"By-an'-by" Brown he was called at Blunder Cove. And as "By-an'-by"
Brown he was known within its fishing radius: Grave Head to Blow-me-down
Billy. Momentarily, on the wet night of his landing, he had been
"Mister" Brown; then--just "By-an'-by" Brown.
There was no secret about the baby. Young Brown was a bachelor of the
outports: even so, there was still no secret about the baby. Nonsense!
It was not "By-an'-by's." It never had been. Name? Tweak. Given name?
She. What! Well, then, _It_! Age? Recent--somewheres 'long about
midsummer. Blunder Cove was amazed, but, being used to sudden peril, to
misfortune, and strange chances, was not incredulous. Blunder Cove was
sympathetic: so sympathetic, indeed, so quick to minister and to assist,
that "By-an'-by" Brown, aged fifteen, having taken but transient shelter
for the child, remained to rear it, forever proposing, however, to
proceed--by-and-by. So there they were, "By-an'-by" Brown and the baby!
And the baby was not "By-an'-by's." Everybody knew it--even the baby:
perhaps best of all.
"By-an'-by" Brown had adopted the baby at Back Yard Bight of the
Labrador. There had been nothing else to do. It was quite out of the
question, whatever the proprieties, whatever the requirements of babies
and the inadequacy of bachelors--it was quite out of the question for
"By-an'-by" Brown, being a bachelor of tender years and perceptions, to
abandon even a baby at Back Yard Bight of the Labrador, having first
assisted at the interment of the mother and then instantly lost trace of
the delinquent father. The monstrous expedient had not even occurred to
him; he made a hasty bundle of the baby and took flight for more
populous neighborhoods, commanding advice, refuge, and infinitely more
valuable assistance from the impoverished settlements by the way. And
thereafter he remembered the bleak and lonely reaches of Back Yard Bight
as a stretch of coast where he had been considerably alarmed.
It had been a wet night when "By-an'-by" Brown and the baby put into
Blunder Cove--wind in the east, the sea in a tumble: a wet night, and
late of it. All the windows were black; and the paths of the place--a
water-side maze in the lee of great hills--were knee-deep in a flood of
darkness. "By-an'-by" Brown was downcast: this because of his years. He
was a lad of fifteen. Fifteen, mark you!--a gigantic fifteen: a wise and
competent fifteen, too, having for seven years fended for itself in the
turf huts of the Labrador and the forecastles of the lower coasts. But
still, for the moment, he was downcast by the burden upon his youth. So
he knocked diffidently at the first kitchen door; and presently he stood
abashed in a burst of warm light from within.
Shelter? Oh, ay! T' be sure. But (in quick and resentful suspicion):
"B'y," Aunt Phoebe Luff demanded, "what ye got in them ile-skins? Pups?"
"By-an'-by" Brown observed that there were embers in the kitchen stove,
that steam was faintly rising from the spout of the kettle.
"Baby," said he.
Aunt Phoebe jumped. "What!" cried she:
"Jus' a baby," said "By-an'-by" Brown. "_Well!_--you give that there baby
here."
"I'll be glad t', ma'am," said young "By-an'-by" Brown, in childish
tenderness, still withholding the bundle from the woman's extended arms,
"but not for keeps."
"For keeps!" Aunt Phoebe snorted.
"No, ma'am; not for keeps. I'm 'lowin' t' fetch it up myself," said
"By-an'-by" Brown, "by-an'-by."
"Dunderhead!" Aunt Phoebe whispered, softly.
And "By-an'-by" Brown, familiar with the exigency, obediently went in.
* * * * *
_Then_ there were lights in the cottages of Blunder Cove: instantly, it
seemed. And company--and tea and hard bread and chatter--in Skipper Tom
Luff's little white kitchen. A roaring fire in the stove: a kettle that
sang and chuckled and danced, glad once more to be engaged in the real
business of life. So was the cradle--glad to be useful again, though its
activity had been but for an hour suspended. It went to work in a
business-like way, with never a creak, in response to the gentle toe of
"By-an'-by" Brown's top-boot. There was an inquisition, too, through
which "By-an'-by" Brown crooned to the baby, "Hush-a-by!" and absently
answered, "Uh-huh!" and "By-an'-by!" as placid as could be. Concerning
past troubles: Oh, they was--yesterday. And of future difficulties: Well,
they was--by-an'-by. "Hush-a-by!" and "By-an'-by!" So they gave him a new
name--"By-an'-by" Brown--because he was of those whose past is forgot in
yesterday and whose future is no more inimical than--well, jus'
by-an'-by.
"By-an'-by" Brown o' Blunder Cove--paddle-punt fishin' the Blow-me-down
grounds....
* * * * *
It had not been for keeps. "By-an'-by" Brown resisted in a fashion so
resolute that no encroachment upon his rights was accomplished by Aunt
Phoebe Luff. He had wandered too long alone to be willing to yield up a
property in hearts once he possessed it. And Blunder Cove approved. The
logic was simple: _If_ "By-an'-by" Brown took the child t' raise, why,
then, nobody else would _have_ t'. The proceeding was never regarded as
extraordinary. Nobody said, "How queer!" It was looked upon merely as a
commendably philanthropic undertaking on the part of "By-an'-by" Brown;
the accident of his sex and situation had nothing to do with the
problem. Thus, when Aunt Phoebe's fostering care was no longer
imperative "By-an'-by" Brown said _Now_ for the first time in his life,
and departed with the baby. By that time, of course, there was an
establishment: a whitewashed cottage by the water-side, a stage, a
flake, a punt--all the achievement of "By-an'-by's" own hands. A new
account, too: this on the ledger of Wull & Company, trading the French
Shore with the _Always Loaded_, putting in off and on.
"By-an'-by's" baby began to grow perceptibly. "By-an'-by" just kept on
growing, 'lowin' t' stop sometime--by-an'-by. It happened--by-an'-by. This
was when he was two-and-twenty: by which time, according to enthusiastic
observers from a more knowing and appreciative world, he was
Magnificent. The splendor consisted, it was said, in bulk, muscle, and
the like, somewhat, too, perhaps, in poise and glance; but Blunder Cove
knew that these external and relatively insignificant aspects were
transcended by the spiritual graces which "By-an'-by" Brown displayed.
He was religious; but it must be added that he was amiable. A great,
tender, devoted dog: "By-an'-by" Brown. This must be said for him: that
if he by-an'-byed the unpleasant necessities into a future too distant
to be troublesome, he by-an'-byed the appearance of evil to the same far
exile. After all, it may be a virtue to practise the art of
by-an'-bying.
As for the baby at this period, the age of seven years, the least said
the less conspicuous the failure to say anything adequate. Language was
never before so helplessly mocked. It may be ventured, however, to prove
the poverty of words, that dispassionately viewed through the eyes of
"By-an'-by" Brown, she was angelic. "Jus' a wee li'l' mite of a angel!"
said he. Of course, this is not altogether original, nor is it specific;
but it satisfied "By-an'-by" Brown's idea of perfection. A slim little
slip of a maid of the roguishly sly and dimpled sort: a maid of delicate
fashioning, exquisite of feature--a maid of impulsive affections. Exact
in everything; and exacting, too--in a captivating way. And herein was
propagated the germ of disquietude for "By-an'-by" Brown: promising,
indeed (fostered by the folly of procrastination), a more tragic
development. "By-an'-by's" baby was used to saying, You _told_ me so.
Also, But you _promised_. The particular difficulty confronting
"By-an'-by" Brown was the baby's insistent curiosity, not inconsistent
with the age of seven, concerning the whereabouts of her father and the
time and manner of his return.