“Sit there,” I says, “and don’t be a fool. It’s low tide,” I says, “and
there ain’t enough water off the Old Wharf to float a dory.”
“I saw it,” he says, draggin’ the words out slow as death, “I saw it,
just as I always knew I would. That’s what I came East for ... a
thousand miles. And I’m afraid to go aboard of her. I’m afraid, because
I don’t know what it’s for.”
He was rockin’ himself back and forth like a crazy man, so I ran and got
a drop o’ whiskey from the back room.
“Here,” I says. “Drink this.”
He swallowed it straight, like so much water. In a few minutes he
quieted. “Now then,” I says, “you come to bed. This night’s
entertainment is over.”
But it wasn’t. About midnight I woke up with the feelin’ that somethin’
was wrong. First thing I saw was the lamp burnin’ high and bright. Next
thing was Wessel’s Andy, sittin’ in his underclothes on the edge o’ the
bunk, my whiskey flask in his hands.
“Mr. Siles,” says he, as straight and polite as a dancin’ master, though
his eyes burned, “I have made free with your whiskey. I have drunk it
all, I think.”
“Great Jehosophat,” I says, “there was pretty nigh a quart in that
flask!”
“I hope you don’t begrudge it,” says he, still smooth as wax, “because
it has made me feel like a man, Mr. Siles, like a man. I could talk--and
even laugh a little, I think. Usually I can only feel. Usually I am
afraid. Afraid of what, Mr. Siles? Afraid of goin’ aboard without
knowin’ what for. That’s the fear to eat your heart out, Mr. Siles.
That’s the fear to freeze your blood. _The not knowin’ what for!_”
I was wide awake by this time and wonderin’ how I could get him back to
bed. I didn’t want to lay hands on him any more than you’d want to lay
hands on a person with nightmare. So I started to argy with him, like
one friend to another. We were a queer lookin’ pair, I’ll warrant,
sittin’ there in our underclothes, facin’ each other.
“Look here,” I says, calm as a judge, “if it’s your fate to ship aboard
of a vessel, why don’t you go peaceable and leave the reasons for it to
God Almighty? Ain’t anything holdin’ you, is there?”
“There is somethin’ holdin’ me,” he says; and then, very low: “What is
it, Mr. Siles, that holds a man back from the sea?”
“Saints and skittles!” I says, jolted out o’ my play-actin’, “you ain’t
gone and fallen in love, have you?”
He didn’t answer. Just sat there starin’ at me, his face whiter than I
ever saw a livin’ man’s face. Then all at once he turned his head,
exactly as he would have done if a third person had walked into the
room. He was gazin’ straight at the lamp now. His eyes had a sort o’
dazzled look.
“No,” he says. “No, I won’t tell that. It’s--too--beautiful.”
And before I could jump to catch him he pitched in a dead faint onto the
floor.
It was two or three days before he was well enough to go to work again.
Durin’ that time he hardly spoke a word. But one afternoon he came to
me.
“Mr. Siles,” he said. “I’m queer, but I’m not crazy. You’ve been kind to
me, and I wanted you to know it wasn’t that. There are people in this
world,” he said, “whose lives aren’t laid down accordin’ to the general
rule. I’m one o’ them.”
And that’s all he ever said about his actions the night he drank the
whiskey.
It was a week or so later that Wessel’s Andy heard the story o’ Cap’n
Salsbury and the _Lucky Star_. I suppose he was bound to hear it sooner
or later, it bein’ a fav’rite yarn with the boys. But the way of his
hearin’ it was an accident, at that.
One afternoon, late, a fisherman from Gloucester put into the harbor. He
had carried away some runnin’ gear on his way to the Newf’n’land Banks
and was stoppin’ in port to refit. After supper the skipper came into
the shop, where the boys was sittin’ round as usual. First thing he saw
was that model o’ the _Lucky Star_ on the wall.
“What has become o’ Dan Salsbury?” says he, squintin’ aloft. “What has
become o’ Dan Salsbury that used to go mackrelin’ with the fleet?”
So they told him what had become o’ Dan Salsbury, three or four o’ them
pitchin’ in together. But finally it was left to old Jem Haskins to tell
the story. In the first place, Jem had the longest wind and in the
second place his cousin Allie used to keep house for Cap’n Dan. So Jem
knew the ins and outs o’ the story better than any o’ the rest. As he
began to talk, I saw Wessel’s Andy pick up his soap box and creep
closer.... And this is the story that he heard:
Cap’n Dan Salsbury was a deep-sea fisherman, owner and master o’ the
schooner _Lucky Star_. He had been born and raised in the village and
was one of its fav’rite citizens. He was a fine, big man to look at,
quiet and unassumin’ in his ways and fair in his dealin’, aship and
ashore. If ever a man deserved to be happy, Dan Salsbury deserved it.
But somehow happiness didn’t come to him.
First his wife died. He laid her in a little plot o’ ground on the hill
back of his house, took his year-old girl baby aboard the _Lucky Star_
and sailed for God knows where. He was gone ten months. Then he came
back, opened his cottage on Salsbury Hill and set out to make little
Hope Salsbury the richest girl in the village. He pretty nigh did it,
too. His luck was supernat’ral. His catches were talked about up and
down the coast. He became a rich man, accordin’ to village standards.
Hope Salsbury grew up to be the prettiest girl in town. She was never
very strong, takin’ after her mother that way, and there was an air
about her that kept folks at a distance. It wasn’t uppish or mean. She
was as kind as an angel, and just about as far-away as one. There wasn’t
a youngster in the village but would have died to have her, but she
scared ’em speechless with her strange, quiet talk and her big misty
eyes. Folks said Hope Salsbury wouldn’t look at a man, and they were
right. She looked straight _through_ him.
It worried Cap’n Dan. He didn’t want to get rid of Hope, by a long shot,
but he knew he was failin’ and he wanted to see her settled with a nice,
dependable boy who could take care of her after he had gone. There was a
man for every woman, said Cap’n Dan. But Hope didn’t seem to find her
man. She got quieter and quieter, and lonelier and lonelier, till the
Cap’n decided somethin’ was wrong somewhere. So he asked her straight
out if there was anyone she wanted, anyone she cared enough about to
marry. She said no, there wasn’t. But she said it so queer that the
Cap’n began to suspect it was a case of the poor child lovin’ somebody
who didn’t love her. It took him a long time to find the courage to ask
that question. But when he did, she only smiled and shook her head.
“Hope,” says the Cap’n, “there’s only one thing in the world that makes
a young girl wilt like you’re wiltin’, and that’s love. Tell me what it
is you want, and we’ll go searchin’ the seven seas till we find it.”
“I don’t know what it is myself,” the girl answered. “It’s as though I
was in love with someone I had met long ago, and then lost.”
“Lost can be found,” says the Cap’n. “We’ll go ’round the world in the
_Lucky Star_.”
Within a month’s time the old schooner was overhauled and refitted and
made ready for sea. It was June when she sailed out o’ the harbor, but
she hadn’t gone far enough to clear the Cape when a fog shut down and
hid her from sight. Most of the village was standin’ on the wharf to
wave good-bye. But they never saw the _Lucky Star_ again. The fog lasted
all day and all night and by mornin’ o’ the second day Cap’n Dan
Salsbury and his daughter were a part o’ the blue myst’ry across the
horizon. They never came back. The _Lucky Star_ was lost with all hands
in the big blow off Hatteras two years ago this summer.... So little
Hope Salsbury never found her man, and that branch o’ the Salsbury
family died, root, stock and branch.
As old Jem broke off, I glanced at Wessel’s Andy. The boy was crouched
forward on his soap box, his eyes burnin’ like two coals in the shadow.
When he saw me lookin’ at him, he shrank back like a clam into its
shell. That night, as we were undressin’ in the back room, he turned to
me all of a sudden.
“Mr. Siles,” says he, “is there a picture o’ Miss Hope Salsbury in this
village?”
“Why,” I answered, “I don’t know as there is--and I don’t know as there
isn’t. Come to think, I guess Cap’n Dan’s cousin Ed Salsbury might have
a likeness. He inherited most of the Cap’n’s prop’ty. Probably find one
in the fam’bly album.”
“Which house is Ed Salsbury’s?”
“Third to the right after you climb the Hill. You aren’t thinkin’ o’
goin’ up there to-night, are you?”
Wessel’s Andy was kind o’ smilin’ to himself. He didn’t answer my
question. But he got into bed all right and proper, turned his face to
the wall and was soon breathin’ quiet and regular. I never suspected for
a minute that he was shammin’.
It was just four o’clock in the mornin’ when the telephone in the store
began to ring--I looked at the clock as I jumped up to answer the call.
I was on a party wire and my call was 13--one long and three shorts. I
had never thought about it bein’ unlucky till that minute. But it struck
me cold to hear that old bell borin’ through the early mornin’
silence....
“Hello,” I says, takin’ down the receiver.
“This is Ed Salsbury,” says the other party. “Come up to my house right
away and take your crazy clerk off my hands. I found him sittin’ in the
parlor when I came down to start the fires. Asked him what he was doin’
and he said he had come to steal things. If you ain’t up here in fifteen
minutes I’ll call the deputy sheriff.”
I was up there in less than fifteen minutes. I cursed that fool boy
every step of the way, but I went. I don’t know why I took such trouble
about him. Maybe I was a part o’ that fate o’ his.
Ed met me at the door of his cottage.
“Siles,” says he, “there’s somethin’ queer about this. It’s against
nature. That boy--I’ve been talkin’ to him--swears he came up here last
night to steal. He pried open one o’ the front windows and got into the
parlor. That’s enough to send him to jail for a good long bit, but I’m
blessed if I want to send him. I’ve got a suspicion that the lad is
lyin’, though why any human should lie himself _into_ the penitentiary
instead of _out_ of it, blamed if I know. You got any ideas on the
subject?”
“What was he doin’ when you found him?” says I.
“That was funny, too. He was sittin’ at the table, with the lamp lit, as
home-like as you please. And--”
“And what?”
“Lookin’ at that old fam’ly album of ours.”
“Ed,” I says, “I’ll go bond for that boy. Don’t say anything about this
down at the village. Some day I’ll tell you why he came up here at dead
o’ night to peek into that old album of yours. It ain’t quite clear in
my own mind yet, but it’s gettin’ clearer.”
“Queer how he looked at me when I came in the door,” says Ed. “Just as
though he was the one belonged here and I was the trespasser. His
eyes--”
“I know,” I said. “Where is the boy, Ed? I’ll take him home now.”
“He’s in the kitchen,” Ed answered, kind o’ sheepish, “eatin’
breakfast.”
The Salsburys always were the biggest-hearted folk in the village.
So I took Wessel’s Andy back to the store, but instead o’ talkin’ to him
like I meant to, I never so much as opened my mouth the whole way home.
I couldn’t. He looked too _happy_. It was the first time I’d seen him
look anything but glum and peaked. Now, he was a changed man. There was
a light on his face, and when I say light I mean _light_. Once he burst
out laughin’--and it wasn’t the sort o’ laugh that comes from thinkin’
o’ somethin’ funny. It was just as though he’d seen some great trouble
turned inside out and found it lined with joy. He made me think of a
_bridegroom_, somehow, stridin’ along there in the early dawn....
I believe he would have gone straight on past the store, but for my hand
on his arm. He followed me into the back room like a blind man, and
there for the first time he spoke.
“I shan’t work to-day,” he says, drawin’ a deep breath. Again I thought
of a _bridegroom_.
“No,” I says, “you’ll go to bed and get some sleep.”
“Yes,” he says, “I must sleep.” He began to peel off his clothes, and
when I came back an hour later he was sleepin’ like a baby, and
smilin’....
He slept well into the afternoon. Then he got up, shaved, washed and put
on the best clothes he owned. He didn’t have only the one suit, but he
brushed it till it looked like new. Instead o’ the blue shirt that he
wore around the shop he had on a white one with a standin’ collar and a
_white tie_. I found him standin’ by the window in the back room,
lookin’ out to sea.
“Mr. Siles,” he says, not turnin’ round, “I am goin’ to leave you.”
“Leave?” I says.
“Yes.”
“When you goin’?”
“Soon,” he says. And then he faced me.
“That ship,” he says, “that ship I told you about”--he was speakin’
slow and quiet--“it’s comin’ for me very soon. I shan’t have to wait
much longer now. I feel that it is near. And I am glad.”
“I thought you didn’t want to go?” I says, tryin’ to get at the real
meanin’ of his words. I felt like a man in a dark room that’s reachin’
for somethin’ he knows is there but can’t quite locate.
“That was yesterday,” he says, smilin’ like he had smiled in his sleep.
“To-day I’m glad. To-day I want to go. It’s the natural thing to do,
now. It’s so natural--and good--that I don’t mind talkin’ about it any
more. Sit down,” he says, “and I’ll tell you. You’ve been my friend, and
you ought to know.”
I sat down, feelin’ kind o’ weak in the knees. By this time it was
beginning to grow dark. A slight mist was formin’ on the water.
“I’ve already told you,” he says, “about the ship that was always behind
my eyes. There was somethin’ else, Mr. Siles, somethin’ I’ve never told
a livin’ soul. Ever since I was a little boy I’ve been seein’ a face. It
was a child’s face to begin with, but it grew as I grew. It was like a
beautiful flower, that changes but is always the same. At first I only
dreamed it, but as I grew older I used to see it quite clearly, both day
and night. I saw it more and more frequently, until lately”--he put his
hand to his eyes--“it has become a livin’ part o’ me. It is a woman’s
face, Mr. Siles, and it calls me.
“Until last night I had never connected this face in any way with the
ship in the fog. You see, one was the most beautiful thing in the
world--the _only_ beautiful thing in my world--and the other was
horrible. But it called me, too, and I was afraid; afraid that I would
have to go before I found _her_.”
He leaned forward and put his hand on my knee.
“Mr. Siles,” says he, in the voice of a man speakin’ of his Bride, “I
saw that face last night in Mr. Salsbury’s old album. It was the face of
Hope Salsbury.”
I jumped up and away from him. My brain had been warnin’ me all along
that something like this was comin’, but it was a shock, just the same.
“She’s dead,” I says. “She’s dead!”
It was the only thing I could think to say. My mouth was dry as a bone.
Words wouldn’t come to me.
“Oh, no,” he cried, and his voice rang. “Oh, no, Mr. Siles. There’s no
such thing as bein’ dead. There are more worlds than one,” he says. “As
many more as a man needs,” he says. “This is only a poor breath of a
world. There are others, others! I know,” he says--and laughed--“I know
how it is with men. They think because their eyes close and their mouths
are still and their hearts stop beatin’ that it’s the end o’ happiness.
And maybe it is with some. I can’t say. Maybe if folks are entirely
happy in this world they don’t need the others. But it’s every man’s
right to be happy, Mr. Siles, and the Lord God knows His business. Trust
Him, Mr. Siles, trust Him. Don’t I know? I used to be afraid, but now I
see how it is.”
“Lord help me,” I says. “What am I to do?”
“Why, nothin’,” he says, pattin’ my knee. “It’s all right, Mr. Siles.
You go ahead with your life,” he says, “the same as though I had never
come into it. Take all the happiness you can get, Mr. Siles, for that’s
as God intended. But never think it ends here.”
I couldn’t look at him. There was a blur before my eyes. I got up and
went out o’ the store, headin’ down the beach. I wanted to be alone, to
sit down quietly and _think_. My brain was spinnin’ like a weathercock
in a gale.
I must have blundered up the beach a good two miles before I noticed
that the mist was thickenin’. I stopped dead still and watched it creep
in, blottin’ the blue water as it came. It was like the white sheet that
a stage magician drops between him and the audience just before he does
his great trick. I wondered what was goin’ on behind it.
The sun was settin’ behind Salsbury Hill. There was a sort o’ glow to
the fog. It began to shine like a piece of old silver that has been
rubbed with a rag. All at once I heard Wessel’s Andy say, clear as a
bell: “Mr. Siles, I am goin’ to leave you!”
I turned toward home, walkin’ fast. But somethin’ kept pesterin’ me to
hurry, hurry! I began to run, but I couldn’t get ahead of the black fear
that was drivin’ me. I saw Wessel’s Andy standin’ at the window and
lookin’ out to sea. I heard him say: “It’s comin’ for me very soon.” I
ran till my heart pounded in my side....
The beach curved before me like the blade of a scythe, with the Old
Wharf for the handle. The edge of it was glistenin’ in the afterglow and
the surf broke against it like grain against the knife. I was still half
a mile from home when I saw a single figure walk out on that shinin’
blade and stand with his arms folded, starin’ into the fog. It was
Wessel’s Andy.
I tried to run faster, but the sand caught my feet. It was like tryin’
to run in a dream. I called and shouted to him, but he didn’t hear. All
the shoutin’ in the world wouldn’t have stopped him then. Suddenly he
threw out his arms and walked down into the water. I was so near by that
time that I could see his face. It was like a lamp in the mist.
I called again, but he was in the surf now, and there were other voices
in his ears. A wave broke over his shoulders. He struggled on, his hands
kind o’ gropin’ ahead of him. I caught another glimpse of his face. He
was smilin’....
I gathered myself to jump. I remember the foam on the sand and the water
swirlin’ underfoot and the new wave makin’ and the fog over all. I
remember thinkin’ o’ the strong tide, and how little a man looked in the
sea....
And then I saw the _Lucky Star_.
I would have known her anywhere. She was just haulin’ out o’ the mist,
on the starboard tack, with all her canvas set. As I looked she melted
in the fog--she that should have been lyin’ fathoms deep--and after that
I only saw her by glances. But I saw her plain. She was no color at all,
and there wasn’t the sign of a light to mark her, but she came bow on
through water that wouldn’t have floated a dory, closer and closer until
I could make out the people on her decks. They were like statues carved
out o’ haze. There was a great figure at the wheel, and others up
for’ard, in smoky oilskins. And at the lee rail I saw a young girl
leanin’ against the shrouds, one hand to her heart, the other held out
as though to tear aside the mist....
I was in the water then, and it was cold. A wave picked me up and
carried me forward. I saw Wessel’s Andy flounderin’ in the trough ahead
o’ me. I swam for him. My hand touched his shoulder. He twisted half
about and looked at me. His hair was like matted seaweed over his eyes
and his face was as pale as the dead. But again, in all that wildness, I
thought of a _bridegroom_....
A great wave, with a cruel curved edge, lifted above us. I made ready to
dive, but he flung his arms out and waited.... I saw white bows ridin’
on the crest of it, and the silver belly of a drawin’ jib, and it seemed
to me I heard a laugh! Then the wave hit me....
When I came to, I was lyin’ on the beach with some o’ the boys bendin’
over me. They had heard me shoutin’ and arrived just in time to pull me
away from the tide. They never found _him_. They said it was because of
the strong undertow. But I knew better. I knew that Wessel’s Andy had
gone aboard of his vessel at last, and that all was well with him.
* * * * *
Mr. Siles stopped abruptly and drew his hand across his eyes. I found
myself staring at the gray wall of fog as though it had been the final
curtain of a play. I longed for it to lift--if only for an instant--that
I might see the actors out of their parts. But the veil was not drawn
aside.
Then I heard some one speaking monotonously of a piazza that would be
painted on the morrow, and turning a moment later saw Mr. Siles just
vanishing in the mist, a smoky figure solely inhabiting an intangible
world.