* * * * *
"Your father," my uncle resumed, "couldn't stand the big seas. I
cotched un by the jacket, an' held un with me, so long as I was able,
though he 'lowed I might as well let un go t' hell, without drawin'
out the fear o' gettin there. 'On'y a minute or two, Nick,' says he.
'Ye might as well let me get there. I'm cold, froze up, an' they's
more ice comin' with this sea,' says he; 'they was a field o' small
ice up along about the Sissors,' says he, 'an' I 'low it haves come
down with the nor'east wind. The sea,' says he, 'will be full of it
afore long. Ye better let me go,' says he. ''Tisn't by any means
pleasant here, an' the on'y thing I wants, now that ye've took the
oath,' says he, 'is t' get warm. Ye better let me go. I got t' go,
anyhow,' says he, 'an' a hour or two don't make no difference.' An'
so, with the babe that was you in mind, an' with my life t' save for
your sake, I let un go t' le'ward, where the seven murdered men had
gone down drowned. 'Twas awful lonesome without un, when the tide got
high an' the seas was mean with chunks o' ice. Afore that," my uncle
intensely declared, "I was admired o' water-side widows, on account o'
looks; but," says he, touching his various disfigurements, "I was
broke open here, an' I was broke open there, by bein' rubbed on the
rocks an' clubbed by the ice at high-tide. When I was picked up by
Tumm, o' the _Quick as Wink_ (bein' bound up in fish), I 'lowed I
might as well leave the cook, which is now dead, have his way with the
butcher-knife an' sail-needle; an' so I come t' St. John's as ye sees
me now, not a wonderful sight for looks, with my leg an' fingers gone,
but ready, God knows! t' stand by the young un I was livin' t' take
an' rear. Ye had been, all through it, Dannie," he added, simply, "the
thing that made me hold on; for when your father was gone t' le'ward,
an' I begun t' think o' ye, a wee babe t' St. John's, I got t' love
ye, lad, as I've loved ye ever since.
"'Tis a lovely evening," he added; "'tis a wonderful civil and
beautiful time, with all them clouds, like coals o' fire, in the
west."
'Twas that: an evening without guile or menace--an hour most
compassionate.
"The owner o' the _Will-o'-the-Wisp_," says my uncle, "wasn't no
Honorable in them days; he was but a St. John's fish speculator with a
taste for low politics. But he've become a Honorable since, on the
fortune he've builded from that wreck, an' he's like t' end a knight
o' the realm, if he've money enough t' carry on an' marry the widow
he's after. 'Twas not hard t' deal with un--leastways, 'twas not hard
when I loaded with rum, which I was used t' doin', Dannie, as ye know,
afore I laid 'longside of un in the wee water-side place he'd fetch
the money to. No, no! 'Twas not easy: I'd not have ye think it--'twas
hard, 'twas bitter hard, Dannie, t' be engaged in that dirty business.
I'd not have ye black your soul with it; an' I was 'lowin, Dannie,
afore the parson left us, t' teach un how t' manage the Honorable, t'
tell un about the liquor an' the bluster, t' show un how t' scare the
Honorable on the Water Street pavement, t' teach un t' threaten an'
swear the coward's money from his pocket, for I wasn't wantin' _you_,
Dannie, t' know the trial an' wickedness o' the foul deed, bein' in
love with ye too much t' have ye spoiled by sin. I 'low I had that
there young black-an'-white parson near corrupted: I 'low I had un
worked up t' yieldin' t' temptation, lad, when he up an' left us,
along o' Judy. An' there's the black-an'-white parson, gone God knows
where! an' here's ol' Nick Top, sittin' on the grass at evenin', laid
by the heels all along o' two days o' wind on the ice!"
"And so you brought me up?" says I.
"Ay, Dannie," he answered, uneasily; "by blackmail o' the Honorable. I
got t' go t' hell for it, but I've no regrets on that account," says
he, in a muse, "for I've loved ye well, lad; an' as I sit here now,
lookin' back, I knows that God was kind t' give me you t' work an' sin
for. I'll go t' hell--ay, I'll go t' hell! Ye must never think, lad,
when I gets down there, that I'm sorry for what I done. I'll not be
sorry--not even in hell--for I'll think o' the years when you was a
wee little lad, an' I'll be content t' remember. An' do you go away,
now, lad," he added, "an' think it over. Ye'll not judge me now; ye'll
come back, afore long, an' then judge me."