 | The amber gods, and other stories |  |
The South Breaker.
JUST a capful of wind, and Dan shook loose
the linen, and a straight shining streak with
specks of foam shot after us. The mast bent
like eel-grass, and our keel was half out of the
water. Faith belied her name, and clung to the sides
with her ten finger-nails; but as for me, I liked it.
“Take the stick, Georgie,” said Dan, suddenly, his
cheeks white. “Head her up the wind Steady. Sight
the figure-head on Pearson's loft. Here 's too much sail
for a frigate.”
But before the words were well uttered, the mast
doubled up and coiled like a whip-lash, there was a
report like the crack of doom, and half of the thing
crashed short over the bows, dragging the heavy sail
in the waves.
Then there came a great laugh of thunder close above,
and the black cloud dropped like a curtain round us:
the squall had broken.
“Cut it off, Dan! quick!” I cried.
“Let it alone,” said he, snapping together his jackknife;
“it 's as good as a best bower-anchor. Now I 'll
take the tiller, Georgie. Strong little hand,” said he,
bending so that I did n't see his face. “And lucky it 's
where 's Faith?”
I turned. There was no Faith in the boat. We both
sprang to our feet, and so the tiller swung round and
threw us broadside to the wind, and between the dragging
mast and the centre-board drowning seemed too good
for us.
“You 'll have to cut it off,” I cried again; but he had
already ripped half through the canvas, and was casting
it loose.
At length he gave his arm a toss. With the next moment,
I never shall forget the look of horror that froze
Dan's face.
“I 've thrown her off!” he exclaimed. “I 've thrown
her off!”
He reached his whole length over the boat, I ran to his
side, and perhaps our motion impelled it, or perhaps some
unseen hand; for he caught at an end of rope, drew it in
a second, let go and clutched at a handful of the sail, and
then I saw how it had twisted round and swept poor little
Faith over, and she had swung there in it, like a dead
butterfly in a chrysalis. The lightnings were slipping
down into the water like blades of fire everywhere around
us, with short, sharp volleys of thunder, and the waves
were more than I ever rode this side of the bar before or
since, and we took in water every time our hearts beat;
but we never once thought of our own danger while we
bent to pull dear little Faith out of hers; and that done,
Dan broke into a great hearty fit of crying that I 'm sure
he 'd no need to be ashamed of. But it did n't last long;
he just up and dashed off the tears and set himself at
work again, while I was down on the floor rubbing Faith.
There she lay like a broken lily, with no life in her little
not. I could n't hear a word Dan said, for the wind; and
the rain was pouring through us. I saw him take out
the oars, but I knew they 'd do no good in such a chop,
even if they did n't break; and pretty soon he found it
so, for he drew them in and begun to untie the anchorrope
and wind it round his waist. I sprang to him.
“What are you doing, Dan?” I exclaimed.
“I can swim, at least,” he answered.
“And tow us? — a mile? You know you can't! It 's
madness!”
“I must try. Little Faith will die, if we don't get
ashore.”
“She 's dead now, Dan.”
“What! No, no, she is n't. Faith is n't dead. But
we must get ashore.”
“Dan,” I cried, clinging to his arm, “Faith 's only
one. But if you die so, — and you will! — I shall die
too.”
“You?”
“Yes; because, if it had n't been for me, you would n't
have been here at all.”
“And is that all the reason?” he asked, still at work.
“Reason enough,” said I.
“Not quite,” said he.
“Dan, — for my sake —”
“I can't, Georgie. Don't ask me. I must n't —”
and here he stopped short, with the coil of rope in his
hand, and fixed me with his eye, and his look was terrible
— “we must n't let Faith die.”
“Well,” I said, “try it, if you dare, — and as true as
there 's a Lord in heaven, I 'll cut the rope!”
He hesitated, for he saw I was resolute; and I would,
moment, I hated the little dead thing in the bottom of
the boat there.
Just then there came a streak of sunshine through the
gloom where we 'd been plunging between wind and water,
and then a patch of blue sky, and the great cloud
went blowing down river. Dan threw away the rope
and took out the oars again.
“Give me one, Dan,” said I; but he shook his head.
“O Dan, because I 'm so sorry!”
“See to her, then, — fetch Faith to,” he replied, not
looking at me, and making up with great sturdy pulls.
So I busied myself, though I could n't do a bit of good.
The instant we touched bottom, Dan snatched her, sprang
through the water and up the landing. I stayed behind;
as the boat recoiled, pushed in a little, fastened the anchor
and threw it over, and then followed.
Our house was next the landing, and there Dan had
carried Faith; and when I reached it, a great fire was
roaring up the chimney, and the tea-kettle hung over it,
and he was rubbing Faith's feet hard enough to strike
sparks. I could n't understand exactly what made Dan
so fiercely earnest, for I thought I knew just how he felt
about Faith; but suddenly, when nothing seemed to answer,
and he stood up and our eyes met, I saw such a
haggard, conscience-stricken face that it all rushed over
me. But now we had done what we could, and then I
felt all at once as if every moment that I effected nothing
was drawing out murder. Something flashed by the window,
I tore out of the house and threw up my arms, I
don't know whether I screamed or not, but I caught the
doctor's eye, and he jumped from his gig and followed me
in. We had a siege of it. But at length, with hot blankets,
throat, a little pulse began to play upon Faith's temple,
and a little pink to beat up and down her cheek, and she
opened her pretty dark eyes and lifted herself and wrung
the water out of her braids; then she sank back.
“Faith! Faith! speak to me!” said Dan, close in her
ear. “Don't you know me?”
“Go away,” she said, hoarsely, pushing his face with
her flat wet palm. “You let the sail take me over and
drown me, while you kissed Georgie's hand.”
I flung my hand before her eyes.
“Is there a kiss on those fingers?” I cried, in a blaze.
“He never kissed my hands or my lips. Dan is your
husband, Faith!”
For all answer Faith hid her head and gave a little
moan. Somehow I could n't stand that; so I ran and put
my arms round her neck and lifted her face and kissed it,
and then we cried together. And Dan, walking the floor,
took up his hat and went out, while she never cast a look
after him. To think of such a great strong nature and
such a powerful depth of feeling being wasted on such a
little limp rag! I cried as much for that as anything.
Then I helped Faith into my bedroom, and running home,
I got her some dry clothes, — after rummaging enough,
dear knows! for you 'd be more like to find her nightcap
in the tea-caddy than elsewhere, — and I made her a corner
on the settle, for she was afraid to stay in the bed-room,
and when she was comfortably covered there she
fell asleep. Dan came in soon and sat down beside her,
his eyes on the floor, never glancing aside nor smiling, but
gloomier than the grave. As for me, I felt at ease now,
so I went and laid my hand on the back of his chair and
made him look up. I wanted he should know the same
up, the quiet smile came floating round his lips, and his
eyes grew steady and sweet as they used to be before he
married Faith. Then I went bustling lightly about the
kitchen again.
“Dan,” I said, “if you 'd just bring me in a couple
of those chickens stalking out there like two gentlemen
from Spain.”
While he was gone I flew round and got a cake into
the bake-kettle, and a pan of biscuit down before the
fire; and I set the tea to steep on the coals, because
father always likes his tea strong enough to bear up an
egg, after a hard day's work, and he 'd had that to-day;
and I put on the coffee to boil, for I knew Dan never
had it at home, because Faith liked it and it did n't agree
with her. And then he brought me in the chickens all
ready for the pot, and so at last I sat down, but at the
opposite side of the chimney. Then he rose, and, without
exactly touching me, swept me back to the other
side, where lay the great net I was making for father;
and I took the little stool by the settle, and not far from
him, and went to work.
“Georgie,” said Dan, at length, after he 'd watched
me a considerable time, “if any word I may have said
to-day disturbed you a moment, I want you to know that
it hurt me first, and just as much.”
“Yes, Dan,” said I.
I 've always thought there was something real noble
between Dan and me then. There was I, — well, I don't
mind telling you. And he, — yes, I 'm sure he loved me
perfectly, — you must n't be startled, I 'll tell you how it
was, — and always had, only may be he had n't known
it; but it was deep down in his heart just the same,
thoroughly conscious, yet neither of us expressing it by
a word, and trying not to by a look, — both of us content
to wait for the next life, when we could belong to one
another. In those days I contrived to have it always
pleasure enough for me just to know that Dan was in
the room; and though that was n't often, I never grudged
Faith her right in him, perhaps because I knew she did
n't care anything about it. You see, this is how it was.
When Dan was a lad of sixteen, and took care of his
mother, a ship went to pieces down there on the island.
It was one of the worst storms that ever whistled, and
though crowds were on the shore, it was impossible to
reach her. They could see the poor wretches hanging
in the rigging, and dropping one by one, and they could
only stay and sicken, for the surf stove the boats, and
they did n't know then how to send out ropes on rockets
or on cannon-balls, and so the night fell, and the people
wrung their hands and left the sea to its prey, and felt
as if blue sky could never come again. And with the
bright, keen morning not a vestige of the ship, but here
a spar and there a door, and on the side of a sand-hill
a great dog watching over a little child that he 'd kept
warm all night. Dan, he 'd got up at turn of tide, and
walked down, — the sea running over the road knee-deep,
— for there was too much swell for boats; and
when day broke, he found the little girl, and carried her
up to town. He did n't take her home, for he saw that
what clothes she had were the very finest, — made as
delicately, — with seams like the hair-strokes on that
heart's-ease there; and he concluded that he could n't
bring her up as she ought to be. So he took her round
to the rich men, and represented that she was the child
was older than his years, you see — could n't do her
justice: she was a slight little thing, and needed dainty
training and fancy food, may be a matter of seven years
old, and she spoke some foreign language, and perhaps
she did n't speak it plain, for nobody knew what it was.
However, everybody was very much interested, and
everybody was willing to give and to help, but nobody
wanted to take her, and the upshot of it was that Dan
refused all their offers and took her himself.
His mother 'd been in to our house all the afternoon
before, and she 'd kept taking her pipe out of her mouth,
— she had the asthma, and smoked, — and kept sighing.
“This storm 's going to bring me something,” says
she, in a mighty miserable tone. “I 'm sure of it!”
“No harm, I hope, Miss Devereux,” said mother.
“Well, Rhody,” — mother's father, he was a queer
kind, — called his girls all after the thirteen States, and
there being none left for Uncle Mat, he called him after
the state of matrimony, — “Well, Rhody,” she replied,
rather dismally, and knocking the ashes out of the bowl,
“I don't know; but I 'll have faith to believe that the
Lord won't send me no ill without distincter warning.
And that it 's good I have faith to believe.”
And so when the child appeared, and had no name,
and could n't answer for herself, Mrs. Devereux called
her Faith.
We 're a people of presentiments down here on the
Flats, and well we may be. You 'd own up yourself,
maybe, if in the dark of the night, you locked in sleep,
there 's a knock on the door enough to wake the dead,
and you start up and listen and nothing follows; and
falling back, you 're just dozing off, and there it is once
that, mother?” No one answering, you 're half lost
again, when rap comes the hand again, the loudest of
the three, and you spring to the door and open it, and
there 's naught there but a wind from the graves blowing
in your face; and after a while you learn that in
that hour of that same night your husband was lost at
sea. Well, that happened to Mrs. Devereux. And I
have n't time to tell you the warnings I 've known of.
As for Faith, I mind that she said herself, as we were
in the boat for that clear midnight sail, that the sea had
a spite against her, but third time was trying time.
So Faith grew up, and Dan sent her to school what he
could, for he set store by her. She was always ailing,
— a little, wilful, pettish thing, but pretty as a flower;
and folks put things into her head, and she began to think
she was some great shakes; and she may have been a
matter of seventeen years old when Mrs. Devereux died.
Dan, as simple at twenty-six as he had been ten years
before, thought to go on just in the old way, but the
neighbors were one too many for him; and they all represented
that it would never do, and so on, till the poor
fellow got perplexed and vexed and half beside himself.
There was n't the first thing she could do for herself, and
he could n't afford to board her out, for Dan was only a
laboring-man, mackerelling all summer and shoemaking
all winter, less the dreadful times when he stayed out
on the Georges; and then he could n't afford, either, to
keep her there and ruin the poor girl's reputation; —
and what did Dan do but come to me with it all?
Now for a number of years I 'd been up in the other
part of the town with Aunt Netty, who kept a shop that
I tended between schools and before and after, and I 'd
Devereux, — though he 'd not forgotten me. I 'd got
through the Grammar and had a year in the High, and
suppose I should have finished with an education and
gone off teaching somewhere, instead of being here now,
cheerful as heart could wish, with a little black-haired
hussy tiltering on the back of my chair. Rolly, get
down! Her name 's Laura, — for his mother. I mean
I might have done all this, if at that time mother had n't
been thrown on her back, and been bedridden ever since.
I have n't said much about mother yet, but there all the
time she was, just as she is to-day, in her little tidy bed
in one corner of the great kitchen, sweet as a saint, and
as patient; — and I had to come and keep house for
father. He never meant that I should lose by it, father
did n't; begged, borrowed, or stolen, bought or hired, I
should have my books, he said: he 's mighty proud of my
learning, though between you and me it 's little enough
to be proud of; but the neighbors think I know 'most
as much as the minister, — and I let 'em think. Well,
while Mrs. Devereux was sick I was over there a good
deal, — for if Faith had one talent, it was total incapacity,
— and there had a chance of knowing the stuff that
Dan was made of; and I declare to man 't would have
touched a heart of stone to see the love between the two.
She thought Dan held up the sky, and Dan thought she
was the sky. It 's no wonder, — the risks our men lead
can't make common-sized women out of their wives and
mothers. But I had n't been coming in and out, busying
about where Dan was, all that time, without making any
mark; though he was so lost in grief about his mother
that he did n't take notice of his other feelings, or think
of himself at all. And who could care the less about
a man wrapt in some sorrow that 's lawful and tender as
it is large. And when he came and told me what the
neighbors said he must do with Faith, the blood stood
still in my heart.
“Ask mother, Dan,” says I, — for I could n't have advised
him. “She knows best about everything.”
So he asked her.
“I think, — I 'm sorry to think, for I fear she 'll not
make you a good wife,” said mother, “but that perhaps
her love for you will teach her to be, — you 'd best marry
Faith.”
“But I can't marry her!” said Dan, half choking; “I
don't want to marry her, — it — it makes me uncomfortable-like
to think of such a thing. I care for the child
plenty — Besides,” said Dan, catching at a bright hope,
“I 'm not sure that she 'd have me.”
“Have you, poor boy! What else can she do?”
Dan groaned.
“Poor little Faith!” said mother. “She 's so pretty,
Dan, and she 's so young, and she 's pliant. And then
how can we tell what may turn up about her some day?
She may be a duke's daughter yet, — who knows?
Think of the stroke of good-fortune she may give you!”
“But I don't love her,” said Dan, as a finality.
“Perhaps — It is n't — You don't love any one
else?”
“No,” said Dan, as a matter of course, and not at all
with reflection. And then, as his eyes went wandering,
there came over them a misty look, just as the haze
creeps between you and some object away out at sea, and
he seemed to be sifting his very soul. Suddenly the
look swept off them, and his eyes struck mine, and he
there came such a light into his countenance, such a smile
round his lips, such a red stamped his cheek, and he bent
a little, — and it was just as if the angel of the Lord had
shaken his wings over us in passing, and we both of us
knew that here was a man and here was a woman, each
for the other, in life and death; and I just hid my head
in my apron, and mother turned on her pillow with a little
moan. How long that lasted I can't say, but by and
by I heard mother's voice, clear and sweet as a tolling
bell far away on some fair Sunday morning, —
“The Lord is in his holy temple, the Lord's throne is
in heaven: his eyes behold, his eyelids try the children
of men.”
And nobody spoke.
“Thou art my Father, my God, and the rock of my
salvation. Thou wilt light my candle: the Lord my God
will enlighten my darkness. For with thee is the fountain
of life: in thy light shall we see light.”
Then came the hush again, and Dan started to his
feet, and began to walk up and down the room as if
something drove him; but wearying, he stood and leaned
his head on the chimney there. And mother's voice
broke the stillness anew, and she said, —
“Hath God forgotten to be gracious? His mercy
endureth forever. And none of them that trust in him
shall be desolate.”
There was something in mother's tone that made me
forget myself and my sorrow, and look; and there she
was, as she had n't been before for six months, half risen
from the bed, one hand up, and her whole face white and
shining with confident faith. Well, when I see all that
such trust has buoyed mother over, I wish to goodness I
do well here and you 'll do well there, say I. Perhaps
you think it was n't much, the quiet and the few texts
breathed through it; but sometimes when one's soul 's at
a white heat, it may be moulded like wax with a finger.
As for me, maybe God hardened Pharaoh's heart, —
though how that was Pharaoh's fault I never could see;
— but Dan, — he felt what it was to have a refuge in
trouble, to have a great love always extending over him
like a wing; he longed for it; he could n't believe it was
his now, he was so suddenly convicted of all sin and
wickedness; and something sprang up in his heart, a
kind of holy passion that he felt to be possible for this
great and tender Divine Being; and he came and fell on
his knees by the side of the bed, crying out for mother to
show him the way; and mother, she put her hand on his
head and prayed, — prayed, O so beautifully, that it
makes the water stand in my eyes now to remember
what she said. But I did n't feel so then, my heart and
my soul were rebellious, and love for Dan alone kept me
under, not love for God. And in fact, if ever I 'd got to
heaven then, love for Dan 'd have been my only saving
grace; for I was mighty high-spirited, as a girl. Well,
Dan he never made open profession; but when he left
the house, he went and asked Faith to marry him.
Now Faith did n't care anything about Dan, — except
the quiet attachment that she could n't help, from living
in the house with him, and he 'd always petted and made
much of her, and dressed her like a doll, — he was n't
the kind of man to take her fancy: she 'd have maybe
liked some slender, smooth-faced chap; but Dan was a
black, shaggy fellow, with shoulders like the cross-tree,
and a length of limb like Saul's, and eyes set deep, like
— and, O how it was lost! for she might have won it,
she might have made him love her, since I would have
stood wide away and aside for the sake of seeing him
happy. But Faith was one of those that, if they can't
get what they want, have n't any idea of putting up with
what they have, — God forgive me, if I 'm hard on the
child! And she could n't give Dan an answer right off,
but was loath to think of it, and went flirting about
among the other boys; and Dan, when he saw she was
n't so easily gotten, perhaps set more value on her. For
Faith, she grew prettier every day; her great brown
eyes were so soft and clear, and had a wide, sorrowful
way of looking at you; and her cheeks, that were usually
pale, blossomed to roses when you spoke to her, her hair
drooping over them dark and silky; and though she was
slack and untidy and at loose ends about her dress, she
somehow always seemed like a princess in disguise; and
when she had on anything new, — a sprigged calico and
her little straw bonnet with the pink ribbons and Mrs.
Devereux's black scarf, for instance, — you 'd have allowed
that she might have been daughter to the Queen
of Sheba. I don't know, but I rather think Dan would
n't have said any more to Faith, from various motives,
you see, notwithstanding the neighbors were still remonstrating
with him, if it had n't been that Miss Brown —
she that lived round the corner there; the town 's well
quit of her now, poor thing! — went to saying the same
stuff to Faith, and telling her all that other folks said.
And Faith went home in a passion, — some of your timid
kind nothing ever abashes, and nobody gets to the windward
of them, — and, being perfectly furious, fell to accusing
Dan of having brought her to this, so that Dan
contrition, and told her that all the reparation he could
make he was waiting and wishing to make, and then
there came floods of tears. Some women seem to have
set out with the idea that life's a desert for them to cross,
and they 've laid in a supply of water-bags accordingly,
— but it 's the meanest weapon! And then again, there 's
men that are iron, and not to be bent under calamities,
that these tears can twist round your little finger. Well,
I suppose Faith concluded 't was no use to go hungry because
her bread was n't buttered on both sides, but she
always acted as if she 'd condescended ninety degrees in
marrying Dan, and Dan always seemed to feel that he 'd
done her a great injury; and there it was.
I kept in the house for a time; mother was worse, —
and I thought the less Dan saw of me the better; I kind
of hoped he 'd forget, and find his happiness where it
ought to be. But the first time I saw him, when Faith had
been his wife all the spring, there was the look in his eyes
that told of the ache in his heart. Faith was n't very
happy herself, of course, though she was careless; and
she gave him trouble, — keeping company with the young
men just as before; and she got into a way of flying
straight to me, if Dan ventured to reprove her ever so
lightly; and stormy nights, when he was gone, and in his
long trips, she always locked up her doors and came over
and got into my bed; and she was one of those that never
listened to reason, and it was none so easy for me, you
may suppose.
Things had gone on now for some three years, and I 'd
about lived in my books, — I 'd tried to teach Faith some,
but she would n't go any further than newspaper stories,
— when one day Dan took her and me to sail, and we
squall had n't come. As it was, we 'd got to put up with
chicken-broth, and it could n't have been better, considering
who made it. It was getting on toward the cool of
the May evening, the sunset was round on the other side
of the house, but all the east looked as if the sky had been
stirred up with currant-juice, till it grew purple and dark,
and then the two light-houses flared out and showed us
the lip of froth lapping the shadowy shore beyond, and I
heard father's voice, and he came in.
There was nothing but the fire-light in the room, and it
threw about great shadows, so that at first entering all was
indistinct; but I heard a foot behind father's, and then a
form appeared, and something, I never could tell what,
made a great shiver rush down my back, just as when a
creature is frightened in the dark at what you don't see,
and so, though my soul was unconscious, my body felt that
there was danger in the air. Dan had risen and lighted
the lamp that swings in the chimney, and father first of
all had gone up and kissed mother, and left the stranger
standing; then he turned round, saying, —
“A tough day, — it 's been a tough day; and here 's
some un to prove it. Georgie, hope that pot's steam don't
belie it, for Mr. Gabriel Verelay and I want a good supper
and a good bed.”
At this, the stranger, still standing, bowed.
“Here 's the one, father,” said I. “But about the bed,
— Faith 'll have to stay here, — and I don't see — unless
Dan takes him over —”
“That I 'll do,” said Dan.
“All right,” said the stranger, in a voice that you did n't
seem to notice while he was speaking, but that you remembered
afterwards like the ring of any silver thing that has
and drew near the fireplace, warming hands that were
slender and brown, but shapely as a woman's. I was
taking up the supper; so I only gave him a glance or
two, and saw him standing there, his left hand extended
to the blaze, and his eye resting lightly and then earnestly
on Faith in her pretty sleep, and turning away much as
one turns from a picture. At length I came to ask him
to sit by, and at that moment Faith's eyes opened.
Faith always woke up just as a baby does, wide and
bewildered, and the fire had flushed her cheeks, and her
hair was disordered, and she fixed her gaze on him as if
he had stepped out of her dream, her lips half parted and
then curling in a smile, — but in a second he moved off
with me, and Faith slipped down and into the little bed-room.
Well, we did n't waste many words until father 'd lost
the edge of his appetite, and then I told about Faith.
“'F that don't beat the Dutch!” said father. “Here 's
Mr. — Mr. —”
“Gabriel,” said the stranger.
“Yes, — Mr. Gabriel Verelay been served the same
trick by the same squall, only worse and more of it, —
knocked off the yacht — What 's that you call her?”
“La belle Louise.”
“And left for drowned, — if they see him go at all.
But he could n't 'a' sinked in that sea, if he 'd tried. He
kep' afloat; we blundered into him; and here he is.”
Dan and I looked round in considerable surprise, for
he was dry as an August leaf.
“Oh,” said the stranger, coloring, and with the least
little turn of his words, as if he did n't always speak English,
“the good capitain reached shore, and, finding sticks,
fine weather once more.”
“Yes,” said father; “but 't would n't been quite such
fine weather, I reckon, if this 'd gone to the fishes!” And
he pushed something across the table.
It was a pouch with steel snaps, and well stuffed. The
stranger colored again, and held his hand for it, and the
snap burst, and great gold pieces, English coin and very
old French ones, rolled about the table, and father shut
his eyes tight; and just then Faith came back and slipped
into her chair. I saw her eyes sparkle as we all
reached, laughing and joking, to gather them; and Mr.
Gabriel, — we got into the way of calling him so, — he
liked it best, — hurried to get them out of sight as if he 'd
committed some act of ostentation. And then, to make
amends, he threw off what constraint he had worn in this
new atmosphere of ours, and was so gay, so full of questions
and quips and conceits, all spoken in his strange
way, his voice was so sweet, and he laughed so much
and so like a boy, and his words had so much point
and brightness, that I could think of nothing but the
showers of colored stars in fireworks. Dan felt it like
a play, sat quiet, but enjoying, and I saw he liked it; —
the fellow had a way of attaching every one. Father was
uproarious, and kept calling out, “Mother, do you hear?
— d' you hear that, mother?” And Faith, she was near,
taking it all in as a flower does sunshine, only smiling a
little, and looking utterly happy. Then I hurried to clear
up, and Faith sat in the great arm-chair, and father got
out the pipes, and you could hardly see across the room
for the wide tobacco-wreaths; and then it was father's
turn, and he told story after story of the hardships and
the dangers and the charms of our way of living. And I
forward, forgetting to smoke, and his breath coming short,
and then right himself like a boat after lurching, — he had
such natural ways, and except that he 'd maybe been a
spoiled child, he would have had a good heart, as hearts go.
And nothing would do at last but he must stay and live
the same scenes for a little; and father told him 't would n't
pay, — they were n't so much to go through with as to
tell of, — there was too much prose in the daily life, and
too much dirt, and 't wa'n't fit for gentlemen. Oh, he
said, he 'd been used to roughing it, — woodsing, camping
and gunning and yachting, ever since he 'd been a free
man. He was a Canadian, and had been cruising from
the St. Lawrence to Florida, — and now, as his companions
would go on without him, he had a mind to try a bit
of coast-life. And could he board here? or was there
any handy place? And father said, there was Dan, —
Dan Devereux, a man that had n't his match at oar or
helm. And Mr. Gabriel turned his keen eye and bowed
again, — and could n't Dan take Mr. Gabriel? And
before Dan could answer, for he 'd referred it to Faith,
Mr. Gabriel had forgotten all about it, and was humming
a little French song and stirring the coals with the tongs.
And that put father off in a fresh rememberance; and as
the hours lengthened, the stories grew fearful, and he
told them deep into the midnight, till at last Mr. Gabriel
stood up.
“No more, good friend,” said he. “But I will have a
taste of this life perilous. And now where is it that
I go?”
Dan also stood up.
“My little woman,” said he, glancing at Faith, “thinks
there 's a corner for you, sir.”
“I beg your pardon —” And Mr. Gabriel paused,
with a shadow skimming over his clear dark face.
Dan wondered what he was begging pardon for, but
thought perhaps he had n't heard him, so he repeated, —
“My wife,” — nodding over his shoulder at Faith,
“she's my wife, — thinks there 's a —”
“She 's your wife?” said Mr. Gabriel, his eyes opening
and brightening the way an aurora runs up the sky,
and looking first at one and then at the other, as if he
could n't understand how so delicate a flower grew on so
thorny a stem.
The red flushed up Dan's face, — and up mine, too, for
the matter of that, — but in a minute the stranger had
dropped his glance.
“And why did you not tell me,” he said, “that I might
have found her less beautiful?”
Then he raised his shoulders, gave her a saucy bow,
with his hand on Dan's arm, — Dan, who was now too
well pleased at having Faith made happy by a compliment
to sift it, — and they went out.
But I was angry enough; and you may imagine I
was n't much soothed by seeing Faith, who 'd been so
die-away all the evening, sitting up before my scrap of
looking-glass, trying in my old coral ear-rings, bowing up
my ribbons, and plaiting and prinking till the clock
frightened her into bed.
The next morning, mother, who was n't used to such disturbance,
was ill, and I was kept pretty busy tending on her
for two or three days. Faith had insisted on going home
the first thing after breakfast, and in that time I heard no
more of anybody, — for father was out with the nighttides,
and, except to ask how mother did, and if I 'd seen
the stray from the Lobblelyese again, was too tired for
see — on a Monday, I think, — yes, on a Monday; and
Thursday evening, as in-doors had begun to tell on me,
and mother was so much improved, I thought I 'd run out
for a walk along the sea-wall. The sunset was creeping
round everything, and lying in great sheets on the broad,
still river, the children were frolicking in the water, and
all was so gay, and the air was so sweet, that I went lingering
along farther than I 'd meant, and by and by who
should I see but a couple sauntering toward me at my
own gait, and one of them was Faith. She had on a
muslin with little roses blushing all over it, and she floated
along in it as if she were in a pink cloud, and she 'd
snatched a vine of the tender young woodbine as she
went, and, throwing it round her shoulders, held the two
ends in one hand like a ribbon, while with the other she
swung her white sun-bonnet. She laughed, and shook
her head at me, and there, large as life, under the dark
braids dangled my coral ear-rings, that she 'd adopted
without leave or license. She 'd been down to the lower
landing to meet Dan, — a thing she' d done before — I
don't know when, — and was walking up with Mr. Gabriel
while Dan stayed behind to see to things. I kept them
talking, and Mr. Gabriel was sparkling with fun, for he 'd
got to feeling acquainted, and it had put him in high
spirits to get ashore at this hour, though he liked the sea,
and we were all laughing, when Dan came up. Now I
must confess I had n't fancied Mr. Gabriel over and
above; I suppose my first impression had hardened into
a prejudice; and after I 'd fathomed the meaning of
Faith's fine feathers I liked him less than ever. But
when Dan came up, he joined right in, gay and hearty,
and liking his new acquaintance so much, that, thinks I,
interests himself. It would 'a' been no use, though,
for Dan to pretend to beat the Frenchman at his own
weapons, — and I don't know that I should have cared to
have him. The older I grow, the less I think of your
mere intellect; throw learning out of the scales, and give
me a great, warm heart, — like Dan's.
Well, it was getting on in the evening, when the latch
lifted, and in ran Faith. She twisted my ear-rings out
of her hair, exclaiming, —
“Oh, Georgie, are you busy? Can't you perse my
ears now?”
“Pierce them yourself, Faith.”
“Well, pierce, then. But I can't, — you know I can't.
Won't you now, Georgie?” and she tossed the ear-rings
into my lap.
“Why, Faith,” said I, “how 'd you contrive to wear
these, if your ears are n't —”
“Oh, I tied them on. Come now, Georgie!”
So I got the ball of yarn and the darning-needle.
“Oh, not such a big one!” cried she.
“Perhaps you 'd like a cambric needle,” said I.
“I don't want a winch,” she puted.
“Well, here 's a smaller one. Now kneel down.”
“Yes, but you wait a moment, till I screw up my
courage.”
“No need. You can talk, and I 'll take you at unawares.”
So Faith knelt down, and I got all ready.
“And what shall I talk about?” said she. “About
Aunt Rhody, or Mr. Gabriel, or — I 'll tell you the
queerest thing, Georgie! Going to now?”
“Do be quiet, Faith, and not keep your head flirting
composed herself once more.
“What was I saying? Oh, about that. Yes, Georgie,
the queerest thing! You see, this evening, when Dan
was out, I was sitting talkin' with Mr. Gabriel, and he
was wondering how I came to be dropped down here, so
I told him all about it. And he was so interested that I
went and showed him the things I had on when Dan
found me, — you know they 've been kept real nice. And
he took them, and looked them over, close, admiring them,
and — and — admiring me, — and finally he started, and
then held the frock to the light, and then lifted a little
plait, and in the under side of the belt lining there was a
name very finely wrought, — Virginie des Violets; and
he looked at all the others, and in some hidden corner of
every one was the initials of the same name, — V. des V.
“`That should be your name, Mrs. Devereux,' says
he.
“`Oh, no!' says I. `My name 's Faith.'
“Well, and on that he asked, was there no more; and
so I took off the little chain that I 've always worn and
showed him that, and he asked if there was a face in it,
in what we thought was a coin, you know; and I said,
oh, it did n't open; and he turned it over and over, and
finally something snapped, and there was a face, — here,
you shall see it, Georgie.”
And Faith drew it from her bosom, and opened and
held it before me; for I 'd sat with my needle poised, and
forgetting to strike. And there was the face indeed, a
sad, serious face, dark and sweet, yet the image of Faith,
and with the same mouth, — that so lovely in a woman
becomes weak in a man, — and on the other side there
were a few threads of hair, with the same darkness and
chased in the gold and enamelled, which, from what I 've
read since, I suppose must have been the crest of the
Des Violets.
“And what did Mr. Gabriel say then?” I asked, giving
it back to Faith, who put her head into the old position
again.
“Oh, he acted real queer. Talked French, too, — O, so
fast! `The very man!' then he cried out. `The man
himself! His portrait, — I have seen it a hundred times!'
And then he told me that about a dozen years ago or
more, a ship sailed from — from — I forget the place exactly,
somewhere up there where he came from, — Mr.
Gabriel, I mean, — and among the passengers was this
man and his wife, and his little daughter, whose name
was Virginie des Violets, and the ship was never heard
from again. But he says that without a doubt I 'm the
little daughter and my name is Virginie, though I suppose
every one 'll call me Faith. Oh, and that is n't the
queerest. The queerest is, this gentleman,” and Faith
lifted her head, “was very rich. I can't tell you how
much he owned. Lands that you can walk on a whole
day and not come to the end, and ships, and gold. And
the whole of it 's lying idle and waiting for an heir, —
and I, Georgie, am the heir.”
And Faith told it with cheeks burning and eyes shining,
but yet quite as if she 'd been born and brought up in the
knowledge.
“It don't seem to move you much, Faith,” said I, perfectly
amazed, although I 'd frequently expected something
of the kind.
“Well, I may never get it, and so on. If I do, I 'll
give you a silk dress and set you up in a bookstore. But
Gabriel's own name is spelt, and his father and mine —
his mother and — Well, some way or other we 're sort
of cousins. Only think, Georgie! is n't that — I thought,
to be sure, when he quartered at our house, Dan 'd begin
to take me to do, if I looked at him sideways, — make
the same fuss that he does if I nod to any of the other
young men.”
“I don't think Dan speaks before he should, Faith.”
“Why don't you say Virginie?” says she, laughing.
“Because Faith you 've always been, and Faith you 'll
have to remain, with us, to the end of the chapter.”
“Well, that 's as it may be. But Dan can't object now
to my going where I 'm a mind to with my own cousin!”
And here Faith laid her ear on the ball of yarn again.
“Hasten, headsman!” said she, out of a novel, “or
they 'll wonder where I am.”
“Well,” I answered, “just let me run the needle through
the emery.”
“Yes, Georgie,” said Faith, going back with her memories
while I sharpened my steel, “Mr. Gabriel and I are
kin. And he said that the moment he laid eyes on me
he knew I was of different blood from the rest of the people
—”
“What people?” asked I.
“Why, you, and Dan, and all these. And he said he
was struck to stone when he heard I was married to Dan,
— I must have been entrapped, — the courts would annul
it, — any one could see the difference between us —”
Here was my moment, and I did n't spare it, but jabbed
the needle into the ball of yarn, if her ear did lie between
them.
“Yes!” says I, “anybody with half an eye can see
ever imagine for a breath that you were deserving of
Dan, — Dan, who 's so noble he 'd die for what he thought
was right, — you, who are so selfish and idle and fickle
and —”
And at that Faith burst out crying.
“Oh, I never expected you 'd talk about me so, Georgie!”
said she between her sobs. “How could I tell you
were such a mighty friend of Dan's? And besides, if
ever I was Virginie des Violets, I 'm Faith Devereux
now, and Dan 'll resent any one's speaking so about his
wife!”
And she stood up, the tears sparkling like diamonds in
her flashing dark eyes, her cheeks red, and her little fist
clenched.
“That 's the right spirit, Faith,” says I, “and I 'm glad
to see you show it. And as for this young Canadian, the
best thing to do with him is to send him packing. I don't
believe a word he says; it 's more than likely nothing
but to get into your good graces.”
“But there 's the names,” said she, so astonished that
she did n't remember she was angry.
“Happened so.”
“Oh, yes! `Happened so'! A likely story! It 's
nothing but your envy, and that 's all!”
“Faith!” says I, for I forgot she did n't know how
close she struck.
“Well, — I mean — There, don't let 's talk about it
any more! How under the sun am I going to get these
ends tied?”
“Come here. There! Now for the other one.”
“No, I sha'n't let you do that; you hurt me dreadfully,
and you got angry, and took the big needle.”
“I thought you expected to be hurt.”
“I did n't expect to be stabbed.”
“Well, just as you please. I suppose you 'll go round
with one ear-ring.”
“Like a little pig with his ear cropped? No, I shall
do it myself. See there, Georgie!” and she threw a bit
of a box into my hands.
I opened it, and there lay inside, on their velvet cushion,
a pair of the prettiest things you ever saw, — a tiny
bunch of white grapes, and every grape a round pearl,
and all hung so that they would tinkle together on their
golden stems every time Faith shook her head, — and
she had a cunning little way of shaking it often enough.
“These must have cost a penny, Faith,” said I.
“Where 'd you get them?”
“Mr. Gabriel gave them to me just now. He went
up-town and bought them. And I don't want him to
know that my ears were n't bored.”
“Mr. Gabriel? And you took them?”
“Of course I took them, and mighty glad to get them.”
“Faith, dear,” said I, “don't you know that you
should n't accept presents from gentlemen, and especially
now you 're a married woman, and especially from those
of higher station?”
“But he is n't higher.”
“You know what I mean. And then, too, he is; for
one always takes rank from one's husband.”
Faith looked rather downcast at this.
“Yes,” said I, — “and pearls and calico —”
“Just because you have n't got a pair yourself!
There, be still! I don't want any of your instructions
in duty!”
“You ought to put up with a word from a friend,
grievances. And I 'll tell you what I 'll do. You used
to like these coral branches of mine; and if you 'll give
those back to Mr. Gabriel, you shall have the coral.”
Well, Faith she hesitated, standing there trying to muster
her mind to the needle, and it ended by her taking
the coral, though I don't believe she returned the pearls,
— but we none of us ever saw them afterwards.
We 'd been talking in a pretty low tone, because mother
was asleep; and just as she 'd finished the other ear, and
a little drop of blood stood up on it like a live ruby, the
door opened and Dan and Mr. Gabriel came in. There
never was a prettier picture than Faith at that moment,
and so the young stranger thought, for he stared at her,
smiling and at ease, just as if she 'd been hung in a gallery
and he 'd bought a ticket. So then he sat down and
repeated to Dan and mother what she 'd told me, and he
promised to send for the papers to prove it all. But he
never did send for them, — delaying and delaying, till the
summer wore away; and perhaps there were such papers
and perhaps there were n't. I 've always thought he
did n't want his own friends to know where he was. Dan
might be a rich man to-day, if he chose to look them up;
but he 'd scorch at a slow fire before he 'd touch a copper
of it. Father never believed a word about it, when we
recited it again to him.
“So Faith 's come into her fortune, has she?” said he.
“Pretty child! She 'a'n't had so much before sence she
fell heir to old Miss Devereux's best chany, her six silver
spoons, and her surname.”
So the days passed, and the greater part of every one
Mr. Gabriel was dabbling in the water somewhere.
There was n't a brook within ten miles that he did n't
shores, and he knew the clear nights when the insects can
keep free from the water so that next day the fish rise
hungry to the surface; and so sometimes in the brightest
of May noons they 'd bring home a string of those beauties,
speckled with little tongues of flame; and Mr.
Gabriel would have them cooked, and make us all taste
them, — for we don't care much for that sort, down here
on the Flats; we should think we were famished if we
had to eat fish. And then they 'd lie in wait all day for
the darting pickerel in the little Stream of Shadows above;
and when it came June, up the river he went trolling for
bass, and he used a different sort of bait from the rest, —
bass won't bite much at clams, — and he hauled in great
forty-pounders. And sometimes in the afternoons, he
took out Faith and me, — for, as Faith would go, whether
or no, I always made it a point to put by everything and
go too; and I used to try and get some of the other girls
in, but Mr. Gabriel never would take them, though he
was hail-fellow-well-met with everybody, and was everybody's
favorite, and it was known all round how he found
out Faith, and that alone made him so popular, that I do
believe, if he 'd only taken out naturalization papers, we
'd have sent him to General Court. And then it grew
time for the river mackerel, and they used to bring in at
sunset two or three hundred in a shining heap, together
with great lobsters, that looked as if they 'd been carved
out of heliotrope-stone, and so old that they were barnacled.
And it was so novel to Mr. Gabriel, that he used
to act as if he 'd fallen in fairy-land.
After all, I don't know what we should have done without
him that summer: he always paid Dan or father a dollar
a day and the hire of the boat; and the times were so
packing the barrels of clam-bait, they 'd have been idle
and fared sorely. But we 'd rather have starved: though,
as for that, I 've heard father say there never was a time
when he could n't go out and catch some sort of fish and
sell it for enough to get us something to eat. And then
this Mr. Gabriel, he had such a winning way with him,
he was as quick at wit as a bird on the wing, he had a
story or a song for every point, he seemed to take to our
simple life as if he 'd been born to it, and he was as much
interested in all our trifles as we were ourselves. Then,
he was so sympathetic, he felt everybody's troubles, he
went to the city and brought down a wonderful doctor to
see mother, and he got her queer things that helped her
more than you 'd have thought anything could, and he
went himself and set honeysuckles out all round Dan's
house, so that before summer was over it was a bower of
great sweet blows, and he had an alms for every beggar,
and a kind word for every urchin, and he followed Dan
about as a child would follow some big shaggy dog. He
introduced, too, a lot of new-fangled games; he was what
they called a gymnast, and in feats of rassling there
was n't a man among them all but he could stretch as flat
as a flounder. And then he always treated. Everybody
had a place for him soon, — even I did; and as for Dan,
he 'd have cut his own heart out of his body, if Mr. Gabriel
'd had occasion to use it. He was a different man from
any Dan 'd ever met before, something finer, and he might
have been better, and Dan's loyal soul was glad to acknowledge
him master, and I declare I believe he felt
just as the Jacobites in the old songs used to feel for
royal Charlie. There are some men born to rule with a
haughty, careless sweetness, and others born to die for
them with stern and dogged devotion.
Well, and all this while Faith was n't standing still;
she was changing steadily, as much as ever the moon
changed in the sky. I noticed it first one day when Mr.
Gabriel 'd caught every child in the region and given
them a picnic in the woods of the Stack-Yard-Gate, and
Faith was nowhere to be seen tiptoeing round every one
as she used to do, but I found her at last standing at the
head of the table, — Mr. Gabriel dancing here and there,
seeing to it that all should be as gay as he seemed to be,
— quiet and dignified as you please, and feeling every
one of her inches. But it was n't dignity really that was
the matter with Faith, — it was just gloom. She 'd
brighten up for a moment or two, and then down would
fall the cloud again; she took to long fits of dreaming, and
sometimes she 'd burst out crying at any careless word, so
that my heart fairly bled for the poor child, — for one
could n't help seeing that she 'd some secret unhappiness
or other, — and I was as gentle and soothing to her as it 's
in my nature to be. She was in to our house a good
deal; she kept it pretty well out of Dan's way, and I
hoped she 'd get over it sooner or later, and make up her
mind to circumstances. And I talked to her a sight about
Dan, praising him constantly before her, though I could n't
bear to do it; and finally, one very confidential evening,
I told her that I 'd been in love with Dan myself once a
little, but I 'd seen that he would marry her, and so had
left off thinking about it; for, do you know, I thought it
might make her set more price on him now, if she knew
somebody else had ever cared for him. Well, that did
answer awhile: whether she thought she ought to make
it up to Dan, or whether he really did grow more in her
eyes, Faith got to being very neat and domestic and praiseworthy.
But still there was the change, and it did n't
I should have cared for her more than ever: it was like
turning a child into a woman: and I really think, as Dan
saw her going about with such a pleasant gravity, her
pretty figure moving so quietly, her pretty face so still
and fair, as if she had thoughts and feelings now, he began
to wonder what had come over Faith, and, if she
were really as charming as this, why he had n't felt it before;
and then, you know, whether you love a woman or
not, the mere fact that she 's your wife, that her life is
sunk in yours, that she 's something for you to protect,
and that your honor lies in doing so, gives you a certain
kindly feeling that might ripen into love any day under
sunshine and a south wall.
Blue-fish were about done with, when one day Dan
brought in some mackerel from Boon Island: they had n't
been in the harbor for some time, though now there was
a probability of their return. So they were going out
when the tide served — the two boys — at midnight for
mackerel, and Dan had heard me wish for the experience
so often, a long while ago, that he said, Why should n't
they take the girls? and Faith snatched at the idea, and
with that Mr. Gabriel agreed to fetch me at the hour, and
so we parted. I was kind of sorry, but there was no help
for it.
When we started, it was in that clear crystal dark that
looks as if you could see through it forever till you
reached infinite things, and we seemed to be in a great
hollow sphere, and the stars were like living beings who
had the night to themselves. Always, when I 'm up late,
I feel as if it were something unlawful, as if affairs were
in progress which I had no right to witness, a kind of
watching with mother, and there has come up across the
heavens the great caravan of constellations, and a star
that I 'd pulled away the curtain on the east side to see,
came by and by and looked in at the south window; but
I never felt it as I did this night. The tide was near the
full and so we went slipping down the dark water by the
starlight; and as we saw them shining above us, and then
looked down and saw them sparkling up from beneath, —
the stars, — it really seemed as if Dan's oars must be two
long wings, as if we swam on them through a motionless
air. By and by we were in the island creek, and far
ahead, in a streak of wind that did n't reach us, we could
see a pointed sail skimming along between the banks, as
if some ghost went before to show us the way; and when
the first hush and mystery wore off, Mr. Gabriel was
singing little French songs in tunes like the rise and fall
of the tide. While he sang he rowed, and Dan was
gangeing the hooks. At length Dan took the oars again,
and every now and then he paused to let us float along
with the tide as it slacked, and take the sense of the night.
And all the tall grass that edged the side began to wave
in a strange light, and there blew on a little breeze, and
over the rim of the world tipped up a waning moon. If
there 'd been anything needed to make us feel as if we
were going to find the Witch of Endor, it was this. It
was such a strange moon, pointing such a strange way,
with such a strange color, so remote, and so glassy, — it
was like a dead moon, or the spirit of one, and was perfectly
awful.
“She has come to look at Faith,” said Mr. Gabriel;
for Faith, who once would have been nodding here and
there all about the boat, was sitting up pale and sad, like
difference.
Mr. Gabriel, he stepped across and went and sat down
behind Faith, and laid his hand lightly on her arm. Perhaps
he did n't mind that he touched her, — he had a kind
of absent air; but if any one had looked at the nervous
pressure of the slender fingers, they would have seen as
much meaning in that touch as in many an embrace; and
Faith lifted her face to his, and they forgot that I was
looking at them, and into the eyes of both there stole a
strange deep smile, — and my soul groaned within me.
It made no odds to me then that the air blew warm off
the land from scented hay-ricks, that the moon hung like
some exhumed jewel in the sky, that all the perfect night
was widening into dawn. I saw and felt nothing but the
wretchedness that must break one day on Dan's head.
Should I warn him? I could n't do that. And what
then?
The sail was up, we had left the head-land and the
hills, and when they furled it and cast anchor we were
swinging far out on the back of the great monster that
was frolicking to itself and thinking no more of us than
we do of a mote in the air. Elder Snow, he says that it 's
singular we regard day as illumination and night as darkness,
— day that really hems us in with narrow light and
shuts us upon ourselves, night that sets us free and reveals
to us all the secrets of the sky. I thought of that when
one by one the stars melted and the moon became a
breath, and up over the wide grayness crept color and radiance
and the sun himself, — the sky soaring higher and
higher, like a great thin bubble of flaky hues, — and, all
about, nothing but the everlasting wash of waters broke
the sacred hush. And it seemed as if God had been with
garments, — and I remembered the words mother had
spoken to Dan once before, and why could n't I leave him
in heavenly hands? And then it came into my heart to
pray. I knew I had n't any right to pray expecting to
be heard; but yet mine would be the prayer of the
humble, and was n't Faith of as much consequence as a
sparrow? By and by, as we all sat leaning over the gunwale,
the words of a hymn that I 'd heard at camp-meetings
came into my mind, and I sang them out, loud and
clear. I always had a good voice, though Dan 'd never
heard me do anything with it except hum little low things,
putting mother to sleep; but here I had a whole sky to
sing in, and the hymns were trumpet-calls. And one
after another they kept thronging up, and there was a
rush of feeling in them that made you shiver, and as I
sang them they thrilled me through and through. Wide
as the way before us was, it seemed to widen; I felt myself
journeying with some vast host towards the city of
God, and its light poured over us, and there was nothing
but joy and love and praise and exulting expectancy in
my heart. And when the hymn died on my lips because
the words were too faint and the tune was too weak for
the ecstasy, and when the silence had soothed me back
again, I turned and saw Dan's lips bitten, and his cheek
white, and his eyes like stars, and Mr. Gabriel's face
fallen forward in his hands, and he shaking with quick
sobs; and as for Faith, — Faith, she had dropped asleep,
and one arm was thrown above her head, and the other
lay where it had slipped from Mr. Gabriel's loosened
grasp. There 's a contagion, you know, in such things,
but Faith was never of the catching kind.
Well, this was n't what we 'd come for, — turning all
place of God's presence? and for my part, I never see
high blue sky and sunshine without feeling that. And all
of a sudden there came a school of mackerel splashing
and darkening and curling round the boat, after the bait
we 'd thrown out on anchoring. 'T would have done you
good to see Dan just at that moment; you 'd have realized
what it was to have a calling. He started up, forgetting
everything else, his face all flushed, his eyes like
coals, his mouth tight and his tongue silent; and how
many hooks he had out I 'm sure I don't know, but he
kept jerking them in by twos and threes, and finally they
bit at the bare barb and were taken without any bait at
all, just as if they 'd come and asked to be caught. Mr.
Gabriel, he did n't pay any attention at first, but Dan
called to him to stir himself, and so gradually he worked
back into his old mood; but he was more still and something
sad all the rest of the morning. Well, when we 'd
gotten about enough, and they were dying in the boat
there, as they cast their scales, like the iris, we put in-shore;
and building a fire, we cooked our own dinner and
boiled our own coffee. Many 's the icy winter night I 've
wrapped up Dan's bottle of hot coffee in rolls on rolls of
flannel, that he might drink it hot and strong far out at
sea in a wherry at daybreak!
But as I was saying, — all this time, Mr. Gabriel, he
scarcely looked at Faith. At first she did n't comprehend,
and then something swam all over her face as if the
very blood in her veins had grown darker, and there was
such danger in her eye that before we stepped into the
boat again I wished to goodness I had a life-preserver.
But in the beginning the religious impression lasted and
gave him great resolutions; and then strolling off and
as he always did, scraped acquaintance. I verily believe
that these men were total strangers, that he 'd never laid
eyes on them before, and after a few words he wheeled
about. As he did so, his glance fell on Faith standing
there alone against the pale sky, for the weather 'd
thickened, and watching the surf break at her feet. He
was motionless, gazing at her long, and then, when he had
turned once or twice irresolutely, he ground his heel into
the sand and went back. The men rose and wandered
on with him, and they talked together for a while, and I
saw money pass; and pretty soon Mr. Gabriel returned,
his face vividly pallid, but smiling, and he had in his hand
some little bright shells that you don't often find on these
Northern beaches, and he said he had bought them of
those men. And all this time he 'd not spoken with Faith,
and there was the danger yet in her eye. But nothing
came of it, and I had accused myself of nearly every
crime in the Decalogue, and on the way back we had put
up the lines, and Mr. Gabriel had hauled in the lobsternet
for the last time. He liked that branch of the business;
he said it had all the excitement of gambling, — the
slow settling downwards, the fading of the last ripple, the
impenetrable depth and shade and the mystery of the
work below, five minutes of expectation, and it might
bring up a scale of the sea-serpent, or the king of the
crabs might have crept in for a nap in the folds, or it
might come up as if you 'd dredged for pearls, or it might
hold the great backward-crawling lobsters, or a tangle of
sea-weed, or the long yellow locks of some drowned girl,
— or nothing at all. So he always drew in that net, and
it needed muscle, and his was like steel, — not good for
much in the long pull, but just for a breathing could
we 'd hoisted the sail and were in the creek once more,
for the creek was only to be used at high-water, and I 'd
told Dan I could n't be away from mother over another
tide and so we must n't get aground, and he 'd told me not
to fret, there was nothing too shallow for us on the coast.
“This boat,” said Dan, “she 'll float in a heavy dew.”
And he began singing a song he liked: —
And fishes I caught nine:
There 's three to boil, and three to fry,
And three to bait the line.”
him sing it again and again.
The boatie rows indeed,”
knew that held the click of the oar in the rowlock.
The little birds went skimming by us, as we sailed,
their breasts upon the water, and we could see the gunners
creeping through the marshes beside them.
“The wind changes,” said Mr. Gabriel. “The equinox
treads close behind us. Sst! Is it that you do not feel its
breath? And you hear nothing?”
“It 's the Soul of the Bar,” said Dan; and he fell to
telling us one of the wild stories that fishermen can tell
each other by the lantern, rocking outside at night in the
dory.
The wind was dead east, and now we flew before it,
and now we tacked in it, up and up the winding stream,
and always a little pointed sail came skimming on in suit.
“What sail is that, Dan?” asked I. “It looks like
the one that flitted ahead this morning.”
“It is the one,” said Dan, — for he 'd brought up a
whole horde of superstitious memories, and a gloom that
had been hovering off and on his face settled there for
good. “As much of a one as that was. It 's no sail at
all. It 's a death-sign. And I 've never been down here
and seen it but trouble was on its heels. Georgie! there 's
two of them!”
We all looked, but it was hidden in a curve, and when
it stole in sight again there were two of them, filmy and
faint as spirits' wings, — and while we gazed they vanished,
whether supernaturally or in the mist that was rising
mast-high I never thought, for my blood was frozen
as it ran.
“You have fear?” asked Mr. Gabriel, — his face perfectly
pale, and his eye almost lost in darkness. “If it is
a phantom, it can do you no harm.”
Faith's teeth chattered, — I saw them. He turned to
her, and as their look met, a spot of carnation burned
into his cheek almost as a brand would have burned.
He seemed to be balancing some point, to be searching
her and sifting her; and Faith half rose, proudly, and
pale, as if his look pierced her with pain. The look was
long, — but before it fell, a glow and sparkle filled the
eyes, and over his face there curled the deep, strange
smile of the morning, till the long lids and heavy lashes
dropped and made it sad. And Faith, — she started in a
new surprise, the darkness gathered and crept off her
face as cream wrinkles from milk, and spleen or venom
or what-not became absorbed again and lost, and there
was nothing in her glance but passionate forgetfulness.
Some souls are like the white river-lilies, — fixed, yet
floating; but Mr. Gabriel had no firm root anywhere,
and was blown about with every breeze, like a leaf
moods.
The wind got round more to the north, the mist fell
upon the waters or blew away over the meadows, and it
was cold. Mr. Gabriel wrapped the cloak about Faith
and fastened it, and tied her bonnet. Just now Dan was
so busy handling the boat — and it 's rather risky, you
have to wriggle up the creek so — that he took little
notice of us. Then Mr. Gabriel stood up, as if to change
his position; and taking off his hat, he held it aloft, while
he passed the other hand across his forehead. And leaning
against the mast, he stood so, many minutes.
“Dan,” I said, “did your spiritual craft ever hang out
a purple pennant?”
“No,” said Dan.
“Well,” says I. And we all saw a little purple ribbon
running up the rope and streaming on the air behind us.
“And why do we not hoist our own?” said Mr.
Gabriel, putting on his hat. And suiting the action to
the word, a little green signal curled up and flaunted
above us like a bunch of the weed floating there in the
water beneath and dyeing all the shallows so that they
looked like caves of cool emerald, and wide off and over
them the west burned smoulderingly red like a furnace.
Many a time since, I 've felt the magical color between
those banks and along those meadows, but then I felt
none of it; every wit I had was too awake and alert and
fast-fixed in watching.
“Is it that the phantoms can be flesh and blood?” said
Mr. Gabriel, laughingly; and lifting his arm again, he
hailed the foremost.
“Boat ahoy! What names?” said he.
The answer came back on the wind full and round.
“Speed, and Follow.”
“Where from?” asked Dan, with just a glint in his
eye, — for usually he knew every boat on the river, but
he did n't know these.
“From the schooner Flyaway, taking in sand over at
Black Rocks.”
Then Mr. Gabriel spoke again, as they drew near, —
but whether he spoke so fast that I could n't understand,
or whether he spoke French, I never knew; and Dan,
with some kind of feeling that it was Mr. Gabriel's acquaintance,
suffered the one we spoke to pass us.
Once or twice Mr. Gabriel had begun some question to
Dan about the approaching weather, but had turned it
off again before anybody could answer. You see he had
some little nobility left, and did n't want the very man he
was going to injure to show him how to do it. Now,
however, he asked him that was steering the Speed by,
if it was going to storm.
The man thought it was.
“How is it then, that your schooner prepares to sail?”
“Oh, wind 's backed in; we 'll be on blue water before
the gale breaks, I reckon, and then beat off where
there 's plenty of sea-room.”
“But she shall make shipwreck!”
“`Not if the court know herself, and he think she do,'”
was the reply from another, as they passed.
Somehow I began to hate myself, I was so full of
poisonous suspicions. How did Mr. Gabriel know the
schooner prepared to sail? And this man, could he tell
boom from bowsprit? I did n't believe it; he had the
hang of the up-river folks. But there stood Mr. Gabriel,
so quiet and easy, his eyelids down, and he humming an
underbreath of song; and there sat Faith, so pale and so
brew for her, whether or no. Yet, after all, there was an
odd expression in Mr. Gabriel's face, an eager, restless
expectation; and if his lids were lowered, it was only to
hide the spark that flushed and quenched in his eye like
a beating pulse.
We had reached the draw, it was lifted for the Speed,
she had passed, and the wind was in her sail once more.
Yet, somehow, she hung back. And then I saw that the
men in her were of those with whom Mr. Gabriel had
spoken at noon. Dan's sail fell slack, and we drifted
slowly through, while he poled us along with an oar.
“Look out, Georgie!” said Dan, for he thought I was
going to graze my shoulder upon the side there. I looked;
and when I turned again, Mr. Gabriel was rising up
from some earnest and hurried sentence to Faith. And
Faith, too, was standing, standing and swaying with indecision,
and gazing away out before her, — so flushed and
so beautiful, — so loath and so willing. Poor thing!
poor thing! as if her rising in itself were not the whole!
Mr. Gabriel stepped across the boat, stooped a minute,
and then also took an oar. How perfect he was, as he
stood there that moment! — perfect like a statue, I mean,
— so slender, so clean-limbed, his dark face pale to transparency
in the green light that filtered through the draw!
and then a ray from the sunset came creeping over the
edge of the high fields and smote his eyes sidelong so
that they glowed like jewels, and he with his oar planted
firmly hung there bending far back with it, completely
full of strength and grace.
“It is not the bateaux in the rapids,” said he.
“What are you about?” asked Dan, with sudden
hoarseness. “You are pulling the wrong way!”
Mr. Gabriel laughed, and threw down his oar, and
stepped back again; gave his hand to Faith, and half led,
half lifted her, over the side, and into the Speed, followed,
and never looked behind him. They let go something
they had held, the Speed put her nose in the water and
sprinkled us with spray, plunged, and dashed off like an
arrow.
It was like him, — daring and insolent coolness! Just
like him! Always the soul of defiance! None but one
so reckless and impetuous as he would have dreamed of
flying into the teeth of the tempest in that shell of a
schooner. But he was mad with love, and they — there
was n't a man among them but was the worse for liquor.
For a moment Dan took it, as Mr. Gabriel had expected
him to do, as a joke, and went to trim the boat for
racing, not meaning they should reach town first. But I
— I saw it all.
“Dan!” I sung out, “save her! She 's not coming
back! They 'll make for the schooner at Black Rocks!
Oh, Dan, he 's taken her off!”
Now one whose intelligence has never been trained,
who shells his five wits and gets rid of the pods as best
he can, may n't be so quick as another, but, like an animal,
he feels long before he sees; and a vague sense of
this had been upon Dan all day. Yet now he stood
thunderstruck; and the thing went on before his very
eyes. It was more than he could believe at once, — and
perhaps his first feeling was, Why should he hinder?
And then the flood fell. No thought of his loss, — though
loss it wa'n't, — only of his friend, — of such stunning
treachery, that, if the sun fell hissing into the sea at noon,
it would have mattered less, — only of that loss that tore
his heart out with it.
“Gabriel!” he shouted, — “Gabriel!” And his voice
was heart-rending. I know that Mr. Gabriel felt it, for
he never turned nor stirred.
Then I don't know what came over Dan: a blind rage
swelling in his heart seemed to make him larger in every
limb; he towered like a flame. He sprang to the tiller,
but, as he did so, saw with one flash of his eye that Mr.
Gabriel had unshipped the rudder and thrown it away.
He seized an oar to steer with in its place; he saw that
they, in their ignorance fast edging on the flats, would
shortly be aground; more fisherman than sailor, he knew
a thousand tricks of boat-craft that they had never heard
of. We flew, we flew through cloven ridges, we became
a wind ourselves, and while I tell it he was beside them,
had gathered himself as if to leap the chasm between time
and eternity, and had landed among them in the Speed.
The wherry careened with the shock and the water poured
into her, and she flung headlong and away as his foot
spurned her. Heaven knows why she did n't upset, for I
thought of nothing but the scene before me as I drifted
off from it. I shut the eyes in my soul now, that I
may n't see that horrid scuffle twice. Mr. Gabriel, he
rose, he turned. If Dan was the giant beside him, he
himself was so well-knit, so supple, so adroit, that his
power was like the blade in the hand. Dan's strength
was lying round loose, but Mr. Gabriel's was trained, it
hid like springs of steel between brain and wrist, and
from him the clap fell with the bolt. And then, besides,
Dan did not love Faith, and he did love Gabriel. Any
one could see how it would go. I screamed. I cried,
“Faith! Faith!” And some natural instinct stirred in
Faith's heart, for she clung to Mr. Gabriel's arm to pull
him off from Dan. But he shook her away like rain.
I saw everything black, and when it was clean gone, I
looked, and they were locked in each other's arms, fierce,
fierce and fell, a death-grip. They were staggering to
the boat's edge: only this I saw, that Mr. Gabriel was
inside: suddenly the helmsman interposed with an oar,
and broke their grasps. Mr. Gabriel reeled away, free,
for a second; then, the passion, the fury, the hate in his
heart feeding his strength as youth fed the locks of Samson,
he darted, and lifted Dan in his two arms and threw
him like a stone into the water. Stiffened to ice, I waited
for Dan to rise; the other craft, the Follow, skimmed
between us, and one man managing her that she should n't
heel, the rest drew Dan in, — it 's not the depth of two
foot there, — tacked about, and after a minute came alongside,
seized our painter, and dropped him gently into his
own boat. Then — for the Speed had got afloat again —
the thing stretched her two sails wing and wing, and went
ploughing up a great furrow of foam before her.
I sprang to Dan. He was not senseless, but in a kind
of stupor: his head had struck the fluke of a half-sunk
anchor and it had stunned him, but as the wound bled he
recovered slowly and opened his eyes. Ah, what misery
was in them! I turned to the fugitives. They were yet
in sight, Mr. Gabriel sitting and seeming to adjure Faith,
whose skirts he held; but she stood, and her arms were
outstretched, and, pale as a foam-wreath her face, and
piercing as a night-wind her voice, I heard her cry, “Oh,
Georgie! Georgie!” It was too late for her to cry or to
wring her hands now. She should have thought of that
before. But Mr. Gabriel rose and drew her down, and
hid her face in his arms and bent over it; and so they
fled up the basin and round the long line of sand, and out
into the gloom and the curdling mists.
I bound up Dan's head. I could n't steer with an oar,
— that was out of the question, — but, as luck would have
it, could row tolerably; so I got down the little mast, and
at length reached the wharves. The town-lights flickered
up in the darkness and flickered back from the black rushing
river, and then out blazed the great mills; and as I
felt along, I remembered times when we 'd put in by the
tender sunset, as the rose faded out of the water and the
orange ebbed down the west, and one by one the sweet
evening-bells chimed forth, so clear and high, and each
with a different tone, that it seemed as if the stars must
flock, tinkling, into the sky. And here were the bells
ringing out again, ringing out of the gray and the gloom,
dull and brazen, as if they rang from some cavern of
shadows, or from the mouth of hell, — but no, that was
down river! Well, I made my way, and the men on the
landing took up Dan, and helped him in and got him on
my little bed, and no sooner there than the heavy sleep
with which he had struggled fell on him like lead.
The story flew from mouth to mouth, the region rang
with it; nobody had any need to add to it, or to make it
out a griffin or a dragon that had gripped Faith and carried
her off in his talons. But everybody declared that
those boats could be no ship's yawls at all, but must
belong to parties from up river camping out on the beach,
and that a parcel of such must have gone sailing with
some of the hands of a sand-droger: there was one in the
stream now, that had got off with the tide, said the Jerdan
boys who 'd been down there that afternoon, though there
was no such name as “Flyaway” on her stern, and they
were waiting for the master of her, who 'd gone off on a
spree, — a dare-devil fellow, that used to run a smuggler
between Bordeaux and Bristol, as they 'd heard say: and
with them before that day, or he 'd have known what a
place a sand-droger would be for a woman; and everybody
made excuses for Gabriel, and everybody was down
on Faith. So there things lay. It was raw and chill
when the last neighbor left us, the sky was black as a
cloak, not a star to be seen, the wind had edged back to
the east again and came in wet and wild from the sea and
fringed with its thunder. Oh, poor little Faith, what a
night! what a night for her!
I went back and sat down by Dan, and tried to keep
his head cool. Father was up walking the kitchen-floor
till late, but at length he lay down across the foot of
mother's bed, as if expecting to be called. The lights
were put out, there was no noise in the town, every one
slept, — every one, except they watched like me, on that
terrible night. No noise in the town, did I say? Ah,
but there was! It came creeping round the corners, it
poured rushing up the street, it rose from everywhere, —
a voice, a voice of woe, the heavy booming rote of the
sea. I looked out, but it was pitch-dark, light had forsaken
the world, we were beleaguered by blackness. It
grew colder, as if one felt a fog fall, and the wind, mounting
slowly, now blew a gale. It eddied in clouds of dead
and whirling leaves, and sent big torn branches flying
aloft; it took the house by the four corners and shook it
to loosening the rafters, and I felt the chair rock under
me; it rumbled down the chimney as if it would tear the
life out of us. And with every fresh gust of the gale the
rain slapped against the wall, the rain that fell in rivers,
and went before the wind in sheets, — and sheltered as I
was, the torrents seemed to pour over me like cataracts,
and every drop pierced me like a needle, and I put my
the waves. I could n't keep my thoughts away from
Faith. Oh, poor girl, this was n't what she 'd expected!
As plainly as if I were aboard-ship I felt the scene, the
hurrying feet, the slippery deck, the hoarse cries, the
creaking cordage, the heaving and plunging and straining,
and the wide wild night. And I was beating off those
dreadful lines with them, two dreadful lines of white froth
through the blackness, two lines where the horns of
breakers guard the harbor, — all night long beating off
the lee with them, my life in my teeth, and chill, blank,
shivering horror before me. My whole soul, my whole
being, was fixed in that one spot, that little vessel driving
on the rocks: it seemed as if a madness took possession
of me, I reeled as I walked, I forefelt the shivering shock,
I waited till she should strike. And then I thought I
heard cries, and I ran out in the storm, and down upon
the causey, but nothing met me but the hollow night and
the roaring sea and the wind. I came back, and hurried
up and down and wrung my hands in an agony. Pictures
of summer nights flashed upon me and faded, — where
out of deep blue vaults the stars hung like lamps, great
and golden, — or where soft films just hazing heaven
caught the rays till all above gleamed like gauze faintly
powdered and spangled with silver, — or heavy with
heat, slipping over silent waters, through scented airs,
under purple skies. And then storms rolled in and rose
before my eyes, distinct for a moment, and breaking, —
such as I 'd seen them from the Shoals in broad daylight,
when tempestuous columns scooped themselves up from
the green gulfs and shattered in foam on the shuddering
rock, — ah! but that was day, and this was midnight and
murk! — storms as I 'd heard tell of them off Cape Race,
waters crowded them out of sight, — storms where, out of
the wilderness of waves that far and wide wasted white
around, a single one came ploughing on straight to the
mark, gathering its grinding masses mast-high, poising,
plunging, and swamping and crashing them into bottomless
pits of destruction, — storms where waves toss and
breakers gore, where, hanging on crests that slip from
under, reefs impale the hull, and drowning wretches cling
to the crags with stiffening hands, and the sleet ices them,
and the spray, and the sea lashes and beats them with
great strokes and sucks them down to death: and right in
the midst of it all there burst a gun, — one, another, and
no more. “Oh, Faith! Faith!” I cried again, and I ran
and hid my head in the bed.
How long did I stay so? An hour, or maybe two.
Dan was still dead with sleep, but mother had no more
closed an eye than I. There was no rain now, the wind
had fallen, the dark had lifted; I looked out once more,
and could just see dimly the great waters swinging in the
river from bank to bank. I drew the bucket fresh, and
bound the cloths cold on Dan's head again. I had n't a
thought in my brain, and I fell to counting the meshes in
the net that hung from the wall, but in my ears there was
the everlasting rustle of the sea and shore. It grew
clearer, — it got to being a universal gray; there 'd been
no sunrise, but it was day. Dan stirred, — he turned
over heavily; then he opened his eyes wide and looked
about him.
“I 've had such a fright!” he said. “Georgie! is that
you?”
With that it swept over him afresh, and he fell back.
In a moment or two he tried to rise, but he was weak as
though, and to give a look out of the window.
“It came on to blow, did n't it?” he asked; but there
he sank down again.
“I can't stay so!” he murmured soon. “I can't stay
so! Here, — I must tell you. Georgie, get out the spy-glass,
and go up on the roof and look over. I 've had a
dream, I tell you! I 've had a dream. Not that either,
— but it 's just stamped on me! It was like a storm, —
and I dreamed that that schooner — the Flyaway — had
parted. And the half of her 's crashed down just as she
broke, and Faith and that man are high up on the bows
in the middle of the South Breaker! Make haste, Georgia!
Christ! make haste!”
I flew to the drawers and opened them, and began
to put the spy-glass together. Suddenly he cried out
again, —
“Oh, here 's where the fault was! What right had I
ever to marry the child, not loving her? I bound her!
I crushed her! I stifled her! If she lives, it is my sin;
if she dies, I murder her!”
He hid his face, as he spoke, so that his voice came
thick, and great choking groans rent their way up from
his heart.
All at once, as I looked up, there stood mother, in her
long white gown, beside the bed, and bending over and
taking Dan's hot head in her two hands.
“Behold, He cometh with clouds!” she whispered.
It always did seem to me as if mother had the imposition
of hands, — perhaps every one feels just so about their
mother, — but only her touch always lightens an ache for
me, whether it 's in the heart or the head.
“Oh, Aunt Rhody,” said Dan, looking up in her face
with his distracted eyes, “can't you help me?”
“I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence
cometh my help,” said mother.
“There 's no help there!” called Dan. “There 's no
God there! He would n't have let a little child run into
her damnation!”
“Hush, hush, Dan!” murmured mother. “Faith
never can have been at sea in such a night as this, and
not have felt God's hand snatching her out of sin. If she
lives, she 's a changed woman; and if she dies, her soul is
whitened and fit to walk with saints. Through much
tribulation.”
“Yes, yes,” muttered father, in the room beyond, spitting
on his hands, as if he were going to take hold of the
truth by the handle, — “it 's best to clean up a thing with
the first spot, and not wait for it to get all rusty with
crime.”
“And he!” said Dan, — “and he, — that man, —
Gabriel!”
If mercy 's asked, mercy 's found,”
“Are you there yet, Georgia?” he cried, turning to
me. “Here! I 'll go myself!” But he only stumbled
and fell on the bed again.
“In all the terror and the tempest of these long hours,
— for there 's been a fearful storm, though you have n't
felt it,” said mother, — “in all that, Mr. Gabriel can't
have slept. But at first it must have been that great
dread appalled him, and he may have been beset with
sorrow. He 'd brought her to this. But at last, for he 's
no coward, he has looked death in the face and not
flinched; and the danger, and the grandeur there is in
despair, have lifted his spirit to great heights, — heights
never would have gained, — heights from which he has
seen the light of God's face and been transfigured in it, —
heights where the soul dilates to a stature it can never
lose. Oh, Dan, there 's a moment, a moment when the
dross strikes off, and the impurities, and the grain sets,
and there comes out the great white diamond. For by
grace are ye saved, through faith, and that not of yourselves,
it is the gift of God, — of Him that maketh the
seven stars and Orion, and turneth the shadow of death
into the morning. Oh, I will believe that Mr. Gabriel
had n't any need to grope as we do, but that suddenly he
saw the Heavenly Arm and clung to it, and the grasp
closed round him, and death and hell can have no power
over him now. Dan, poor boy, is it better to lie in the
earth with the ore than to be forged in the furnace and
beaten to a blade fit for the hands of archangels?”
And mother stopped, trembling like a leaf.
I 'd been wiping and screwing the glass, and I 'd waited
a breath, for mother always talked so like a preacher;
but when she 'd finished, after a second or two Dan looked
up, and said, as if he 'd just come in, —
“Aunt Rhody, how come you out of bed?”
And then mother, she got upon the bed, and she took
Dan's head on her breast and fell to stroking his brows,
laying her cool palms on his temples and on his eyelids,
as once I 'd have given my ears to do, — and I slipped out
of the room.
Oh, I hated to go up those stairs, to mount that ladder,
to open the scuttle! And once there, I waited and waited
before I dared to look. The night had unnerved me.
At length I fixed the glass. I swept the braod swollen
stream, to the yellowing woods, and over the meadows,
the haycocks, — the smoke that began to curl from the
chimneys and fall as soon, — the mists blowing off from
Indian Hill, but brooding blue and dense down the turnpike,
and burying the red spark of the moon, that smothered
like a half-dead coal in her ashes, — anywhere, anywhere
but that spot! I don't know why it was, but I
could n't level the glass there, — my arm would fall, my
eye haze. Finally I brought it round nearer and tried
again. Everywhere, as far as your eye could reach, the
sea was yeasty and white with froth, and great streaks of
it were setting up the inky river, and against it there were
the twin light-houses quivering their little yellow rays as
if to mock the dawn, and far out on the edge of day the
great light at the Isles of Shoals blinked and blinked,
crimson and gold, fainter and fainter, and lost at last. It
was no use, I did n't dare point it, my hand trembled so I
could see nothing plain, when suddenly an engine went
thundering over the bridge and startled me into stillness.
The tube slung in my hold and steadied against the chimney,
and there — What was it in the field? what ghastly
picture?
The glass crashed from my hand, and I staggered
shrieking down the ladder.
The sound was n't well through my lips, when the door
slammed, and Dan had darted out of the house and to the
shore. I after him. There was a knot sitting and standing
round there in the gray, shivering, with their hands
in their pockets and their pipes set in their teeth; but
the gloom was on them as well, and the pipes went out
between the puffs.
“Where 's Dennis's boat?” Dan demanded, as he
strode.
“The six-oar 's all the one not —”
“The six-oar I want. Who goes with me?”
There was n't a soul in the ward but would have followed
Dan's lead to the end of the world and jumped off;
and before I could tell their names there were three men
on the thwarts, six oars in the air, Dan stood in the bows,
a word from him, and they shot away.
I watched while I could see, and then in and up to the
attic, forgetting to put mother in her bed, forgetting all
things but the one. And there lay the glass broken. I sat
awhile with the pieces in my hand, as if I 'd lost a kingdom;
then down, and mechanically put things to rights,
and made mother comfortable, — and she 's never stood on
her feet from that day to this. At last I seated myself
before the fire, and stared into it to blinding.
“Won't some one lend you a glass, Georgie?” said
mother.
“Of course they will!” I cried, — for, you see, I had n't
a wit of my own, — and I ran out.
There 's a glass behind every door in the street, you
should know, and there 's no day in the year that you 'll
go by and not see one stretching from some roof where
the heart of the house is out on the sea. Oh, sometimes
I think all the romance of the town is clustered down here
on the Flats and written in pale cheeks and starting eyes.
But what's the use? After one winter, one, I gave mine
away, and never got another. It 's just an emblem of
despair. Look, and look again, and look till your soul
sinks, and the thing you want never crosses it; but you 're
down in the kitchen stirring a porridge, or you 're off at a
neighbor's asking the news, and somebody shouts at you
round the corner, and there, black and dirty and dearer
than gold, she lies between the piers.
All the world was up on their house-tops spying, that
morning, but there was nobody would keep their glass
while I had none; so I went back armed, and part of it
all I saw, and part of it father told me.
I waited till I thought they were 'most across, and then
I rubbed the lens. At first I saw nothing, and I began
to quake with a greater fear than any that had yet taken
root in me. But with the next moment there they were,
pulling close up. I shut my eyes for a flash with some
kind of a prayer that was most like an imprecation, and
when I looked again they had dashed over and dashed
over, taking the rise of the long roll, and were in the
midst of the South Breaker. O God! that terrible South
Breaker! The oars bent lithe as willow-switches, a moment
they skimmed on the caps, a moment were hid in
the snow of the spray. Dan, red-shirted, still stood there,
his whole soul on the aim before him, like that of some
leaper flying through the air; he swayed to the stroke,
he bowed, he rose, perfectly balanced, and flexile as the
wave. The boat behaved beneath their hands like a live
creature: she bounded so that you almost saw the light
under her; her whole stem lifted itself slowly out of the
water, caught the back of a roller and rode over upon the
next; the very things that came rushing in with their
white rage to devour her bent their necks and bore her
up like a bubble. Constantly she drew nearer that dark
and shattered heap up to which the fierce surf raced, and
over which it leaped. And there all the time, all the
time, they had been clinging, far out on the bowsprit,
those two figures, her arms close-knit about him, he clasping
her with one, the other twisted in the hawser whose
harsh thrilling must have filled their ears like an organ-note
as it swung them to and fro, — clinging to life, —
scarcely heaved with the stoutest blow of the tremendous
surge; here and there, only, a plank shivered off and was
bowled on and thrown high upon the beach beside fragments
of beams broken and bruised to a powder; it
seemed to be as firmly planted there as the breaker itself.
Great feathers of foam flew across it, great waves shook
themselves thin around it and veiled it in shrouds, and
with their every breath the smothering sheets dashed over
them, — the two. And constantly the boat drew nearer,
as I said; they were almost within hail; Dan saw her
hair streaming on the wind; he waited only for the long
wave. On it came, that long wave, — oh! I can see it
now! — plunging and rearing and swelling, a monstrous
billow, sweeping and swooping and rocking in. Its hollows
gaped with slippery darkness, it towered and sent
the scuds before its trembling crest, breaking with a
mighty rainbow as the sun burst forth, it fell in a white
blindness everywhere, rushed seething up the sand, — and
the bowsprit was bare! —
When father came home, the rack had driven down the
harbor and left clear sky; it was near nightfall; they 'd
been searching the shore all day, — to no purpose. But
that rainbow, — I always took it for a sign. Father was
worn out, yet he sat in the chimney-side, cutting off great
quids and chewing and thinking and sighing. At last he
went and wound up the clock, — it was the stroke of
twelve, — and then he turned to me and said, —
“Dan sent you this, Georgie. He hailed a pilot-boat,
and 's gone to the Cape to join the fall fleet to the fish'ries.
And he sent you this.”
It was just a great hand-grip to make your nails purple,
but there was heart's-blood in it. See, there 's the
mark to-day.
So there was Dan off in the Bay of Chaleur. 'T was
the best place for him. And I went about my work once
more. There was a great gap in my life, but I tried not
to look at it. I durst n't think of Dan, and I would n't
think of them, — the two. Always in such times it 's as
if a breath had come and blown across the pool and you
could see down its dark depths and into the very bottom,
but time scums it all over again. And I tell you it 's
best to look trouble in the face: if you don't, you 'll have
more of it. So I got a lot of shoes to bind, and what
part of my spare time I wa'n't at my books the needle
flew. But I turned no more to the past than I could
help, and the future trembled too much to be seen.
Well, the two months dragged away, it got to be
Thanksgiving-week, and at length the fleet was due. I
mind me I made a great baking that week; and I put
brandy into the mince for once, instead of vinegar and
dried-apple juice, — and there were the fowls stuffed and
trussed on the shelf, — and the pumpkin-pies like slices
of split gold, — and the cranberry-tarts, plats of crimson
and puffs of snow, — and I was brewing in my mind a
right-royal red Indian-pudding to come out of the oven
smoking hot and be soused with thick clots of yellow
cream, — when one of the boys ran in and told us the
fleet 'd got back, but no Dan with it, — he 'd changed
over to a fore-and-after, and would n't be home at all, but
was to stay down in the Georges all winter, and he 'd
sent us word. Well, the baking went to the dogs, or the
Thanksgiving beggars, which is the same thing.
Then days went by, as days will, and it was well into
the New Year. I used to sit there at the window, reading,
— but the lines would run together, and I 'd forget
what 't was all about, and gather no sense, and the image
the leaves, and at last I had to put all that aside;
and then I sat stitching, stitching, but got into a sad habit
of looking up and looking out each time I drew the
thread. I felt it was a shame of me to be so glum, and
mother missed my voice; but I could no more talk than
I could have given conundrums to King Solomon, and as
for singing — Oh, I used to long so for just a word
from Dan!
We 'd had dry fine weeks all along, and father said
he 'd known we should have just such a season, because
the goose's breast-bone was so white; but St. Valentine's
day the weather broke, broke in a chain of storms that
the September gale was a whisper to. Ah, it was a
dreadful winter, that! You 've surely heard of it. It
made forty widows in one town. Of the dead that were
found on Prince Edward's Island's shores there were
four corpses in the next house yonder, and two in the one
behind. And what waiting and watching and cruel pangs
of suspense for them that could n't have even the peace
of certainty! And I was one of those.
The days crept on, I say, and got bright again; no
June days ever stretched themselves to half such length;
there was perfect stillness in the house, — it seemed to
me that I counted every tick of the clock. In the evenings
the neighbors used to drop in and sit mumbling over
their fearful memories till the flesh crawled on my bones.
Father, then, he wanted cheer, and he 'd get me to singing
“Caller Herrin'.” Once, I 'd sung the first part, but
as I reached the lines, —
Dreamt ye aught o' our puir fellows
Darklin' as they face the billows,
A' to fill our woven willows,” —
the tears out of my eyes, and Jim Jerdan took it up himself
and sung it through for me to words of his own
invention. He was always a kindly fellow, and he knew
a little how the land lay between me and Dan.
“When I was down in the Georges,” said Jim Jerdan
—
“You? When was you down there?” asked father.
“Well, — once I was. There 's worse places.”
“Can't tell me nothing about the Georges,” said father.
“'T a'n't the rivers of Damascus exactly, but 't a'n't the
Marlstrom neither.”
“Ever ben there, Cap'n?”
“A few. Spent more nights under cover roundabouts
than Georgie 'll have white hairs in her head, — for all
she 's washing the color out of her eyes now.”
You see, father knew I set by my hair, — for in those
days I rolled it thick as a cable, almost as long, black as
that cat's back, — and he thought he 'd touch me up a
little.
“Wash the red from her cheek and the light from her
look, and she 'll still have the queen's own tread,” said
Jim.
“If Loisy Currier 'd heern that, you 'd wish your cake
was dough,” says father.
“I 'll resk it,” says Jim. “Loisy knows who 's second
choice, as well as if you told her.”
“But what about the Georges, Jim?” I asked; for
though I hated to hear, I could listen to nothing else.
“Georges? Oh, not much. Just like any other place.”
“But what do you do down there?”
“Do? Why, we fish, — in the pleasant weather.”
“And when it 's not pleasant?”
“Oh, then we make things taut, hoist fores'l, clap the
hellum into the lee becket, and go below and amuse ourselves.”
“How?” I asked, as if I had n't heard it all a hundred
times.
“One way 'n' another. Pipes, and mugs, and poker,
if it a'n't too rough; and if it is, we just bunk and snooze
till it gets smooth.”
“Why, Jim, — how do you know when that is?”
“Well, you can jedge, — 'f the pipe falls out of your
pocket and don't light on the ceiling.”
“And who 's on deck?”
“There 's no one on deck. There 's no danger, no
trouble, no nothing. Can't drive ashore, if you was to
try: hundred miles off, in the first place. Hatches are
closed, she 's light as a cork, rolls over and over just like
any other log in the water, and there can't a drop get
into her, if she turns bottom-side up.”
“But she never can right herself!”
“Can't she? You just try her. Why, I 've known
'em to keel over and rake bottom and bring up the weed
on the topmast. I tell you now! there was one time we
knowed she 'd turned a somerset, pretty well. Why?
Because, when it cleared and we come up, there was her
two masts broke short off!”
And Jim went home thinking he 'd given me a night's
sleep. But it was cold comfort; the Georges seemed to
me a worse place than the Hellgate. And mother she
kept murmuring, — “He layeth the beams of His chambers
in the waters, His pavilion round about Him is dark
waters and thick clouds of the skies.” And I knew by
that she thought it pretty bad.
So the days went in cloud and wind. The owners of
and there were strange kind of rumors afloat; and nobody
mentioned Dan's name, unless they tripped. I went glowering
like a wild thing. I knew I 'd never see Dan now
nor hear his voice again, but I hated the Lord that had
done it, and I made my heart like the nether millstone. I
used to try and get out of folks's sight; and roaming about
the back-streets one day, as the snow went off, I stumbled
on Miss Catharine. “Old Miss Catharine” everybody
called her, though she was but a pauper, and had black
blood in her veins. Eighty years had withered her, — a
little woman at best, and now bent so that her head and
shoulders hung forward and she could n't lift them, and
she never saw the sky. Her face to the ground as no
beast's face is turned even, she walked with a cane, and
fixing it every few steps she would throw herself back,
and so get a glimpse of her way and go on. I looked
after her, and for the first time in weeks my heart ached
for somebody beside myself. The next day mother sent
me with a dish to Miss Catharine's room, and I went in
and sat down. I did n't like her at first; she 'd got a
way of looking sidelong that gave her an evil air; but
soon she tilted herself backward, and I saw her face, —
such a happy one!
“What 's the matter of ye, honey?” said she. “D' ye
read your Bible?”
Read my Bible!
“Is that what makes you happy, Miss Catharine?” I
asked.
“Well, I can't read much myself, — I don't know the
letters,” says she; “but I 've got the blessed promises in
my heart.”
“Do you want me to read to you?”
“No, not to-day. Next time you come, maybe.”
So I sat awhile and listened to her little humming
voice, and we fell to talking about mother's ailments, and
she said how fine it would be, if we could only afford to
take mother to Bethesda.
“There 's no angel there now,” said I.
“I know it, dear, — but then — there might be, you
know. At any rate, there 's always the living waters
running to make us whole: I often think of that.”
“And what else do you think of, Miss Catharine?”
“Me?” said she. “Oh, I ha'n't got no husband nor
no child to think about and hope for, and so I think of
myself, and what I should like, honey. And sometimes
I remember them varses, — here! you read 'em now, —
Luke xiii. 11.”
So I read: —
“And, behold, there was a woman which had a spirit
of infirmity eighteen years, and was bowed together, and
could in no wise lift up herself. And when Jesus saw
her, he called her to him, and said unto her, `Woman,
thou art loosed from thine infirmity.' And he laid his
hands on her: and immediately she was made straight,
and glorified God.”
“Ay, honey, I see that all as if it was me. And I
think, as I 'm setting here, What if the latch should lift,
and the gracious stranger should come in, his gown
a-sweepin' behind him and a-sweet'nin' the air, and he
should look down on me with his heavenly eyes, and he
should smile, and lay his hands on my head, warm, — and
I say to myself, `Lord, I am not worthy,' — and he says,
`Miss Catharine, thou art loosed from thine infirmity!'
And the latch lifts as I think, and I wait, — but it 's not
Him.”
Well, when I went out of that place I was n't the
same girl that had gone in. My will gave way; I came
home and took up my burden and was in peace. Still I
could n't help my thoughts, — and they ran perpetually
to the sea. I had n't need to go up on the house-tops,
for I did n't shut my eyes but there it stretched before
me. I stirred about the rooms and tried to make them
glad once more; but I was thin and blanched as if I 'd
been rising from a fever. Father said it was the salt air
I wanted; and one day he was going out for frost-fish,
and he took me with him, and left me and my basket on
the sands while he was away. It was this side of the
South Breaker that he put me out, but I walked there;
and where the surf was breaking in the light, I went and
sat down and looked over it. I could do that now.
There was the Cape sparkling miles and miles across
the way, unconcerned that he whose firm foot had rung
last on its flints should ring there no more; there was the
beautiful town lying large and warm along the river;
here gay craft went darting about like gulls, and there up
the channel sped a larger one, with all her canvas flashing
in the sun, and shivering a little spritsail in the
shadow, as she went; and fawning in upon my feet came
the foam from the South Breaker, that still perhaps
cradled Faith and Gabriel. But as I looked, my eye
fell, and there came the sea-scenes again, — other scenes
than this, coves and corners of other coasts, sky-girt
regions of other waters. The air was soft, that April
day, and I thought of the summer calms; and with that
rose long sheets of stillness, far out from any strand,
purple beneath the noon; fields slipping close in-shore,
emerald-backed and scaled with sunshine; long sleepy
swells that hid the light in their hollows, and came
suddenly a wild glimpse of some storm careering over
a merciless mid-ocean, of a dear dead face tossing up on
the surge and snatched back again into the depths, of
mad wastes rushing to tear themselves to fleece above
clear shallows and turbid sand-bars, — they melted and
were lost in peaceful glimmers of the moon on distant
flying foam-wreaths, in solemn midnight tides chanting in
under hushed heavens, in twilight stretches kissing twilight
slopes, in rosy morning waves flocking up the singing
shores. And sitting so, with my lids still fallen, I
heard a quick step on the beach, and a voice that said,
“Georgie!” And I looked, and a figure, red-shirted,
towered beside me, and a face, brown and bearded and
tender, bent above me.
Oh! it was Dan!
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