Part 10

She tapped the tip of his nose with a long little forefinger, and emphasized every word with a stouter tap. "Yes--it--is!" said she.

"Not _never_," cried "By-an'-by" Brown.

"Then," says she, "is it to-morrow?"

Brown violently shook his head.

"Is it nex' week?"

"Goodness, no!"

"Well," she insisted--and she took "By-an'-by's" face between her palms and drew it close to search his eyes--"is it nex' year?"

"Maybe."

She touched the tip of her white little nose to the sunburned tip of his. "But _is_ it?" she persisted.

"Uh-huh," said "By-an'-by" Brown, recklessly, quite overcome, committing himself beyond redemption; "nex' year."

And "By-an'-by's" baby remembered....

* * * * *

Next year began, of course, with the first day of January. And a day with wind and snow it was! Through the interval of three months preceding, Brown had observed the approach of this veritable by-an'-by with rising alarm. And on New Year's Day, why, there it was: by-an'-by come at last! "By-an'-by" Brown, though twenty-two, was frightened. No wonder! Hitherto his life had not been perturbed by insoluble bewilderments. But how to produce Long Bill Tweak from the mist into which he had vanished at Back Yard Bight of the Labrador seven years ago? It was beyond him. Who could call Bill Tweak from seven years of time and the very waste places of space? Not "By-an'-by" Brown, who could only ponder and sigh and scratch his curly head. And here was the maid, used to saying, as maids of seven will, But you told me so! and, You _promised_! So "By-an'-by" Brown was downcast as never before; but before the day was spent he conceived that the unforeseen might yet fortuitously issue in the salvation of himself and the baby.

"Maybe," thought he--"by-an'-by!"

As January progressed the maid grew more eager and still more confident. He _promised_, thinks she; also, He _told_ me so. There were times, as the terrified Brown observed, when this eagerness so possessed the child that she trembled in a fashion to make him shiver. She would start from her chair by the stove when a knock came late o' windy nights on the kitchen door; she would stare up the frozen harbor to the Tickle by day--peep through the curtains, interrupt her housewifely duties to keep watch at the window.

"Anyhow, he _will_ come," says she, quite confidently, "by-an'-by."

"Uh-huh!" Brown must respond.

What was a shadow upon the gentle spirit of "By-an'-by" Brown was the sunlight of certain expectation irradiating "By-an'-by's" baby. But the maid fell ill. Nobody knew why. Suspicion dwelled like a skeleton with "By-an'-by" Brown; but this he did not divulge to Blunder Cove. Nothin' much the matter along o' she, said the Cove; jus' a little spell o' somethin' or other. It was a childish indisposition, perhaps--but come with fever and pallor and a poignant restlessness. "By-an'-by" Brown had never before known how like to a black cloud the future of a man might be. At any rate, she must be put to bed: whereupon, of course, "By-an'-by" Brown indefinitely put off going to bed, having rather stand watch, he said. It was presently a question at Blunder Cove: who was the more wan and pitiable, "By-an'-by's" baby, being sick, or "By-an'-by," being anxious? And there was no cure anywhere to be had--no cure for either. "By-an'-by" Brown conceived that the appearance of Long Bill Tweak would instantly work a miracle upon the maid. But where was Bill Tweak? There was no magic at hand to accomplish the feat of summoning a scamp from Nowhere!

One windy night "By-an'-by" Brown sat with the child to comfort her. "I 'low," he drawled, "that you wisht a wonderful sight that your father was here."

"Uh-_huh_!" the maid exclaimed.

Brown sighed. "I s'pose," he muttered.

"Is he comin'?" she demanded.

"Oh--by-an'-by!"

"I wisht 'twas _now_," said she. "That I does!"

Brown listened to the wind. It was blowing high and bitterly: a winter wind, with snow from the northeast. "By-an'-by" was troubled.

"I 'low," said he, hopelessly, "that you'll love un a sight, won't ye?--when he comes?"

"Ye bet ye!" the maid answered.

"More'n ye love--some folks?"

"A lot," said she.

Brown was troubled. He heard the kitchen stove snore in its familiar way, the kettle bubble, the old wind assault the cottage he had builded for the baby; and he remembered recent years--and was troubled.

"Will ye love un more?" he asked, anxiously, turning his face from the child, "than ye loves me?" He hesitated. "Ye won't, will ye?" he implored.

"'Twill be different," said she.

"Will it?" he asked, rather vacantly.

"Ye see," she explained, "he'll be my _father_."

"Then," suggested "By-an'-by," "ye'll be goin' away along o' he?--when he comes?"

"Oh, my, no!"

"Ye'll not? Ye'll stay along o' me?"

"Why, ye see," she began, bewildered, "I'll--why, o' course, I'll--oh," she complained, "what ye ask me _that_ for?"

"Jus' couldn't _help_ it," said "By-an'-by," humbly.

The maid began to cry.

"Don't!" pleaded "By-an'-by" Brown. "Jus' can't _stand_ it. I'll do anything if ye'll on'y stop cryin'. Ye can _have_ your father. Ye needn't love me no more. Ye can go away along o' he. An' he'll be comin' soon, too. Ye'll see if he don't. Jus' by-an'-by--by-an'-by!"

"'Tis never," the maid sobbed.

"No, no! By-an'-by is soon. Why," cried "By-an'-by" Brown, perceiving that this intelligence stopped the child's tears, "by-an'-by is--wonderful soon."

"To-morrow?"

"Well, no; but--"

"'Tis never!" she wailed.

"'Tis nex' week!" cried "By-an'-by" Brown....

* * * * *

When the dawn of Monday morning confronted "By-an'-by" Brown he was appalled. Here was a desperately momentous situation: by-an'-by must be faced--at last. Where was Long Bill Tweak? Nobody knew. How could Long Bill Tweak be fetched from Nowhere? Brown scratched his head. But Long Bill Tweak _must_ be fetched: for here was the maid, chirpin' about the kitchen--turned out early, ecod! t' clean house against her father's coming. Cured? Ay; that she was--the mouse! "By-an'-by" Brown dared not contemplate her collapse at midnight of Saturday. But chance intervened: on Tuesday morning Long Bill Tweak made Blunder Cove on the way from Lancy Loop to St. John's to join the sealing fleet in the spring of the year. Long Bill Tweak in the flesh! It was still blowing high: he had come out of the snow--a shadow in the white mist, rounding the Tickle rocks, observed from all the windows of Blunder Cove, but changing to Long Bill Tweak himself, ill-kempt, surly, gruff-voiced, vicious-eyed, at the kitchen door of "By-an'-by" Brown's cottage.

Long Bill Tweak begged the maid, with a bristle-whiskered twitch--a scowl, mistakenly delivered as a smile--for leave to lie the night in that place.

The maid was afraid with a fear she had not known before. "We're 'lowing for company," she objected.

"Come in!" "By-an'-by" called from the kitchen.

The maid fled in a fright to the inner room, and closed the door upon herself; but Long Bill Tweak swaggered in.

"Tweak!" gasped "By-an'-by" Brown.

"Brown!" growled Long Bill Tweak.

There was the silence of uttermost amazement; but presently, with a jerk, Tweak indicated the door through which "By-an'-by's" baby had fled.

"It?" he whispered.

Brown nodded.

"'Low I'll be goin' on," said Long Bill Tweak, making for the windy day.

"Ye'll go," answered "By-an'-by" Brown, quietly, interposing his great body, "when ye're let: not afore."

Long Bill Tweak contented himself with the hospitality of "By-an'-by" Brown....

* * * * *

That night, when Brown had talked with the maid's father for a long, long time by the kitchen stove, the maid being then turned in, he softly opened the bedroom door and entered, closing it absent-mindedly behind him, dwelling the while, in deep distress, upon the agreement he had wrested by threat and purchase from Long Bill Tweak. The maid was still awake because of terror; she was glad, indeed, to have caught sight of "By-an'-by" Brown's broad, kindly young countenance in the beam of light from the kitchen, though downcast, and she snuggled deeper into the blankets, not afraid any more. "By-an'-by" touched a match to the candle-wick with a great hand that trembled. He lingered over the simple act--loath to come nearer to the evil necessity of the time. For Long Bill Tweak was persuaded now to be fatherly to the child; and "By-an'-by" Brown must yield her, according to her wish. He sat for a time on the edge of the little bed, clinging to the maid's hand; and he thought, in his gentle way, that it was a very small, very dear hand, and that he would wish to touch it often, when he could not.

Presently Brown sighed: then, taking heart, he joined issue with his trouble.

"I 'low," he began, "that you wisht your father was here."

The maid did.

"I 'low," he pursued, "that you wisht he was here this very minute."

That the maid did!

"I 'low," said "By-an'-by," softly, lifting the child's hands to his lips, "that you wisht the man in the kitchen was him."

"No," the maid answered, sharply.

"Ye doesn't?"

"Ye bet ye--no!" said she.

"Eh?" gasped the bewildered Brown.

The maid sat upright and stiff in bed. "Oh, my!" she demanded, in alarm; "he _isn't_, is he?"

"No!" said "By-an'-by" Brown.

"Sure?"

"Isn't I jus' _tol'_ ye so?" he answered, beaming.

Long Bill Tweak followed the night into the shades of forgotten time....

* * * * *

Came Wednesday upon "By-an'-by" Brown in a way to make the heart jump. Midnight of Saturday was now fairly over the horizon of his adventurous sea. Wednesday! Came Thursday--prompt to the minute. Days of bewildered inaction! And now the cottage was ship-shape to the darkest corners of its closets. Ship-shape as a wise and knowing maid of seven, used to housewifely occupations, could make it: which was as ship-shape as ship-shape could be, though you may not believe it. There was no more for the maid to do but sit with folded hands and confidently expectant gaze to await the advent of her happiness. Thursday morning: and "By-an'-by" Brown had not mastered his bearings. Three days more: Thursday, Friday, Saturday. It occurred, then, to "By-an'-by" Brown--at precisely ten o'clock of Friday morning--that his hope lay in Jim Turley of Candlestick Cove, an obliging man. They jus' _had_ t' be a father, didn't they? But they _wasn't_ no father no more. Well, then, ecod! _make_ one. Had t' be a father, _some_how, didn't they? And--well--there was Jim Turley o' Candlestick Cove. He'd answer. Why not Jim Turley o' Candlestick Cove, an obligin' man, known t' be such from Mother Burke t' the Cape Norman Light? He'd 'blige a shipmate in a mess like this, ecod! You see if he didn't!

Brown made ready for Candlestick Cove.

"But," the maid objected, "what is I t' do if father comes afore night?"

"Ah!" drawled "By-an'-by," blankly.

"Eh?" she repeated.

"Why, o' course," he answered, with a large and immediate access of interest, drawing the arm-chair near the stove, "you jus' set un there t' warm his feet."

"An' if he doesn't know me?" she protested.

"Oh, sure," "By-an'-by" affirmed, "the ol' man'll know _you_, never fear. You jus' give un a cup o' tea an' say I'll be back afore dark."

"Well," the maid agreed, dubiously.

"I'll be off," said Brown, in a flush of embarrassment, "when I fetches the wood t' keep your father cosey. He'll be thirsty an' cold when he comes. Ye'll take good care of un, won't ye?"

"Ye bet ye!"

"Mind ye get them there ol' feet warm. An' jus' you fair pour the tea into un. He's used t' his share o' tea, ye bet! _I_ knows un."

And so "By-an'-by" Brown, travelling over the hills, came hopefully to Jim Turley of Candlestick Cove, an obliging man, whilst the maid kept watch at the window of the Blunder Cove cottage. And Jim Turley was a most obligin' man. 'Blige? Why, sure! _I'll_ 'blige ye! There was no service difficult or obnoxious to the selfish sons of men that Jim Turley would not perform for other folk--if only he might 'blige. Ye jus' go ast Jim Turley; _he'll_ 'blige ye. And Jim Turley would with delight: for Jim had a passion for 'bligin'--assiduously seeking opportunities, even to the point of intrusion. Beaming Jim Turley o' Candlestick Cove: poor, shiftless, optimistic, serene, well-beloved Jim Turley, forever cheerfully sprawling in the meshes of his own difficulties! Lean Jim Turley--forgetful of his interests in a fairly divine satisfaction with compassing the joy and welfare of his fellows! I shall never forget him: his round, flaring smile, rippling under his bushy whiskers, a perpetual delight, come any fortune; his mild, unself-conscious, sympathetic blue eyes, looking out upon the world in amazement, perhaps, but yet in kind and eager inquiry concerning the affairs of other folk; his blithe "Yo-ho!" at labor, and "Easy does it!" Jim Turley o' Candlestick Cove--an' obligin' man!

"In trouble?" he asked of "By-an'-by" Brown, instantly concerned.

"Not 'xactly trouble," answered "By-an'-by."

"Sort o' bothered?"

"Well, no," drawled "By-an'-by" Brown; "but I got t' have a father by Satu'day night."

"For yerself?" Jim mildly inquired.

"For the maid," said "By-an'-by" Brown; "an' I was 'lowin'," he added, frankly, "that you might 'blige her."

"Well, now," Jim Turley exclaimed, "I'd like t' wonderful well! But, ye see," he objected, faintly, "bein' a ol' bachelor I isn't s'posed t'--"

"Anyhow," "By-an'-by" Brown broke in, "I jus' got t' have a father by Satu'day night."

"An' I'm a religious man, an'--"

"No objection t' religion," Brown protested. "I'm strong on religion m'self. Jus' as soon have a religious father as not. Sooner. Now," he pleaded, "they isn't nobody else in the world t' 'blige me."

"No," Jim Turley agreed, in distress; "no--I 'low not."

"An' I jus' _got_," declared Brown, "t' have a father by Satu'day night."

"Course you is!" cried Jim Turley, instantly siding with the woebegone. "Jus' got t'!"

"Well?"

"Oh, well, pshaw!" said Jim Turley, "_I'll_ 'blige ye!"

The which he did, but with misgiving: arriving at Blunder Cove after dark of Saturday, unobserved by the maid, whose white little nose was stuck to the frosty window-pane, whose eyes searched the gloom gathered over the Tickle rocks, whose ears were engaged with the tick-tock of the impassive clock. No; he was not observed, however keen the lookout: for he came sneaking in by Tumble Gully, 'cordin' t' sailin' orders, to join "By-an'-by" Brown in the lee of the meeting-house under Anxiety Hill, where the conspiracy was to be perfected, in the light of recent developments, and whence the sally was to be made. He was in a shiver of nervousness; so, too, "By-an'-by" Brown. It was the moment of inaction when conspirators must forever be the prey of doubt and dread. They were determined, grim; they were most grave--but they were still afraid. And Jim Turley's conscience would not leave him be. A religious man, Jim Turley! On the way from Candlestick Cove he had whipped the perverse thing into subjection, like a sinner; but here, in the lee of the meeting-house by Anxiety Hill, with a winter's night fallen like a cold cloud from perdition, conscience was risen again to prod him.

An obligin' man, Jim Turley: but still a religious man--knowing his master.

"I got qualms," said he.

"Stummick?" Brown demanded, in alarm.

"This here thing," Jim Turley protested, "isn't a religious thing to do."

"Maybe not," replied "By-an'-by" Brown, doggedly; "but I promised the maid a father by Satu'day night, an' I got t' have un."

"'Twould ease my mind a lot," Jim Turley pleaded, "t' ask the parson. Come, now!"

"By-an'-by," said "By-an'-by" Brown.

"No," Jim Turley insisted; "now."

The parson laughed; then laughed again, with his head thrown back and his mouth fallen open very wide. Presently, though, he turned grave, and eyed "By-an'-by" Brown in a questioning, anxious way, as though seeking to discover in how far the big man's happiness might be chanced: whereupon he laughed once more, quite reassured. He was a pompous bit of a parson, this, used to commanding the conduct of Blunder Cove; to controlling its affairs; to shaping the destinies of its folk with a free, bold hand: being in this both wise and most generously concerned, so that the folk profited more than they knew. And now, with "By-an'-by" Brown and the maid on his hands, to say nothing of poor Jim Turley, he did not hesitate; there was nothing for it, thinks he, but to get "By-an'-by" Brown out of the mess, whatever came of it, and to arrange a future from which all by-an'-bying must be eliminated. A new start, thinks he; and the by-an'-by habit would work no further injury. So he sat "By-an'-by" Brown and Jim Turley by the kitchen stove, without a word of explanation, and, still condescending no hint of his purpose, but bidding them both sit tight to their chairs, went out upon his business, which, as may easily be surmised, was with the maid.

"Bein' a religious man," said Jim Turley, solemnly, "he'll mend it."

When the parson came back there was nothing within her comprehension, which was quite sufficient to her need. "By-an'-by" Brown was sent home, with a kindly God-bless-ye! and an injunction of the most severe description to have done with by-an'-bying. He stumbled into his own kitchen in a shamefaced way, prepared, like a mischievous lad, to be scolded until his big ears burned and his scalp tingled; and he was a long, long time about hanging up his cap and coat and taking off his shoes, never once glancing toward the maid, who sat silent beyond the kitchen stove. And then, when by no further subterfuge could he prolong his immunity, he turned boldly in her direction, patiently and humbly to accept the inevitable correction, a promise to do better already fashioned upon his tongue. And there she sat, beyond the glowing stove, grinning in a way to show her white little teeth. Tears? Maybe: but only traces--where-left, indeed, for the maid to learn, or, at least, by her eyes shone all the brighter. And "By-an'-by" Brown, reproaching himself bitterly, sat down, with never a word, and began to trace strange pictures on the floor with the big toe of his gray-socked foot, while the kettle and the clock and the fire sang the old chorus of comfort and cheer.

The big man's big toe got all at once furiously interested in its artistic occupation.

"Ah-ha!" says "By-an'-by's" baby, "_I_ found you out!"

"Uh-huh!" she repeated, threateningly, "I found _you_ out."

"Did ye?" "By-an'-by" softly asked.

The maid came on tiptoe from behind the stove, and made an arrangement of "By-an'-by" Brown's long legs convenient for straddling; and having then settled herself on his knees, she tipped up his face and fetched her own so close that he could not dodge her eyes, but must look in, whatever came of it; and then--to the reviving delight of "By-an'-by" Brown--she tapped his nose with a long little forefinger, emphasizing every word with a stouter tap, saying:

"Yes--I--did!"

"Uh-huh!" he chuckled.

"An'," said she, "I don't _want_ no father."

"Ye don't?" he cried, incredulous.

"Because," she declared, "I'm 'lowin' t' take care o' _you_--an' _marry_ you."

"Ye is?" he gasped.

"Ye bet ye, b'y," said "By-an'-by's" baby--"by-an'-by!"

Then they hugged each other hard.

VIII--THEY WHO LOSE AT LOVE

And old Khalil Khayyat, simulating courage, went out, that the reconciliation of Yusef Khouri with the amazing marriage might surely be accomplished. And returning in dread and bewildered haste, he came again to the pastry-shop of Nageeb Fiani, where young Salim Awad, the light of his eyes, still lay limp over the round table in the little back room, grieving that Haleema, Khouri's daughter, of the tresses of night, the star-eyed, his well-beloved, had of a sudden wed Jimmie Brady, the jolly truckman. The smoke hung dead and foul in the room; the coffee was turned cold in the cups, stagnant and greasy; the coal on the narghile was grown gray as death: the magic of great despair had in a twinkling worked the change of cheer to age and shabbiness and frigid gloom. But the laughter and soft voices in the outer room were all unchanged, still light, lifted indifferently above the rattle of dice and the aimless strumming of a canoun; and beyond was the familiar evening hum and clatter of New York's Washington Street, children's cries and the patter of feet, drifting in at the open door; and from far off, as before, came the low, receding roar of the Elevated train rounding the curve to South Ferry.

Khayyat smiled in compassion: being old, used to the healing of years, he smiled; and he laid a timid hand on the head of young Salim Awad.

"Salim, poet, the child of a poet," he whispered, "grieve no more!"

"My heart is a gray coal, O Khalil!" sighed Salim Awad, who had lost at love. "For a moment it glowed in the breath of love. It is turned cold and gray; it lies forsaken in a vast night."

"For a moment," mused Khalil Khayyat, sighing, but yet smiling, "it glowed in the breath of love. Ah, Salim," said he, "there is yet the memory of that ecstasy!"

"My heart is a brown leaf: it flutters down the wind of despair; it is caught in the tempest of great woe."

"It has known the sunlight and the tender breeze."

Salim looked up; his face was wet and white; his black hair, fallen in disarray over his forehead, was damp with the sweat of grief; his eyes, soulful, glowing in deep shadows, he turned to some place high and distant. "My heart," he cried, passionately, clasping his hands, "is a thing that for a moment lived, but is forever dead! It is in a grave of night and heaviness, O Khalil, my friend!"

"It is like a seed sown," said Khalil Khayyat.

"To fail of harvest!"

"Nay; to bloom in compassionate deeds. The flower of sorrow is the joy of the world. In the broken heart is the hope of the hopeless; in the agony of poets is their sure help. Hear me, O Salim Awad!" the old man continued, rising, lifting his lean brown hand, his voice clear, vibrant, possessing the quality of prophecy. "The broken heart is a seed sown by the hand of the Beneficent and Wise. Into the soil of life He casts it that there may be a garden in the world. With a free, glad hand He sows, that the perfume and color of high compassion may glorify the harvest of ambitious strife; and progress is the fruit of strife and love the flower of compassion. Yea, O Salim, poet, the child of a poet, taught of a poet, which am I, the broken heart is a seed sown gladly, to flower in this beauty. Blessed," Khalil Khayyat concluded, smiling, "oh, blessed be the Breaker of Hearts!"

"Blessed," asked Salim Awad, wondering, "be the Breaker of Hearts?"

"Yea, O Salim," answered Khalil Khayyat, speaking out of age and ancient pain; "even blessed be the Breaker of Hearts!"

Salim Awad turned again to the place that was high and distant--beyond the gaudy, dirty ceiling of the little back room--where, it may be, the form of Haleema, the star-eyed, of the slender, yielding shape of the tamarisk, floated in a radiant cloud, compassionate and glorious.