All this I heard in passing.
“Ah, well, lads,” says my uncle, “ye’ll find winter skulkin’ jus’ over the horizon. An’ he’ll be down,” he added, confidently, “within a day or two.”
I led John Cather to the brink of Tom Tulk’s cliff, where, in the smoky sunshine, I might talk in secret with him. ’Twas in my mind to confide my perplexity and miserable condition of heart, without reserve of feeling or mitigation of culpable behavior, and to lean upon his wisdom and tactful arts for guidance into some happier arrangement with the maid I loved. It seemed to me, I recall, as I climbed the last slope, that I had been, all my life, an impassive lover, as concerned the welfare of the maid: that I had been ill-tempered and unkind, marvellously quick to find offence, justified in this cruel and stupid conduct by no admirable quality or grace or achievement—a lad demanding all for nothing. I paused, I recall, at the cairn, to sigh, overcome and appalled by this revelation; and thereupon I felt such a rush of strenuous intention in my own behalf—a determination to strive and scheme—that I had scarce breath to reach the edge of the cliff, and could not, for the life of me, begin to narrate my desperate state to John Cather. But John Cather was not troubled by my silence: he was sprawled on the thick moss of the cliff, his head propped in his hands, smiling, like the alien he was, upon the ice at sea and the untimely blue loom of the mainland and the vaguely threatening color of the sky. I could not begin, wishful as I might be for his wise counsel: but must lie, like a corpse, beyond all feeling, contemplating that same uneasy prospect. I wished, I recall, that I might utter my errand with him, and to this day wish that I had been able: but then could not, being overwhelmed by this new and convincing vision of all my communion with the maid.
“By Jove!” John Cather ejaculated.
“What is it?” cries I.
“I must tell you,” says he, rising to his elbow. “I can keep it no longer.”
I waited.
“I’m in love,” he declared. “Dannie,” cries he, “I—I’m—in love!”
And now a peculiar change came upon the world, of which I must tell: whatever there had been of omen or beauty or curious departure from the natural appearance of sea and sky—whatever of interest or moment upon the brooding shore or abroad on the uttermost waters beyond it—quite vanished from my cognizance. ’Twas a drear day and place I dwelt in, a very dull world, not enlivened by peril or desirable object or the difficulty of toil, not excused or in any way made tolerable by a prospect of sacrificial employment. I had been ill brought up to meet this racking emergency. What had there been, in all my life, fostered in body and happiness, expanding in the indulgent love and pitiably misdirected purpose of my uncle, to fit me for this denial of pure and confident desire? I tried—God knows I tried!—summoning to my help all the poor measure of nobility the good Lord had endowed me with and my uncle had cultivated—I tried, God knows, to receive the communication with some wish for my friend’s advancement in happiness. In love: ’twas with Judith—there was no other maid of Twist Tickle to be loved by this handsome, learned, brilliantly engaging John Cather. Nay, but ’twas all plain to me now: my deformity and perversity—my ridiculously assured aspiration towards the maid. I had forgot John Cather—the youth and person of him, his talents and winning accomplishments of speech and manner.
“And there she comes!” cries he.
’Twas Judith on the Whisper Cove road.
“You’ll wish me luck, Dannie?” says he, rising. “I’ll catch her on the way. I’ll tell her that I love her. I can wait no longer. Wish me luck!” says he. “Wish me luck!”
I took his hand.
“Wish me luck!” he repeated.
“I wish you luck,” says I.
“Thanks,” says he: and was off.
I lied in this way because I would not have Judith know that I grieved for her, lest she suffer, in days to come, for my disappointment.…
I was faint and very thirsty, I recall: I wished that I might drink from a brook of snow-water. ’Twas Calling Brook I visualized, which flows from the melting ice of cold, dark crevices, musically falling, beneath a canopy of springing leaves, to the waters of Sister Bight. I wished to drink from Calling Brook, and to lie down, here alone and high above the sea, and to sleep, without dreaming, for a long, long time. I lay me down on the gray moss. I did not think of Judith and John Cather. I had forgotten them: I was numb to the passion and affairs of life. I suffered no agony of any sort; ’twas as though I had newly emerged from unconsciousness—the survivor of some natural catastrophe, fallen by act of God, conveying no blame to me—a survivor upon whom there still lingered a beneficent stupor of body. Presently I discovered myself in a new world, with which, thinks I, brisking up, I must become familiar, having no unmanly regret, but a courageous heart to fare through the maze of it; and like a curious child I peered about upon this strange habitation. Near by there was a gray, weathered stone in the moss: I reached to possess it—and was amazed to find that my hand neither overshot nor fell short, but accurately performed its service. I cast the stone towards heaven: ’twas a surprise to see it fall earthward in obedience to some law I could not in my daze define—some law I had with impatient labor, long, long ago, made sure I understood and would remember. I looked away to sea, stared into the sky, surveyed the hills: ’twas the selfsame world I had known, constituted of the same materials, cohering in the selfsame way, obedient to the selfsame laws, fashioned and adorned the same as it had been. ’Twas the selfsame world of sea and sky and rock, wherein I had so long dwelt—a world familiar to my feet and eyes and heart’s experience: a world of tree-clad, greening hills, of known paths, of children’s shouting and the chirp and song of spring-time. But there had come a change upon its spirit: nay! thinks I, quite proud of the conceit, its spirit had departed—the thing had died to me, and was become without meaning, an inimical mystery. Then I felt the nerves of my soul tingle with awakening: then I suffered very much.
And evening came.…
By-and-by, having heartened myself with courageous plans, I stepped out, with the feet of a man, upon the Whisper Cove road. I had it in mind to enjoy with Judith and John Cather the tender disclosure of their love. I would kiss Judith, by Heaven, thinks I: I would kiss her smile and blushes, whatever she thought of the deed; and I would wring John Cather’s fragile right hand until his teeth uncovered and he groaned for mercy. ’Twas fearsome weather, then, so that, overwrought in the spirit as I was, I did not fail to feel the oppression of it and the instinctive alarm it aroused. ’Twas very still and heavy and sullen and uneasy, ’twas pregnant of fears, like a moment of suspense: I started when an alder branch or reaching spruce limb struck me. In this bewildering weather there were no lovers on the road; the valleys, the shadowy nooks, the secluded reaches of path, lay vacant in the melancholy dusk. ’Twas not until I came to the last hill, whence the road tumbled down to a cluster of impoverished cottages, listlessly clinging to the barren rock of Whisper Cove, that I found Judith. John Cather was not about: the maid was with Aunt Esther All, the gossip, and was now so strangely agitated that I stopped in sheer amazement. That the child should be abject and agonized before the grim, cynical tattler of Whisper Cove! That she should gesticulate in a way so passionate! That she should fling her arms wide, that she should cover her face with her hands, that she should in some grievous disturbance beat upon her heart! I could not make it out. ’Twas a queer way, thinks I, to express the rapture of her fortune; and no suspicion enlightened me, because, I think, of the paralysis of despair upon my faculties.
I approached.
“Go ’way!” she cried.
I would not go away: ’twas Aunt Esther, the gossip, that went, and in a rout—with a frightened backward glance.
“Go ’way!” Judith pleaded. “I’m not able to bear it, Dannie. Oh, go back!”
’Twas an unworthy whim, and I knew it to be so, whatever the vagaries of maids may be, however natural and to be indulged, at these crises of emot
ion. She had sent John Cather away, it seemed, that she might be for a space alone, in the way of maids at such times, as I had been informed; and she would now deny to me the reflection of her happiness.
“’Tis unkind,” I chided, “not to share this thing with me.”
She started: I recall that her eyes were round and troubled with incomprehension.
“I’ve come to tell you, Judith,” says I, “that I do not care.”
’Twas a brave lie: I am proud of it.
“’Tis kind,” she whispered.
We were alone. ’Twas dusk: ’twas dusk, to be sure, of a disquieting day, with the sky most confidently foreboding some new and surprising tactics in the ancient warfare of the wind against us; but Judith and I, being young and engaged with the passion of our years, had no consciousness of the signs and wonders of the weather. The weather concerns the old, the satisfied and disillusioned of life, the folk from whom the romance of being has departed. What care had we for the weather? ’Twas dusk, and we were alone at the turn of the road—a broad, rocky twist in the path, not without the softness of grass, where lovers had kissed in parting since fishing was begun from Twist Tickle and Whisper Cove. By the falling shades and a screen of young leaves we were hid from the prying eyes of Whisper Cove. ’Twas from me, then, that the maid withdrew into a deeper shadow, as though, indeed, ’twas not fit that we should be together. I was hurt: but fancied, being stupid and self-centred, that ’twas a pang of isolation to which I must grow used.
“Why, Judy,” says I, “don’t, for pity’s sake, do that! Why, maid,” I protested, “I don’t care. I’m glad—I’m just glad!”
“Glad!” she faltered, staring.
“To be sure I’m glad,” I cried.
She came close to me.
“I don’t care,” says I.
“You do not care!” she muttered, looking away. “You do not care!” she repeated, in a voice that was the faintest, most drear echo of my own.
“Not I!” I answered, stoutly. “Not a whit!”
She began to cry.
“Look up!” I besought her. “I do not care,” I declared again, seeking in this way to ease her pity of me. “I do not care!”
’Twas a strange thing that happened then: first she kissed the cuff of my coat, in the extravagant way of a maid, and then all at once clapped her hands over her eyes, as though to conceal some guilt from a righteous person. I perceived this: I felt the shame she wished to hide, and for a moment wondered what that shame might be, but forgot, since the eyes were mine neither to have read nor to admire, but John Cather’s. And what righteousness had I? None at all that she should stand ashamed before me. But there she stood, with her blue eyes hid—a maid in shame. I put my finger under her chin and tried to raise her face, but could not; nor could I with any gentleness withdraw her hands. She was crying: I wondered why. I stooped to peer between her fingers, but could see only tears and the hot color of her flushes. I could not fathom why she cried, except in excess of happiness or in adorable pity of me. The wind rose, I recall, as I puzzled; ’twas blowing through the gloaming in a soothing breeze from the west, as though to put the fears of us to sleep. A gentle gust, descending to our sheltered place, rustled the leaves and played with the maid’s tawny hair; and upon this she looked up—and stepped into the open path, where, while her tears dried and her drooping helplessness vanished, she looked about the sky, and felt of the wind, to discover its direction and promise of strength. ’Twas a thing of tragical significance, as it seems to me now, looking back from the quiet mood in which I dwell; but then, having concern only to mitigate the maid’s hysteria, following upon the stress of emotion I conceived she had undergone, this anxious survey of the weather had no meaning. I watched her: I lingered upon her beauty, softened, perfected, enhanced in spiritual quality by the brush of the dusk; and I could no longer wish John Cather joy, but knew that I must persist in the knightly endeavor.
“The wind’s from the west,” says she. “A free wind.”
“For Topmast Harbor,” says I; “but a mean breeze for folk bound elsewhere.”
“A free wind for Topmast Harbor,” she repeated.
“No matter,” says I.
“’Tis a great thing,” she replied, “for them that are bound to Topmast Harbor.”
’Twas reproachfully spoken.
“You’ll be going home now, maid,” I entreated. “You’ll leave me walk with you, will you not?”
She looked down in a troubled muse.
“You’ll leave me follow, then,” says I, “to see that you’ve no fear of the dark. ’Twill be dark soon, Judith, and I’m not wanting you to be afraid.”
“Come!” cries she. “I will walk with you—home!”
She took my hand, and entwined her long fingers with mine, in the intimate, confiding way she was used to doing when we were a lad and a maid on the dark roads. Many a time, when we were lad and maid, had Judith walked forward, and I backward, to provide against surprise by the shapes of night; and many a dark time had she clutched my hand, nearing the lights of Twist Tickle, to make sure that no harm would befall her. And now, in this childish way, she held me; and she walked with me twenty paces on the path to Twist Tickle, whereupon she stopped, and led me back to that same nook of the road, and doggedly released me, and put an opposing hand on my breast.
“Do you bide here,” says she; “and when I call, do you go home.”
“An you wish it,” I answered.
’Twas not more than twenty paces she walked towards the impoverished cottages of Whisper Cove: then turned, and came again to me. I wondered why she stood in this agony of indecision: but could not tell, nor can be blamed for the mystification, relentlessly as I blame myself.
“Dannie,” she moaned, looking up, “I can go nowhere!”
“You may go home, maid,” says I. “’Tis a queer thing if you may not go home.”
“’Tis an unkind thing.”
“Come!” I pleaded. “’Twill so very soon be dark on the road; and I’m not wantin’ you t’ wander in the dark.”
“I cannot,” says she. “I just cannot!”
“Judith,” I chided, “you may. ’Tis an unseemly thing in you to say.”
“But I cannot bear it, Dannie!”
“I would cry shame upon you, Judith,” I scolded, “were I not so careful of your feelings.”
She seemed now to command herself with a resolution of which tender maids like Judith should not be capable: ’tis too lusty and harsh a thing. I stood in awe of it. “Dannie,” says she, “do you go home. I’ll follow an I can. And if I do not come afore long, do you tell un to think that I spend the night with the wife of Moses Shoos. You may kiss me, Dannie, lad,” says she, “an you cares t’ do it.”
I did care: but dared not.
“I’m wishin’ for it,” says she.
“But,” I protested, “is you sure ’tis right?”
“’Tis quite right,” she answered. “God understands.”
“I’d be glad,” says I.
“You may kiss me, then.”
I kissed her. ’Tis a thing I regret: ’twas a kiss so lacking in earnest protraction—so without warmth and vigor. ’Twas the merest brushing of her cheek. I wish I had kissed her, like a man, in the fulness of desire I felt; but I was bound, in the last light of that day, to John Cather, in knightly honor.
“’Twas very nice,” says she. “I wisht you’d do it again.”
I did.
“Thank you, Dannie,” she whispered.
“Judith!” I cried. “Judith! For shame, to thank me!”
“And now,” says she, “you’ll be off on the road. You’ll make haste, will you not? And you’ll think, will you not, that I spend the night with Mrs. Shoos? You’ll not fret, Dannie: I’d grieve to think that you fretted. I’d not have you, for all the world, trouble about me. Not you,” she repeated, her voice falling. “Not you, Dannie—dear. You’ll be off, now,” she urged, “for ’tis long past time
for tea. And you’ll tell un all, will you not, that I talked o’ spendin’ the night with Mrs. Moses Shoos at Whisper Cove?”
“An you wish it, Judith.”
“Good-night!”
I pressed away.…
When I came to our house on the neck of land by the Lost Soul, I turned at the threshold to survey the weather. I might have saved myself the pains and puzzle of that regard. The print of sea and sky was foreign: I could make nothing of it. ’Twas a quiet sea, breaking, in crooning lullaby, upon the rocks below my bedroom window. It portended no disturbance: I might sleep, thinks I, with the soft whispering to lull me, being willing for the magic shoes of sleep to take me far away from this agony as never man was before. The wind was blowing from the west: but not in gusts—a sailing breeze for the timid. I was glad that there was no venomous intention in the wind: ’twas a mild and dependable wind, grateful to such as fared easterly in the night. I wished that all men might fare that way, in the favoring breeze, but knew well enough that the purposes of men are contrary, the one to the other, making fair winds of foul, and foul of fair, so that there was no telling, of any event, whatever the apparent nature of it, whether sinister or benign, the preponderance of woe or happiness issuing from it. Over all a tender sky, spread with soft stretches of cloud, and set, in its uttermost depths, with stars. ’Twas dark enough now for the stars to shine, making the most of the moon’s absence, which soon would rise. Star upon star: a multitude of serenely companionable lights, so twinkling and knowing, so slyly sure of the ultimate resolution of all the doubts and pains and perplexities of the sons of men! But still there was abroad an oppression: a forewarning, in untimely heat and strain, of disastrous weather. ’Twas that I felt when I turned from the contemplation of the stars to go within, that I might without improper delay inform our maid-servant of Judith’s intention.
The Sea-Story Megapack Page 104
