I was but a motherless lad--not yet grown wise, but old enough,
indeed, to want a mother--in some dim way (which even yet is not clear
to my heart's ignorance, nor ever will be, since I am born as I am)
sensitive to feel the fathomless, boundless lack, poignantly conscious
that my poor vision, at its clearest, was but a flash of insight. I
used to try, I know, as a child, lying alone in the dark, when my
uncle was gone to bed, to conjure from the shadows some yearning face,
to feel a soft hand come gratefully from the hidden places of my room
to smooth the couch and touch me with a healing touch, in cure of my
uneasy tossing, to hear a voice crooning to my woe and restlessness;
but never, ache and wish as I would, did there come from the dark a
face, a hand, a voice which was my mother's; nay, I must lie alone, a
child forsaken in the night, wanting that brooding presence, in pain
for which there was no ease at all in all the world. I watched the
fool of Twist Tickle go gravely in at the kitchen door, upon his
business, led by the memory of a wisdom greater than his own,
beneficent, continuing, but not known to me, who was no fool; and I
envied him--spite of his burden of folly--his legacy of love. 'Twas
fallen into dusk: the hills were turning shapeless in the night, the
glow all fled from the sky, the sea gone black. But still I
waited--apart from the rock and shadows and great waters of the world
God made--a child yearning for the face and hand and tender guidance
of the woman who was his own, but yet had wandered away into the
shades from which no need could summon her. It seemed to me, then,
that the mothers who died, leaving sons, were unhappy in their death,
nor ever could be content in their new state. I wanted mine--I wanted
her!--wanted her as only a child can crave, but could not have
her--not though I sorely wanted her....
* * * * *
He came at last--and came in habitual dignity--punctiliously closing
the door behind him and continuing on with grave steps.
"You here, Dannie?" he asked.
"Ay, Moses; still waitin'."
"'Tis kind, lad."
"I 'lowed I'd wait, Moses," I ventured, "t' find out."
"'Tis grown thick," said he. "'Twill blow from the east with fog an'
rain. You're bound home, Dannie?"
"Ay," said I; "'tis far past tea-time."
We got under way.
"'Twill blow an uncivil sort o' gale from the east," he remarked, in a
casual way. "We'll have Sunk Rock breakin' the morrow. 'Twill not be
fit for fishin' on the Off-an'-On grounds. But I 'low I'll go out,
anyhow. Nothin' like a spurt o' labor," said he, "t' distract the
mind. Mother always said so; an' she knowed."
"The maid would not have you, Moses?"
"Mother always 'lowed," he answered, "that 'twas wise t' distract
the mind in case o' disappointment. I 'low I'll overhaul the
splittin'-table when I gets t' home. She needs a scrubbin'."
We came to the rise in the road.
"Mother," said he, "'lowed that if ever I come in from Whisper Cove t'
build at Twist Tickle, she'd have the house sot here. I 'low I'll put
one up, some time, t' have it ready ag'in' the time I'm married.
Mother 'lowed 'twas a good thing t' be forehanded with they little
things." The note of melancholy, always present, but often subdued, so
that it sounded below the music of his voice, was now obtrusive: a
monotonous repetition, compelling attention, insistent, an unvarying
note of sadness. "Ay," he continued; "mother 'lowed 'twas a good thing
t' have a view. She'd have it sot here, says she, facin' the west, if
ever I got enough ahead with the fish t' think o' buildin'. She'd have
it sot, says she, so she could watch the sunset an' keep a eye on the
tickle t' see my punt come in. She was wonderful on sunsets, was
mother; an' she was sort o' sot, somehow, on keepin' watch on me.
Wonderful good o' she, wasn't it, Dannie, t' want t' keep watch--on
me?" Again the note of melancholy, throbbing above the drawl--rising,
indeed, into a wail. "So," said he, "I 'low I'll just put up a house,
by-an'-by, for the wife I'm t' have; an' I'll have it here, I'm
thinkin', for mother 'lowed my wife would want it with a view o' the
tickle, t' watch my punt come in. Think she will, Dannie? Think she
will?"
The mail-boat blew in the narrows.
"I must haste!" said I.
"An you must haste, Dannie," said he, "run on. I'll not make haste,
for I'm 'lowin' that a little spell o' thinkin' about mother will sort
o' do me good."
* * * * *
I ran on, fast as my legs would carry me (which was not very fast).
'Twas the departing whistle; the mail-boat had come and gone--I saw
her lights, shining warmly in the dark, grow small as she fared out
through the narrows to the sea. It began to rain in great drops;
overhead 'twas all black--roundabout a world of looming shadows,
having lights, like stars, where the cottages were set on the hills. I
made haste on my way; and as I pattered on over the uneven road to the
neck of land by the Lost Soul, I blamed myself right heartily,
regretting my uncle's disappointment, in that the expected guest would
already have arrived, landed by way of my uncle's punt. And, indeed,
the man was there, as I learned: for my uncle met me on the gravelled
path of our garden, to bid me, but not with ill-temper, begone
up-stairs and into clean linen and fitting garments, which were laid
out and waiting (he said) on my bed. And when, descending in clean and
proper array, bejewelled to suit the occasion, by my uncle's command,
I came to the best room, I found there a young man in black, scarce
older, it seemed, than myself.
"This here young man, Dannie," says my uncle, with a flourish, "is
your tutor."