II

I remember how Hugh Glynn stepped within the door of John Snow's kitchen

that night, and how he bent his head to step within; and, bending his

head, took off his cap; and how he bowed to John Snow, Mrs. Snow, and

Mary Snow in turn, and, facing John Snow, made as if to speak; but how

his voice would not come, not until he had lifted his head yet higher

and cleared his throat. And beginning again, he took a step nearer the

middle of the floor, to where the light of the bracket lamp above the

kitchen table shone full on his face. He was a grand man to look at, not

only his face but the height and build of him, and he was fresh in from

sea.

"John Snow--and you, Mrs. Snow--the _Arbiter's_ to anchor in the stream,

and her flag's to half-mast. And knowing that, maybe there's no need to

say anything more."

Mrs. Snow said nothing, Mary Snow said nothing, but I remember how from

under John Snow's brows the deep eyes glowed out.

"Go on," said John Snow at last.

Hugh Glynn went on. "Well, he was a good boy, your Arthur--maybe you'd

like to be told that, even by me, though of course you that was his

father, John Snow, and you that was his mother, Mrs. Snow, know better

than anybody else what he was. Three nights ago it was, and we to the

south'ard of Sable Island in as nasty a breeze as I'd been in for some

time. A living gale it was, a November no'wester--you know what that is,

John Snow--but I'd all night been telling the crew to be careful, for a

sea there was to sweep to eternity whoever it could've caught loose

around deck. I could've hove her to and let her lay, but I was never one

to heave to my vessel--not once I'd swung her off for home. And there,

God help me, is maybe my weakness.

"She was under her gaff tops'l, but I see she couldn't stand it. 'Boys,'

says I, 'clew up that tops'l.' Which they did, and put it in gaskets,

and your Arthur, I mind, was one of the four men to go aloft to clew it

up. Never a lad to shirk was Arthur. Well, a stouter craft of her

tonnage than the _Arbiter_ maybe never lived, nor no gear any sounder,

but there are things o' God's that the things o' man were never meant to

hold out against. Her jib flew to ribbons. 'Cut it clear!' I says, and

nigh half the crew jump for'ard. Half a dozen of the crew to once, but

Arthur,--your Arthur, your boy, Mrs. Snow, your son, John Snow--he was

quick enough to be among the half-dozen. Among a smart crew he was never

left behind. It looked safe for us all then, coming on to morning, but

who can ever tell? Fishermen's lives, they're expected to go fast, but

they're men's lives for all that, and 'Have a care!' I called to them,

myself to the wheel at the time, where, God knows, I was careful.

"Well, I saw this big fellow coming, a mountain of water with a

snow-white top to it against the first light of the morning. And I made

to meet it. A better vessel than the _Arbiter_ the hand o' man never

turned out--all Gloucester knows that--but, her best and my best, there

was no lifting her out of it. Like great pipe-organs aroaring this sea

came, and over we went. Over we went, and I heard myself saying: 'God in

heaven! You great old wagon, but are you gone at last?' And said it

again when maybe there was a fathom of water over my head--her quarter

was buried that deep and she that long coming up. Slow coming up she

was, though up she came at last. But a man was gone."

He had stopped; but he went on. "It was Arthur, John Snow, and you,

Mrs. Snow, who was gone. The boy you were expecting to see in this very

room by now, he was gone. Little Arthur that ten years ago, when first I

saw him, I could've swung to the ceiling of this room with my one

finger--little Arthur was gone. Well, 'Over with a dory!' I said. And,

gale and all, we over with a dory, with three of us in it. We looked and

looked in that terrible dawn, but no use--no man short o' the Son o' God

himself could a' stayed afloat, oilskins and red jacks, in that sea. But

we had to look, and coming aboard the dory was stove in--smashed, like

'twas a china teacup and not a new banker's double dory, against the

rail. And it was cold. Our frost-bitten fingers slipped from her

ice-wrapped rail, and the three of us nigh came to joining Arthur, and

Lord knows--a sin, maybe you'll say, to think it, John Snow--but I felt

then as if I'd just as soon, for it was a hard thing to see a man go

down to his death, maybe through my foolishness. And to have the people

that love him to face in the telling of it--that's hard, too."

He drew a great breath. "And"--again a deep breath and a deepened note

of pain--"that's what I've come to tell you, John Snow, and you, Mrs.

Snow--how your boy Arthur was lost."

John Snow, at the kitchen table, I remember, one finger still in the

pages of the black-lettered Bible he had been reading when Hugh Glynn

stepped in, dropped his head on his chest and there let it rest. Mrs.

Snow was crying out loud. Mary Snow said nothing, nor made a move,

except to sit in her chair by the window and look to where, in the light

of the kitchen lamp, Hugh Glynn stood.

There was a long quiet. Hugh Glynn spoke again. "Twenty years, John

Snow, and you, Mrs. Snow--twenty good years I've been fishing out o'

Gloucester, and in that time not much this side the western ocean I

haven't laid a vessel's keel over. From Greenland to Hatteras I've

fished, and many smart seamen I've been shipmates with--dory, bunk, and

watch mates with in days gone by--and many a grand one of 'em I've known

to find his grave under the green-white ocean, but never a smarter,

never an abler fisherman than your boy Arthur. Boy and man I knew him,

and, boy and man, he did his work. I thought you might like to hear that

from me, John Snow. And not much more than that can I say now, except to

add, maybe, that when the Lord calls, John Snow, we must go, all of us.

The Lord called and Arthur went. He had a good life before him--if he'd

lived. He'd 've had his own vessel soon--could've had one before

this--if he'd wanted. But 'No,' he says, 'I'll stay with you yet a

while, Captain Hugh.' He loved me and I loved him. 'I'll stay with you

yet a while, Captain Hugh,' he says, but, staying with me, he was lost,

and if I was old enough to have a grown son o' my own, if 'twas that

little lad who lived only long enough to teach me what it is to have

hope of a fine son and then to lose him, if 'twas that little lad o'

mine grown up, I doubt could I feel it more, John Snow."

John Snow let slip his book and stood up, and for the first time looked

fair at Hugh Glynn. "We know, Captain Glynn," John Snow said, "and I'm

thanking you now. It's hard on me, hard on us all--our only son,

captain--our only child. But, doubtless, it had to come. Some goes young

and some goes old. It came to him maybe earlier than we ever thought

for, or he thought for, no doubt, but--it come. And what you have told

us, captain, is something for a man to be hearing of his son--and to be

hearing it from you. And only this very night, with the word of you come

home, my mind was hardening against you, Captain Glynn, for no denying

I've heard hard things even as I've heard great things of you. But now

I've met you, I know they mixed lies in the telling, Captain Glynn. And

as for Arthur--" John Snow stopped.

"As for Arthur"--'twas something to listen to, the voice of Hugh Glynn

then, so soft there was almost no believing it--"as for Arthur, John

Snow, he went as all of us will have to go if we stop long enough with

the fishing."

"Ay, no doubt. As you may go yourself, captain?"

"As I expect to go, John Snow. To be lost some day--what else should I

look forward to?"

"A black outlook, captain."

"Maybe, maybe. And yet a man's death at the last."

"So 'tis, captain--so 'tis."

John Snow and Hugh Glynn gripped hands, looked into each other's eyes,

and parted--Hugh Glynn out into the night again and John Snow, with Mrs.

Snow, to their room, from where I could hear her sobbing. I almost

wanted to cry myself, but Mary Snow was there. I went over and stood

behind her. She was looking after some one through the window.

It was Hugh Glynn walking down the steep hill. Turning the corner below,

I remember how he looked back and up at the window.

For a long silence Mary Snow sat there and looked out. When she looked

up and noticed me, she said: "It's a hard life, the bank fishing, Simon.

The long, long nights out to sea, the great gales; and when you come

home, no face, it may be, at the door to greet you."

"That it is, Mary."

"I saw his wife one day, Simon," said Mary Snow softly, "and the little

boy with her. But a week before they were killed together that was; six

years ago, and he, the great, tall man, striding between them. A

wonderful, lovely woman and a noble couple, I thought. And the grand

boy! And I at that heedless age, Simon, it was a rare person, be it man

or woman, I ran ahead to see again."

"Come from the window, Mary," I said to that, "and we'll talk of things

more cheerful."

"No, no, Simon--don't ask me to talk of light matters to-night." With

that and a "Good night" she left me for her room.

Out into the street I went. John Snow's house stood at the head of a

street atop of a steep hill, and I remember how I stood on the steps of

John Snow's house and looked down the slope of the hill, and below the

hill to the harbor, and beyond the harbor to clear water. It was a cold

winter moonlight, and under the moon the sea heaved and heaved and

heaved. There was no break in the surface of that sea that night, but as

it heaved, terribly slow and heavy, I thought I could feel the steps

beneath me heaving with it.