"Slug-shot," says he.
'Twas the merest hint.
"Remove," says he, darkly, "one slug-shot from the box with the star,
an' drop it," says he, his left eye closed again, "in the box with the
cross."
And there I had it!
* * * * *
You must know that by my uncle's severe direction I must never fail to
appear at table in the evening save in the perfection of cleanliness
as to face and hands and nails and teeth. "For what," says he, "have
Skipper Chesterfield t' say on that p'int--underlined by Sir Harry?
Volume II., page 24. A list o' the ornamental accomplishments. '_T' be
extremely clean in your person._' There you haves it--underlined by
Sir Harry!" He would examine me keenly, every nail and tooth of me,
accepting neither excuse nor apology, and would never sit with me
until I had passed inspection. In the beginning, 'twas my uncle's
hand, laid upon me in virtuous chastisement, that persuaded me of the
propriety of this genteel conduct; but presently, when I was grown
used to the thing, 'twas fair impossible for me to approach the meat,
in times of peace with place and weather, confronting no peril,
hardship, laborious need, or discomfort, before this particular
ornamental accomplishment had been indubitably achieved with
satisfaction to my uncle and to myself.
My uncle had, moreover, righteously compelled, with precisely similar
tactics as to the employment of his right hand, an attire in harmony
with the cleanliness of my person. "For what," says he, "have bully
ol' Skipper Chesterfield t' say on that there little p'int? What have
that there fashionable ol' gentleman t' hold--underlined by Sir Harry?
Volume II, page 24. 'A list o' the ornamental accomplishments (without
which no man livin' can either please or rise in the world), which
hitherto I fear ye wants,'" quotes he, most glibly, "'an' which only
require your care an' attention t' possess.' Volume II., page 24.
'_An' perfeckly well dressed, accordin' t' the fashion, be that what
it will._' There you haves it," says he, "an' underlined by Sir Harry
hisself!" 'Twas a boresome thing, to be sure, as a lad of eleven, to
come from boyish occupations to this maidenly concern for appearances:
but now, when I am grown older, 'tis a delight to escape the sweat
and uniform of the day's work; and I am grateful to the broad hand
that scorched my childish parts to teach me the value and pleasures of
gentility.
At the same time, as you may believe, I was taught a manner of
entering, in the way, by the hints of Sir Harry and the philosophy of
the noble Lord Chesterfield, of a gentleman. It had to do with squared
shoulders, the lift of the head, a strut, a proud and contemptuous
glance. Many a night, as a child, when I fair fainted of vacancy and
the steam and smell of salt pork was an agony hardly to be endured, I
must prance in and out, to please my fastidious uncle, while he sat
critical by the fire--in the unspeakable detachment of critics from
the pressing needs (for example) of a man's stomach--and indulged his
artistic perceptions to their completest satisfaction. He would watch
me from his easy-chair by the fire as though 'twere the most
delectable occupation the mind of man might devise: leaning forward in
absorption, his ailing timber comfortably bestowed, his great head
cocked, like a canary-bird's, his little eyes watchful and sparkling.
"Once again, Dannie," says he. "Head throwed higher, lad. An' ye might
use yer chest a bit more."
Into the hall and back again.
"Fair," says he. "I'll not deny that ye're doin' better. But Sir
Harry, lad," says he, concerned, with a rub at his weathered nose,
"uses more chest. Head high, lad; shoulders back, chest out. Come now!
An' a mite more chest."
This time at a large swagger.
"Very good," says he, in a qualified way. "But could ye not scowl t'
more purpose?"
'Twas fair heroic to indulge him--with the room full of the smell of
browned meat. But, says I, desperately, "I'll try, sir."
"Jus' you think, Dannie," says he, "that that there ol' rockin'-chair
with the tidy is a belted knight o' the realm. Come now! Leave me see
how ye'd deal with _he_. An' a mite more chest, Dannie, if ye're
able."
A withering stare for the rocking-chair--superior to the point of
impudence--and a blank look for the unfortunate assemblage of
furniture.
"Good!" cries my uncle. "Ecod! but I never knowed Sir Harry t' do it
better. That there belted rockin'-chair o' the realm, Dannie, would
swear you was a lord! An' now, lad," says he, fondly smiling, "ye may
feed."[5]
This watchful cultivation, continuing through years, had flowered in a
pretty swagger, as you may well believe. In all my progress to this
day I have not observed a more genteelly insolent carriage than that
which memory gives to the lad that was I. I have now no regret: for
when I am abroad, at times, for the health and pleasure of us all,
'tis a not ungrateful thing, not unamusing, to be reminded, by the
deferential service and regard this ill-suited manner wins for the
outport man that I am, of those days when my fond uncle taught me to
scowl and strut and cry, "What the devil d'ye mean, sir!" to impress
my quality upon the saucy world. But when Judith came into our
care--when first she sat with us at table, crushed, as a blossom, by
the Hand that seems unkind: shy, tender-spirited, alien to our
ways--'twas with a tragical shock I realized the appearance of high
station my uncle's misguided effort and affection had stamped me
with.
She sat with my uncle in the steerage; and she was lovely, very gentle
and lovely, I recall, sitting there, with exquisitely dropping grace,
under the lamp--in the shower of soft, yellow light: by which her
tawny hair was set aglow, and the shadows, lying below her great, blue
eyes, were deepened, in sympathy with her appealing grief. Came, then,
this Dannie Callaway, in his London clothes, arrived direct per S.S.
_Cathian_: came this enamoured young fellow, with his educated stare,
his legs (good and bad) long-trousered for the first time in his
life, his fingers sparkling, his neck collared and his wrists
unimpeachably cuffed, his chest "used" in such a way as never, God
knows! had it swelled before. 'Twas with no desire to indulge his
uncle that he had managed these adornments. Indeed not! 'Twas a wish,
growing within his heart, to compass a winning and distinguished
appearance in the presence of the maid he loved.
By this magnificence the maid was abashed.
"Hello!" says I, as I swaggered past the steerage.
There was no response.
"Is you happy, child," says I, catching the trick of the thing from my
uncle, "along o' ol' Nick Top an' me an' John Cather?"
My tutor laughed.
"Eh, Judy?" says I.
The maid's glance was fallen in embarrassment upon her plate.
"Dannie," says my uncle, severely, "ye better get under way with your
feedin'."
The which, being at once hungry and obedient, I did: but presently,
looking up, caught the poor maid unself-conscious. She no longer
grieved--no longer sat sad and listless in her place. She was peering
greedily into the cabin, as my uncle was wont to do, her slim, white
neck something stretched and twisted (it seemed) to round a spreading
cluster of buttercups. 'Twas a moving thing to observe. 'Twas not a
shocking thing; 'twas a thing melting to the heart--'twas a thing,
befalling with a maid, at once to provide a lad with chivalrous
opportunity. The eyes were the great, blue eyes of Judith--grave, wide
eyes, which, beneficently touching a lad, won reverent devotion,
flushed the heart with zeal for righteousness. They were Judith's
eyes, the same, as ever, in infinite depth of shadow, like the round
sky at night, the same in light, like the stars that shine therein,
the same in black-lashed mystery, like the firmament God made with His
own hand. But still 'twas with a most marvellously gluttonous glance
that she eyed the roast of fresh meat on the table before me. 'Twas no
matter to _me_, to be sure! for a lad's love is not so easily
alienated: 'tis an actual thing--not depending upon a neurotic
idealization: therefore not to be disillusioned by these natural
appearances.
"Judy," says I, most genially, "is you ever tasted roast veal?"
She was much abashed.
"Is you never," I repeated, "tasted roast veal?"
"No, sir," she whispered.
"'_Sir_!'" cries I, astounded. "'Sir!'" I gasped. "Maid," says I, now
in wrathful amazement forgetting her afflicted state, "is you lost
your senses?"
"N-n-no, sir," she stammered.
"For shame!" I scolded. "T' call me so!"
"Daniel," my uncle interjected, "volume II., page 24. '_A distinguished
politeness o' manners._'"
By this my tutor was vastly amused, and delightedly watched us, his
twinkling glance leaping from face to face.
"I'll not have it, Judy!" I warned her. "You'll vex me sore an you
does it again."
The maid would not look up.
"Volume II., page 25," my uncle chided. "Underlined by Sir Harry.
'_An' this address an' manner should be exceedin'ly respeckful._'"
"Judy!" I implored.
She ignored me.
"An you calls me that again, maid," I threatened, in a rage, "you'll
be sorry for it. I'll--"
"Holy Scripture!" roared my uncle, reaching for his staff. "'_Spare
the rod and spoil the child._'"
I was not to be stopped by this. 'Twas an occasion too promising in
disaster. She had sirred me like a house-maid. Sir? 'Twas past
believing. That Judith should be so overcome by fine feathers and a
roosterly strut! 'Twas shocking to discover the effect of my uncle's
teaching. It seemed to me that the maid must at once be dissuaded from
this attitude of inferiority or my solid hope would change into a
dream. Inferiority? She must have no such fancy! Fixed within her mind
'twould inevitably involve us in some catastrophe of feeling. The
torrent of my wrath and supplication went tumbling on: there was no
staying it. My uncle's hand fell short of his staff; he sat stiff and
agape with astonished admiration: perceiving which, my tutor laughed
until my hot words were fair extinguished in the noise he made. By
this my uncle was set laughing: whence the infection spread to me. And
then Judith peeped at me through the cluster of buttercups with the
ghost of a roguish twinkle.
"I'll call you Dannie," says she, slyly--"t' save you the lickin'!"
"Daniel," cries my uncle, delighted, "one slug-shot. Box with the star
t' the box with the cross. Judy," says he, "move aft alongside o' that
there roast veal!"
'Twas the beginning and end of this seeming difference of station....
* * * * *
John Cather took us in hand to profit us. 'Twas in the learning he
had--'twas in every genteel accomplishment he had himself mastered in
the wise world he came from--that we were instructed. I would have
Judy for school-fellow: nor would I be denied--not I! 'Twas the plan I
made when first I knew John Cather's business in our house: else,
thinks I, 'twould be a mean, poor match we should make of it in the
end. I would have her: and there, says I, with a toss and a stamp, to
my uncle's delight, was an end of it! It came about in this way that
we three spent the days together in agreeable employment: three young,
unknowing souls--two lads and a maid. In civil weather, 'twas in the
sunlight and breeze of the hills, 'twas in shady hollows, 'twas on the
warm, dry rocks, which the breakers could not reach, 'twas on the
brink of the cliff, that Cather taught us, leaving off to play, by my
uncle's command, when we were tired of study; and when the wind blew
with rain, or fog got the world all a-drip, or the task was
incongruous with sunshine and fresh air (like multiplication), 'twas
within doors that the lesson proceeded--in my library, which my uncle
had luxuriously outfitted for me, when still I was an infant, against
this very time.
"John Cather," says I, one day, "you've a wonderful tongue in your
head."
'Twas on the cliff of Tom Tulk's Head. We had climbed the last slope
hand in hand, with Judith between, and were now stretched out on the
brink, resting in the cool blue wind from the sea.
"A nimble tongue, Dannie," he replied, "I'll admit."
"A wonderful tongue!" I repeated. "John Cather," I exclaimed, in
envious admiration, "you've managed t' tell Judy in ten thousand ways
that she's pretty."
Judith blushed.
"I wisht," says I, "that _I_ was so clever as that."
"I know still another way," said he.
"Ay; an' a hundred more!"
"Another," said he, softly, turning to Judith, who would not look at
him. "Shall I tell you, Judith?"
She shook her head.
"No?" said he. "Why not?"
The answer was in a whisper--given while the maid's hot face was still
turned away. "I'm not wantin' you to," she said.
"Do, maid!" I besought her.
"I'm not wantin' him to."
"'Tis your eyes, I'll be bound!" said I. "'Twill be so clever that
you'll be glad to hear."
"But I'm not _wantin'_ him to," she persisted.
My tutor smiled indulgently--but with a pitiful little trace of hurt
remaining. 'Twas as though he must suffer the rebuff with no offended
question. In the maid 'twas surely a wilful and bewildering thing to
deny him. I could not make it out: but wished, in the breeze and
sunlight of that day, that the wound had not been dealt. 'Twas an
unkind thing in Judith, thinks I; 'twas a thing most cruel--thus to
coquette with the friendship of John Cather.
"Ah, Judy," I pleaded, "leave un have his way!"
She picked at the moss.
"Will ye not, maid?"
"I'm afraid!" she whispered in my ear.
"An' you'd stop for that!" I chided, not knowing what she meant: as
how should a lad?
It seemed she would.
"'Tis an unkind thing," says I, "t' treat John Cather so. He've been
good," says I, "t' _you_, Judy."
"Dannie!" she wailed.
"Don't, Dannie!" Cather entreated.
"I'd have ye listen, Judy," said I, in earnest, kind reproach, "t'
what John Cather says. I'd have ye heed his words. I'd have ye care
for him." Being then a lad, unsophisticated in the wayward,
mercilessly selfish passion of love, ignorant of the unmitigated
savagery of the thing, I said more than that, in my folly. "I'd have
ye love John Cather," says I, "as ye love me." 'Tis a curious thing to
look back upon. That I should snarl the threads of our destinies! 'Tis
an innocency hard to credit. But yet John Cather and I had no
sensitive intuition to warn us. How should we--being men? 'Twas for
Judith to perceive the inevitable catastrophe; 'twas for the maid, not
misled by reason, schooled by feeling into the very perfection of
wisdom, to control and direct the smouldering passion of John Cather
and me in the way she would, according to the power God gives, in
infinite understanding of the hearts of men, to a maid to wield. "I'd
have ye love John Cather," says I, "as ye love me." It may be that a
lad loves his friend more than any other. "I'd have ye t' know, Judy,"
says I, gently, "that John Cather's my friend. I'd have ye t' know--"
"Dannie," Cather interrupted, putting an affectionate hand on my
shoulder, "you don't know what you're saying."
Judith turned.
"I do, John Cather," says I. "I knows full well."
Judith's eyes, grown all at once wide and grave, looked with wonder
into mine. I was made uneasy--and cocked my head, in bewilderment and
alarm. 'Twas a glance that searched me deep. What was this? And why
the warning? There was more than warning. 'Twas pain I found in
Judith's great, blue eyes. What had grieved her? 'Twas reproach,
too--and a flash of doubt. I could not read the riddle of it. Indeed,
my heart began to beat in sheer fright, for the reproach and doubt
vanished, even as I stared, and I confronted a sparkling anger. But
presently, as often happened with that maid, tears flushed her eyes,
and the long-lashed lids fell, like a curtain, upon her grief:
whereupon she turned away, troubled, to peer at the sea, breaking far
below, and would not look at me again. We watched her, John Cather and
I, for an anxious space, while she sat brooding disconsolate at the
edge of the cliff, a sweep of cloudless sky beyond. The slender,
sweetly childish figure--with the tawny hair, I recall, all aglow with
sunlight--filled the little world of our thought and vision. There was
a patch of moss and rock, the green and gray of our land--there was
Judith--there was an infinitude of blue space. John Cather's glance
was frankly warm; 'twas a glance proceeding from clear, brave,
guileless eyes--springing from a limpid soul within. It caressed the
maid, in a fashion, thinks I, most brotherly. My heart warmed to the
man; and I wondered that Judith should be unkind to him who was our
friend.
'Twas a mystery.
"You will not listen, Judith?" he asked. "'Tis a very pretty thing I
want to say."
Judith shook her head.
A flash of amusement crossed his face. "Please do!" he coaxed.
"No!"
"I'm quite proud of it," says he, with a laugh in his fine eyes. He
leaned forward a little, and made as if to touch her, but withdrew his
hand. "I did not know," says he, "that I was so clever. I have it all
ready. I have every word in place. I'd like to say it--for my own
pleasure, if not for yours. I think it would be a pity to let the
pretty words waste themselves unsaid. I--I--hope you'll listen.
I--I--really hope you will. And you will not?"
"No!" she cried, sharply. "No, no!"
"Why not?"
"No!" she repeated; and she slipped her hand into mine, and hid them
both snugly in the folds of her gown, where John Cather could not see.
"God wouldn't like it, John Cather," says she, her little teeth all
bare, her eyes aflash with indignation, her long fingers so closely
entwined with mine that I wondered. "He wouldn't _'low_ it," says she,
"an He knowed."