Chapter 3

“It didn't ring; I walked in,” said the Captain. And Mrs. North came downstairs, perhaps a little stiffly, but as pretty an old lady as you ever saw. Her white curls lay against faintly pink cheeks, and her lace cap had a pink bow on it. But she looked anxious and uncomfortable.

(“Oh,” she was saying to herself, “I do hope Mary's out!)--Well, Alfred?” she said; but her voice was frightened.

The Captain stumped along in front of her into the parlor, and motioned her to a seat. “Mrs. North,” he said, his face red, his eye hard, “some jack-donkeys have been poking their noses (of course they're females) into our affairs; and--”

“Oh, Alfred, isn't it horrid in them?”

“Darn 'em!” said the Captain.

“It makes me mad!” cried Mrs. North; then her spirit wavered. “Mary is so foolish; she says she'll--she'll take me away from Old Chester. I laughed at first, it was so foolish. But when she said that-oh _dear!_”

“Well, but, my dear madam, say you won't go. Ain't you skipper?”

“No, I'm not,” she said, dolefully. “Mary brought me here, and she'll take me away, if she thinks it best. Best for _me_, you know. Mary is a good daughter, Alfred. I don't want you to think she isn't. But she's foolish. Unmarried women are apt to be foolish.”

The Captain thought of Gussie, and sighed. “Well,” he said, with the simple candor of the sea, “I guess there ain't much difference in 'em, married or unmarried.”

“It's the interference makes me mad,” Mrs. North declared, hotly.

“Damn the whole crew!” said the Captain; and the old lady laughed delightedly.

“Thank you, Alfred!”

“My daughter-in-law is crying her eyes out,” the Captain sighed.

“Tck!” said Mrs. North; “Alfred, you have no sense. Let her cry. It's good for her!”

“Oh no,” said the Captain, shocked.

“You're a perfect slave to her,” cried Mrs. North.

“No more than you are to your daughter,” Captain Price defended himself; and Mrs. North sighed.

“We are just real foolish, Alfred, to listen to 'em. As if we didn't know what was good for us.”

“People have interfered with us a good deal, first and last,” the Captain said, grimly.

The faint color in Mrs. North's cheeks suddenly deepened. “So they have,” she said.

The Captain shook his head in a discouraged way; he took his pipe out of his pocket and looked at it absent-mindedly. “I suppose I can stay at home, and let 'em get over it?”

“Stay at home? Why, you'd far better--”

“What?” said the Captain, dolefully.

“Come oftener!” cried the old lady. “Let 'em get over it by getting used to it.”

Captain Price looked doubtful. “But how about your daughter?”

Mrs. North quailed. “I forgot Mary,” she admitted.

“I don't bother you, coming to see you, do I?” the Captain said, anxiously.

“Why, Alfred, I love to see you. If our children would just let us alone!”

“First it was our parents,” said Captain Price. He frowned heavily. “According to other people, first we were too young to have sense; and now we're too old.” He took out his worn old pouch, plugged some shag into his pipe, and struck a match under the mantelpiece. He sighed, with deep discouragement.

Mrs. North sighed too. Neither of them spoke for a moment; then the little old lady drew a quick breath and flashed a look at him; opened her lips; closed them with a snap; then regarded the toe of her slipper fixedly.

The Captain, staring hopelessly, suddenly blinked; then his honest red face slowly broadened into beaming astonishment and satisfaction. _“Mrs. North--“_

“Captain Price!” she parried, breathlessly.

“So long as our affectionate children have suggested it!”

“Suggested--what?”

“Let's give 'em something to cry about!”

“_Alfred!_”

“Look here: we are two old fools; so they say, anyway. Let's live up to their opinion. I'll get a house for Cyrus and Gussie,--and your girl can live with 'em, if she wants to!” The Captain's bitterness showed then.

“She could live here,” murmured Mrs. North.

“What do you say?”

The little old lady laughed excitedly, and shook her head; the tears stood in her eyes.

“Do you want to leave Old Chester?” the Captain demanded.

“You know I don't,” she said, sighing.

“She'd take you away _to-morrow_,” he threatened, “if she knew I had--I had--”

“She sha'n't know it.”

“Well, then, we've got to get spliced to-morrow.”

“Oh, Alfred, no! I don't believe Dr. Lavendar would--”

“I'll have no dealings with Lavendar,” the Captain said, with sudden stiffness; “he's like all the rest of 'em. I'll get a license in Upper Chester, and we'll go to some parson there.”

Mrs. North's eyes snapped; “Oh, no, no!” she protested; but in another minute they were shaking hands on it.

“Cyrus and Gussie can live by themselves,” said the Captain, joyously, “and I'll get that hold cleaned out; she's kept the ports shut ever since she married Cyrus.”

“And I'll make a cake! And I'll take care of your clothes; you really are dreadfully shabby;” she turned him round to the light, and brushed off some ashes. The Captain beamed. “Poor Alfred! and there's a button off! that daughter-in-law of yours can't sew any more than a cat (and she _is_ a cat!). But I love to mend. Mary has saved me all that. She's such a good daughter--poor Mary. But she's unmarried, poor child.”

However, it was not to-morrow. It was two or three days later that Dr. Lavendar and Danny, jogging along behind Goliath under the buttonwoods on the road to Upper Chester, were somewhat inconvenienced by the dust of a buggy that crawled up and down the hills just a little ahead. The hood of this buggy was up, upon which fact--it being a May morning of rollicking wind and sunshine--Dr. Lavendar speculated to his companion: “Daniel, the man in that vehicle is either blind and deaf, or else he has something on his conscience; in either case he won't mind our dust, so we'll cut in ahead at the watering-trough. G'on, Goliath!”

But Goliath had views of his own about the watering-trough, and instead of passing the hooded buggy, which had stopped there, he insisted upon drawing up beside it. “Now, look here,” Dr. Lavendar remonstrated, “you know you're not thirsty.” But Goliath plunged his nose down into the cool depths of the great iron caldron, into which, from a hollow log, ran a musical drip of water. Dr. Lavendar and Danny, awaiting his pleasure, could hear a murmur of voices from the depths of the eccentric vehicle which put up a hood on such a day; when suddenly Dr. Lavendar's eye fell on the hind legs of the other horse. “That's Cipher's trotter,” he said to himself, and leaning out, cried: “Hi! Cy?” At which the other horse was drawn in with a jerk, and Captain Price's agitated face peered out from under the hood.

“Where! Where's Cyrus?” Then he caught sight of Dr. Lavendar. “'_The devil and Tom Walker!_'” said the Captain with a groan. The buggy backed erratically.

“Look out!” said Dr. Lavendar,--but the wheels locked.

Of course there was nothing for Dr. Lavendar to do but get out and take Goliath by the head, grumbling, as he did so, that Cyrus “shouldn't own such a spirited beast.”

“I am somewhat hurried,” said Captain Price, stiffly.

The old minister looked at him over his spectacles; then he glanced at the small, embarrassed figure shrinking into the depths of the buggy.

(“Hullo, hullo, hullo!” he said, softly. “Well, Gussie's done it.) You'd better back a little, Captain,” he advised.

“I can manage,” said the Captain.

“I didn't say 'go back,'” Dr. Lavendar said, mildly.

“Oh!” murmured a small voice from within the buggy.

“I expect you need me, don't you, Alfred?” said Dr. Lavendar.

“What?” said the Captain, frowning.

“Captain,” said Dr. Lavendar, simply, “if I can be of any service to you and Mrs. North, I shall be glad.”

Captain Price looked at him. “Now, look here, Lavendar, we're going to do it this time, if all the parsons in--well, in the church, try to stop us!”

“I'm not going to try to stop you.”

“But Gussie said you said--”

“Alfred, at your time of life, are you beginning to quote Gussie?”

“But she said you said it would be--”

“Captain Price, I do not express my opinion of your conduct to your daughter-in-law. You ought to have sense enough to know that.”

“Well, why did you talk to her about it?”

“I didn't talk to her about it. But,” said Dr. Lavendar, thrusting out his lower lip, “I should like to.”

“We were going to hunt up a parson in Upper Chester,” said the Captain, sheepishly.

Dr. Lavendar looked about, up and down the silent, shady road, then through the bordering elderberries into an orchard. “If you have your license,” he said, “I have my prayer-book. Let's go into the orchard. There are two men working there we can get for witnesses,--Danny isn't quite enough, I suppose.”

The Captain turned to Mrs. North. “What do you say, ma'am?” he said. She nodded, and gathered up her skirts to get out of the buggy. The two old men led their horses to the side of the road and hitched them to the rail fence; then the Captain helped Mrs. North through the elder-bushes, and shouted out to the men ploughing at the other side of the orchard. They came,--big, kindly young fellows, and stood gaping at the three old people standing under the apple-tree in the sunshine. Dr. Lavendar explained that they were to be witnesses, and the boys took off their hats.

There was a little silence, and then, in the white shadows and perfume of the orchard, with its sunshine, and drift of petals falling in the gay wind, Dr. Lavendar began.... When he came to “Let no man put asunder--” Captain Price growled in his grizzled red beard, “Nor woman, either!” But only Mrs. North smiled.

When it was over, Captain Price drew a deep breath of relief. “Well, this time we made a sure thing of it, Mrs. North!”

“_Mrs. North?_” said Dr. Lavendar; and then he did chuckle.

“Oh--” said Captain Price, and roared at the joke.

“You'll have to call me Letty,” said the pretty old lady, smiling and blushing.

“Oh,” said the Captain; then he hesitated. “Well, now, if you don't mind, I--I guess I won't call you Lefty; I'll call you Letitia?”

“Call me anything you want to,” said Mrs. Price, gayly.

Then they all shook hands with each other, and with the witnesses, who found something left in their palms that gave them great satisfaction, and went back to climb into their respective buggies.

“We have shore leave,” the Captain explained; “we won't go back to Old Chester for a few days. You may tell 'em, Lavendar.”

“Oh, may I?” said Dr. Lavendar, blankly. “Well, good-by, and good luck!”

He watched the other buggy tug on ahead, and then he leaned down to catch Danny by the scruff of the neck.

“Well, Daniel,” he said, “'_if at first you don't succeed_'--”

And Danny was pulled into the buggy.

A ROMANCE OF WHOOPING HARBOR

BY NORMAN DUNCAN

The trader _Good Samaritan_--they called her the _Cheap and Nasty_ on the Shore; God knows why! for she was dealing fairly for the fish, if something smartly--was wind-bound at Heart's Ease Cove, riding safe in the lee of the Giant's Hand: champing her anchor chain; nodding to the swell, which swept through the tickle and spent itself in the landlocked water, collapsing to quiet. It was late of a dirty night, but the schooner lay in shelter from the roaring wind; and the forecastle lamp was alight, the bogie snoring, the crew sprawling at case, purring in the light and warmth and security of the hour.... By and by, when the skipper's allowance of tea and hard biscuit had fulfilled its destiny, Tumm, the clerk, told the tale of Whooping Harbor, wherein the maid met Fate in the person of the fool from Thunder Arm; and I came down from the deck--from the black, wet wind of the open, changed to a wrathful flutter by the eternal barrier--in time to hear. And I was glad, for we know little enough of love, being blind of soul, perverse and proud; and love is strange past all things: wayward, accounting not, of infinite aspects--radiant to our vision, colorless; sombre, black as hell; but of unfailing beauty, we may be sure, had we but the eyes to see, the heart to interpret....

“We was reachin' up t' Whoopin' Harbor,” said Tumm, “t' give the _White Lily_ a night's lodgin', it bein' a wonderful windish night; clear enough, the moon sailin' a cloudy sky, but with a bank o' fog sneakin' round Cape Muggy like a fish-thief. An' we wasn't in no haste, anyhow, t' make Sinners' Tickle, for we was the first schooner down the Labrador that season, an' 'twas pick an' choose your berth for we, with a clean bill t' every head from Starvation Cove t' the Settin' Hen, so quick as the fish struck. So the skipper he says we'll hang the ol girl up t' Whoopin' Harbor 'til dawn; an' we'll all have a watch below, says he, with a cup o' tea, says he, if the cook can bile the water 'ithout burnin' it. Which was wonderful hard for the cook t' manage, look you! as the skipper, which knowed nothin' about feelin's, would never stop tellin' un: the cook bein' from Thunder Arm, a half-witted, glossy-eyed lumpfish o' the name o' Moses Shoos, born by chance and brung up likewise, as desperate a cook as ever tartured a stummick, but meanin' so wonderful well that we loved un, though he were like t' finish us off, every man jack, by the slow p'ison o' dirt.

“'Cook, you dunderhead!' says the skipper, with a wink t' the crew. 'You been an' scarched the water agin.'

“Shoos he looked like he'd give up for good on the spot--just like he _knowed_ he was a fool, an' _had_ knowed it for a long, long time,--sort o' like he was sorry for we an' sick of hisself.

“'Cook,' says the skipper, 'you went an' done it agin. Yes, you did! Don't you go denyin' of it. You'll kill us, cook,' says he, 'if you goes on like this. They isn't nothin' worse for the system,' says he, 'than this here burned water. The alamnacs,' says he, shakin' his finger at the poor cook, ''ll tell you _that!_'

“'I 'low I did burn that water, skipper,' says the cook, 'if you says so. But I isn't got all my wits,' says he, the cry-baby; 'an' God knows I'm doin' my best!'

“'I always did allow, cook,' says the skipper, 'that God knowed more'n I ever thunk.'

“'An' I never _did_ burn no water,' blubbers the cook, 'afore I shipped along o' you in this here dam' ol' flour-sieve of a _White Lily_.'

“'This here _what_?' snaps the skipper.

“'This here dam' ol' basket.'

“'Basket!' says the skipper. Then he hummed a bit o' 'Fishin' for the Maid I Loves,' 'ithout thinkin' much about the toon. 'Cook,' says he, 'I loves you. You is on'y a half-witted chance-child,' says he, 'but I loves you like a brother.'

“'Does you, skipper?' says the cook, with a grin, like the fool he was. 'I isn't by no means hatin' you, skipper,' says he. 'But I can't _help_ burnin' the water,' says he, 'an' I 'low I don't want no blame for it. I'm sorry for you an' the crew,' says he, 'an' I wisht I hadn't took the berth. But when I shipped along o' you,' says he, 'I 'lowed I _could_ cook. I knows I isn't able for it now,' says he, 'for you says so, skipper; but I'm doin' my best, an' I 'low if the water gets scarched,' says he, 'the galley fire's bewitched.'

“'Basket!' says the skipper. 'Ay, ay, cook,' says he. 'I just _loves_ you.'

“They wasn't a man o' the crew liked t' hear the skipper say that; for, look you! the skipper didn't know nothin' about feelin's, an' the cook had more feelin's 'n a fool can make handy use of aboard a Labrador fishin'-craft. No, zur; the skipper didn't know nothin' about feelin's. I'm not wantin' t' say it about that there man, nor about no other man; for they isn't nothin' harder t' be spoke. But he _didn't;_ an' they's nothin' else _to_ it. There sits the ol' man, smoothin' his big red beard, singin', 'I'm Fishin' for the Maid I Loves,' while he looks at the poor cook, which was washin' up the dishes, for we was through with the mug-up. An' the devil was in his eyes--the devil was fair grinnin' in them little blue eyes. Lord! it made me sad t' see it; for I knowed the cook was in for bad weather, an' he wasn't no sort o' craft t' be out o' harbor in a gale o' wind like that.

“'Cook,' says the skipper.

“'Ay, zur?' says the cook.

“'Cook,' says the skipper, 'you ought t' get married.'

“'I on'y wisht I could,' says the cook.

“'You ought t' try, cook,' says the skipper, 'for the sake o' the crew. We'll all die,' says he, 'afore we sights of Bully Dick agin,' says he, 'if you keeps on burnin' the water. You _got_ t' get married, cook, t' the first likely maid you sees on the Labrador,' says he, 't' save the crew. She'd do the cookin' for you. It 'll be the loss o' all hands,' says he, 'an you don't, This here burned water,' says he, 'will be the end of us, cook, an you keeps it up.'

“'I'd be wonderful glad t' 'blige you, skipper,' says the cook, 'an' I'd like t' 'blige all hands. 'Twon't be by my wish,' says he, 'that anybody'll die o' the grub they gets.'

“'Cook,' says the skipper, 'shake! I knows a _man_,' says he, 'when I sees one. Any man,' says he, 'that would put on the irons o' matrimony,' says he, 't' 'blige a shipmate,' says he, 'is a better man 'n me, an' I loves un like a brother.'

“Which cheered the cook up considerable.

“'Cook,' says the skipper, 'I 'pologize. Yes, I do, cook,' says he, 'I 'pologize.'

“'I isn't got no feelin' agin' matrimony,' says the cook. 'But I isn't able t' get took. I been tryin' every maid t' Thunder Arm,' says he, 'an' they isn't one,' says he, 'will wed a fool.'

“'Not one?' says the skipper.

“'Nar a one,' says the cook.

“'I'm s'prised,' says the skipper.

“'Nar a maid t' Thunder Arm,' says the cook, 'will wed a fool, an' I 'low they isn't one,' says he, 'on the Labrador.'

“'It's been done afore, cook,' says the skipper, 'an' I 'low 'twill be done agin, if the world don't come to an end t' oncet. Cook,' says he, 'I _knows_ the maid t' do it.'

“The poor cook begun t' grin. 'Does you, skipper?' says he. 'Ah, skipper, no, you doesn't!' And he sort o' chuckled, like the fool he was. 'Ah, now, skipper,' says he, '_you_ doesn't know no maid would marry me!”

“'Ay, b'y,' says the skipper, 'I got the girl for _you_. An' she isn't a thousand miles,' says he, 'from where that dam' ol' basket of a _White Lily_ lies at anchor,' says he, 'in Whoopin' Harbor. She isn't what you'd call handsome an' tell no lie,' says he, 'but--'

“'Never you mind about that, skipper.'

“'No,' says the skipper, 'she isn't handsome, as handsome goes, even in these parts, but--'

“'Never you mind, skipper,' says the cook. 'If 'tis anything in the shape o' woman,' says he, ''twill do.'

“'I 'low that Liz Jones would take you, cook,' says the skipper. 'You ain't much on wits, but you got a good-lookin' hull; an' I 'low she'd be more'n willin' t' skipper a craft like you. You better go ashore, cook, when you gets cleaned up, an' see what she says. Tumm,' says he, 'is sort o' shipmates with Liz,' says he, 'an' I 'low he'll see you through the worst of it.'

“'Will you, Tumm?' says the cook.

“'Well,' says I, 'I'll see.

“I knowed Liz Jones from the time I fished Whoopin' Harbor with Skipper Bill Topsail in the _Love the Wind_, bein' cotched by the measles thereabouts, which she nursed me through; an' I 'lowed she _would_ wed the cook if he asked her, so, thinks I, I'll go ashore with the fool t' see that she don't. No; she wasn't handsome--not Liz. I'm wonderful fond o' yarnin' o' good-lookin' maids; but I can't say much o' Liz; for Liz was so far t' l'eward o' beauty that many a time, lyin' sick there in the fo'c's'le o' the _Love the Wind_, I wished the poor girl would turn inside out, for, thinks I, the pattern might be a sight better on the other side. I _will_ say she was big and well-muscled; an' muscles, t' my mind, courts enough t' make up for black eyes, but not for cross-eyes, much less for fuzzy whiskers. It ain't in my heart t' make sport o' Liz, lads; but I _will_ say she had a club foot, for she was born in a gale, I'm told, when the _Preacher_ was hangin' on off a lee shore 'long about Cape Harrigan, an' the sea was raisin' the devil. An', well--I hates t' say it, but--well, they called her 'Walrus Liz.' No; she wasn't handsome, she didn't have no good looks; but once you got a look into whichever one o' them cross-eyes you was able to cotch, you seen a deal more'n your own face; an' she _was_ well-muscled, an' I 'low I'm goin' t' tell you so, for I wants t' name her good p'ints so well as her bad. Whatever--

“'Cook,' says I, 'I'll go along o' you.'

“With that the cook fell to on the dishes, an' 'twasn't long afore he was ready to clean hisself; which done, he was ready for the courtin'. But first he got out his dunny-bag, an' he fished in there 'til he pulled out a blue stockin', tied in a hard knot; an' from the toe o' that there blue stockin' he took a brass ring. 'I 'low,' says he, talkin' to hisself, in the half-witted way he had, 'it won't do no hurt t' give her mother's ring.' Then he begun t' cry. “Moses,” says mother, “you better take the ring off my finger. It isn't no weddin'-ring,” says she, “for I never was what you might call wed,” says she, “but I got it from the Jew t' make believe I was; for it didn't do nobody no hurt, an' it sort o' pleased me. You better take it, Moses, b'y,” says she, “for the dirt o' the grave would only spile it,” says she, “an' I'm not wantin' it no more. Don't wear it at the fishin', dear,” says she, “for the fishin' is wonderful hard,” says she, “an' joolery don't stand much wear an' tear.” 'Oh, mother!' says the cook, 'I done what you wanted!' Then the poor fool sighed an' looked up at the skipper. 'I 'low, skipper,' says he, ''t wouldn't do no hurt t' give the ring to a man's wife, would it? For mother wouldn't mind, would she?'

“The skipper didn't answer that.

“'Come, cook,' says I, 'leave us get under way,' for I couldn't stand it no longer.

“So the cook an' me put out in the punt t' land at Whoopin' Harbor, with the crew wishin' the poor cook well with their lips, but thinkin', God knows what! in their hearts. An' he was in a wonderful state o' fright. I never _seed_ a man so took by scare afore. For, look you! he thunk she wouldn't have un, an' he thunk she would, an' he wisht she would, an' he wisht she wouldn't; an' by an' by he 'lowed he'd stand by, whatever come of it, 'for,' says he, 'the crew's g-g-got t' have better c-c-cookin' if I c-c-can g-g-get it. Lord! Tumm,' says he, ''tis a c-c-cold night,' says he, 'but I'm sweatin' like a p-p-porp-us!' I cheered un up so well as I could; an' by an' by we was on the path t' Liz Jones's house, up on Gray Hill, where she lived alone, her mother bein' dead an' her father shipped on a barque from St. Johns t' the West Indies. An' we found Liz sittin' on a rock at the turn o' the road, lookin' down from the hill at the _White Lily:_ all alone--sittin' there in the moonlight, all alone--thinkin' o' God knows what!

“'Hello, Liz!' says I.

“'Hello, Tumm!' says she. 'What vethel'th that?'

“'That's the _White Lily,_ Liz,' says I. An' here's the cook o' that there craft,' says I, 'come up the hill t' speak t' you.'

“'That's right,' says the cook. 'Tumm, you're right.'

“'T' thpeak t' _me!_' says she.

“I wisht she hadn't spoke quite that way. Lord! it wasn't nice. It makes a man feel bad t' see a woman hit her buzzom for a little thing like that.

“'Ay, Liz,' says I, 't' speak t' you. An' I'm thinkin', Liz,' says I, 'he'll say things no man ever said afore--t' you.'

“'That's right, Tumm,' says the cook. 'I wants t' speak as man t' man,' says he, 't' stand by what I says,' says he, meanin' it afore G-g-god!'

“Liz got off the rock. Then she begun t' kick at the path; an' she was lookin' down, but I 'lowed she had an eye on the cook all the time. 'For,' thinks I, 'she's sensed the thing out, like all the women.'

“'I'm thinkin',' says I, 'I'll go up the road a bit.'

“'Oh no, you won't, Tumm,' says she. 'You thtay right here. Whath the cook wantin' o' me?'

“'Well,' says the cook, 'I 'low I wants t' get married.'

“'T' get married!' says she.