Moses Shoos, I recall, carried the mail that winter. 'Twas a thankless
task: a matter of thirty miles to Jimmie Tick's Cove and thirty back
again. Miles hard with peril and brutal effort--a way of sleet and
slush, of toilsome paths, of a swirling mist of snow, of stinging,
perverse winds or frosty calm, of lowering days and the haunted dark
o' night--to be accomplished, once a week, afoot and alone, by way of
barren and wilderness and treacherous ice. 'Twas a thankless task,
indeed; but 'twas a task to which the fool of Twist Tickle addressed
himself with peculiar reverence.
"Mother," says he, "always 'lowed that a man ought t' serve his Queen:
an' mother knowed. 'Moses,' says she, afore she died, 'a good man
haves just _got_ t' serve the Queen: for an good men don't,' says she,
'the poor Lady is bound t' come t' grief along o' rascals. Poor,
_poor_ Lady!' says she. 'She've a wonderful lot t' put up with along
o' stupid folk an' rascals. I'm not knowin' how she bears it an'
lives. 'Tis a mean, poor dunderhead, with heart an' brains in his
gullet,' says she, 'that wouldn't serve the Queen. God save the
Queen!' says mother. 'What's a man worth,' says she, 'that on'y
serves hisself?'"
Not much, thinks I!
"An' mother knowed," says Moses, softly. "Ay, Dannie," he declared,
with a proud little grin, "I bet you _mother_ knowed!"
'Twas this exalted ideal of public service, fashioned in the wisdom of
the simple by the amazing mother who bore him, that led the fool, as
by the hand, from a wilderness of snow and night and bewildered
visions, wherein no aspiration of his own shaped itself, to the warm
hearth of Twist Tickle and the sleep of a child by night.
* * * * *
Once I watched him stagger, white and bent with weather and labor,
from the ice of Ship's Run, his bag on his back, to the smoking roofs
of Twist Tickle, which winter had spread with a snowy blanket and
tucked in with anxious hands. 'Twas a bitter day, cold, windy, aswirl
with the dust of snow, blinding as a mist. I sat with Judith in the
wide, deeply cushioned window-seat of my lib'ry, as my uncle called
the comfortable, book-shelved room he had, by advice o' Sir Harry,
provided for my youth. John Cather was not about; and I caressed, I
recall, the long, slender fingers of her hand, which unfailingly and
without hesitation gave themselves to my touch. She would never deny
me that, this maid; 'twas only kisses she would hold me from. She
would snuggle close and warmly, when John Cather was not about, but
would call her God to witness that kisses were prohibited where
happiness would continue.
"'Tis not _'lowed_, child," says she.
Her cheek was so close, so round and soft and delicately tinted, that
I touched my lips to it, quite unable to resist.
"I don't mind _that_," says she.
'Twas vastly encouraging.
"'Twas so brotherly," she added.
"Judy," I implored, "I'm in need of another o' that same kind."
"No, no!" she cried. "You'd never find the spot!"
'Twas with the maid, then, I sat in the window-seat of my warm room,
content with the finger-tips I might touch and kiss as I would, lifted
into a mood most holy and aspiring by the weight of her small head
upon my shoulder, the bewildering light and mystery of her great, blue
eyes, the touch and sweet excitement of her tawny hair, which brushed
my cheek, as she well knew, this perverse maid! John Cather was not
about, and the maid was yielding, as always in his absence; and I was
very happy. 'Twas Moses we observed, all this time, doggedly
staggering, upon patriotic duty, from the white, swirling weather of
that unkind day, in the Queen's service, his bag on his back.
"He've his mother t' guide un," says she.
"An' his father?"
"'Tis said that he was lost," she answered, "in the Year o' the Big
Shore Catch; but I'm knowin' nothin' about that."