"Ay," says she; "but _when_ will he be comin' back?"
"Why," he answered, bewildered--"by-an'-by!"
It was a familiar evasion. The maid frowned. "Is you sure?" she
demanded, sceptically.
"Ye bet ye!" he was prompt to reply, feeling bound now, to convince her,
whatever came of it; "he'll be comin' back--by-an'-by."
"Well, then," said the maid, relieved, "I s'pose so."
Brown had never disclosed the brutal delinquency of Long Bill Tweak. Not
to the maid, because he could not wound her; not to Blunder Cove,
because he would not shame her. The revelation must be made, of course;
but not now--by-an'-by. The maid knew that her mother was dead beyond
recall: no mystery was ever made of that; and there ended the childish
wish and wonder concerning that poor woman. But her father? Here was an
inviting mystery. No; he was not what you might call dead--jus' sort o'
gone away. Would he ever come back? Oh, _sure_! no need o' frettin'
about that; _he'd_ be back--by-an'-by. Had "By-an'-by" Brown said
_Never_, the problem would have been dieposed of, once and for all: the
fretting over with, once and for all. But what he said was this
uncourageous and specious by-an'-by. So the maid waited in interested
speculation: then impatiently. For she was used to saying, You _told_ me
so. Also, But then you _promised_.
As by-an'-by overhauled by-an'-by in the days of "By-an'-by" Brown, and
as the ultimate by-an'-by became imminent, "By-an'-by" Brown was ever
more disquieted.
"But," says the maid, "'by-an'-by' is never."
"Oh, my, no!" he protested.
She tapped the tip of his nose with a long little forefinger, and
emphasized every word with a stouter tap. "Yes--it--is!" said she.
"Not _never_," cried "By-an'-by" Brown.
"Then," says she, "is it to-morrow?"
Brown violently shook his head.
"Is it nex' week?"
"Goodness, no!"
"Well," she insisted--and she took "By-an'-by's" face between her palms
and drew it close to search his eyes--"is it nex' year?"
"Maybe."
She touched the tip of her white little nose to the sunburned tip of
his. "But _is_ it?" she persisted.
"Uh-huh," said "By-an'-by" Brown, recklessly, quite overcome, committing
himself beyond redemption; "nex' year."
And "By-an'-by's" baby remembered....
* * * * *
Next year began, of course, with the first day of January. And a day
with wind and snow it was! Through the interval of three months
preceding, Brown had observed the approach of this veritable by-an'-by
with rising alarm. And on New Year's Day, why, there it was: by-an'-by
come at last! "By-an'-by" Brown, though twenty-two, was frightened. No
wonder! Hitherto his life had not been perturbed by insoluble
bewilderments. But how to produce Long Bill Tweak from the mist into
which he had vanished at Back Yard Bight of the Labrador seven years
ago? It was beyond him. Who could call Bill Tweak from seven years of
time and the very waste places of space? Not "By-an'-by" Brown, who
could only ponder and sigh and scratch his curly head. And here was the
maid, used to saying, as maids of seven will, But you told me so! and,
You _promised_! So "By-an'-by" Brown was downcast as never before; but
before the day was spent he conceived that the unforeseen might yet
fortuitously issue in the salvation of himself and the baby.
"Maybe," thought he--"by-an'-by!"
As January progressed the maid grew more eager and still more confident.
He _promised_, thinks she; also, He _told_ me so. There were times, as
the terrified Brown observed, when this eagerness so possessed the child
that she trembled in a fashion to make him shiver. She would start from
her chair by the stove when a knock came late o' windy nights on the
kitchen door; she would stare up the frozen harbor to the Tickle by
day--peep through the curtains, interrupt her housewifely duties to keep
watch at the window.
"Anyhow, he _will_ come," says she, quite confidently, "by-an'-by."
"Uh-huh!" Brown must respond.
What was a shadow upon the gentle spirit of "By-an'-by" Brown was the
sunlight of certain expectation irradiating "By-an'-by's" baby. But the
maid fell ill. Nobody knew why. Suspicion dwelled like a skeleton with
"By-an'-by" Brown; but this he did not divulge to Blunder Cove. Nothin'
much the matter along o' she, said the Cove; jus' a little spell o'
somethin' or other. It was a childish indisposition, perhaps--but come
with fever and pallor and a poignant restlessness. "By-an'-by" Brown had
never before known how like to a black cloud the future of a man might
be. At any rate, she must be put to bed: whereupon, of course,
"By-an'-by" Brown indefinitely put off going to bed, having rather stand
watch, he said. It was presently a question at Blunder Cove: who was the
more wan and pitiable, "By-an'-by's" baby, being sick, or "By-an'-by,"
being anxious? And there was no cure anywhere to be had--no cure for
either. "By-an'-by" Brown conceived that the appearance of Long Bill
Tweak would instantly work a miracle upon the maid. But where was Bill
Tweak? There was no magic at hand to accomplish the feat of summoning a
scamp from Nowhere!
One windy night "By-an'-by" Brown sat with the child to comfort her. "I
'low," he drawled, "that you wisht a wonderful sight that your father
was here."
"Uh-_huh_!" the maid exclaimed.
Brown sighed. "I s'pose," he muttered.
"Is he comin'?" she demanded.
"Oh--by-an'-by!"
"I wisht 'twas _now_," said she. "That I does!"
Brown listened to the wind. It was blowing high and bitterly: a winter
wind, with snow from the northeast. "By-an'-by" was troubled.
"I 'low," said he, hopelessly, "that you'll love un a sight, won't
ye?--when he comes?"
"Ye bet ye!" the maid answered.
"More'n ye love--some folks?"
"A lot," said she.
Brown was troubled. He heard the kitchen stove snore in its familiar
way, the kettle bubble, the old wind assault the cottage he had builded
for the baby; and he remembered recent years--and was troubled.
"Will ye love un more?" he asked, anxiously, turning his face from the
child, "than ye loves me?" He hesitated. "Ye won't, will ye?" he
implored.
"'Twill be different," said she.
"Will it?" he asked, rather vacantly.
"Ye see," she explained, "he'll be my _father_."
"Then," suggested "By-an'-by," "ye'll be goin' away along o' he?--when he
comes?"
"Oh, my, no!"
"Ye'll not? Ye'll stay along o' me?"
"Why, ye see," she began, bewildered, "I'll--why, o' course, I'll--oh,"
she complained, "what ye ask me _that_ for?"
"Jus' couldn't _help_ it," said "By-an'-by," humbly.
The maid began to cry.
"Don't!" pleaded "By-an'-by" Brown. "Jus' can't _stand_ it. I'll do
anything if ye'll on'y stop cryin'. Ye can _have_ your father. Ye
needn't love me no more. Ye can go away along o' he. An' he'll be comin'
soon, too. Ye'll see if he don't. Jus' by-an'-by--by-an'-by!"
"'Tis never," the maid sobbed.
"No, no! By-an'-by is soon. Why," cried "By-an'-by" Brown, perceiving
that this intelligence stopped the child's tears, "by-an'-by
is--wonderful soon."
"To-morrow?"
"Well, no; but--"
"'Tis never!" she wailed.
"'Tis nex' week!" cried "By-an'-by" Brown....
* * * * *
When the dawn of Monday morning confronted "By-an'-by" Brown he was
appalled. Here was a desperately momentous situation: by-an'-by must be
faced--at last. Where was Long Bill Tweak? Nobody knew. How could Long
Bill Tweak be fetched from Nowhere? Brown scratched his head. But Long
Bill Tweak _must_ be fetched: for here was the maid, chirpin' about the
kitchen--turned out early, ecod! t' clean house against her father's
coming. Cured? Ay; that she was--the mouse! "By-an'-by" Brown dared not
contemplate her collapse at midnight of Saturday. But chance intervened:
on Tuesday morning Long Bill Tweak made Blunder Cove on the way from
Lancy Loop to St. John's to join the sealing fleet in the spring of the
year. Long Bill Tweak in the flesh! It was still blowing high: he had
come out of the snow--a shadow in the white mist, rounding the Tickle
rocks, observed from all the windows of Blunder Cove, but changing to
Long Bill Tweak himself, ill-kempt, surly, gruff-voiced, vicious-eyed,
at the kitchen door of "By-an'-by" Brown's cottage.
Long Bill Tweak begged the maid, with a bristle-whiskered twitch--a
scowl, mistakenly delivered as a smile--for leave to lie the night in
that place.
The maid was afraid with a fear she had not known before. "We're 'lowing
for company," she objected.
"Come in!" "By-an'-by" called from the kitchen.
The maid fled in a fright to the inner room, and closed the door upon
herself; but Long Bill Tweak swaggered in.
"Tweak!" gasped "By-an'-by" Brown.
"Brown!" growled Long Bill Tweak.
There was the silence of uttermost amazement; but presently, with a
jerk, Tweak indicated the door through which "By-an'-by's" baby had
fled.
"It?" he whispered.
Brown nodded.
"'Low I'll be goin' on," said Long Bill Tweak, making for the windy day.
"Ye'll go," answered "By-an'-by" Brown, quietly, interposing his great
body, "when ye're let: not afore."
Long Bill Tweak contented himself with the hospitality of "By-an'-by"
Brown....
* * * * *
That night, when Brown had talked with the maid's father for a long,
long time by the kitchen stove, the maid being then turned in, he softly
opened the bedroom door and entered, closing it absent-mindedly behind
him, dwelling the while, in deep distress, upon the agreement he had
wrested by threat and purchase from Long Bill Tweak. The maid was still
awake because of terror; she was glad, indeed, to have caught sight of
"By-an'-by" Brown's broad, kindly young countenance in the beam of light
from the kitchen, though downcast, and she snuggled deeper into the
blankets, not afraid any more. "By-an'-by" touched a match to the
candle-wick with a great hand that trembled. He lingered over the simple
act--loath to come nearer to the evil necessity of the time. For Long
Bill Tweak was persuaded now to be fatherly to the child; and
"By-an'-by" Brown must yield her, according to her wish. He sat for a
time on the edge of the little bed, clinging to the maid's hand; and he
thought, in his gentle way, that it was a very small, very dear hand,
and that he would wish to touch it often, when he could not.
Presently Brown sighed: then, taking heart, he joined issue with his
trouble.
"I 'low," he began, "that you wisht your father was here."
The maid did.
"I 'low," he pursued, "that you wisht he was here this very minute."
That the maid did!
"I 'low," said "By-an'-by," softly, lifting the child's hands to his
lips, "that you wisht the man in the kitchen was him."
"No," the maid answered, sharply.
"Ye doesn't?"
"Ye bet ye--no!" said she.
"Eh?" gasped the bewildered Brown.
The maid sat upright and stiff in bed. "Oh, my!" she demanded, in alarm;
"he _isn't_, is he?"
"No!" said "By-an'-by" Brown.
"Sure?"
"Isn't I jus' _tol'_ ye so?" he answered, beaming.
Long Bill Tweak followed the night into the shades of forgotten time....
* * * * *
Came Wednesday upon "By-an'-by" Brown in a way to make the heart jump.
Midnight of Saturday was now fairly over the horizon of his adventurous
sea. Wednesday! Came Thursday--prompt to the minute. Days of bewildered
inaction! And now the cottage was ship-shape to the darkest corners of
its closets. Ship-shape as a wise and knowing maid of seven, used to
housewifely occupations, could make it: which was as ship-shape as
ship-shape could be, though you may not believe it. There was no more
for the maid to do but sit with folded hands and confidently expectant
gaze to await the advent of her happiness. Thursday morning: and
"By-an'-by" Brown had not mastered his bearings. Three days more:
Thursday, Friday, Saturday. It occurred, then, to "By-an'-by" Brown--at
precisely ten o'clock of Friday morning--that his hope lay in Jim Turley
of Candlestick Cove, an obliging man. They jus' _had_ t' be a father,
didn't they? But they _wasn't_ no father no more. Well, then, ecod!
_make_ one. Had t' be a father, _some_how, didn't they? And--well--there
was Jim Turley o' Candlestick Cove. He'd answer. Why not Jim Turley o'
Candlestick Cove, an obligin' man, known t' be such from Mother Burke t'
the Cape Norman Light? He'd 'blige a shipmate in a mess like this, ecod!
You see if he didn't!
Brown made ready for Candlestick Cove.
"But," the maid objected, "what is I t' do if father comes afore night?"
"Ah!" drawled "By-an'-by," blankly.
"Eh?" she repeated.
"Why, o' course," he answered, with a large and immediate access of
interest, drawing the arm-chair near the stove, "you jus' set un there
t' warm his feet."
"An' if he doesn't know me?" she protested.
"Oh, sure," "By-an'-by" affirmed, "the ol' man'll know _you_, never
fear. You jus' give un a cup o' tea an' say I'll be back afore dark."
"Well," the maid agreed, dubiously.
"I'll be off," said Brown, in a flush of embarrassment, "when I fetches
the wood t' keep your father cosey. He'll be thirsty an' cold when he
comes. Ye'll take good care of un, won't ye?"
"Ye bet ye!"
"Mind ye get them there ol' feet warm. An' jus' you fair pour the tea
into un. He's used t' his share o' tea, ye bet! _I_ knows un."
And so "By-an'-by" Brown, travelling over the hills, came hopefully to
Jim Turley of Candlestick Cove, an obliging man, whilst the maid kept
watch at the window of the Blunder Cove cottage. And Jim Turley was a
most obligin' man. 'Blige? Why, sure! _I'll_ 'blige ye! There was no
service difficult or obnoxious to the selfish sons of men that Jim
Turley would not perform for other folk--if only he might 'blige. Ye jus'
go ast Jim Turley; _he'll_ 'blige ye. And Jim Turley would with delight:
for Jim had a passion for 'bligin'--assiduously seeking opportunities,
even to the point of intrusion. Beaming Jim Turley o' Candlestick Cove:
poor, shiftless, optimistic, serene, well-beloved Jim Turley, forever
cheerfully sprawling in the meshes of his own difficulties! Lean Jim
Turley--forgetful of his interests in a fairly divine satisfaction with
compassing the joy and welfare of his fellows! I shall never forget him:
his round, flaring smile, rippling under his bushy whiskers, a perpetual
delight, come any fortune; his mild, unself-conscious, sympathetic blue
eyes, looking out upon the world in amazement, perhaps, but yet in kind
and eager inquiry concerning the affairs of other folk; his blithe
"Yo-ho!" at labor, and "Easy does it!" Jim Turley o' Candlestick
Cove--an' obligin' man!
"In trouble?" he asked of "By-an'-by" Brown, instantly concerned.
"Not 'xactly trouble," answered "By-an'-by."
"Sort o' bothered?"
"Well, no," drawled "By-an'-by" Brown; "but I got t' have a father by
Satu'day night."
"For yerself?" Jim mildly inquired.
"For the maid," said "By-an'-by" Brown; "an' I was 'lowin'," he added,
frankly, "that you might 'blige her."
"Well, now," Jim Turley exclaimed, "I'd like t' wonderful well! But, ye
see," he objected, faintly, "bein' a ol' bachelor I isn't s'posed t'--"
"Anyhow," "By-an'-by" Brown broke in, "I jus' got t' have a father by
Satu'day night."
"An' I'm a religious man, an'--"
"No objection t' religion," Brown protested. "I'm strong on religion
m'self. Jus' as soon have a religious father as not. Sooner. Now," he
pleaded, "they isn't nobody else in the world t' 'blige me."
"No," Jim Turley agreed, in distress; "no--I 'low not."
"An' I jus' _got_," declared Brown, "t' have a father by Satu'day
night."
"Course you is!" cried Jim Turley, instantly siding with the woebegone.
"Jus' got t'!"
"Well?"
"Oh, well, pshaw!" said Jim Turley, "_I'll_ 'blige ye!"
The which he did, but with misgiving: arriving at Blunder Cove after
dark of Saturday, unobserved by the maid, whose white little nose was
stuck to the frosty window-pane, whose eyes searched the gloom gathered
over the Tickle rocks, whose ears were engaged with the tick-tock of the
impassive clock. No; he was not observed, however keen the lookout: for
he came sneaking in by Tumble Gully, 'cordin' t' sailin' orders, to join
"By-an'-by" Brown in the lee of the meeting-house under Anxiety Hill,
where the conspiracy was to be perfected, in the light of recent
developments, and whence the sally was to be made. He was in a shiver of
nervousness; so, too, "By-an'-by" Brown. It was the moment of inaction
when conspirators must forever be the prey of doubt and dread. They were
determined, grim; they were most grave--but they were still afraid. And
Jim Turley's conscience would not leave him be. A religious man, Jim
Turley! On the way from Candlestick Cove he had whipped the perverse
thing into subjection, like a sinner; but here, in the lee of the
meeting-house by Anxiety Hill, with a winter's night fallen like a cold
cloud from perdition, conscience was risen again to prod him.
An obligin' man, Jim Turley: but still a religious man--knowing his
master.
"I got qualms," said he.
"Stummick?" Brown demanded, in alarm.
"This here thing," Jim Turley protested, "isn't a religious thing to
do."
"Maybe not," replied "By-an'-by" Brown, doggedly; "but I promised the
maid a father by Satu'day night, an' I got t' have un."
"'Twould ease my mind a lot," Jim Turley pleaded, "t' ask the parson.
Come, now!"
"By-an'-by," said "By-an'-by" Brown.
"No," Jim Turley insisted; "now."
The parson laughed; then laughed again, with his head thrown back and
his mouth fallen open very wide. Presently, though, he turned grave, and
eyed "By-an'-by" Brown in a questioning, anxious way, as though seeking
to discover in how far the big man's happiness might be chanced:
whereupon he laughed once more, quite reassured. He was a pompous bit of
a parson, this, used to commanding the conduct of Blunder Cove; to
controlling its affairs; to shaping the destinies of its folk with a
free, bold hand: being in this both wise and most generously concerned,
so that the folk profited more than they knew. And now, with "By-an'-by"
Brown and the maid on his hands, to say nothing of poor Jim Turley, he
did not hesitate; there was nothing for it, thinks he, but to get
"By-an'-by" Brown out of the mess, whatever came of it, and to arrange a
future from which all by-an'-bying must be eliminated. A new start,
thinks he; and the by-an'-by habit would work no further injury. So he
sat "By-an'-by" Brown and Jim Turley by the kitchen stove, without a
word of explanation, and, still condescending no hint of his purpose,
but bidding them both sit tight to their chairs, went out upon his
business, which, as may easily be surmised, was with the maid.
"Bein' a religious man," said Jim Turley, solemnly, "he'll mend it."
When the parson came back there was nothing within her comprehension,
which was quite sufficient to her need. "By-an'-by" Brown was sent home,
with a kindly God-bless-ye! and an injunction of the most severe
description to have done with by-an'-bying. He stumbled into his own
kitchen in a shamefaced way, prepared, like a mischievous lad, to be
scolded until his big ears burned and his scalp tingled; and he was a
long, long time about hanging up his cap and coat and taking off his
shoes, never once glancing toward the maid, who sat silent beyond the
kitchen stove. And then, when by no further subterfuge could he prolong
his immunity, he turned boldly in her direction, patiently and humbly to
accept the inevitable correction, a promise to do better already
fashioned upon his tongue. And there she sat, beyond the glowing stove,
grinning in a way to show her white little teeth. Tears? Maybe: but only
traces--where-left, indeed, for the maid to learn, or, at least, by her
eyes shone all the brighter. And "By-an'-by" Brown, reproaching himself
bitterly, sat down, with never a word, and began to trace strange
pictures on the floor with the big toe of his gray-socked foot, while
the kettle and the clock and the fire sang the old chorus of comfort and
cheer.
The big man's big toe got all at once furiously interested in its
artistic occupation.
"Ah-ha!" says "By-an'-by's" baby, "_I_ found you out!"
"Uh-huh!" she repeated, threateningly, "I found _you_ out."
"Did ye?" "By-an'-by" softly asked.
The maid came on tiptoe from behind the stove, and made an arrangement
of "By-an'-by" Brown's long legs convenient for straddling; and having
then settled herself on his knees, she tipped up his face and fetched
her own so close that he could not dodge her eyes, but must look in,
whatever came of it; and then--to the reviving delight of "By-an'-by"
Brown--she tapped his nose with a long little forefinger, emphasizing
every word with a stouter tap, saying:
"Yes--I--did!"
"Uh-huh!" he chuckled.
"An'," said she, "I don't _want_ no father."
"Ye don't?" he cried, incredulous.
"Because," she declared, "I'm 'lowin' t' take care o' _you_--an' _marry_
you."
"Ye is?" he gasped.
"Ye bet ye, b'y," said "By-an'-by's" baby--"by-an'-by!"
Then they hugged each other hard.