“I’m driving up the valley myself tomorrow, Ardis,” she said. “I’ll take you a piece on your way and no trouble at all.”
The room seemed to be growing lighter and Greta went to the window to look out. The wind must have shifted because the late afternoon sunshine was glowing through the fog.
“I must go,” she whispered to Retha. Mrs. Morrill nodded to her across the room and she seemed relieved that Greta had noticed the weather.
All the next morning Greta watched the old Post Road. An ox team lumbered down, hauling a load of stone from the high pasture. But no surrey came down drawn by two smart horses. She told herself that she hadn’t really expected to see one.
7.
ANTHONY
WHEN school opened in September, Greta had less and less time to think of Blue Cove. But it was never quite out of her mind. Most of us live in two worlds—our real world and the one we build or spin for ourselves out of the books we read, the heroes we admire, the things we hope to do. Greta’s other world was Blue Cove. She played no part in it except as a visitor. Its life went on without her. Still, each time a fog closed in and she stepped into it, out of sight of her everyday life, she felt as drawn to the secret village over the mountain as if the turn of the tide down in Petit Passage had caught her up with its smooth power.
Sometimes on her visits she would do nothing but sit in Mrs. Morrill’s kitchen and watch her weave, content just to be there and hold Princess. Mrs. Morrill had begun work on one of the first woven carpets in the province. It was to cover her entire parlor floor. The hooked mats would do well enough for the kitchen and the bedrooms, she said. Greta wished that they used more hooked mats at home instead of exchanging them always for the congoleum squares and strips that were so easy to keep clean. Hooked mats suited the house better, she thought. They gave Mrs. Morrill’s cheerful kitchen a richness her own home lacked. But then there were many things about the Blue Cove houses that interested Greta, though outwardly the houses were just the same. But Blue Cove menfolk all went to sea at some time or other in their lives. Their vessels plied back and forth to the West Indies at least, and if they didn’t go to the Far East themselves, they often bespoke vessels that did. There were many chances to bring back curios and china, and the silks that made their womenfolk rustle “like a three-master coming up into the wind.” Greta laughed each time she thought of Early Frosst’s description. All these things that they had brought back still graced their houses; married sons and daughters and grandchildren had not yet coaxed them from their elders and carried them away to their own distant homes.
On one such quiet afternoon, Mrs. Morrill was telling the girls about the time the whole village had nearly been wiped out at once. They had gone across the bay on Captain Landers’s vessel to a cherry festival. The vessel had turned over in a sudden squall. But they had clung to it until help came and not a soul aboard was lost, except one small dog asleep in the cabin. Mrs. Morrill was interrupted by the sound of voices coming up from the shore.
“Run out, girls,” she said, “and see what’s happened. It sounds as if every man and child in town was coming up the road.”
They met the crowd where the street turned off from the Post Road. It was true—every man and child ashore was coming up the road. In their midst walked Father Amiraux from the French shore and with him a sailor. The sailor satisfied all Greta’s ideas of a pirate, even to the gold hoops that dangled from under the scarf knotted around his head.
“Have they captured him or something?” Greta asked excitedly. Retha laughed at her.
“Of course not,” she said. “He’s probably just a sailor who speaks some other foreign language and they are bringing him to see Anthony. It often happens.”
“But you’ve never told me about Anthony,” Greta reminded her. “Did you ask your mother if you might? And why do they bring strange sailors to see him?”
“Mother said it was all right to tell you,” Retha said. “I just forgot. It’s not a secret, really. But when you came that first day—I didn’t know you well enough, I guess. Let’s go and tell Mother now that Father Amiraux is here with another sailor.”
Mrs. Morrill already knew, and was standing in her doorway. The crowd had surged past the Morrills’ to the house where Anthony lived. Father Amiraux and the sailor had gone inside and the men lounged against the fence or sauntered up and down. Women had come out in all the doorways to wait. They talked back and forth but their voices were hushed and there was something solemn about the group waiting in the gray fog.
“I declare,” said Mrs. Morrill, “it’s like waiting for a death or a new baby. Come inside, girls. We can see from the side window when they come out.”
“Greta doesn’t know about Anthony,” Retha told her mother. “You tell her. You know the story better than I do.”
Mrs. Morrill picked up some knitting, but it lay idly in her lap as she talked. “Anthony must be over sixtyfive now,” she began, “and he’s lived here for over forty years—yes, nearer forty-five, I dare say. I was just a creeper when they found him so I only know the story as I’ve heard it told.
“Old Cap’n Cheney had left some gear on the shore one night and he went down early the next morning to look for it. About daybreak it was. Just around the point he saw a vessel putting out to sea. She’d just put about, and she looked to him like a man o’ war—at least that’s what he used to say later. Anyhow she was strange enough in these waters to astonish him. But he was more astonished when he heard a moan down by some rocks. He scrambled down to the beach in a hurry and found—Anthony. They say his clothes were elegant and fine and his shirt had ruffles on it. Beside him lay a canteen and some ship’s biscuits. He was young, and handsome too, they say, but his legs had been cut off just above the knees! The stumps were about healed, but you could tell he’d not been born that way.
“Well, the old Cap’n called for help and they carried him up and put him to bed. He opened his eyes once or twice and made a sound. Some claimed it sounded like he was trying to say ’Anthony’ so that’s what they called him. He never spoke again,” Mrs. Morrill ended, “and that’s really all we know about him.”
“All?” said Greta. “But, Mrs. Morrill, why didn’t he speak again? And what had happened to him. The story can’t end like that.”
“Maybe a story can’t, child,” Mrs. Morrill told her. “But life can and often does. Oh, we’ve made all sorts of guesses about him. We used to think it was just that he spoke a strange language and couldn’t understand ours. And whenever a strange ship put in anywhere along this shore, they’d bring an officer or a sailor up to speak to him. I guess they’ve tried every lingo under the sun on him, but it’s no use. Only Father Amiraux still has hope. Some think that whoever cut off his legs cut the vocal cords in his throat, too, so he never could speak—and maybe tell something they didn’t want known. But I can’t believe that myself. It seems as if he could write—if he wanted to, but he never has. Still he could have learned to speak our language by this time if he had the power of speech,” she added. “It’s a puzzle whichever way you look at it.”
“But his legs, Mrs. Morrill! You think they were cut off? On purpose?”
“We don’t know that for certain, either, Greta. Some thought they’d been bit off by a shark in tropic seas somewhere. Or maybe there’d been an accident on shipboard. But the doctors who have looked at them all say it was a surgeon’s work, and a skillful surgeon, at that.”
“And the man o’ war? Hadn’t anybody else seen her?”
“That man o’ war, or whatever she was, didn’t aim to be seen, Greta. She put in for one purpose and then she vanished.”
Greta was silent for a minute, thinking.
“What do you believe about him yourself?” she asked.
“I don’t know, child. In my day I’ve believed one thing after another. But no theory holds water. Except,” she paused for a minute and then went on slowly, “I can never believe that Anthony is simple. There’s
a brain and intelligence at work behind those fine eyes. I’ve always believed he could hear, too, but Retha’s father laughs at me. No, Anthony’s helpless but he’s not hopeless. And he’s looking for someone, I’ll be bound. Whether it’s a friend or a foe, I don’t presume to guess. You’ve noticed how he looks at every stranger? Well, some day I’m hoping that Anthony finds the face he is looking for.”
“Mother! You mean someone who’s wronged him? So he could take a last revenge?” Quiet Retha was all excitement.
“Well,” her mother answered, “I’ve never seen a caged eagle, but from descriptions I’ve heard its eyes must look the way Anthony’s have—once or twice in my memory. Revenge—and that sort of thing—is romantic, Retha. What I’d like best would be to see Anthony’s face soften just once when those piercing eyes of his fall on someone from home.” She smiled at their earnest faces. “I doubt it will ever happen,” she concluded.
“It’s like a riddle, Mrs. Morrill.” Greta was almost in tears. “And every riddle has an answer. There’s got to be an answer.”
“Of course, there’s an answer, Greta,” Mrs. Morrill told her. “But that doesn’t mean we need to know the answer. Maybe nobody in Blue Cove—or Little Valley, either—will ever know the answer to the mystery of Anthony. And maybe we’ll all be just as well off as if we did.”
Greta looked at her quickly. The thought of Ann had come to them both at the same moment.
“Did—did the men find—Ann?” she whispered.
Mrs. Morrill didn’t speak but she shook her head and there were tears in her eyes.
“Look,” she said quickly. “They must be through next door. There’s the sailor out on the steps.”
They all stepped out to the gate. Father Amiraux stood in the doorway. He raised his hand for attention and everyone edged closer.
“My friends,” he said slowly in his tired, pleasant voice. “My friends, the language this sailor speaks is nothing that Anthony can understand.”
They made way for him to pass. Someone offered the sailor tobacco, and his teeth flashed in a wide smile. Everyone seemed more relieved than disappointed. They began to talk and laugh a little as they fell in around their visitors to see them aboard their boat.
8.
THE VESSEL FROM BOMBAY
SEPTEMBER and October are the golden months of the year in the province, the fishermen say. There was hardly a haze on the sea and the Tollerton foghorn was silent day after day. Greta wondered if she would get over the mountain again before spring. Even November was unusually clear.
“Do you think we’ll have any more heavy fogs this season, Father?” she asked him one evening as he sat milking. She tried to make the question sound casual.
“I doubt it, Greta,” he said. “You’d best work hard at your school work if you are going to write your tenth year in June,” he added. Greta waited for him to say more. She knew he was just being “fatherly” and not thinking at all of the tenth year examinations she would have to take in another year. But he filled the pail to the brim and gave it to her to carry to the house before he spoke again. Then, finally, just as she turned away, he said, “There’s disappointment over the mountain, little girl.” His half-smile and the feeling of understanding between them took away the sense of foreboding that lay in the words themselves. Greta smiled back but she could think of nothing to say.
The winter was a busy one. There was the musicale to practice for, the school play, the benefit entertainment in the Hall; there was Red Cross knitting to be done, and all sorts of war work. Blue Cove and the people there seemed to Greta like something she had read in a book. But spring came early. The ice broke up a month sooner than usual, the men said. And when she opened her eyes one morning to the first dense fog of the season, Greta knew in her heart that the story of Blue Cove might seem like a book she had read, but it was an unfinished book—a book put down unwillingly. The tingling excitement that came with the fog was as strong as ever within her.
A month went by before a Saturday afternoon and a fog came conveniently together.
“I’d hoped you’d outgrown that nonsense of going off alone in the fog,” her mother said, but she offered no real objection.
Greta wondered a little, as she sped along the familiar lane toward the fork, if an adventure like hers could have outlived the winter. Or had it been something so fragile that it would winterkill like other lovely, delicate things? It was an effort to look toward the spot where Old Man Himion’s house would stand if all were well. But it was there—its sharp pointed gable rising unmistakably among the spruces. Blue Cove, too, would be waiting for her.
The Old Road was more washed out than ever after the spring rains. There were low places or spots crossed by streams where you had to jump from rock to rock. Road building in the early days must have been a gigantic task if it required such stones as these for a foundation. But once across the high pasture it was smoother going. Tollerton was silent here and the road was in good repair. The road commissioner might have finished only yesterday.
The village street looked the same as usual and Princess sat watching at the Morrills’ gate. With her heart thumping Greta burst into the kitchen and flung herself into Mrs. Morrill’s arms. It was as if she had just come home from a voyage, and there were long, long days of separation to be crushed out of existence. Mrs. Morrill was glad to see her but she seemed surprised, and Greta reminded herself that time meant nothing in Blue Cove.
“Why, Greta, you’ve been running,” Mrs. Morrill laughed. “Did you see a bear in the clearing? Ronnie and Edgar saw one a week ago near the Sentinel Rocks, and Guy saw one yesterday when he brought the mail down. But they never do you any harm.”
“I’m just glad to be here, that’s all,” Greta told her. Mrs. Morrill smoothed back her hair with the quick stroke that Greta liked.
“I see,” was all she said but she looked at Greta closely. “You are growing up,” she added as if she had only just noticed it. “When will you be twelve?”
Greta was troubled. “In the fall,” she answered. “But why did you ask me—just that way, Mrs. Morrill? I mean—you didn’t ask me how old I was—but when I’d be twelve.”
Mrs. Morrill dropped down into the Loyalist rocker and drew Greta to her. She did not try to explain what lay back in her own childhood that made her so sure Greta was under twelve.
“Don’t you want to be twelve?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” Greta said honestly. “I always think of my birthdays as a flight of stairs,” she went on a little shyly. “Up to twelve it’s been fun to look up. But after twelve—the stairs turn. I can’t see around the bend.”
“I know,” Mrs. Morrill said. “Not now, you can’t. But when you get to that twelfth step you will be able to see ‘around the bend,’ as you put it. Seeing ahead, or looking ahead—is something we do with our hearts—it takes nothing but time and courage. The one is given to us; the other we must provide.” It was never so much what Mrs. Morrill said as the quiet, understanding way in which she spoke that Greta found comforting. And now she let all vague dread of the dignity and importance of being twelve slip from her.
“That’s right,” Mrs. Morrill smiled approvingly as she watched Greta’s face brighten. “And now I have something to tell you. Princess has had some kittens since you were here,” she said. “I’d like you to have one when they are older. They haven’t got their eyes open yet but you can see them next time you come.”
“Oh, I’d love a kitten—specially one of Princess’s!” Greta was delighted until a thought came to her. “Could I—could I keep it—do you think?” she asked. The same thought must have crossed Mrs. Morrill’s mind, too, because she said “Oh” and then hesitated. “Well, we’ll think about it,” she added. “But you had better run along now to find Retha. She’s down at the shore. Something must have happened down there, I guess. I heard Burton and Kelsey calling her to come a while back.”
Down on the beach it was very quiet. Greta pa
ssed two ox teams left standing in the middle of the road; the smith had left his forge and the store was empty. She ran out onto the wharf. Here they all were, gathered in groups or pacing slowly up and down—an unusually silent throng of men and children looking out to sea. She found Retha among them.
“Retha,” she whispered, “what’s happened? Has there been an accident?”
“No,” Retha told her. “But, can you see? There’s a big vessel standing off shore. And we don’t know what she is.”
Greta could just make out a vague pattern of masts and spars where Retha was pointing. “Yes, I can see,” she said. “But why is everyone so—so kind of—solemn?”
“I don’t know,” Retha whispered back. “It’s funny, isn’t it? But the men seem to think there’s something strange about her. They’ve sent a dory out to see what she is. Old Mr. Morehouse has gone, and two others. They say she’s too big to land at this wharf even if it were clear enough to get in.”
They settled down to wait for the dory. The men talked in low voices. The vessel off shore might have been a ghost ship for the spell it cast. No one seemed to know why, but they waited on the wharf as shrouded in foreboding as they were in fog. When a gull mewed overhead they stirred nervously, and when their ears caught the creaking of oars, everyone surged to the edge to look over. The elder men gathered at the top of the iron ladder. Mr. Morehouse came up first and the rest of the dory’s crew followed him onto the wharf. They stood in a close group and spoke together. One or two others were summoned, and the talking continued. Something at last seemed decided, and old Mr. Morehouse stepped out from among them as spokesman. He took off his cap before he began to speak and stood bareheaded before them.
“She’s the Emmeretta, folks, Cap’n Cornwall’s vessel,” he told them.
The Emmeretta! Why the Emmeretta was almost one of their own, sailing as she did out of Middle Harbour, not five miles up the shore. No mystery about her —except having Captain Ansel Cornwall anchor off shore here instead of going on home. They murmured among themselves and then were silent as Mr. Morehouse began to speak again.
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