THE "WIDDER" LEACH
"I'm goin' to give ye a taste o' mackerel fishin'," said Uncle Terry the
next morning after breakfast. "We'll go over to the fish house an' ye
can put on some oilers an' save yer good clothes." On the way they met
the well-remembered old lady Albert had first noticed at the
prayer-meeting. She recognized him, and offering a rather soiled hand
(for she had been spreading fish on the racks), exclaimed:
"In the Lord's name I thank ye, Mr. Page, for rememberin' a poor old
creetur like me and sendin' that dress. I make sure the Lord's teched
yer heart, an' if ye ain't a believer yet, ye will be."
"I am glad my little remembrance pleased you," answered Albert
pleasantly, "it was only a trifle, and you need not feel obligated for
it." He kept on after Uncle Terry, not wishing to waste any time; but
she followed to add more thanks, ending with, "God bless ye, sir; an'
may He warm the heart o' one good girl, fer ye desarve it."
It struck him as a little curious that this eccentric old lady should
have so well read his feelings towards Telly, but it pleased him just
the same. When he had donned a suit of oilers, and Uncle Terry was
pulling out of the little cove, Albert said, "That old lady is the most
pious person I ever met, and with her it seems entirely sincere. No one
could doubt she means every word she says."
"Wal, it's about all the consolation she gits out o' life, an' 'twixt
you an' me she takes more'n all the rest o' the believers here,"
answered Uncle Terry, "an' at times I 'most envy her fer it. She don't
airn more'n 'nough to keep soul an' body together, an' winters some on
us allus helps her. She has nobody in the world that's near her, lives
alone in a little shanty, an' is over seventy, and yet she thanks the
Lord three times a day for his many blessin's an's sure he'd never let
her come to want. She's lived that way fer goin' on thirty year, an' no
one ever heard her complain. Both her husband an' son went down in a
coaster one winter's night, on Monhegan Shoals, an' tho' nachly she took
on 'bout it a spell, she believed it was the Lord's will, an' meant to
be a blessin'."
"She is a monomaniac on the subject, I should imagine," observed
Albert.
"Wal, sorter cracked 'bout religion," answered Uncle Terry, "leastwise
that's my notion; an' mebbe it's lucky she is, seein' she's poor, an'
nothin' but that fer comfort. She's smart 'nuff other ways, though, an'
there ain't nothin' goin' on here she don't know. She's kind-hearted
too, an' if she had anything ter give, she'd share her last cent with
ye. If ennybody's sick, she's allus ready to help. Thar's lots o' wuss
folks in the world than the Widder Leach." And then as if that crowned
the sum total of her virtues he added, "Telly an' Lissy thinks lots o'
her."
He paused for breath, and turning to see if they were heading right,
resumed his strong and steady pulling. The morning was wondrously fair
and still; the sun, a round red ball, had been up not over half an hour,
and a mile ahead of them lay Damriscove Island, green and treeless.
Close by a flock of seagulls were floating on the still water, and away
out seaward the swells were breaking on a long and narrow ledge.
"Thar," observed Uncle Terry, pointing to this ledge, "is whar Telly
started for shore all alone, just nineteen years ago last March." And
then adding, while he watched Albert's averted face, "'Twas an onlucky
day fer the poor sailors an' a lucky one for us, fer she's been a heap
o' comfort ever since."
"Tell me, Uncle Terry," said Albert, "why it is she feels so extremely
sensitive regarding her romantic history, and what is the cause of the
peculiar moods you spoke of last summer? I noticed it last evening, and
it pained me very much."
"It's hard tellin'," was the answer, "she's a girl that's given ter
broodin' a good deal, an' mebbe when she was told the facts she began
ter suspect some o' her ancestors would be lookin' her up some day. She
allus has been a good deal by herself sence she got her schoolin', an'
most likely doin' lots o' thinkin'. But Telly's all right," he added
briefly, "an' the most willin' an' tender-hearted creetur I ever seen or
heard on. She'll make an amazin' good wife fer some man, if she ever
finds the right 'un."
It is needless to say some one else in the boat echoed that belief in
thought. When they reached the island Uncle Terry landed, and going to
the top of a cliff, scanned the sea for signs of fish.
"Mackerel's curus fish," he observed to Albert, who had followed.
"They's a good deal like some wimmin: ye never know whar ter find 'em.
Yesterday mornin' that cove jest inside o' the pint was 'live with 'em,
an' to-day I can't see a sign o' one. We better sit here an' wait a
spell till I sight a school."
To a dreamer like Albert Page the limitless ocean view he now enjoyed
lifted him far above mackerel and their habits. His mind was also
occupied a good deal by Telly, and while he desired to please the kindly
old man who imagined fishing would entertain him, his heart was not in
it.
"Don't let us worry about the mackerel, Uncle Terry," he observed as
they seated themselves on top of a cliff, "this lone, uninhabited island
and the view here will content me until your fish are hungry."
"It allus sets me thinkin' too," was the answer, "an' wonderin' whar we
cum from and what we air here for. An' our stay is so amazin' short
besides! We air born, grow up, work a spell, git old and die, an' that's
the end. Why, it don't seem only last year when I cum to the Cape, an'
it's goin' nigh on to thirty now, an' I'm a'most through my spell o'
life. What puzzles me," he added, "is what's the good o' bein' born at
all if ye've got ter die so soon! An' more'n all that, if life's the
Lord's blessin', as the widder b'lieves, why are so many only born to
suffer, or be crippled all their lives? An' why are snakes an' all sorts
o' vermin, to say nothin' o' cheatin' lawyers, like Frye, ever born at
all?"
Albert smiled at the odd coupling of Frye with vermin. "There are a good
many wiser heads than mine, Uncle Terry, that have never been able to
answer your question," he replied, "and I doubt if they ever will. To my
mind the origin of life is an enigma, the wide variations in matters of
health and ability an injustice, and the end a blank wall that none who
scale ever recross with tidings of the beyond. As some one has expressed
it: 'Life is a narrow vale between the cold and barren peaks of two
eternities! We strive in vain to look beyond the heights; we cry aloud,
and the only answer is the echo of our wailing cry.'"
"An' right thar," put in Uncle Terry earnestly, "is whar I allus envy
the believers, as the widder calls 'em, for they are satisfied what is
beyond and have it all pict'rd out in thar minds, even to what the
streets are paved with, an' the kind o' music they're goin' ter have.
It's all guesswork in my way o' thinkin', but they are sure on't, an'
that feelin' is lots o' comfort to 'em when they are drawin' near the
end. I've been a sort er scoffer all my life," he added reflectively,
"an' can't help bein' a doubter, but there are times when I envy Aunt
Leach an' the rest on' em the delusion I b'lieve they're laborin'
under."
"But do you believe death ends all consciousness?" asked Albert
seriously. "Have you no hope, ever, of a life beyond this blank wall?"
"Sartin I have hopes," replied Uncle Terry at once, "same as all on us
has, but I wish I was more sure my hopes was goin' ter be realized. Once
in a while I git the feelin' thar ain't no use in hopin', an' then a
little suthin keeps sayin' 'Mebbe--mebbe--mebbe'--an' I feel more
cheerful again."
Albert looked at the roughly clad and withered old man who sat near, and
in whose words lurked an undertone of sadness mingled with a faint hope,
and in an instant back came a certain evening months before when the
Widow Leach had uttered a prayer that had stirred his feelings as no
such utterance ever had before. All the pathos of that simple petition,
all its abiding faith in God's goodness and wisdom, all its utter
self-abnegation and absolute confidence in a life beyond the grave, came
back, and all the consolation that feeling surely held for the old and
poverty-environed soul who uttered it impressed him in sharp contrast to
the doubting "mebbe--mebbe" of Uncle Terry.
Then again he thought of all the sneers against faith and religious
conviction he had found in the writings of Paine and Voltaire; all the
brilliant epigrams and sharp sarcasms he had heard fall from the lips of
Ingersoll, and how he had felt a growing belief that faith in the Bible
was but an evidence of ignorance and the ear-mark of superstition. Then
following that came a contrasting comparison of the peace of mind that
was the widow's and the lack of it that was Uncle Terry's, both of whom
must feel that only a few short years were left them. And again
following the line of comparison, what had he to look forward to when
the end of all things earthly drew near? Truly, as he had thought the
night that poor but devout old soul had clasped her hands and thanked
God for the blessed belief that was her comfort and staff, what availed
the doubt and distrust of atheism? All the epigrams of Ingersoll and the
sneers of Voltaire served only to remove a hope and left nought to take
its place; a hope, the divine solace of which is and will be for all
time a blessed ray of light piercing the dark shadow of the beyond; a
beacon beside which all the cold philosophy of sceptics will at the end
fade away.
Then as Albert looked out to where the waves were breaking upon a ledge,
and back again to this old man, sitting with bowed head beside him, a
sincere regret that it was not in his power to utter one word that would
aid in dispelling the clouds of doubt came to him. "Since I lack in
faith myself," he thought, "all I can say will only increase his doubt.
I wish I had as much faith as the widow, but I have not, and possibly
never shall have." For a long time he sat in silence, living over the
years during which scepticism had been slowly but surely growing upon
him, and then Uncle Terry suddenly looked up at him. It is likely the
old man's keen eyes read at a glance what was in Albert's mind, for he
said: "It don't do no good ter brood over this matter o' believin', Mr.
Page; I've wished I thought different many a time, an' more so now I'm
gittin' near the end o' life, but I can't, an' so thar's no use in
worryin'. Our 'pinions 'bout these matters are a good deal due to our
bringin' up, and the experiences we've met with. Mine connected with
those as has perfessed religion has, to say the least, been unfortnit,
but as I said afore, I wish I believed different."
He paused a few moments, watching the ground swells breaking below them
on the rocks, and then added sadly: "This hopin' ain't allus best fur
some on us either, fur it's hopin' fur some one to cum year after year
that's made Telly what she is, an' grieved Lissy an' me more'n she ever
knew."
Albert looked curiously at the old man beside him, whose rough garb and
storm-beaten face gave so little evidence of the tender heart beneath,
and a new feeling of trust and affection came to him. In some ways Uncle
Terry seemed so like his own father. Then following that came a sudden
impulse to be utterly frank with him.
"Uncle Terry," he said, "I have a little story to tell you, and as it
comes close to you, I believe it's right that you should know it. The
first time I saw Telly I said to myself, 'That girl is a prize any man
may feel proud to win.' I asked her if I might write to her, and what
with her few letters, and the little I have seen of her, I feel that she
is the one I want for a wife. I have not even hinted it to her yet, and
before I do I would like to feel that you are satisfied with me. May I
have your consent to win her if I can?"
Uncle Terry reached out and grasped Albert's hand, and shaking it
cordially answered: "Ye hev my best wishes in the matter, an' I wouldn't
say that if I didn't think ye worthy o' her!" Then he added with a droll
smile, "Lissy an' me sorter 'spected that Telly was the magnet that drew
ye down here!"
"I thank you for your confidence and consent," replied Albert
gratefully, glad that he had spoken. "I am earning an income that is
more than sufficient for two, and if Telly will say 'yes,' I shall be
the happiest man on earth. And now," he added, "let's go fishing, Uncle
Terry."
"I guess it's 'bout time," was the answer, "fur thar's two schools
workin' into the cove, an' we'll have some fun."
Three hours after, when they landed at the cove, fairly sated with
pulling in the gamy little mackerel, and happy as two boys, Telly met
them with a smile and the news that dinner was ready.