I was not to be stopped by this. ’Twas an occasion too promising in disaster. She had sirred me like a house-maid. Sir? ’Twas past believing. That Judith should be so overcome by fine feathers and a roosterly strut! ’Twas shocking to discover the effect of my uncle’s teaching. It seemed to me that the maid must at once be dissuaded from this attitude of inferiority or my solid hope would change into a dream. Inferiority? She must have no such fancy! Fixed within her mind ’twould inevitably involve us in some catastrophe of feeling. The torrent of my wrath and supplication went tumbling on: there was no staying it. My uncle’s hand fell short of his staff; he sat stiff and agape with astonished admiration: perceiving which, my tutor laughed until my hot words were fair extinguished in the noise he made. By this my uncle was set laughing: whence the infection spread to me. And then Judith peeped at me through the cluster of buttercups with the ghost of a roguish twinkle.
“I’ll call you Dannie,” says she, slyly–“t’ save you the lickin’!”
“Daniel,” cries my uncle, delighted, “one slug-shot. Box with the star t’ the box with the cross. Judy,” says he, “move aft alongside o’ that there roast veal!”
’Twas the beginning and end of this seeming difference of station…
John Cather took us in hand to profit us. ’Twas in the learning he had–’twas in every genteel accomplishment he had himself mastered in the wise world he came from–that we were instructed. I would have Judy for school-fellow: nor would I be denied–not I! ’Twas the plan I made when first I knew John Cather’s business in our house: else, thinks I, ’twould be a mean, poor match we should make of it in the end. I would have her: and there, says I, with a toss and a stamp, to my uncle’s delight, was an end of it! It came about in this way that we three spent the days together in agreeable employment: three young, unknowing souls–two lads and a maid. In civil weather, ’twas in the sunlight and breeze of the hills, ’twas in shady hollows, ’twas on the warm, dry rocks, which the breakers could not reach, ’twas on the brink of the cliff, that Cather taught us, leaving off to play, by my uncle’s command, when we were tired of study; and when the wind blew with rain, or fog got the world all a-drip, or the task was incongruous with sunshine and fresh air (like multiplication), ’twas within doors that the lesson proceeded–in my library, which my uncle had luxuriously outfitted for me, when still I was an infant, against this very time.
“John Cather,” says I, one day, “you’ve a wonderful tongue in your head.”
’Twas on the cliff of Tom Tulk’s Head. We had climbed the last slope hand in hand, with Judith between, and were now stretched out on the brink, resting in the cool blue wind from the sea.
“A nimble tongue, Dannie,” he replied, “I’ll admit.”
“A wonderful tongue!” I repeated. “John Cather,” I exclaimed, in envious admiration, “you’ve managed t’ tell Judy in ten thousand ways that she’s pretty.”
Judith blushed.
“I wisht,” says I, “that I was so clever as that.”
“I know still another way,” said he.
“Ay; an’ a hundred more!”
“Another,” said he, softly, turning to Judith, who would not look at him. “Shall I tell you, Judith?”
She shook her head.
“No?” said he. “Why not?”
The answer was in a whisper–given while the maid’s hot face was still turned away. “I’m not wantin’ you to,” she said.
“Do, maid!” I besought her.
“I’m not wantin’ him to.”
“’Tis your eyes, I’ll be bound!” said I. “’Twill be so clever that you’ll be glad to hear.”
“But I’m not wantin’ him to,” she persisted.
My tutor smiled indulgently–but with a pitiful little trace of hurt remaining. ’Twas as though he must suffer the rebuff with no offended question. In the maid ’twas surely a wilful and bewildering thing to deny him. I could not make it out: but wished, in the breeze and sunlight of that day, that the wound had not been dealt. ’Twas an unkind thing in Judith, thinks I; ’twas a thing most cruel–thus to coquette with the friendship of John Cather.
“Ah, Judy,” I pleaded, “leave un have his way!”
She picked at the moss.
“Will ye not, maid?”
“I’m afraid!” she whispered in my ear.
“An’ you’d stop for that!” I chided, not knowing what she meant: as how should a lad?
It seemed she would.
“’Tis an unkind thing,” says I, “t’ treat John Cather so. He’ve been good,” says I, “t’ you, Judy.”
“Dannie!” she wailed.
“Don’t, Dannie!” Cather entreated.
“I’d have ye listen, Judy,” said I, in earnest, kind reproach, “t’ what John Cather says. I’d have ye heed his words. I’d have ye care for him.” Being then a lad, unsophisticated in the wayward, mercilessly selfish passion of love, ignorant of the unmitigated savagery of the thing, I said more than that, in my folly. “I’d have ye love John Cather,” says I, “as ye love me.” ’Tis a curious thing to look back upon. That I should snarl the threads of our destinies! ’Tis an innocency hard to credit. But yet John Cather and I had no sensitive intuition to warn us. How should we–being men? ’Twas for Judith to perceive the inevitable catastrophe; ’twas for the maid, not misled by reason, schooled by feeling into the very perfection of wisdom, to control and direct the smouldering passion of John Cather and me in the way she would, according to the power God gives, in infinite understanding of the hearts of men, to a maid to wield. “I’d have ye love John Cather,” says I, “as ye love me.” It may be that a lad loves his friend more than any other. “I’d have ye t’ know, Judy,” says I, gently, “that John Cather’s my friend. I’d have ye t’ know–”
“Dannie,” Cather interrupted, putting an affectionate hand on my shoulder, “you don’t know what you’re saying.”
Judith turned.
“I do, John Cather,” says I. “I knows full well.”
Judith’s eyes, grown all at once wide and grave, looked with wonder into mine. I was made uneasy–and cocked my head, in bewilderment and alarm. ’Twas a glance that searched me deep. What was this? And why the warning? There was more than warning. ’Twas pain I found in Judith’s great, blue eyes. What had grieved her? ’Twas reproach, too–and a flash of doubt. I could not read the riddle of it. Indeed, my heart began to beat in sheer fright, for the reproach and doubt vanished, even as I stared, and I confronted a sparkling anger. But presently, as often happened with that maid, tears flushed her eyes, and the long-lashed lids fell, like a curtain, upon her grief: whereupon she turned away, troubled, to peer at the sea, breaking far below, and would not look at me again. We watched her, John Cather and I, for an anxious space, while she sat brooding disconsolate at the edge of the cliff, a sweep of cloudless sky beyond. The slender, sweetly childish figure–with the tawny hair, I recall, all aglow with sunlight–filled the little world of our thought and vision. There was a patch of moss and rock, the green and gray of our land–there was Judith–there was an infinitude of blue space. John Cather’s glance was frankly warm; ’twas a glance proceeding from clear, brave, guileless eyes–springing from a limpid soul within. It caressed the maid, in a fashion, thinks I, most brotherly. My heart warmed to the man; and I wondered that Judith should be unkind to him who was our friend.
’Twas a mystery.
“You will not listen, Judith?” he asked. “’Tis a very pretty thing I want to say.”
Judith shook her head.
A flash of amusement crossed his face. “Please do!” he coaxed.
“No!”
“I’m quite proud of it,” says he, with a laugh in his fine eyes. He leaned forward a little, and made as if to touch her, but withdrew his hand. “I did not know,” says he, “that I was so clever. I have it all ready. I have every word in place. I’d like to say it–for my own pleasure, if not for yours. I think it would be a pity to let the pretty words waste themselves unsaid. I–I–hope you’ll listen. I–I–really hope you will. And you will not?”
“No!” she cried, sharply. “No, no!”
“Why not?”
“No!” she repeated; and she slipped her hand into mine, and hid them both snugly in the folds of her gown, where John Cather could not see. “God wouldn’t like it, John Cather,” says she, her little teeth all bare, her eyes aflash with indignation, her long fingers so closely entwined with mine that I wondered. “He wouldn’t ’low it,” says she, “an He knowed.”
I looked at John Cather in vague alarm.
XVII
RUM AND RUIN
In these days at Twist Tickle, his perturbation passed, my uncle was most blithe: for the Shining Light was made all ready for sea, with but an anchor to slip, sails to raise, for flight from an army of St. John’s constables; and we were a pleasant company, well fallen in together, in a world of fall weather. And, says he, if the conduct of a damned little Chesterfieldian young gentleman was a labor t’ manage, actin’ accordin’ t’ that there fashionable ol’ lord of the realm, by advice o’ Sir Harry, whatever the lad in the case, whether good or bad, why, then, a maid o’ the place, ecod! was but a pastime t’ rear, an’ there, says he, you had it! ’Twas at night, when he was come in from the sea, and the catch was split, and we sat with him over his rum, that he beamed most widely. He would come cheerily stumping from his mean quarters above, clad in the best of his water-side slops, all ironed and brushed, his great face glossy from soap and water, his hair dripping; and he would fall into the arms of his great-chair by the fire with a genial grunt of satisfaction, turning presently to regard us, John Cather and Judy and me, with a grin so wide and sparkling and benevolently indulgent and affectionate–with an aspect so patriarchal–that our hearts would glow and our faces responsively shine.
“Up with un, Dannie!” says he.
I would lift the ailing bit of timber to the stool with gingerly caution.
“Easy, lad!” groans he. “Ouch! All ship-shape,” says he. “Is you got the little brown jug o’ water?”
’Twould surely be there.
“Green pastures!” says he, so radiantly red, from his bristling gray stubble of hair to the folds of his chin, that I was reminded of a glowing coal. “There you haves it, Dannie!” cries he. “I knowed they was some truth in that there psa’m. Green pastures! ‘He maketh me t’ lie down in green pastures.’ Them ol’ bullies was wise as owls… Pass the bottle, Judy. Thank ’e, maid. Ye’re a wonderful maid t’ blush, thank God! for they’s nothin’ so pretty as that. I’m a old, old man, Judy; but t’ this day, maid, ’tis fair painful t’ keep from kissin’ red cheeks, whenever I sees un. Judy,” says he, with a wag, his hand on the bottle, “I’d rather be tempted by mermaids or angels–I cares not which–than by a mortal maid’s red cheeks! ’Twould be wonderful easy,” says he, “t’ resist a angel… Green pastures! Eh, Dannie, b’y? Times is changed, isn’t they? Not like it used t’ be, when you an’ me sot here alone t’ drink, an’ you was on’y a wee little lad. I wisht ye was a wee little lad again, Dannie; but Lord love us!” cries he, indignant with the paradox, “when ye was a wee little lad I wisht ye was growed. An’ there you haves it!” says he, dolefully. “There you haves it!.. I ’low, Dannie,” says he, anxiously, his bottle halted in mid-air, “that you’d best pour it out. I’m a sight too happy, the night,” says he, “t’ be trusted with a bottle.”
’Tis like he would have gone sober to bed had I not been there to measure his allowance.
“Ye’re not so wonderful free with the liquor,” he pouted, “as ye used t’ be.”
’Twas Judy who had put me up to it.
“Ye might be a drop more free!” my uncle accused.
’Twas reproachful–and hurt me sore. That I should deny my uncle who had never denied me! I blamed the woman. ’Tis marvellous how this frailty persists. That Judith, Twist Tickle born, should deliberately introduce the antagonism–should cause my uncle to suffer, me to regret! ’Twas hard to forgive the maid her indiscretion. I was hurt: for, being a lad, not a maid of subtle perceptions, I would not have my uncle go lacking that which comforted his distress and melancholy. Faith! but I had myself been looking forward with a thirsty gullet to the day–drawn near, as I thought–when I should like a man drink hard liquor with him in the glow of our fire: as, indeed, had he, by frank confession, indiscreetly made when he was grown horrified or wroth with my intemperance with ginger-ale.
“God save ye, Dannie!” he would expostulate, most heartily, most piously; “but I wisht ye’d overcome the bilge-water habit.”
I would ignore him.
“’Tis on’y a matter o’ will,” says he. “’Tis nothin’ more than that. An’ I’m fair ashamed,” he groaned, in sincere emotion, “to think ye’re shackled, hand an’ foot, to a bottle o’ ginger-ale. For shame, lad–t’ come t’ such a pass.” He was honest in his expostulation; ’twas no laughing matter–’twas an anxiously grave concern for my welfare. He disapproved of the beverage–having never tasted it. “You,” cries he, with a pout and puff of scorn, “an’ your bilge-water! In irons with a bottle o’ ginger-ale! Could ye but see yourself, Dannie, ye’d quit quick enough. ’Tis a ridiculous picture ye make–you an’ your bottle. ’Twould not be hard t’ give it up, lad,” he would plead. “Ye’ll manage it, Dannie, an ye’d but put your mind to it. Ye’d be nervous, I’ve no doubt, for a spell. But what’s that? Eh, what’s that–ag’in your health?”
I would sip my ginger-ale unheeding.
“An’ what about Chesterfield?” says he.
“I’ll have another bottle, sir,” says I.
“Lord love us!” he would complain, in such distress that I wish I had not troubled him with this passion. “Ye’re fair bound t’ ruin your constitution with drink.”
Pop went the cork.
“An’ here’s me” says he, in disgusted chagrin, “tryin’ t’ make a gentleman out o’ ye!”
Ah, well! ’twas now a mean, poor lookout for the cosey conviviality I had all my life promised myself with my uncle. Since the years when late o’ nights I occupied the arms and broad knee of Cap’n Jack Large at the Anchor and Chain–with a steaming comfort within and a rainy wind blowing outside–my uncle and I had dwelt upon the time when I might drink hard liquor with him like a man. ’Twould be grand, says my uncle, to sit o’ cold nights, when I was got big, with a bottle o’ Long Tom between. A man grown–a man grown able for his bottle! For him, I fancy, ’twas a vision of successful achievement and the reward of it. Lord love us! says he, but the talk o’ them times would be lovely. The very thought of it, says he–the thought o’ Dannie Callaway grown big and manly and helpfully companionable–fair warmed him with delight. But now, at Twist Tickle, with the strong, sly hands of Judith upon our ways, with her grave eyes watching, now commending, now reproaching, ’twas a new future that confronted us. Ay, but that maid, dwelling responsibly with us men, touched us closely with control! ’Twas a sharp eye here, a sly eye there, a word, a twitch of her red lips, a lift of the brow and dark lashes–and a new ordering of our lives. ’Tis marvellous how she did it: but that she managed us into better habits, by the magic mysteriously natural to a maid, I have neither the wish nor the will to gainsay. I grieved that she should deprive my uncle of his comfort; but being a lad, devoted, I would not add one drop to my uncle’s glass, while Judith sat under the lamp, red-cheeked in the heat of the fire, her great eyes wishful to approve, her mind most captivatingly engaged, as I knew, with the will of God, which was her own, dear heart! though she did not know it.
“Dannie,” says she, in private, “God wouldn’t ’low un more’n a quarter of a inch at a time.”
“’Twas in the pantry while I got the bottle.”
“An’ how,” quoth I, “is you knowin’ that?”
“Why, child,” she answered, “God tol’ me so.”
I writhed. ’Twas a fancy so strange the maid had: but was yet so true and reverent and usefully efficient–so high in leading to her who led us with her into pure paths–that I must smile and adore her for it. ’Twas to no purpose, as I knew, to thresh over the improbability of the communication: Judith’s eyes were round and clear and unwavering–full of most exalted truth, concern, and confidence. There was no pretence anywhere to be descried in their depths: nor evil nor subterfuge of any sort. And it seems to me, now, grown as I am to sager years, that had the Guide whose hand she held upon the rough road of her life communed with His sweet companion, ’twould have been no word of reproach or direction he would whisper for her, who needed none, possessing all the wisdom of virtue, dear heart! but a warning in my uncle’s behalf, as she would have it, against the bottle he served. The maid’s whimsical fancy is not incomprehensible to me, neither tainted with irreverence nor untruth: ’twas a thing flowering in the eyrie garden of her days at Whisper Cove–a thing, as I cannot doubt, of highest inspiration.
“But,” I protested, glibly, looking away, most wishful, indeed, to save my uncle pain, “I isn’t able t’ measure a quarter of a inch.”
“I could,” says she.
“Not with the naked eye, maid!”
“Well,” says she, “you might try, jus’ t’ please God.”
To be sure I might: I might pour at a guess. But, unhappily (and it may be that there is some philosophy in this for a self-indulgent world), I was not in awe of Judith’s fantastic conception of divinity, whatever I thought of my own, by whom, however, I was not conjured. Moreover, I loved my uncle, who had continued to make me happy all my life, and would venture far in the service of his comfort. The twinkling, benevolent aspect of the maid’s Deity could not compel a lad to righteousness: I could with perfect complacency conduct myself perversely before it. And must we then, lads and men, worship a God of wrath, quick to punish, niggardly in fatherly forgiveness, lest we stray into evil ways? I do not know. ’Tis beyond me to guess the change to be worked in the world by a new conception of the eternal attributes.
“An’ will you not?” says she.
It chanced, now, that she held the lamp near her face, so that her beauty was illumined and transfigured. ’Twas a beauty most tender–most pure and elfin and religious. ’Tis a mean, poor justification, I know, to say that I was in some mysterious way–by the magic resident in the beauty of a maid, and virulently, wickedly active within its sphere, which is the space the vision of a lad may carry–that I was by this magic incapacitated and overcome. ’Tis an excuse made by fallen lads since treason was writ of; ’tis a mere excuse, ennobling no traitorious act: since love, to be sure, has no precedence of loyalty in hearts of truth and manful aspiration. Love? surely it walks with glorious modesty in the train of honor–or is a brazen baggage. But, as it unhappily chanced, whatever the academic conception, the maid held the lamp too close for my salvation: so close that her blue, shadowy eyes bewildered me, and her lips, red and moist, with a gleam of white teeth between, I recall, tempted me quite beyond the endurance of self-respect. I slipped, indeed, most sadly in the path, and came a shamefaced, ridiculous cropper.
“An’ will you not,” says she, “pour but a quarter of a inch t’ the glass?”
“I will,” I swore, “for a kiss!”
’Twas an outrageous betrayal of my uncle.
“For shame!” cries she.
“I will for a kiss,” I repeated, my soul offered on a platter to the devil, “regardless o’ the consequences.”
She matched my long words with a great one caught from my tutor. “God isn’t inclined,” says she, with a toss, “in favor o’ kisses.”
And there you had it!
When we sat late, our maid-servant would indignantly whisk Judith off to bed–crying out upon us for our wickedness.
“Cather,” my uncle would drawl, Judith being gone, “ye’re all wore out along o’ too much study.”
“Not at all, Skipper Nicholas!” cries my tutor.
“Study,” says my uncle, in solemn commiseration, “is a bitter thing t’ be cotched by. Ye’re all wore out, parson, along o’ the day’s work.”
My tutor laughed.
“Too much study for the brain,” says my uncle, sympathetically, his eye on the bottle. “I ’low, parson, if I was you I’d turn in.”
Cather was unfailingly obedient.
“Dannie,” says my uncle, with reviving interest, “have he gone above?”
“He have,” says I.
“Take a look,” he whispered, “t’ see that Judy’s stowed away beyond hearin’.”
I would step into the hall–where was no nightgowned figure listening on the stair–to reassure him.
“Dannie,” says he, wickedly gleeful, “how’s the bottle?”
I would hold it up to the lamp and rattle its contents. “’Tis still stout, sir,” says I. “’Tis a wonderful bottle.”
“Stout!” cries he, delighted. “Very good.”
“Still stout,” says I; “an’ the third night!”
“Then,” says he, pushing his glass towards me, “I ’low they’s no real need o’ puttin’ me on short allowance. Be liberal, Dannie, b’y–be liberal when ye pours.”
I would be liberal.
“’Tis somehow sort o’ comfortable, lad,” says he, eying me with honest feeling, “t’ be sittin’ down here with a ol’ chum like you. ’Tis very good, indeed.”
I was glad that he thought so.
And now I must tell that I loved Judith. ’Tis enough to say so–to write the bare words down. I’m not wanting to, to be sure: for it shames a man to speak boldly of sacred things like this. It shames a lad, it shames a maid, to expose the heart of either, save sacredly to each other. ’Tis all well enough, and most delightful, when the path is moonlit and secluded, when the warmth and thrill of a slender hand may be felt, when the stars wink tender encouragement from the depths of God’s own firmament, when all the world is hushed to make the opportunity: ’tis then all well enough to speak of love. There is nothing, I know, to compare in ecstasy with the whisper and sigh and clinging touch of that time–to compare with the awe and mystery and solemnity of it. But ’tis sacrilegious and most desperately difficult and embarrassing, I find, at this distant day, to write of it. I had thought much upon love, at that wise age–fifteen, it was, I fancy–and it seemed to me, I recall, a thing to cherish within the heart of a man, to hide as a treasure, to dwell upon, alone, in moments of purest exaltation. ’Twas not a thing to bandy about where punts lay tossing in the lap of the sea; ’twas not a thing to tell the green, secretive old hills of Twin Islands; ’twas not a thing to which the doors of the workaday world might be opened, lest the ribaldry to which it come offend and wound it: ’twas a thing to conceal, far and deep, from the common gaze and comment, from the vulgar chances, the laugh and cynical exhaustion and bleared wit of the life we live. I loved Judith–her eyes and tawny hair and slender finger-tips, her whimsical way, her religious, loving soul. I loved her; and I would not have you think ’twas any failure of adoration to pour my uncle an honest dram of rum when she was stowed away in innocency of all the evil under the moon. ’Tis a thing that maids have nothing to do with, thinks I; ’tis a knowledge, indeed, that would defile them…
“Dannie,” says my uncle, once, when we were left alone, “he’ve begun t’ fall.”
I was mystified.
“The parson,” he explained, in a radiant whisper; “he’ve begun t’ yield.”
“T’ what?” I demanded.
“Temptation. He’ve a dark eye, lad, as I ’lowed long ago, an’ he’ve begun t’ give way t’ argument.”
“God’s sake, Uncle Nick!” I cried, “leave the poor man be. He’ve done no harm.”
He scratched his stubble of hair, and contemplatively traced a crimson scar with his forefinger. “No,” he mused, his puckered, weathered brow in a doubtful frown; “not so far. But,” he added, looking cheerily up, “I’ve hopes that I’ll manage un yet.”
“Leave un alone,” I pleaded.
“Ay,” says he, with a hitch of his wooden leg; “but I needs un.”
I protested.
“Ye don’t s’pose, Dannie,” he complained, in a righteous flash, “that I’m able t’ live forever, does ye?”
I did not, but heartily wished he might; and by this sincere expression he was immediately mollified.
“Well,” says he, his left eyelid drooping in a knowing way, his whole round person, from his topmost bristle to his gouty wooden toe, braced to receive the shock of my congratulation, “I’ve gone an’ worked that there black-an’-white young parson along! Sir Harry hisself,” he declared, “couldn’t have done it no better. Nor ol’ Skipper Chesterfield, neither,” says he.
’Twas a pity.
“No,” he boasted, defiantly; “nor none o’ them wise ol’ bullies of old!”
I sighed.
“Dannie,” says he, with the air of imparting a grateful secret, “I got that there black-an’-white young parson corrupted. I got un,” he repeated, leaning forward, his fantastic countenance alight with pride and satisfaction–“I got un corrupted! I’ve got un t’ say,” says he, “that ’tis sometimes wise t’ do evil that good may come. An’ when a young feller says that,” says he, with a grave, grave nodding, so that his disfigurements were all most curiously elongated, “he’ve sold his poor, mean soul t’ the devil.”
“I wisht,” I complained, “that you’d leave the poor man alone.”
“Why, Dannie,” says my uncle, simply, “he’s paid for!”
“Paid for!” cries I.
“Ay, lad,” he chided; “t’ be sure, that there young black-an’-white parson is paid for.”
I wondered how that might be.
“Paid for!” my uncle repeated, in a quivering, indrawn breath, the man having fallen, all at once, into gloom and terror. “’Tis all paid for!”
Here again was the disquieting puzzle of my childish years: my uncle, having now leaned forward to come close to me, was in a spasmodic way indicating the bowels of the earth with a turned thumb. Down, down: it seemed he pointed to infinite depths of space and woe. Down, down–continuing thus, with a slow, grevious wagging of the great, gray head the sea had in the brutal passion of some wild night maltreated. The familiar things of the room, the simple, companionable furniture of that known place, with the geometrically tempestuous ocean framed beyond, were resolved into a background of mysterious shadows as I stared; there was nothing left within the circle of my vision but a scared gargoyle, leaning into the red glow of the fire. My uncle’s round little eyes protruded–started from the bristles and purpling scars and brown flesh of his broad face–as many a time before I had in sad bewilderment watched them do. Paid for–all the pride and comfort and strange advantages of my life! All paid for in the black heart of this mystery! And John Cather, too! I wondered again, with an eye upon my uncle’s significantly active thumb, having no courage to meet his poignant glance, how that might be. According to my catechism, severely taught in other years, I must ask no questions, but must courteously await enlightenment at my uncle’s pleasure; and ’twas most marvellously hard–this night of all the nights–to keep my soul unspotted from the sin of inquisitiveness.
“Paid for,” my uncle repeated, hoarse with awe, “by poor Tom Callaway!”
’Twas kind in my father, thinks I, to provide thus bounteously for my welfare.
“Poor Tom!” my uncle sighed, now recovering his composure. “Poor, poor ol’ Tom–in the place he’s to!”
“Still an’ all, Uncle Nick,” I blundered, “I wisht you’d leave my tutor be.”
“Ye’re but a child!” he snapped. “Put the stopper in the bottle. ’Tis time you was in bed.”
’Twas an unexpected rebuke. I was made angry with him, for the only time in all my life; and to revenge myself I held the bottle to the lamp, and deliberately measured its contents, before his astonished eyes, so that, though I left it with him, he could not drink another drop without my knowing it; and I stoppered the bottle, as tight as I was able, and left him to get his wooden toe from the stool with the least agony he could manage, and would not bank the fire or light his night-lamp. I loved my tutor, and would not have him corrupted; ’twas a hateful thought to conceive that he might come unwittingly to ruin at our hands. ’Twas a shame in my old uncle, thinks I, to fetch him to despair. John Cather’s soul bargained for and bought! ’Twas indeed a shame to say it. There was no evil in him when he came clear-eyed from the great world beyond us; there should be no evil in him when he left us, whenever that might be, to renew the life he would not tell us of. I looked my uncle in the eye in a way that hurt and puzzled him. I wish I had not; but I did, as I pounded the cork home, and boldly slipped the screw into my pocket. He would go on short allowance, that night, thinks I: for his nails, broken by toil, would never pick the stopper out. And I prepared, in a rage, to fling out of the room, when–
“Dannie!” he called.
I halted.
“What’s this?” says he, gently. “It never happened afore, little shipmate, betwixt you an’ me. What’s this?” he begged. “I’m troubled.”
I pulled the cork of his bottle, and poured a dram, most liberally, to delight his heart; and I must turn my face away, somehow, to hide it from him, because of shame for this mean doubt of him, ungenerous and ill-begotten.
“I’m troubled,” he repeated. “What’s this, lad?”
I could not answer him.
“Is I been unkind, Dannie?”
“No,” I sobbed. “’Tis that I’ve been wicked t’ you!”
He looked at me with eyes grown very grave. “Ah!” says he, presently, comprehending. “That’s good,” says he, in his slow, gentle way. “That’s very good. But ye’ll fret no more, will ye, Dannie? An’ ye’ve growed too old t’ cry. Go t’ bed, lad. Ye’re all wore out. I’ll manage the lamp alone. God bless ye. Go t’ bed.”
I waited.
“That’s good,” he repeated, in a muse, staring deep into the red coals in the grate. “That’s very good.”
I ran away–closed my door upon this wretched behavior, but could not shut its ghastly sauciness and treachery from the chambers of my memory. The habit of faith and affection was strong: I was no longer concerned for my friend John Cather, but was mightily ashamed of this failure in duty to the grotesque old hook-and-line man who had without reserve of sacrifice or strength nourished me to the lusty years of that night. As I lay in bed, I recall, downcast, self-accusing, flushed with shame, I watched the low clouds scud across the starlit sky, and I perceived, while the torn, wind-harried masses rushed restlessly on below the high, quiet firmament, that I had fallen far away from the serenity my uncle would teach me to preserve in every fortune.