It was a gloomy house, set in the shadow of a rocky bluff, and made more
gloomy within by the close-drawn curtains. Since the news had come of
the loss of John Lowe's son, no man in all Placentia Bay could say he
had seen those curtains raised; and, so ran the gossip, John Lowe being
what John Lowe was, a long time again before those curtains would be
raised.
John Lowe sat reading his black-typed, double-columned page by the
table, and over by the stove John Lowe's second wife sat rocking
herself.
John Lowe's daughter came in, removed her shawl, and took a chair on the
other side of the stove. Her stepmother spoke a word; but no word of
greeting did her father offer until his chapter was finished, and then
he no more than half turned, while his harsh voice asked: "Has he come
into the bay yet?"
"He has. Tim Lacy, that shipped wi' him out o' here, was to Shepperd's
to-day--and he'll be to Shepperd's to-night, Tim says."
"Tim Lacy. Another o' his kin. And what would be bringin' him to
Shepperd's to-night?"
"It will be a dance to-night."
"Oh, the dancin'! No fear but you'll know o' the dancin'. An' he'll be
there, the drinkin', murderin'----"
"It's no' right, father, to be speakin' like that o' a man you never set
eyes on."
"An' how come it you know him, girl? Where was it you had truck wi' him?
Where?"
"I never had truck wi' him. But I see him. Who could help seein' him--he
was in an' out o' Shepperd's his last time in."
"Well, take care you see him no more. An'--" A step outside the door
caused John Lowe to pause.
"Ah-h--" John Lowe almost smiled.
His wife glanced at the clock. "It will be the trader," she explained.
"Aye, an' now we'll ha' the news--now we'll ha' the news."
A knock followed the step, and, following the knock, the door opened and
in stepped the expected trader. No wild daredevil, no sail carrier this,
but a smooth, passionless man of business. And he got right down to
business.
"By dawn, John Lowe, there'll be two hundred men of the bay drawn up on
Half-Tide Beach. And an hour later the _Ligonier_ and all's in her will
be lyin' on the bottom of the bay--or so"--he glanced doubtfully at the
girl--"or so we planned it. Will you be there, John Lowe?"
"He'll no' be there, Mr. Lackford." Mrs. Lowe half rose from her chair.
John Lowe glared at her. "And since when is it for you to say I'll not
be there?"
"I'm your lawful wife, John Lowe. And who is this man would tell you
what to do? You read your Bible night and morn, John Lowe, and you tell
me and you tell Bess we should read it, too, and all the bay knows it.
An' how can you preach to us as you do an' join in this deed? 'Righteous
shall be all my days,' say you, an' you think o' joinin' a band that
will sink an' destroy--yes, an' mayhap kill in the morning. This
American has as much right to what herrin' his men can ketch as anybody
else."
John Lowe turned to the trader. "She's right, Mr. Lackford, she's
right."
"You'll not be with us?"
"I can't."
"After all you said! Well, there will be enough without you." He was
still addressing John Lowe, but it was on the woman his eyes were bent.
"Only let me carry back the word you'll not be against us."
"No, no--I'll not be against you."
"That's enough. Good night."
"Good night."
The door closed. They listened to the crunching of the trader's
boot-heels on the pebbly beach outside.
"They'll be killing, mayhaps, in the morning, and it's well for you to
be clear of it, John Lowe."
"But he lost my son."
"It was a natural death for a fisherman, John Lowe, to be lost that
way."
"But what reason to love him for it?"
"What reason ha' ye to hate him till you know more of him?"
Silence reigned again in the kitchen; silence until John Lowe set aside
his book and made for the stairs. With his foot on the bottom step he
paused and sighed. "Even after three months it's no' easy to bear. But
you're right, wife, it's no' right what some of them be up to."
"No, it's no' right. An' he's not the man Lackford an' the others would
ha' you believe, John."
He looked long at his wife. "No? No doubt no--but no stop to it now. If
there was a way to slip a word and not be known for it; but there's no
way. Come to bed, woman. But"--the girl was standing up--"where be you
off to?"
The girl looked to her stepmother; and the stepmother answered for her.
"It's o'er-early for bed yet--she's goin' for an hour to Shepperd's,
John. Go on, Bess, but don't stay too long."
The girl snatched her shawl and hurried out.
"And is't so you manage her, woman?"
"Let be, man, let be. She's no child to be managed--your way o'
managin'. Why shouldn't she have her little pleasure? What's one here
for? Prayers an' psalms, prayers an' psalms----"
"An' do you rail against the prayin'?"
"Not me. Prayin's for good, no doubt; but all of us hasn't the sin so
black that it needs prayin' night an' day to burn it out."