveillance. ’Twas, indeed, unremitting and most daring, by night and day: ’twas a staring and peering and sly spying, ’twas a lurking, ’twas a shy, not unfriendly, eavesdropping, an observation without enmity or selfish purpose, ceasing not at all, however, upon either, and most poignant when the maid and I were left together, alone, as the wretched man must have known, in the field of sudden junctures of feeling. I remember his eyes––dark eyes, inquiring in a kindly way––staring from the alders of the Whisper Cove road, from the dripping hills, from the shadowy places of our house: forever in anxious question upon us. By this I was troubled, until, presently, I divined the cause: the man was disquieted, thinks I, to observe my happiness gone awry, but would not intrude even so much as a finger upon the tangle of the lives of the maid and me, because of the delicacy of his nature and breeding. ’Twas apparent, too, that he was ill: he “John Cather,” says I, “you’ve been ill.” He laughed. “You are a dull fellow!” says he, in his light way. “’Tis the penalty of honesty, I suppose; and nature has fined you heavily. I have not been ill: I have been troubled.” “By what, John Cather?” “I fancied,” he answered, putting his hands on my shoulders, very gravely regarding me as he spoke, “that I must sacrifice my hope. ’Twas a hope I had long cherished, Dannie, and was become like life to me.” His voice was fallen deep and vibrant and soft; and the feeling with which it trembled, and the light in the man’s eyes, and the noble poise of his head, and the dramatic arrangement of his sentences, so affected me that I must look away. “Miserable necessity!” says he. “A drear prospect! And with no more than a sigh to ease the wretched fate! And yet,” says he, quite heartily, “the thing had a pretty look to it. Really, a beautiful look. There was a fine reward. A good deed carries it. Always remember that, Dannie––and I did not know. “For a friend,” says he. “But John Cather,” says I, “’twas too much to require of you.” His eyes twinkled. “You’ve no trouble now, have you?” I asked. “Not I!” cries he. “I have read a new fortune for myself. Trouble? Not I! I am very happy, Dannie.” “That’s good,” says I; “that’s very good!” |