Part 9

"Will it never stop blowin'!" Aunt Tibbie complained.

Outside, wind and rain had their way with the world. Aunt Tibbie and Skipper Jonathan exchanged glances. They were thinking of the dawn.

"I'm wantin' t' go t' bed, Tibbie," Jonathan sighed, "for I'm wonderful tired."

"An' I'm tired, too, dear," said Aunt Tibbie, softly. "Leave us all go t' bed."

They were soon sound asleep....

* * * * *

Parson All turned out to be a mild little old man with spectacles. His eyes were blue--faded, watery, shy: wherein were many flashes of humor and kindness. His face was smooth and colorless--almost as white as his hair, which was also long and thin and straight. When Jonathan came in from the sea after dark--from the night and wet and vast confusion of that place--Parson All was placidly rocking by the kitchen fire, his hands neatly folded, his trousers drawn up, so that his ankles and calves might warm; and the kitchen was in a joyous tumult, with which the little old man from Satan's Trap was in benevolent sympathy. Jonathan had thought to find the house solemn, the wife in a fluster, the twins painfully washed and brushed, the able seamen of the little crew glued to their stools; but no! the baby was crowing in the cradle, the twins tousled and grinning, the wife beaming, the little crew rolling on the floor--the whole kitchen, indeed, in a gratefully familiar condition of chaos and glee.

At once they sat down to supper.

"I'm glad t' have you, parson," said Jonathan, his broad, hairy face shining with soap and delight. "That I is. I'm _glad_ t' have you."

The parson's smile was winning.

"Jonathan haves a wonderful taste for company," Aunt Tibbie explained.

The man defended himself. "I isn't able t' help it," said he. "I loves t' feed folk. An' I isn't able, an' I never was able, an' I never will be able t' help it. Here's your brewis, sir. Eat hearty of it. Don't spare it."

"They's more in the pot," Aunt Tibbie put in.

The parson's gentle eye searched the table--as our eyes have often done. A bit of hopeful curiosity--nothing more: a thing common to us all, saints and sinners alike. We have all been hungry and we have all hoped; but few of us, I fancy, being faint of hunger--and dyspeptic--have sat down to a bowl of brewis. 'Tis no sin, in parson or layman, to wish for more; for the Lord endowed them both with hunger, and cursed many, indiscriminately, with indigestion. Small blame, then, to the parson, who was desperately hungry; small blame to Jonathan, who had no more to give. There is no fault anywhere to be descried. Ah, well! the parson's roving eye was disappointed, but twinkled just the same; it did not darken--nor show ill-humor. There was a great bowl of brewis--a mountain of it. 'Twas eyed by the twins with delight. But there was nothing more. The parson's eye--the shy, blue, twinkling eye--slyly sought the stove; but the stove was bare. And still the mild eyes continued full of benevolence and satisfaction. He was a _man_--that parson!

"Windy weather," said he, with an engaging smile.

"Never seed nothin' _like_ it!" Jonathan declared.

The twins were by this time busy with their forks, their eyes darting little glances at the parson, at the parson's overloaded plate, at the ruin of the mountain.

"Wind in the east," the parson remarked.

Jonathan was perturbed. "You isn't very hearty the night," said he.

"Oh, dear me, yes!" the parson protested. "I was just about to begin."

The faces of the twins were by this overcast.

"Don't spare it, parson."

The parson gulped a mouthful with a wry face--an obstinately wry face; he could _not_ manage to control it. He smiled at once--a quick, sweet comprehensive little smile. It was heroic--he was sure that it was! And it _was_! He could do no more. 'Twas impossible to take the brewis. A melancholy--ay, and perilous--situation for a hungry man: an old man, and a dyspeptic. Conceive it, if you can!

"_That_ ain't hearty," Aunt Tibbie complained.

"To be frank," said the parson, in great humiliation--"to be perfectly frank, I like brewis, but--"

The happiness faded from Aunt Tibbie's eyes.

"--I don't find it inspiring," the parson concluded, in shame.

The twins promptly took advantage of the opportunity to pass their plates for more.

"Dyspepsey?" Aunt Tibbie inquired.

"It might be called that," Parson All replied, sweeping the board with a smile, but yet with a flush of guilt and shame, "by a physician."

"Poor man!" Aunt Tibbie signed.

There was a brief silence--expectant, but not selfishly so, on the part of the parson; somewhat despairing on the part of the hosts.

"Well, parson," Skipper Jonathan said, doggedly, "all you got t' do is _ask_ for what you wants."

"No, no!"

"That's all you got t' do," Jonathan persisted.

"Most kind of you, sir! But--no, no!"

"Please do!" Aunt Tibbie begged.

But the parson was not to be persuaded. Not Parson All of Satan's Trap--a kindly, sensitive soul! He was very hungry, to be sure, and must go hungry to bed (it seemed); but he would not ask for what he wanted. To-morrow? Well, _something_ had to be done. He would yield--he _must_ yield to the flesh--a little. This he did timidly: with shame for the weakness of the flesh. He resented the peculiarity of brewis in his particular case. Indeed, he came near to rebellion against the Lord--no, not rebellion: merely rebellious questionings. But he is to be forgiven, surely; for he wished most earnestly that he might eat brewis and live--just as you and I might have done.

"Now, Parson All," Jonathan demanded, "you just _got_ t' tell."

And, well, the parson admitted that a little bread and a tin of beef--to be taken sparingly--would be a grateful diet.

"But we've none!" cried Aunt Tibbie. "An' this night you'll starve!"

"To-night," said the parson, gently, "my stomach--is a bit out--anyhow."

Presently he was shown to his bed....

* * * * *

"I 'low," said Aunt Tibbie, when the parson was stowed away and she had caught Skipper Jonathan's wavering eye, "he'd better have more'n that."

"He--he--he've just _got_ t' have more."

"He've a weak stomach," Aunt Tibbie apologized. "Poor man!"

"I tells you, Tibbie," Jonathan declared, "them parsons haves wonderful hard times. They isn't able t' get out in the air enough. Too much book-study. Too much brain labor. I wouldn't change places with a parson, woman, for all the world!"

Aunt Tibbie nodded absently.

"I 'low," said Jonathan, "I'd better be gettin' under way for the shop."

The man drew on his boots and got into his oil-skins, and had his wrists bandaged and went out. It was a long pull to the shop; but his mind was too full of wonder and sly devising to perceive the labor of the way.... And the trader was silting alone in the shop, perched on the counter, slapping his lean calf with a yardstick, while the rain pattered on the roof and the wind went screaming past.

"You got a parson, Jonathan," said he, accusingly. "Yes, you is."

"Ay," Jonathan admitted, "I got one."

"An' that's what brings you here."

"It be," Jonathan replied, defiantly.

The silence was disquieting.

"I'm 'lowin'," Jonathan stammered, "t'--t'-t' sort o' get four tins o' beef."

The trader beat his calf.

"An' six pound o' butter," said Jonathan, "an' some pickles."

"Anything else?" the trader snapped.

"Ay," said Jonathan, "they is."

The trader sniffed.

"The parson haven't said nothin', but Tibbie's got a notion that he's wonderful fond o' canned peaches," Jonathan ventured, diffidently. "She 'lows they'll keep his food sweet."

"Anything else?"

"No--oh no!" Jonathan sighed. "I 'low you wouldn't give me three pound o' cheese?" he asked. "Not that the parson _mentioned_ cheese, but Tibbie 'lows he'd find it healthful." The trader nodded. "About four cans o' peaches," said Jonathan.

"I see," said the trader.

Jonathan drew a great hand over his narrow brow, where the rain still lay in the furrows. It passed over his red whiskers. He shook the rain-drops from his hand.

"Oh, dear!" he sighed.

"Jonathan," said the trader, sharply, "you're a fool. I've long knowed it. But I loves a fool; an' you're the biggest dunderhead I ever knowed. You can _have_ the cheese; you can _have_ the beef; you can _have_ the peaches. You can have un all. _But_--you got t' pay."

"Oh, ay," said Jonathan, freely. "I'll pay!"

"You'll go without sweetness in your tea," the trader burst out, "all next winter. Understand? No sweetness in your tea. _That's_ how you'll pay. If you takes these things, mark you, Jonathan!--an' hearken well--if you takes these things for your parson, there'll be no molasses measured out for _you_. You'll take your tea straight. Do you understand me, Jonathan Stock?"

"'Tis well," said Jonathan.

"An'--"

"The other?" Jonathan interrupted, anxiously. "You wasn't 'lowin' t' have the woman give up that, was you? 'Tis such a little thing."

The trader was out of temper.

"Not that!" Jonathan pleaded.

"Just that!" Totley exclaimed. "I'll not give it to her. If you're t' have parsons, why, pay for un. Don't come askin' me t' do it for you."

"But she--she--_she's only a woman_! An' she sort o' feels bad. Not that 'twould make any difference t' me--not t' _me_. Oh, I tells her that. But she 'lows she wants it, anyhow. She sort o' _hankers_ for it. An' if you could manage--"

"Not I!" Totley was very much out of temper. "Pay for your own parson," he growled.

"Ah, well," Jonathan sighed, "she 'lowed, if you made a p'int of it, that she'd take the grub an' do without--the other. Ay, do without--the other."

So Jonathan went home with what the parson needed to eat, and he was happy.

* * * * *

It was still windy weather. Dusks and dawns came in melancholy procession. The wind swept in the east--high, wet, cold. Fog and rain and drift-ice were to be met on the grounds of Candlestick Cove. From Nanny's Old Head the outlook was more perturbing than ever: the sea's distances were still hid in the mist; the breakers on the black rocks below gave the waste a voice, expressed its rage, its sullen purpose; the grounds where the men of Candlestick Cove must fish were still in a white-capped tumble; and the sores on the wrists of the men of Candlestick Cove were not healed. There was no fish; the coast hopelessly faced famine; men and women and children would all grow lean. The winter, approaching, was like an angry cloud rising from the rim of the sea. The faces of the men of Candlestick Cove were drawn--with fear of the sea and with dread of what might come to pass. In the meeting-house of Candlestick Cove, in district meeting assembled, the Black Bay clergy engaged in important discussions, with which the sea and the dripping rocks and the easterly wind had nothing to do....

* * * * *

The Black Bay parsons were exchanging farewells at the landing-stage. The steamer was waiting. There had been no change in the weather: the wind was blowing high from the east, there was fog abroad, the air was clammy. Parson Jaunt took Parson All by the arm and led him aside.

"How was you fixed, brother?" he whispered, anxiously. "I haven't had time to ask you before."

Parson All's eyebrows were lifted in mild inquiry.

"Was you comfortable? Did you get enough to eat?"

There was concern in Parson Jaunt's voice--a sweet, wistful consideration.

"Yes, yes!" Parson All answered, quickly. "They are very good people--the Stocks."

"They're clean, but--"

"Poor."

"Very, very poor! Frankly, Brother All, I was troubled. Yes, indeed! I was troubled. I knew they were poor, and I didn't know whether it was wise or right to put you there. I feared that you might fare rather badly. But there was nothing else to do. I sincerely hope--"

Parson All raised a hand in protest.

"You was fixed all right?" Parson Jaunt asked.

"Yes, brother," answered Parson All, in genuine appreciation of the hospitality he had received. "It was touching. Praise the Lord! I'm glad to know that such people _live_ in a selfish world like this. It was very, very touching."

Parson Jaunt's face expressed some surprise.

"Do you know what they did?" said Parson All, taking Parson Jaunt by the lapel of the coat and staring deep into his eyes. "_Do you know what they did?_"

Parson Jaunt wagged his head.

"Why, brother," Parson All declared, with genuinely grateful tears in his eyes, "when I told Skipper Jonathan that brewis soured on my stomach, he got me tinned beef, and butter, and canned peaches, and cheese. I'll never forget his goodness. Never!"

Parson Jaunt stared. "What a wonderful thing Christianity is!" he exclaimed. "What a wonderful, wonderful thing! By their fruits," he quoted, "ye shall know them."

The Black Bay clergy were called aboard. Parson Jaunt shook off the mild old Parson All and rushed to the Chairman of the District, his black coat-tails flying in the easterly wind, and wrung the Chairman's hand, and jovially laughed until his jolly little paunch shook like jelly....

* * * * *

That night, in the whitewashed cottage upon which the angry gale beat, Skipper Jonathan and Aunt Tibbie sat together by the kitchen fire. Skipper Jonathan was hopelessly in from the sea--from the white waves thereof, and the wind, and the perilous night--and Aunt Tibbie had dressed the sores on his wrists. The twins and all the rest of the little crew were tucked away and sound asleep.

Skipper Jonathan sighed.

"What was you thinkin' about, Jonathan?" Aunt Tibbie asked.

"Jus' ponderin'," said he.

"Ay; but what upon?"

"Well, Tibbie," Jonathan answered, in embarrassment, "I was jus'--ponderin'."

"What is it, Jonathan?"

"I was 'lowin', Tibbie," Jonathan admitted, "that it wouldn't be so easy--no, not so _easy_--t' do without that sweetness in my tea."

Aunt Tibbie sighed.

"What _you_ thinkin' about, dear?" Jonathan asked.

"I got a sinful hankerin'," Aunt Tibbie answered, repeating the sigh.

"Is you, dear?"

"I got a sinful hankerin'," said she, "for that there bottle o' hair-restorer. For I don't _want_ t' go bald! God forgive me," she cried, in an agony of humiliation, "for this vanity!"

"Hush, dear!" Jonathan whispered, tenderly; "for I loves you, bald or not!"

But Aunt Tibbie burst out crying.

VII--"BY-AN'-BY" BROWN OF BLUNDER COVE

"By-an'-by" Brown he was called at Blunder Cove. And as "By-an'-by" Brown he was known within its fishing radius: Grave Head to Blow-me-down Billy. Momentarily, on the wet night of his landing, he had been "Mister" Brown; then--just "By-an'-by" Brown.

There was no secret about the baby. Young Brown was a bachelor of the outports: even so, there was still no secret about the baby. Nonsense! It was not "By-an'-by's." It never had been. Name? Tweak. Given name? She. What! Well, then, _It_! Age? Recent--somewheres 'long about midsummer. Blunder Cove was amazed, but, being used to sudden peril, to misfortune, and strange chances, was not incredulous. Blunder Cove was sympathetic: so sympathetic, indeed, so quick to minister and to assist, that "By-an'-by" Brown, aged fifteen, having taken but transient shelter for the child, remained to rear it, forever proposing, however, to proceed--by-and-by. So there they were, "By-an'-by" Brown and the baby! And the baby was not "By-an'-by's." Everybody knew it--even the baby: perhaps best of all.

"By-an'-by" Brown had adopted the baby at Back Yard Bight of the Labrador. There had been nothing else to do. It was quite out of the question, whatever the proprieties, whatever the requirements of babies and the inadequacy of bachelors--it was quite out of the question for "By-an'-by" Brown, being a bachelor of tender years and perceptions, to abandon even a baby at Back Yard Bight of the Labrador, having first assisted at the interment of the mother and then instantly lost trace of the delinquent father. The monstrous expedient had not even occurred to him; he made a hasty bundle of the baby and took flight for more populous neighborhoods, commanding advice, refuge, and infinitely more valuable assistance from the impoverished settlements by the way. And thereafter he remembered the bleak and lonely reaches of Back Yard Bight as a stretch of coast where he had been considerably alarmed.

It had been a wet night when "By-an'-by" Brown and the baby put into Blunder Cove--wind in the east, the sea in a tumble: a wet night, and late of it. All the windows were black; and the paths of the place--a water-side maze in the lee of great hills--were knee-deep in a flood of darkness. "By-an'-by" Brown was downcast: this because of his years. He was a lad of fifteen. Fifteen, mark you!--a gigantic fifteen: a wise and competent fifteen, too, having for seven years fended for itself in the turf huts of the Labrador and the forecastles of the lower coasts. But still, for the moment, he was downcast by the burden upon his youth. So he knocked diffidently at the first kitchen door; and presently he stood abashed in a burst of warm light from within.

Shelter? Oh, ay! T' be sure. But (in quick and resentful suspicion):

"B'y," Aunt Phoebe Luff demanded, "what ye got in them ile-skins? Pups?"

"By-an'-by" Brown observed that there were embers in the kitchen stove, that steam was faintly rising from the spout of the kettle.

"Baby," said he.

Aunt Phoebe jumped. "What!" cried she:

"Jus' a baby," said "By-an'-by" Brown. "_Well!_--you give that there baby here."

"I'll be glad t', ma'am," said young "By-an'-by" Brown, in childish tenderness, still withholding the bundle from the woman's extended arms, "but not for keeps."

"For keeps!" Aunt Phoebe snorted.

"No, ma'am; not for keeps. I'm 'lowin' t' fetch it up myself," said "By-an'-by" Brown, "by-an'-by."

"Dunderhead!" Aunt Phoebe whispered, softly.

And "By-an'-by" Brown, familiar with the exigency, obediently went in.

* * * * *

_Then_ there were lights in the cottages of Blunder Cove: instantly, it seemed. And company--and tea and hard bread and chatter--in Skipper Tom Luff's little white kitchen. A roaring fire in the stove: a kettle that sang and chuckled and danced, glad once more to be engaged in the real business of life. So was the cradle--glad to be useful again, though its activity had been but for an hour suspended. It went to work in a business-like way, with never a creak, in response to the gentle toe of "By-an'-by" Brown's top-boot. There was an inquisition, too, through which "By-an'-by" Brown crooned to the baby, "Hush-a-by!" and absently answered, "Uh-huh!" and "By-an'-by!" as placid as could be. Concerning past troubles: Oh, they was--yesterday. And of future difficulties: Well, they was--by-an'-by. "Hush-a-by!" and "By-an'-by!" So they gave him a new name--"By-an'-by" Brown--because he was of those whose past is forgot in yesterday and whose future is no more inimical than--well, jus' by-an'-by.

"By-an'-by" Brown o' Blunder Cove--paddle-punt fishin' the Blow-me-down grounds....

* * * * *

It had not been for keeps. "By-an'-by" Brown resisted in a fashion so resolute that no encroachment upon his rights was accomplished by Aunt Phoebe Luff. He had wandered too long alone to be willing to yield up a property in hearts once he possessed it. And Blunder Cove approved. The logic was simple: _If_ "By-an'-by" Brown took the child t' raise, why, then, nobody else would _have_ t'. The proceeding was never regarded as extraordinary. Nobody said, "How queer!" It was looked upon merely as a commendably philanthropic undertaking on the part of "By-an'-by" Brown; the accident of his sex and situation had nothing to do with the problem. Thus, when Aunt Phoebe's fostering care was no longer imperative "By-an'-by" Brown said _Now_ for the first time in his life, and departed with the baby. By that time, of course, there was an establishment: a whitewashed cottage by the water-side, a stage, a flake, a punt--all the achievement of "By-an'-by's" own hands. A new account, too: this on the ledger of Wull & Company, trading the French Shore with the _Always Loaded_, putting in off and on.

"By-an'-by's" baby began to grow perceptibly. "By-an'-by" just kept on growing, 'lowin' t' stop sometime--by-an'-by. It happened--by-an'-by. This was when he was two-and-twenty: by which time, according to enthusiastic observers from a more knowing and appreciative world, he was Magnificent. The splendor consisted, it was said, in bulk, muscle, and the like, somewhat, too, perhaps, in poise and glance; but Blunder Cove knew that these external and relatively insignificant aspects were transcended by the spiritual graces which "By-an'-by" Brown displayed. He was religious; but it must be added that he was amiable. A great, tender, devoted dog: "By-an'-by" Brown. This must be said for him: that if he by-an'-byed the unpleasant necessities into a future too distant to be troublesome, he by-an'-byed the appearance of evil to the same far exile. After all, it may be a virtue to practise the art of by-an'-bying.

As for the baby at this period, the age of seven years, the least said the less conspicuous the failure to say anything adequate. Language was never before so helplessly mocked. It may be ventured, however, to prove the poverty of words, that dispassionately viewed through the eyes of "By-an'-by" Brown, she was angelic. "Jus' a wee li'l' mite of a angel!" said he. Of course, this is not altogether original, nor is it specific; but it satisfied "By-an'-by" Brown's idea of perfection. A slim little slip of a maid of the roguishly sly and dimpled sort: a maid of delicate fashioning, exquisite of feature--a maid of impulsive affections. Exact in everything; and exacting, too--in a captivating way. And herein was propagated the germ of disquietude for "By-an'-by" Brown: promising, indeed (fostered by the folly of procrastination), a more tragic development. "By-an'-by's" baby was used to saying, You _told_ me so. Also, But you _promised_. The particular difficulty confronting "By-an'-by" Brown was the baby's insistent curiosity, not inconsistent with the age of seven, concerning the whereabouts of her father and the time and manner of his return.

Brown had piqued it into being: just by saying--"By-an'-by!"

"Ay," says she; "but _when_ will he be comin' back?"

"Why," he answered, bewildered--"by-an'-by!"

It was a familiar evasion. The maid frowned. "Is you sure?" she demanded, sceptically.

"Ye bet ye!" he was prompt to reply, feeling bound now, to convince her, whatever came of it; "he'll be comin' back--by-an'-by."

"Well, then," said the maid, relieved, "I s'pose so."

Brown had never disclosed the brutal delinquency of Long Bill Tweak. Not to the maid, because he could not wound her; not to Blunder Cove, because he would not shame her. The revelation must be made, of course; but not now--by-an'-by. The maid knew that her mother was dead beyond recall: no mystery was ever made of that; and there ended the childish wish and wonder concerning that poor woman. But her father? Here was an inviting mystery. No; he was not what you might call dead--jus' sort o' gone away. Would he ever come back? Oh, _sure_! no need o' frettin' about that; _he'd_ be back--by-an'-by. Had "By-an'-by" Brown said _Never_, the problem would have been dieposed of, once and for all: the fretting over with, once and for all. But what he said was this uncourageous and specious by-an'-by. So the maid waited in interested speculation: then impatiently. For she was used to saying, You _told_ me so. Also, But then you _promised_.

As by-an'-by overhauled by-an'-by in the days of "By-an'-by" Brown, and as the ultimate by-an'-by became imminent, "By-an'-by" Brown was ever more disquieted.

"But," says the maid, "'by-an'-by' is never."

"Oh, my, no!" he protested.