GAFFETT WITH HIS good bunk and the bird-skins, the story of the wreck
of the Minerva, the human-shaped creatures of fog and cobweb, the great
words of Milton with which he described their onslaught upon the crew,
all this moving tale had such an air of truth that I could not argue
with Captain Littlepage. The old man looked away from the map as if it
had vaguely troubled him, and regarded me appealingly.
“We were just speaking of”--and he stopped. I saw that he had suddenly
forgotten his subject.
“There were a great many persons at the funeral,” I hastened to say.
“Oh yes,” the captain answered, with satisfaction. “All showed respect
who could. The sad circumstances had for a moment slipped my mind. Yes,
Mrs. Begg will be very much missed. She was a capital manager for her
husband when he was at sea. Oh yes, shipping is a very great loss.” And
he sighed heavily. “There was hardly a man of any standing who didn't
interest himself in some way in navigation. It always gave credit to a
town. I call it low-water mark now here in Dunnet.”
He rose with dignity to take leave, and asked me to stop at his house
some day, when he would show me some outlandish things that he had
brought home from sea. I was familiar with the subject of the decadence
of shipping interests in all its affecting branches, having been already
some time in Dunnet, and I felt sure that Captain Littlepage's mind had
now returned to a safe level.
As we came down the hill toward the village our ways divided, and when
I had seen the old captain well started on a smooth piece of sidewalk
which would lead him to his own door, we parted, the best of friends.
“Step in some afternoon,” he said, as affectionately as if I were a
fellow-shipmaster wrecked on the lee shore of age like himself. I
turned toward home, and presently met Mrs. Todd coming toward me with an
anxious expression.
“I see you sleevin' the old gentleman down the hill,” she suggested.
“Yes. I've had a very interesting afternoon with him,” I answered, and
her face brightened.
“Oh, then he's all right. I was afraid 'twas one o' his flighty spells,
an' Mari' Harris wouldn't”--
“Yes,” I returned, smiling, “he has been telling me some old stories,
but we talked about Mrs. Begg and the funeral beside, and Paradise
Lost.”
“I expect he got tellin' of you some o' his great narratives,” she
answered, looking at me shrewdly. “Funerals always sets him goin'. Some
o' them tales hangs together toler'ble well,” she added, with a sharper
look than before. “An' he's been a great reader all his seafarin' days.
Some thinks he overdid, and affected his head, but for a man o' his
years he's amazin' now when he's at his best. Oh, he used to be a
beautiful man!”
We were standing where there was a fine view of the harbor and its long
stretches of shore all covered by the great army of the pointed firs,
darkly cloaked and standing as if they waited to embark. As we looked
far seaward among the outer islands, the trees seemed to march seaward
still, going steadily over the heights and down to the water's edge.
It had been growing gray and cloudy, like the first evening of autumn,
and a shadow had fallen on the darkening shore. Suddenly, as we looked,
a gleam of golden sunshine struck the outer islands, and one of them
shone out clear in the light, and revealed itself in a compelling way to
our eyes. Mrs. Todd was looking off across the bay with a face full of
affection and interest. The sunburst upon that outermost island made
it seem like a sudden revelation of the world beyond this which some
believe to be so near.
“That's where mother lives,” said Mrs. Todd. “Can't we see it plain? I
was brought up out there on Green Island. I know every rock an' bush on
it.”
“Your mother!” I exclaimed, with great interest.
“Yes, dear, cert'in; I've got her yet, old's I be. She's one of them
spry, light-footed little women; always was, an' light-hearted, too,”
answered Mrs. Todd, with satisfaction. “She's seen all the trouble folks
can see, without it's her last sickness; an' she's got a word of courage
for everybody. Life ain't spoilt her a mite. She's eighty-six an' I'm
sixty-seven, and I've seen the time I've felt a good sight the oldest.
'Land sakes alive!' says she, last time I was out to see her. 'How you
do lurch about steppin' into a bo't?' I laughed so I liked to have gone
right over into the water; an' we pushed off, an' left her laughin'
there on the shore.”
The light had faded as we watched. Mrs. Todd had mounted a gray rock,
and stood there grand and architectural, like a caryatide. Presently she
stepped down, and we continued our way homeward.
“You an' me, we'll take a bo't an' go out some day and see mother,”
she promised me. “'Twould please her very much, an' there's one or two
sca'ce herbs grows better on the island than anywhere else. I ain't seen
their like nowheres here on the main.”
“Now I'm goin' right down to get us each a mug o' my beer,” she
announced as we entered the house, “an' I believe I'll sneak in a little
mite o' camomile. Goin' to the funeral an' all, I feel to have had a
very wearin' afternoon.”
I heard her going down into the cool little cellar, and then there was
considerable delay. When she returned, mug in hand, I noticed the taste
of camomile, in spite of my protest; but its flavor was disguised by
some other herb that I did not know, and she stood over me until I drank
it all and said that I liked it.
“I don't give that to everybody,” said Mrs. Todd kindly; and I felt for
a moment as if it were part of a spell and incantation, and as if my
enchantress would now begin to look like the cobweb shapes of the arctic
town. Nothing happened but a quiet evening and some delightful plans
that we made about going to Green Island, and on the morrow there was
the clear sunshine and blue sky of another day.