"I wisht, Dannie," said he, in a break of feeling for me, "that _you_
had a mother."
"I wisht I had," said I.
"I wisht," said he, in the way of all men with mothers, as God knows
why, "that you had one--just like mine."
We were come to the turn in the road, where the path descended at
haphazard, over the rocks and past the pigpen, to the cottage of Eli
Flack, builded snugly in a lee from the easterly gales. For a moment,
in the pause, the fool of Twist Tickle let his hand rest upon my
shoulder, which never before had happened in all our intercourse, but
withdrew it, as though awakened from this pitying affection to a
sense of his presumption, which never, God witness! did I teach him.
"Tis a grand sunset," said he. "Look, Dannie; 'tis a sunset with
gates!"
'Twas so: great black gates of cloud, edged with glowing color, with
the quiet and light of harbor beyond.
"With gates!" he whispered.
'Twas the fancy of a fool; nay, 'twas the fancy (as chanced his need)
of some strange wisdom.
"Dannie," said he, "they's times when I sees mother's face peerin' at
me from them clouds--her own dear face as 'twas afore she died. She's
keepin' watch from the windows o' heaven--keepin' watch, jus' like she
used t' do. You'll never tell, will you, lad? You'll not shame me,
will you? They'd laugh, out there on the grounds, an you told: for
they're so wonderful fond o' laughter--out there on the grounds. I
lives, somehow," said he, brushing his hand in bewilderment over his
eyes, "in the midst o' laughter, but have no call t' laugh. I wonder
why, for mother didn't laugh; an' I wonder why _they_ laughs so much.
They'd laugh, Dannie, an you told un she was keepin' watch; an' so you
will not: for I've growed, somehow, wonderful tired o' laughter--since
mother died. But 'tis so: I knows 'tis so! I sees her face in the
light o' sunsets--just as it used t' be. She comes t' the gate, when
the black clouds arise t' hide the mystery we've no call t' know, an'
the dear Lord cares not what we fathom; an' I sees her, Dannie, from
my punt, still keepin' watch upon me, just like she done from the
window, afore she went an' died. She was a wonderful hand, somehow, at
keepin' watch at the window. She'd watch me go an' watch me come. I've
often wondered why she done it. I've wondered, Dannie, an' wondered,
but never could tell why. Why, Dannie, I've knowed her t' run out, by
times, an' say: 'Come, dear, 'tis time you was within. Hush, lad,
never care. They'll never hurt you, dear,' says she, 'when you're
within--with me.' An', Dannie, t' this day I'm feared t' look into the
sky, at evening, when I've been bad, lest I sees her saddened by my
deeds; but when I'm good, I'm glad t' see her face, for she smiles,
lad, just like she used t' do from the window--afore they buried
her."
"Ay," said I; "I've no doubt, Moses--nar a doubt at all."
The wind had risen; 'twas blowing from south by sou'east in meaning
gusts: gusts intent upon riot, without compassion, loosed and
conscious of release to work the will they had. The wind cares nothing
for the needs of men; it has no other feeling than to vent its
strength upon the strength of us--the lust (it seems to me) for a
trial of passion, not knowing the enlistment of our hearts. 'Tis by
the heart alone that we outlive the sea's angry, crafty hate, for
which there is no cause, since we would live at peace with it: for the
heart remembers the kitchens of our land, and, defiant or not, evades
the trial, repressed by love, as the sea knows no repression. 'Twas
blowing smartly, with the promise of greater strength--'twas a time
for reefs; 'twas a time for cautious folk, who loved their young, to
walk warily upon the waters lest they be undone. The wind is a
taunter; and the sea perversely incites in some folk--though 'tis
hardly credible to such as follow her by day and night--strange desire
to flaunt abroad, despite the bitter regard in which she holds the
sons of men. I was glad that the folk of our harbor were within the
tickle: for the sea of Ship's Run, now turned black, was baring its
white teeth. 'Twas an unkind place to be caught in a gale of wind; but
our folk were wise--knowing in the wiles of the sea--and were not to
be trapped in the danger fools despise.
"I'm on'y a fool," said Moses Shoos; "but, Dannie, mother 'lowed,
afore she died, that I was wonderful good t' she. 'Moses, lad,' says
mother, on that day, 'fool or no fool, looks or not, you been
wonderful good t' me. I could never love you more; an' I wouldn't
trade you, lad, for the brightest man o' Twist Tickle. Does you hear
me, dear?' says she. 'I wants you t' remember. I loves you,' says she;
'an' fool or no fool, I'd never trade you off, you've been so good t'
me.'"
"T' be sure not!" cries I.
"Not mother," said he; "not--_my_ mother!"
I reminded him that 'twas time to be about his courtship, for the
light was fading now, and 'twould soon be dark.
"Ay," said he; "mother 'lowed 'twasn't good for man t' be alone. An' I
'low she knowed."