BILL BRENNEN PREACHES LOYALTY
Black Dennis Nolan was permitted an interview with Miss Flora Lockhart
in the afternoon following his return to Chance Along. The singer was
sitting up in a chair by the fire, wrapped about in her own silk
dressing-gown, which had been brought ashore from the wreck, and in an
eiderdown quilt. Her plentiful, soft, brown hair was arranged in a
manner new to Chance Along, and stuck through with a wonderful comb of
amber shell and gold, and a pin with a jewelled hilt. The ornaments for
the hair had been supplied by Mother Nolan, who had possessed them for
the past thirty years, hidden away in the bottom of a nunney-bag. Her
own son, the late skipper, had salvaged them from a wreck. Flora had her
own rings on her tapering fingers. There was color in her flawless
cheeks, her wonderful eyes were bright and clear, and her lips were red.
She smiled at the skipper when Mother Nolan ushered him into the room.
"It was very, very kind of you to take my letter all the way to the
post-office with your own hand," she said. Her bell-like voice was
generous and sincere. "I wish I could reward you for all you have done
for me, Mr. Nolan. But how can I--except in my heart? You are so rich
and proud, I am afraid to offer you money." Here there was a playful
note in her voice which the skipper detected. So she was making fun of
his wealth and his pride. His dark face flushed with several disturbing
emotions. To be addressed by the title of "mister" added to his
discomfort. There were no misters in Chance Along--or anywhere on the
coast, except the Methodist preacher in Bay Bulls, away to the north. He
was skipper--or just Denny Nolan. He was skipper of Chance Along--not a
preacher and not the mate of a foreign-going ship.
"Sure, it bain't no great trip to Witless Bay an' back agin," he
mumbled, staring at the girl in the big chair. The light that entered
the room from the gray afternoon, by way of the small window, was more
of a shadow than an illumination. The red fire in the wide chimney
warmed a little of it, painted the low ceiling and touched the girl's
eyes with a sunset tint. The skipper shuffled his feet on a rag mat and
crumpled his cap between his big hands. He felt like a slave--aye, and
something of a rogue--here in his own house. But he tried to brace
himself with the thought that he was master of the situation.
"Please sit down and talk to me, Mr. Nolan," said Flora.
The skipper glanced around the room. Mother Nolan had gone, leaving the
door ajar behind her. A small wooden stool stood near the fire, directly
across it from Flora. The skipper advanced to the stool and sat down,
the thumping of his heart sounding in his ears like the strokes of a
sledgehammer on wood. For a moment the sight of his strong eyes was
veiled by a mist--by an inner mist smoking up from the heat and
commotion of his blood. When his sight cleared he saw the beautiful
young woman regarding him with a slight smile on her red lips and in her
wonderful eyes. There was inquiry in the smile--yes, and pity and
amusement were in it, too. The young man felt short of breath and at the
same time a choking sensation as of uncomfortable fulness of the lungs.
He stared across at her like one spellbound. The girl's glance wavered,
but her smile deepened. A brief note of laughter, like a chime of glass
bells, parted her lips.
"Dear me, you look very tragic," she said. "You look as if you saw a
ghost."
The skipper started violently and turned his face to the fire. He
laughed huskily, then got to his feet and looked down at her with the
firelight red as blood in his black eyes. Suddenly he groaned, stooped
and snatched up one of her white, bejewelled hands. He pressed it
passionately to his lips, crushing the delicate fingers with his. For a
second or two the singer was far too amazed and horrified to speak or
act; then, recovering suddenly, she wrenched her hand free and struck
him on the cheek. He flung his head back and stood straight. A short,
thin, red line showed beneath his right eye where a diamond in one of
her rings had scratched the skin.
"How dare you?" she cried, her voice trembling and her face colorless.
"Go away! You forget--who I am! You are a coward!"
The skipper did not flinch, his eyes did not waver. She was but a woman,
after all, for all her talk of queens and fame. He had kissed her
hand--and she had struck him. Well? He was rich. He would marry
her--and she would soon learn to love him. He looked down at her with a
smile on his lips and the light of mastery in his black eyes.
"Go away--you coward!" she cried. Then she hid her face in her hands and
began to sob. Tears glinted between her fingers, beside the diamonds. At
that moment Mother Nolan entered and clutched her grandson by the elbow.
"Get out wid ye, ye great hulkin' fool!" she exclaimed. "Oh, I seed ye
a-clawin' at her little hand. An' now ye've set her to weepin', ye great
lump! Bain't there a drop o' wits in yer head? Don't ye know yer place,
Denny Nolan, ye ignorant fisherman, a-pawin' at the likes o' her?"
The skipper felt shame at sight of Flora's tears and anger at his
grandmother's humiliating words. There was a bitter edge to her voice
that was new to him, and her lean old fingers pinched into his flesh
like fingers of iron.
"Sure, I bes mad," he said. "'Twas only a trick, anyhow--an' I did no
harm. There bain't naught for ye to be cryin' about."
He strode from the room, with old Mother Nolan still clinging to his
elbow. When they reached the kitchen she loosed her clutch on his elbow.
"Denny Nolan, ye bes a fool!" she exclaimed. "Saints presarve us, Denny,
what would ye be doin' wid a sprite the like o' her, wid a heart all
full entirely o' gold an' diamonds an' queens an' kings?--an' girls in
this very harbor, ye great ninney, wid red woman hearts in their
breasts!"
The skipper stared at her for a second, muttered an oath, crushed his
fur cap on his head and went out into the gray twilight, slamming the
door behind him. He blundered his way up the path at the back of the
harbor and held on, blindly, to the westward.
"Sure, now she'll be frighted o' me all the time," he muttered. "I was a
fool to fright her so! Maybe now she'll never be marryin' wid me at all.
The divil was into me! Aye, the divil himself!"
He came presently to a group of his men working in a belt of timber, and
this encounter brought him back to affairs of the common day. Grabbing
an axe from young Peter Leary, he set to with a fury of effort and
unheeding skill that brought the slim spruces flapping to earth. Men had
to jump to save themselves from being crushed. The white chips flew in
the gray twilight; and Bill Brennen wondered what imp's claw had marked
the skipper under the eyes and crisscrossed his temper.
The weather continued cold, cloudless and windless throughout the next
three days. During that time the skipper made no effort to see Flora,
but was abroad from sun-up to sun-down with the men, cutting out timber
for the little church as if his life depended on it. No sight or sound
of Dick Lynch came back to the harbor. This gave Bill Brennen an
argument in favor of loyalty to the skipper. He preached it to the men,
and it made a great impression on their simple though dangerous natures.
"There was Foxey Jack Quinn," he said. "Jack hated the skipper like we
hates sea-water in our rum. Didn't he try to kill him--t'row him over
the cliff--an' didn't the skipper put the comather on to him? An' then
he tips and busts into the skipper's house, wid the intention o'
t'iefing the money--an' where bes Foxey Jack Quinn this minute? The
saints only knows!--or maybe the divil could tell ye! An' there was Dick
Lynch. Dick ups an' crosses the skipper in the store, an' gets his head
broke. Nex', he raises a mutiny agin the skipper an' slips his knife
into a mate. Nex', he fills himself up wid rum an' sets out wid his
swilin'-gun to blow the skipper's head away! An' where bes Dick Lynch
this minute? Aye, where bes he! Tell me that, if ye kin--I don't know,
an' ye don't know, an' the skipper himself don't know. But the saints
knows!--or maybe it bes the divil himself could tell ye! Anyhow, all the
luck o' this harbor bes wid the skipper an' wid them as stands true wid
him. Aye, ye kin lay to that! His enemies blink out like a spark
floatin' up in the air. B'ys, stick wid the skipper! He feeds ye like
marchants. Already every man o' ye has more gold stored away nor ye ever
see afore in all yer life, an' come spring the skipper'll be freightin'
yer jewels, an' the cargo out o' the last wrack, north to St. John's,
an' sellin' 'em for ye. Would ye have salved 'em widout the skipper? No.
Would ye be able for to freight 'em to St. John's widout himself an' his
fore-an'-after? No. An' neither would ye be able to sell 'em even if ye
could freight 'em! Stand true to Black Dennis Nolan, b'ys, an' ye'll all
be fat an' rich as marchants, wid never the need to wet a line at the
fishin'."
Dick Lynch had gone away drunk; but not so drunk as to have forgotten
to take food and a blanket with him, and to stow away on his person his
share of the gold from the _Durham Castle_. His inflamed mind must have
held a doubt as to the certainty of meeting and disposing of the
skipper.
After the long spell of fine weather another "flurry" swirled out of the
west, and sent the men of Chance Along into their cabins, to eat and
drink and spin yarns and keep the fires roaring in the little, round
stoves and blackened chimneys. Throughout the first day of storm the
skipper sat by the stove in his kitchen, talking pleasantly enough to
Mother Nolan and Cormick, figuring on the plans for the church which
Father McQueen had left with him, but with never a question about Flora
Lockhart. He was something of a dissembler, was the skipper--when his
blood was cool. Mother Nolan spoke once of the girl, saying that the
loneliness of Chance Along was eating her poor heart; but the skipper
gave no heed to it. On the morning of the second day of the storm, after
Mother Nolan had carried tea, bacon and toast to the singer and was
eating her own breakfast with her grandsons, the inner door opened and
Flora herself entered the kitchen. The three looked up at her in
amazement. The skipper was the first to lower his eyes.
"Good mornin' to ye," he said, and went on with his breakfast.
"Oh, I am so dull and lonely," exclaimed the girl. "This terrible storm
frightens me. Why must I stay in that dreary room all by myself?"
"Ye be welcome to the entire house, ye poor dear," said Mother Nolan.
"But has ye et yer breakfast?"
"Not yet. The storm howled so in the chimney that I was too frightened
to eat. Mayn't I bring it out here and eat it with you--and listen to
you talking?" begged Flora.
"Sure ye kin. Set right down an' I'll fetch yer tray," said Mother
Nolan.
"Aye, that ye kin--an' welcome ye be as June," said the skipper quietly.
The singer glanced at him shyly, uncertainly, with a question in her
beautiful eyes.
"You are very kind--you are all very kind," she said. "I fear that I was
very--rude to you, Mr. Nolan. I--I struck you--but you were rough. And
I--called you names--which I did not mean."
"Let it pass," said the skipper, gazing at the bacon on his plate. "I
bes rough, as ye say. It bes the way I was born an' bred. But I was
meanin' no disrespect to ye, as the holy saints be me jedges. Sure I--I
couldn't help meself!"
So it happened that Miss Flora Lockhart ate her breakfast beside the
kitchen stove with Mother Nolan, the skipper and young Cormick. The way
she ate was a wonder to watch, all so easy and quiet and polite. Mother
Nolan wagged her head over it, as much as to say that such table manners
would bring no good to such a place as Chance Along, and young Cormick
could do nothing but stare at the beautiful stranger. She talked
brightly, with the evident intention to please. It was her nature to
want to impress people favorably toward her--and after all, she owed a
great deal to these people and, for a few weeks longer at least, was
entirely in their power. She saw that the skipper was a strong man--a
man to be feared--and that her charms had ensnared his wild heart.
Therefore she must play the game artfully with him instead of continuing
the crude and honest method of slaps in the face. She believed that he
would prove harmless and docile if skilfully handled, but as dangerous
as a wounded animal if insulted and rebuffed.
After breakfast she asked for Pat Kavanagh. She did not remember his
name, but spoke of him as the funny old fellow with the violin and the
wooden leg.
"If he were here we could have a fine concert," she said, "and forget
all about the terrible wind and snow whirling around the house." Her
laughing face was turned to the skipper.
"Sure then, Pat bes the lad we wants," said the skipper, grinning like
one entranced by a glimpse of heaven itself. There was a golden vision
in his head, poor fool, of this beautiful creature sitting beneath his
roof for all time, her red lips and wonderful eyes always laughing at
him, her silvery voice forever telling him to forget the storm outside.
The future looked to him like a state of bliss such as one sometimes
half-sees, half-feels, in dreams.
"I'll go fetch him an' his fiddle," he said, pulling on his heavy
jumper.
"Now don't ye be losin' yerself in the flurry," continued Mother Nolan.
"It bes nought, Granny," returned the skipper. "Sure I kin feel me way
on me hands an' knees."
It took him fifteen minutes to find Pat Kavanagh's shanty and locate the
door of it, so blinding and choking was the storm. He pushed the door
open, stumbled into the warmth, and slammed the timbers shut behind him.
Mary was sewing beside the stove, and Pat was mumbling over the first
verse of a new "come-all-ye." They looked up at the skipper in
astonishment.
"What the divil bes troublin' ye, Denny Nolan, to fetch ye out o' yer
own house sich a day as this?" demanded the ex-sailorman. "Bes there
anything the matter wid that grand young lady from up-along?"
The skipper removed his cap and with it beat the snow from his limbs and
body. He breathed heavily from his struggle with the storm. Mary eyed
him anxiously, her hands idle in her lap.
"I's come to fetch yer over to me own house--ye an' yer fiddle," said
Nolan.
"The divil ye has!" retorted Pat Kavanagh. "Saints presarve ye, lad,
what kind o' rum has ye bin a-drinkin' of this mornin' already?"
"Herself bes wantin' ye, Pat--ye an' yer fiddle, for to have a concert
wid," said the skipper, with childlike trust and delight in his voice.
"Skipper, dear, would ye be haulin' me an' me wooden leg out into sich a
desperate flurry as this here?" inquired Pat, aghast. "Saints be good to
ye, skipper, but I'd die in me tracks!"
Some of the foolish delight went out of Nolan's face. His lips closed
and his black eyes began to glint like moonshine on new ice.
"It bain't no more nor a step or two," he said. "If ye can't walk it
yerself, Pat,--ye an' yer wooden leg,--then I kin tote ye on me back."
"Sure ye kin go, father; an' I'll be goin' along wid the two o' ye,"
said Mary. "The poor lass bes wantin' amusement, an' it be but right for
us all to give it her. Music an' a concert she bes wantin' to keep up
her poor little heart agin the storm. Sure, an' why not? Did ye think
for her--a slip o' a grand concert-singer from up-along--to have a heart
for the wind an' snows o' Chance Along?"
Pat grumbled. The skipper looked at Mary.
"There bain't nothin' wrong wid her heart," he said.
"Sure there bain't," agreed Mary. "Her poor little heart bes jist sick
to death o' Chance Along--an' what else would ye look for? Sprees an'
company she must be havin', day after day, an' night after night, like
what she has always had. It bes our duty to amuse her, father, an' feed
her an' nurse her, till her grand folks up-along takes her away."
The skipper was not altogether satisfied with Mary's words. They did not
seem to voice his own ideas on the subject at all, though they were
evidently intended to agree with his attitude toward the singer. They
had a back-snap to them that he mistrusted.
Half an hour later all three were safe in the skipper's kitchen,
breathless and coated with snow. Flora welcomed Mary with a kiss.
"What a beauty you are," she exclaimed.
Mary's rosy cheeks deepened in color at the praise, and a shadow came
out from the depths of her gray eyes. Mother Nolan saw all this, though
she seemed to be very busy with getting poor Pat and his wooden leg into
a chair.
Well, a punch was brewed, and Pat played on his fiddle, and Flora
Lockhart sang as no one but herself ever sang before on that coast--yes,
or anywhere else in the whole island of Newfoundland. The wonder of her
singing even set young Cormick's heart to aching with nameless and
undreamed of aches. As for the skipper, he looked as if the fairies had
caught him for sure!