Faith, but 'twas a bitter night! Men were drowning on our coast--going
to death in the wreck of schooners. The sea broke in unmasked assault
upon the great rocks of Whisper Cove; the gale worried the cottage on
the cliff. But 'twas warm in the kitchen: the women had kept the fire
for the cup o' tea to follow the event; 'twas warm, and the lamp made
light and shadow, and the kettle bubbled and puffed, the wood
crackled, the fire snored and glowed, all serenely, in disregard of
death, as though no mystery had come to appal the souls of us.
My uncle had Judith on his knee.
"I'm not able," she sobbed.
"An' ye'll not try?" he besought. "Ye'll not even try?"
We were alone: the women were employed in the other room; the
parson paced the floor, unheeding, his yellow teeth fretting his
finger-nails, his lean lips moving in some thankful communication
with the God he served.
"Ah, but!" says my uncle, "ye'll _surely_ come t' live along o' me!"
"No, no! I'll be livin' where I've always lived--with mother."
"Ye cannot live alone."
"Ay; but I'm able t' live alone--an' fish alone--like mother done."
"'Twas not her wish, child," says my uncle. "She'd have ye live along
o' me. 'Why, Judy,' she'd have ye know, 'do ye live along o' he. Do ye
trust, little maid,' she'd have ye t' know, 'that there ol' Nick Top.
He've a powerful bad look t' the eye in his head,' she'd say, 'an'
he've the name o' the devil; but Lord love ye!' she'd say, 'he've a
heart with room t' contain ye, an' a warm welcome t' dwell within.
He've took good care o' little ol' Dannie,' she'd say, 'an' he'll take
good care o' _you_. He'll never see ye hurt or wronged or misguided so
long as he lives. Not,' she'd say, 'that there damned ol' rascal!' An'
if ye come, Judy, dear," my uncle entreated, "I won't see ye
wronged--I won't!" My uncle's little eyes were overrunning now--the
little eyes he would not look into. The parson still paced the floor,
still unheeding, still muttering fervent prayer of some strange sort;
but my uncle, aged in sinful ways, was frankly crying. "Ye'll come,
Judy, will ye not?" he begged. "Along o' ol' Nick Top, who would not
see ye wronged? Ah, little girl!" he implored--and then her head fell
against him--"ye'll surely never doubt Nick Top. An' ye'll come t' he,
an' ye'll sort o' look after un, will ye not?--that poor ol' feller!"
Judith was sobbing on his breast.
"That poor, poor ol' feller!"
She wept the more bitterly.
"Poor little girl!" he crooned, patting her shoulder. "Ah, the poor
little girl!"
"I'll go!" cried Judith, in a passion of woe and gratitude. "I'll
go--an' trust an' love an' care for you!"
My uncle clasped her close. "'_The Lard is my shepherd,_'" says he,
looking up, God knows to what! his eyes streaming, "'_I shall not
want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside
the still waters._'" By the wind, by the breaking of the troubled sea,
the old man's voice was obscured. "'_Yea, though I walk through the
valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for thou art with
me: thy rod and thy staff they comfort me._'" Judith still sobbed,
uncomforted; my uncle stroked her hair--and again she broke into
passionate weeping. "'_Thou preparest a table before me in the
presence of my enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup
runneth over._'" Returned, again, in a lull of the gale, my fancy that
I caught the lamentation of a multitude. "'_Surely goodness and mercy
shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house
of the Lord for ever._'"
"Bless God!" cried the parson. "Bless God, brother!"
"Ay," said my uncle, feelingly, "bless God!"
The parson wrung my uncle's hand.
"That there psa'm don't seem true, parson, b'y," says my uncle, "on a
night like this here dirty night, with schooners in trouble at sea.
Ever been t' sea in a gale o' wind, parson? Ah, well! it don't seem
true--not in a gale o' wind, with this here poor, lonely little maid's
mother lyin' there dead in the nex' room. It jus' don't seem true!"
Parson Lute, poor man! started--stared, pained, anxious; in doubt, it
may be, of the Christian congeniality of this man.
"It don't seem true," says my uncle, "in the face of a easterly gale
an' the death o' mothers. An', look you, parson," he declared, "I'll
be--well, parson, I'll jus' be _jiggered_--if it do! There you haves
it!"
"Brother," the parson answered, accusingly, "it is in the Bible; it
must be true."
"'Tis _where_?" my uncle demanded, confounded.
"In the Bible, sir."
"An' it--it--must be--"
"True, sir."
My uncle sighed; and--for I know his loving-kindness--'twas a sigh
that spoke a pain at heart.
"It must be true," reiterated the wretched parson, now, it seemed,
beset by doubt. "It _must_ be true!"
"Why, by the dear God ye serve, parson!" roared my uncle, with healthy
spirit, superior in faith, "I _knows_ 'tis true, Bible or St. John's
noospaper!"
Aunt Esther put her gray head in at the door. "Is the kettle b'ilin'?"
says she.
The kettle was boiling.
"Ah!" says she--and disappeared.
"'_Though I walk,_'" the parson repeated, his thin, freckled hands
clasped, "'_through the valley of the shadow of death!_'"
There was no doctor at Twist Tickle: so the parson lay dead--poor
man!--of the exposure of that night, within three days, in the house
of Parson Stump....