tack--the _Delia_ did not have her own way all the time. Three days and
three nights it was, with the able _Delia_ gradually encasing herself in
ice. Only the ice seemed to please Patsie Oddie. The day he left
Gloucester it had been just like that on incoming vessels. And that was
a bitter day, and it was a bitter day again when he was coming back--and
not with cold alone. Ice, ice, ice--“Let her ice up,” and from Cape
Sable to the slip in Gloucester Harbor he kept her going.
The _Delia_ was no sooner tied to the dock than away went the crew of
the _Eldorado_. Away also went the _Delia’s_ crew as soon as they had
tidied things up and the Skipper had given the word.
Patsie himself did not hurry. There was nothing for him to hurry for.
So he cleaned up, changed his clothes, locked the cabin of the _Delia_,
and went slowly up the dock.
He was hailed on the way by any number of people--fishermen, dealers,
lumpers, idlers. Those who knew him tendered congratulations or shook
hands, slapped him on the shoulder--he had done a fine thing. Some there
were who stood in awe of him, only looked at him, examined face and
figure for further indications of the daring of the man. The whole
water-front was talking over it. Rapidly the whole town was learning it.
Patsie nodded, shook hands, said, “How is it here?” and “Thank ye
kindly,” and went on his way to the owner’s store. He reckoned up his
trip, ordered a few things immediately needed on the vessel, and said,
“That’s all I’m thinkin’ for now,” and went up the street. On the way he
passed Delia Corrigan’s house. He did not mean to, but he could not help
it--he looked up for sign of her as he got abreast of the windows. There
she was, cold as it was, window raised and calling to him. He waited to
make sure, and she again said, “Won’t you come in?”
Patsie went up the steps and into the snug livingroom, where Delia was
waiting--a rosy, wholesome-looking young woman, now bravely trying to
smile.
“Home again, Patsie?”
“Home again, Delia--yes.”
“And a fine thing you did.”
“No fine thing that I can see to it. There were men on a vessel that
might have been lost, and I took them off and gave them a passage home.”
“Patsie----”
“Yes?”
“You left me in a hurry that morning, Patsie. You shouldn’t have rushed
out so. After you were gone Captain Marrs stepped in to tell me about
his rescue of Captain Orcutt and part of his crew. And then he began to
tell me other things--about you. He’s a good friend of yours, Patsie. It
was good to listen to him, though I knew it all before--and more. Don’t
fear that all the good things you did aren’t known to me. But after a
time I began to see what it was he meant, and without letting him finish
I ran out to see you. But you were gone. I could just see your vessel
going out by the Point in all that gale. You put to sea in all that
gale, Patsie?”
“Put to sea? Yes, and lucky I did, maybe, for I was no more than in time
to bring back the man you want--and he’d never seen Gloucester again if
I hadn’t.”
“Who was that?”
“Who was that? Why, Delia!”
“Who was that?”
“Who? Why, who but Orcutt.”
“Captain Orcutt? No, Patsie--it wasn’t Orcutt. He did come back in your
vessel, the man I want--but it wasn’t Orcutt.”
“Not Orcutt? Not Orcutt?”
“No, not Orcutt. Oh, Patsie, but it is hard on a woman! Oh, if you only
knew what a hard man you are to make understand! I suppose I have to do
it--you’re that backward yourself. It’s hard on me, Patsie, but you’ll
go no more to sea in a gale, and me here shaking with fear for you. You
did bring back the man I want, Patsie. Over Sable Island bar he drove
the _Delia_, but it wasn’t Orcutt.”
Patsie, trembling, stared at her. “Not Orcutt, Delia?”
“Patsie, I’ve said it a dozen times. It wasn’t Orcutt, and yet ’twas
somebody in your vessel. Oh, why did you mistake me that morning,
Patsie? Would I be a woman and not have a word of pity for a man that
came so nigh being lost as Captain Orcutt would have been but for Wesley
Marrs? And you are such a backward man, Patsie. Don’t you hear me,
Patsie? Then look at me, dear--look at me--it wasn’t-- And who can it be?
Who was it, Patsie, that drove the _Delia_ over Sable Island bar,
himself to the wheel?”
“Oh!” gasped Patsie--“Delia mavourneen, mavourneen, mavourneen!”
He drew back a step, got another look at her face, and clasped her
again. “And ’twas me all the time, asthore?”
“You all the time. And if you hadn’t been in such a hurry I’d have told
you that morning.”
“Oh, Delia, Delia,” and from his beard she caught the murmur--“and the
black, black night I put in on Sable Island bar! Oh, the black, black
night I almost left him and his men to die. Oh, Delia, Delia, there was
hate and murder in my heart that night.”
“Never mind that now, Patsie. You had it out with yourself, and it
wasn’t hate nor murder at the last, Patsie.”
“Delia, dear, but ’tis a wicked man couldn’t be good with you,” and
gathered her to him.
“Yes, but----”
“But what, alanna?”
“My breath, dear.” She raised her head and looked into his eyes.
“Patsie, Patsie, but the strength of you!”
End of Project Gutenberg's The Deep Sea's Toll, by James B. Connolly