Presently my uncle and I made ready to set out for St. John's upon the
sinister business which twice a year engaged his evil talents at the
wee waterside place wherein he was the sauciest dog in the pack. There
was now no wandering upon the emotionless old hills of Twin Islands to
prepare him, no departure from the fishing, no unseemly turning to the
bottle, to factitious rage; but he brooded more despairingly in his
chair by the window when the flare of western glory left the world. At
evening, when he thought me gone upon my pleasure, I watched him from
the shadows of the hall, grave with youth, wishing, all the while,
that he might greet the night with gratitude for the mercy of it; and
I listened to his muttering--and I saw that he was grown old and weak
with age: unequal, it might be, to the wickedness he would command in
my service. "_For behold the Lord will come with fire, and with his
chariots like a whirlwind, to render his anger with fury, and his
rebuke with the flames of fire._" For me 'twas still sweet to watch
the tender shadows creep upon the western fire, to see the great gray
rocks dissolve, to hear the sea's melodious whispering; but to him the
sea spoke harshly and the night came with foreboding. I wished that he
would forsake the evil he followed for my sake. I would be a
club-footed, paddle-punt fisherman, as the gray little man from St.
John's had said, and be content with that fortune, could my uncle but
look into the eyes of night without misgiving.
But I must not tell him so....
* * * * *
We left John Cather behind.
"Uncle Nick," says I, "I 'low we'd best have un along."
"An' why?" cries he.
"I don't know," says I, honestly puzzled.
He looked at me quizzically. "Is you sure?" he asked. His eyes
twinkled. "Is you sure you doesn't know?"
"I don't know," I answered, frowning. "I don't know at all."
"Dannie," says he, significantly, "'tisn't time yet for John Cather t'
go t' St. John's. You got t' take your chance."
"What chance?" I demanded.
"I don't know," says he.