by Bill Bowers
“She wants to know what changes I remember in this place?” for so Holdcomb had interpreted C——’s question. “Not many—not many: my time has been so short. Now, my father could remember when a good part of Ocean and Monmouth counties was under the sea. But he lived to a good age. Under this house where you are there’s been dug up sherks’ teeth and the backbones of whales. My grandfather, ’s likely, could remember when they swam over this field,” pursing up her thin lips thoughtfully. “Thee wasn’t here in the war of 1812?” turning sharply on C——.
“No.”
“I was here: I had come home for the first time from New York then. I watched the English vessels come up the inlet: it was a gusty afternoon like this. They had come up to plunder the farms. The men that weren’t Friends took their guns and went down to fire on them from the shore.”
“And those that were Friends?” asked C——.
“Took their guns and went along,” with a shrill laugh and nod. “Oh, the young people in the house were terribly frightened. It was all I could do to keep their courage up, silly children.”
“Were you not afraid?”
“No. I wasn’t young, and I had nothing to lose.” She had turned her head, with her back to us, and was talking into the darkness. She hurled out the last words with a kind of defiance. “I had nothing to lose.”
“True enough!” said Jeremiah, with many wags of the head and senile blinks of sympathy; but, catching our inquiring looks, he recovered himself with a sudden deprecatory cough and leaned his chin on his cane, silent and attentive.
“I set the children to barring up the windows,” continued Priscilla after a moment’s pause, “and then I took a ladder and climbed on to the roof. I put my back against the chimney and my feet on the top rung, and there I saw the fight. Our men hid among the salt grass of the ma’ash and picked ’em off one by one. They was main good shots. I saw Ben Stover aim at a man up on the foremast, and then there was a whiff of smoke and down he went in a lump into the water. They said his dyin’ yell was terrible to hear,” she added with a chuckle.
“What became of Stover after that?” asked Jeremiah.
“He died when he was a young man—only sixty or thereabout. He used to go up and down the beach lookin’ for Kidd’s treasure, muttering to himself. They said he went mad because there was blood on his hands, him bein’ a Quaker. But I knew different from that: it was the money drove him mad—Kidd’s money—he was so sure of finding it.”
She fell back in her chair, breathless with her vehemence. But in a few minutes she sat upright again and thrust her bloodless, peaked face into mine. “Where did thee say thee came from?”
“New York, mother,” signed Jeremiah.
“New York—a-ah!” drawing in her breath. “I lived nigh New York—in a country-place three mile from town, but now they tell me it’s in the heart of the city, built over with huckster-shops. Does thee know it?”
I shook my head.
“No, nobody would remember it.” she said gently. “I would know it: nothing they could build on it would hide it from me.” Her eyes deepened in their sad quiet, the shrill tones softened. For the moment it was the voice of a young woman that we heard.
C——was about to question her, but Jeremiah interposed: “Take care! Don’t ask her what she means. Never before sin’ I’ve known her has she spoken of the time she was in New York. God knows what’s drove them words out of her now!”
To change the current of her thoughts he leaned forward and told her by signs the story of our coming to the Whynne house. I was quite willing that she should be turned from any dangerous subjects: I had the uncomfortable feeling when with her that we were dealing with Death himself, or with some forgotten part of a past age more alien and incomprehensible than Death.
“Thee is living in my house?” turning sharply on us. “Yes, it’s mine: it will never belong to any but a Whynne. I know every board in it.”
Her head dropped on her breast and her eyes were fixed on vacancy. After waiting a few moments, finding that she had apparently forgotten us, we rose to leave her. As C——came up to bid her good-bye she said, “You will come to your house while we are there?”
“I?” She started up, standing erect without her staff: her voice was feebler than a whisper, her hands were clasped over her head. But it was the voice and gesture of a young, passionate woman. “Into that house? I’ll never cross the threshold while I’m living. It’s just a step across the ma’ash, thee knows,” appealing to Jeremiah, “but it’s nigh sixty year since I put my foot in it. I’ve never forgot that I was Josiah Perot’s wife. There’s them waitin’ for me there as Josiah never could abide. But when I’m dead—” She threw out her arms with a sudden indescribable gesture of freedom. “I’ll have done with Josiah Perot when I’m dead.”
C——drew me away, and we hurried homeward. Glancing back, we could see the woman standing in the doorway: her back was turned toward us, looking out to Sea.
It was a gusty, chilly afternoon. Spectral whitish drifts of fog were blown inland across the marshes. The sun went down in an angry yellow glare which foreboded ill; and then the night fell suddenly, unusually dark, full of shrill whispers of the wind through the swamps and the threatening roar of the sea.
We had, however, I remember, a comfortable hot supper soon ready, and we closed the curtains and heaped up the fire in the living-room to shut out the darkness and strange noises without.
When supper was over and Captain Holdcomb was seated with his pipe in the chimney-corner, we urged him to tell us the history of Priscilla without reserve.
“There’s not much to tell,” he said. “She was born in this house, and she married Josiah Perot well on in life; and if Josiah was a bit stupid he was a steady, God-fearin’ fellow; and that’s more than could be said of any Whynne that ever lived.”
“But before she married Perot?”
“Well, nothin’ happened remarkable—onless,” he added reluctantly, “that curious occurrence at Abner Whynne’s death. I kin tell you about that,” dropping into the singsong of an oft-told tale. “Abner Whynne was this woman’s father. He lived to be a hunderd and four. He lived with his wife down to Sherk River, for the old people had give up this house to their da’ater Peggy, who married Sam Volk.”
“Where was Priscilla?”
“Well, I might as well tell the whole on’t. It was like this. She wa’n’t like the rest on ’em. She wa’n’t ez handsome as Peggy, but she was of a different sort, I’ve heard say—finer an’ harder to please. She went up to New York, and ther she fell in with a Captain John Salterre, commanding a brig that run to the Mediterranean. He war a handsome fellow, ’cordin’ to accounts, and of a high family—very different from the Whynnes. Word came back that she war married to him, and next (that al’ays was the queer part of it to me) that he had sent her to school. Oh, I’ve heard my father say when she came back in 1812 she could speak one of them foreign tongues quite fluent. Her father al’ays set great store by Priscilla, though she never come anigh him. Peggy grew to be a humble, hard-workin’ woman in middle age, and war a faithful da’ater. But, Lord! he cared not a copper cent for her. It was all ‘My da’ater Priscilla,’ because she had made the grand marriage in New York. When her mother died down to Sherk River, Peggy war ther. She said, ‘now, daddy, thee must come along home to me.’—‘I will not, Margaret, he says.—‘But thee must,’ says she: ‘thee cannot live here alone.’ For he was then ninety-eight.—‘I hev my lines to watch,’ says he. For he was a fisherman, thee knows. ‘Very well, daddy,’ says Peggy, ‘thee can set thee lines in the inlet jest as well as Sherk River.’ Then she ups and packs his clock and his wooden chair (it’s this one I’m sittin’ on, only it had a sheep-skin cover on then) and his teakettle and his fire-dogs, so’s he might feel at home, and she fixed them all up in this hyar room back of me.” Jeremiah, with his staff, pushed open the door into the half-ruined chamber behind him. The log walls had fallen to decay half a cen
tury ago, but there was the fireplace with rusted irons on the hearth—the very fire-dogs he had mentioned, perhaps.
“That was his room, and he could do as he pleased in it. He used to set by the door yander, his old deaf yaller dog Turk lyin’ atween his knees, both on ’em a-lookin’ out at the sea hour in an’ hour out. He lived on here with Peggy for six year. In that time no word came from Priscilla. He used to talk about her and her grandeur to the men a-fishin’, but we all knowed it was jest his notions, for she never sent him a letter or made a sign. I was a peart young lad then, rising sixteen. It’s jest sixty year ago, last October, when one mornin’ Peggy went in to get the old man’s coffee for him. She al’ays made his bite of breakfast ready afore anything else. ‘I’ll have no coffee, Peggy,’ says he.—‘Is thee sick, daddy?’ says she. For it was the first time he had ever refused his breakfast. As for sickness, he had never been sick an hour since any living man could remember, though as to his boyhood nobody was left on this yerth that remembered that. So Peggy was sort of stunned. ‘Is thee sick?’ says she.—‘No: I never was better,’ he says; ‘but I’ll eat naught, I tell thee.’ So he fell asleep, and Peggy went out. But she could not ’tend to her work, she was that dazed. She told me she was mendin’ Sam’s nets that mornin’ (Sam was her husband), and presently out comes daddy dressed and leanin’ on his staff as usual. He sat down in this chair by the fire yander, and she brought him his breakfast, and he ate it. About an hour after Joshua Van Dorn came in, and he and Peggy talked of the blue mackerel, for there was a school of them in, and Sam hed made a good haul that mornin’. Joshua was but a boy about twenty, but a strong, rugged fellow. Abner said nothin’ to him until he was on his feet to go: then he says, ‘Joshua, Sam’ll be out eel-fishin’ to-night, and I want thee to come an’ watch with me. I’ll die to-night when the tide goes out.’ Joshua thought it was jest his notions. ‘All right, daddy’ says he, winkin’ at Peggy. ‘I’ll come and watch with thee, and eat breakfast with thee too in the mornin’. Who’ll I bring with me? Jeremiah Holdcomb?’—‘Jeremiah’ll do as well as another: it’s the same to me. It’ll not take a strong man to streak me,’ says the old man; and he laughed, looking down at himself. For he was lean like Priscilla. The Whynnes wear away with age. Peggy said he sot ’most all day by the door yander, lookin’ out to sea. Ther’s some think that old sea-farin’ men hes a warnin’ from the water when their time’s come. I dunno how that may be. But old Abner he sot lookin’ out all day. When Sam come in he talked about the blue-mackerel haul. Sam watched him keerful, but he couldn’t see as there was aught the matter with him.”
“Was no clergyman sent for ?” demanded C——. “Did nobody remind him of the God that he was going to meet?”
Jeremiah looked up startled, chuckled and grew suddenly grave: “Nobody’d go to a Whynne with that sort of talk. I doubt ef old Abner in all his hunderd year had ever thought of a God, any more than his dog Turk hed. Him and Priscilla war jest alike. They belonged to this yerth. But as to their turnin’ up agen in any other—I dunno: I reckon they won’t,” shaking his head decisively.
“Go on with the story,” said C——.
“Well, come evenin’, Sam started out eel-fishin’. Daddy nodded to him. ‘Good-bye, Sam Volk, says he: ‘I’ll be gone afore thee gets back. Sam humored him. ‘Good-bye, daddy,’ he says. ‘Is there aught I ken do for thee afore I go?’—‘No,’ he says, ‘no.’ But he took Sam’s hand and kept looking up at him. ‘Onless,’ he says, ‘thee could fetch Priscilla hyar. I’d like to hev seen the girl afore I go. I hev it on my mind ther’s somethin’ she wants to say to me.’—‘I can’t do that, thee knows, daddy,’ says Sam. For we all thought she was in foreign parts. But she’d been livin’ in New York for four year, and that very night, as it turned out, she was on her way home in John Van Dorn’s schooner.
“Well, Joshua and I come in to watch. We sent Peggy to bed at the usual time, eight o’clock, for neither she nor we thought aught ra’aly ailed the old man. He took no notice of her when she went, nor of the children: he never could abide children. ‘I’ll make you some toddy, boys, to keep you awake,’ he says; and we war willin’. Ther was not a man on the Jarsey coast could brew toddy like old Abner. It was prime toddy, that’s a fact. He drank a bit, and then he went to bed (he wouldn’t hev any help in ondressin’), and when he was stretched out he whistled for old Turk, and the brute lay down across his feet. ‘Good fellow! good fellow!’ he says, and he put his hand on the dog’s head and straightened himself, and so went to sleep. About ten o’clock Joshua called to me: he was standin’ by the bed. ‘Jerry,’ says he, ‘ther’s a queer settlin’ in the old man’s face, and his pulse is mighty low. Shouldn’t wonder ef he’d been in the right of it about himself, after all.’—‘Shell I call Peggy?’ I says—‘no,’ says he: ‘wait a bit.’ But in a hour he says, ‘Jerry, go and call Peggy.’ So I called her. But what could we do? He was goin’ out with the tide. He didn’t move or speak, and his eyes were shet: he didn’t hear Peggy or the children when they was cryin’ about him. His breath got slowly thinner and thinner, and his flesh colder. When Peggy called to him he took no notice, but the dog raised himself after a while on his fore legs and looked in his face and gave a howl. I declar’ it skeert me, it was so like a human bein’. The old man stirred at that, and sort of smiled, and his lips moved as if to say ‘Good fellow!’ But he was too far gone to speak. Then it was all quiet. I opened the window yander” (pointing to the square opening in the ruined wall of the room outside), “and I stood by it watchin’ the tide go down, jest as you might be doin’ now. And he lay on the bed hyar jest by the door. It was a clear night, and I could see the line of white surf sinkin’ lower and lower. I knowed by Peggy’s face, leanin’ over him, that he was goin’ with it fast. At last the sea fell out of sight into the darkness. Then I shut the window: I knowed it was all over. When I come up to the bed he was dead: Joshua was closin’ his eyes. We folded his hands and straightened him. It seemed to me but a few minutes till he was stark and stiff and dreadful cold. I remember Joshua said it was onusual, and was because there was so little blood in his body, but how that might be I dunno. We sot with him till mornin’. Now, here’s the cur’ous part of the story. You’ll likely not believe it, but I’ll tell you word for word, jest as it happened. An hour after Abner Whynne died his da’ater Priscilla come to the house. She had landed at the inlet, where the men war a-fishin’, and Sam brought her over. She war not a very young woman, but she was like a lady—very fine appearing. She was greatly excited when she found her father dead, though she skercely spoke a word. ‘You come too late,’ says Peggy. ‘You might have given him a deal of comfort. But you’re too late.’ I didn’t know before that Peggy war so bitter agen her.—‘I must speak to him,’ she said; and she tore off the sheet and put her hand to his heart. I could see her start when she felt the cold. ‘Daddy!’ she cried, ‘daddy!’—‘Let the dead rest, Priscilla,’ says Peggy.—‘Go out, all of you,’ she says, motionin’ to the door. ‘Let me have him to myself.’
“I went out, an’ took Peggy. Priscilla kept a-cryin’ in a low voice, ‘Daddy! daddy!’ I went outside—I was that cur’ous—and looked in the window. Fur God! I tell you the truth. The dead man opened his eyes and sat up. ‘Why did you bring me back?’ he said. ‘Why did you not let me alone, Priscilla? I was at rest.’ She leaned over him, sobbin’. Presently he says, ‘Is your husband here?’ Then she whispered something. God knows what. But I reckon the whole truth was wrenched out of her. You can’t lie to the dead. He sat up in the bed, and I saw him point with one hand to the door. ‘Begone!’ says he: ‘you are no da’ater of mine.’ She stood a minute, and then came out, and ran a-past me, cryin’, into the dark.”
“Of course you only fancied that you saw the man alive through the window?” said C——.
“I dunno,” said Holdcomb doggedly. “I do know as she has never crossed the doorway from that night, and that’s sixty year gone. And,” lowering his voice, “when w
e come back into the room the old man was dead and stark as we had left him. But he was sitting bolt upright in the bed.”
“What do you suppose she had told him?”
“Oh, that soon come out. She never had been John Salterre’s wife. A sort of shame had seized her at last, and she had left him and come home. She’s lived hyar ever since. Four year later she married Josiah Perot, who was a heap better husband than she deserved. She married him for a home: she never could abide to work. But nobody ever thought she cared aught for him. The Whynnes never forget, and I believe she thinks of John Salterre at this minute, and keers for him jest the same as she did when she war a young girl.”
“What became of him? Did he ever find her?” I asked.
Jeremiah hesitated: “I didn’t mean to tell thee that. A year after her father died Salterre found out whar she was, and put off straight from New York on a schooner for this inlet. The schooner—the Petrel it was—struck the bar out yander, and the crew was lost, Salterre and all. They war buried in the sand on the beach, jest where they come ashore, ’s the custom was.”
The old man rose and began to put on his coat. We were not sorry to have him go. His ghastly story made us quite willing to close the door on the dilapidated apartment outside and to turn our thoughts to cheerfuller matters.
For a week afterward the threatened nor’-east storm kept us in-doors. The captain did not come to pay his daily visit, and we heard from a neighbor that he “was attendin’ on Priscilla Perot, who was waitin’ her call.”
“Jerry’s a main good doctor,” she added. “But I doubt he’ll not keep old Priscilla. She’s bein’ took off afore her time: the Whynnes live to a great old age. But they say she’s been restlesslike ever since she talked to thee about her young days in this house.”
