"We are a garden walled around,
Chosen and made peculiar ground;
A little spot inclosed by grace,
Out of the world's wide wilderness."
While he was reading it, I saw her write a little note, and hand it
across the alley to Jamie. He smiled, and wrote another back. After
meeting, they had a talk. These things sound small enough now. But now I
am neither young, nor in love, nor jealous.
That night was our last at home. After supper, I strolled off towards
the meeting-house. 'Twas about sundown. I walked awhile in the
graveyard, and then followed the path into the wood at the back of it.
I see that I have been telling my story in a way to favor myself,--that
even now I am unwilling wholly to expose my folly. I could not, if I
tried, tell how that night in the wood I was beset at once by jealousy,
pride, love, and anger, and so well-nigh driven mad.
I passed from the wood to the open field, and reached the shore. The
vessel lay at the wharf. I climbed the rigging, and watched the moon
rising over the water. It must have been near midnight when I reached
home.
The vessel sailed early in the morning. I did not see Margaret,--never
bid her good-bye. After we were under way, and were out of the windings
of the channel, Jamie came and leaned with me against the rail. And
there in silence we stood until the homes of those we loved so well had
faded from our sight.
Poor Jamie! I knew afterwards how troubled he was at the way I treated
him that summer. He wanted to be friendly, but I stood off. He wanted to
speak of the folks at home, but I would never join him. At last he left
off trying.
If he had not met with an accident, maybe I should never have spoken
another kind word to him. It happened towards the end of the voyage. The
schooner had wet her salt, and all hands were thinking of home. I was
down in the cabin. I was marking a piece of meat to boil,--for then each
fisherman carried his own provisions. All at once I heard something fall
upon the deck. Then a great trampling. I hurried up, and saw them
lifting up Jamie. He had fallen from the rigging. It was old and rotten.
They carried him down, and laid him in his berth. He wouldn't have
known, if they had dropped him into the sea.
When I saw him stretched out there, every unkind feeling left me. My old
love for him came back. All I could think of was what he said in our
first talk,--"Then I wanted my mother." None of us could say whether he
would live or die. We feared for his head, because he took no notice,
but seemed inclined to sleep. I wanted to do everything for him myself.
I had borne him ill-will, but now my strong feelings all set towards
him.
It was in the middle of the night that he first came to himself. 'Twas a
blowy night, and most of the crew were on deck. A couple of men were
sleeping in their berths.
The cabin of a fishing-schooner is a dark, stifled place, with
everything crowded into it. The berths were like a double row of shelves
along the sides. In one of these, with his face not far from the beams
overhead, was stretched my poor, ill-treated Jamie. I was so afraid he
would die! I had no pride then.
On this night I stood holding by the side of his berth, to steady
myself. I turned away a moment to snuff the candle, and when I stepped
back he looked up in my face and smiled. I couldn't help throwing my
arms around his neck and kissing him. I never kissed a man before,--nor
since.
"Joseph has come back," said he, with a smile.
I thought he was wandering, and made no answer. After that he frequently
roused from his stupor and seemed inclined to talk.
One stormy night, when all hands were upon deck, he seemed like himself,
only very sad, and began of his own accord to talk of what was always in
my mind. He spoke low, being weak.
"Joseph," said he, "there is one question I want to ask you."
"Hush!" said I,--"you mustn't talk, you must be quiet." For I dreaded
his coming to the point.
"I can't be quiet," said he, "and I must talk. You've something against
me. What is it?"