“EELIN’ OFF GOOSE P’INT.”
BY SCOTT CAMPBELL.
A LARGE dory, old and weather-beaten—as weather-beaten as the sunburned faces of the three fishermen who sat motionless upon the thwarts—it was a mud-stained, patched old hulk, battered by hard knocks, scraped by harder rocks, beaten by harsh waves. Three men sat silent, thoughtful, absorbed, with grim countenances portraying sombre reflections; a little child—a boy of scarcely ten years—seated alone in the bow, his small brown hand clutching the rail on either side; a child with a round, rosy face, and great dilating blue eyes, opened wide, and a timid, awe-impressed look—all floating upon a wide creek of placid water, unruffled by a breath. All slowly, silently drifted on the ebbing tide, out toward the broader waters of the distant bay, down toward a long, low, narrow point of mainland—Goose Point—which stretched out into the sea like a huge index finger directing attention to the thin silver crescent of the new moon, hovering for one last moment on the western horizon.
The tide had well-nigh ebbed; the dusk of the early evening was fast fading into darkness; the cooling dampness of the summer atmosphere had begun to gather in the form of dew.
Almost motionless the cumbrous boat floated upon the surface of the sluggish and devious waters; from the unplied oars, extended to either side, silver drops now and then fell to disappear into the darker depths below. A solemn silence reigned—a silence unbroken save by the faint, dull, far-away note of the frogs from the distant meadows, or the cry of some night-bird wafted over the marsh-land.
The moon slowly sank from the view of the silent sitters; the narrow line of quivering, silvery light disappeared from the surface of the waters; one by one the stars came out in the cloudless heavens. The child in the bow of the boat, awed by his sombre surroundings, awed by the death-like silence, awed by the faces before him, gazed mutely aloft at the star-lit dome above him.
At length the impressive silence was broken.
The child started quickly, and his eyes were turned from the heavens to gaze at the grizzled, wrinkled neck and broad back of the speaker.
“So thet wear the vardict, wear it, Nathan?” The tone was solemn—as solemn as the expression upon the aged face of him who asked the question; and the hands which held the oars were raised till the broad, dripping blades again parted the dark waters.
The man addressed selected a long, wriggling worm from a rusty tin pail between his feet, and calmly wound it with a piece of strong thread upon the “eel-bob” in his hand.
“Aye, thet wear the vardict, Abram; he air to be detained pendin’ the investigation.”
“Pendin’ the investigation,” slowly repeated the other, dubiously. “An’ what might be the ackerite meanin’ o’ thet, Nathan?”
“Well, ez nigh ez I can come to’t, he air to be jailed till the woman be found, or suthin’ definite larned consarnin’ her.”
“And thet wear the decision at the perliminary examination, wear it?” asked the third man, speaking now for the first time.
“Aye, it wear, Seth.”
There was another spell of silence. Abram Skellet, who held the oars, pulled one sturdy stroke, which sent the heavy boat away from the dark, thatch-grown mud-bank it was approaching, out into the deeper water of the creek; and again they floated silently on toward the low point of land, which, in the increasing darkness, now appeared only as a dim irregularity in the line of demarcation between the sea and sky.
After a few moments—
“What wear the evidence, Nathan, agin’ the man?” asked Seth Skellet, dangling an “eel-bob,” composed of a round ball of mingled thread and worms, over the side.
“It wear bad—’tarnel bad; though the man mout not be guilty for all o’ thet, ez he wear not seen to do the woman any harm; an’ the evidence air all what they call suckumstantial. Thus it wear, in a nutshell: night afore last he wear seen to meet her on the old bridge ez crosses the herrin’-brook, beyond the parsture to the suth’ard o’ Parson Greenleaf’s ten-acre lot. She wear obsarved to be waitin’ there for a long time afore he come—John Jenkins’s son seen her; an’ bein’ supplied with more natural curosity than air gen’rally ’lowed to a male, an’ wonderin’ what she wear doin’ out there all alone, he kind o’ hung round to see. She mout hev been there a half-hour, when Paul Gramley come hurryin’ across the fields an’ jined her. They hed some sharp words—leastwise so young Jenkins says; an’ arter awhile they walked off together. Thet air nuthin’ in itself; any two air prone to hev hard words at some time or ’nuther; but, ez ye all know, the next mornin’ the parson’s darter, Hetty Greenleaf, wear missin’, an’ a sarch high an’ low didn’t reveal her. Then young Jenkins come to the front with his story; an’ on the strength o’ thet Paul Gramley wear arrested an’ examined, bein’ ez it wear that he wear the last pusson ez is known to hev seen her.”
“It hev a dark look, Nathan,” remarked Seth, as the narrator paused long enough to dip into the rusty tin pail for another worm.
“Aye, it hev so. But Paul Gramley declares thet he left her not a hun’ed feet from her own door, an’ jest ez the village clock wear strikin’ nine. An’ he swears thet the last he see of her she wear movin’ slowly toward the house; but the parson, on the other hand, claims thet she wear not in the house arter seven o’clock—an’ the parson’s word air ez reliable ez the gospel. An’ thet air the evidence agin Paul Gramley; an’ he air detained pendin’ the investigation.”
“Ez I obsarved afore, it hev a dark look,” muttered Seth, shaking the water from his “bob,” and turning in his seat to gaze earnestly in the direction of the Point, toward which they were drifting.
“Nathan, what air your opinion?” asked Abram Skellet, leaning upon the oars. “You air putty well acquainted with young Gramley.”
“Aye, Abe, so I be; for he hev boarded at my wife’s house ever since he come to this ’ere town, twelve months agone. He air a hot-headed young buck, an’ one ez is prone to gay company, an’ the like o’ thet; but, harkee to me—he hev a heart in his bosom ez big ez the heart of an ox, an’ ez soft ez a woman’s; an’ he loved Hetty Greenleaf; every throb o’ thet great heart o’ his beat for her; an’ the man ez says he harmed a hair o’ her head, lies, boys! I tell ye, he lies! for I know ’twan’t in him!”
And the wrinkled old man, loud in his vehemence, brought his brawny fist down upon the thwart beside him with a blow that made the old boat quiver from stem to stern.
And the eyes of the child opened wider.
“What do Paul Gramley say hisself?” asked Seth, with a nod of approval.
“Nary a word, save to say that he air innocent o’ meanin’ her harm. I know how he loved her, lads, for I hev obsarved him, when he thought he wear alone by hisself; all the love in his heart wear given to her. He air a stranger among us, an’ little enough we know about him or his; but when a man hev lived under my roof for a year, I calkerlate thet I larn suthin’ about him; an’ I tell ye, boys, thet Paul Gramley air a better man to-day than them ez hints at him ez Hetty Greenleaf’s murderer—if so be she air dead, which no one knows. He wear a young man yesterday, full o’ life an’ hope; to-day he air old an’ broken—more so than years o’ wind and weather would a done; for his heart air turned to ice—an’ I know it.”
“Wear he home night afore last?”
“He wear—about midnight; an’ he says he wear walkin’ alone by the sea-shore, arter he left her. I believe him!”
The old man made the assertion as if he wished to hear no opposition; and for a few moments they floated on through the silent night. All three men were gloomy and thoughtful, for Paul Gramley was a favorite with all who claimed his acquaintance.
“Pull on your right oar, Abe.” The command came in a low tone from Seth Skellet’s lips. “We air too nigh the flats for the best o’ the eels. Steady—that’ll do. Youngster, drop over the anchor.”
The child in the bow moved again, and taking a large stone from the bottom of the boat, dropped it over the side. It fell with a splash into the black waters; the cumbrous craft rocked to and fro, swayed here and there, then swung in toward Goose Point, and finally came to rest.
“Youngster, light the torch.”
The child searched in his pocket till he found matches, and taking a pitch-pine brand from beside him, applied the fire. The wood spluttered and crackled and burst into a flame.
“Here, change seats with me.”
Mutely the child did as he was bidden, and took his place upon the seat which the oarsman had occupied.
“Now, hold the light out over the water—and hold it still.”
Without a word the child obeyed; and fixing himself as comfortable as was possible, gazed from one to the other of those about him, then down upon the water, where the three balls of mingled, tangled thread and worms bobbed up and down upon its surface in the light of that flaming torch.
A weird scene to those wondering blue eyes.
The glories of the soft summer night were lost upon him; the enchanting stillness of the breathless heavens had no charm; the tranquil sea, dark mirror of a myriad of burning stars, claimed not his attention. His one hand held the blazing brand out above the black waters; upon his other rested a chubby chin, close to the boat-rail; and his eyes were fixed upon the circle of bright light cast by the flaming torch—a circle fading away in the near distance, till its circumference was lost in dim and dark shadows.
The faces of the three men were grim visages, now clearly defined, white and ghastly, now faint and spectre-like, as the smoking flame rose and fell.
For a long time there was silence. Despite the gloom that was on them, the three men were pursuing an habitual occupation—“Eelin’ off Goose P’int.”
About the bobs, which rose and fell on the water, dark, writhing objects came and went, now plainly seen, now lost again; and ever and anon a white hand would jerk a bob from the surface, and take therefrom one, and sometimes two, of the slimy, wriggling forms and cast them into a basket.
Then a faint ejaculation would escape the lips of the child; he would look up for a moment at the struggling, squirming creatures; then turn his intent gaze back again on the waters.
“What air your opinion ez to where she mout be, Nathan?” asked one of the fishermen, who could keep neither mind nor tongue from the subject.
“Wal, thet air hard to tell. She mout hev left town, but, in thet case, some one or nuther would likely hev seen her; she mout hev met with a mishap ez yit undiscovered. There air many things ez could hev happened.”
“She mout be in trouble,” ventured Seth, timorously; “though thet air not likely, bein’ ez how she air a parson’s darter,” he added, half apologetically.
Nathan bowed gravely, to Seth’s surprise; and, after a moment, said slowly:
“Parson’s darters air human, the same ez the rest o’ we worms o’ the airth. Seth, ye hev hit the nail o’ my own idee on the head. They hev passions, godly or ungodly, an’ air ez prone to yield ez the weakest among us. She wear in love with Paul Gramley, and he wear in love with her; there air no doubt o’ thet. Whate’er may be the outcome o’ thet love, or the obstacles agin it, I know not. But this ’ere I believe, she hev left the town alive, or else she air in it—wal, if she air in it, God knows how she be!”
And the child heard, but he did not understand.
“Ye do not think he harmed her?”
“I hev said my say on thet p’int,” replied Nathan, gravely. “Men air not prone to harm those ez they love with all their soul. It air my opinion she will be found afore many days—God knows where, or how.”
The eyes of the child were fixed upon the grim waters. Without comprehending the meaning of what he heard, he was impressed by their solemn tones and miens, and a tremor ran through his slender frame, and a chill, like the chill that curdles young blood at ghost-legends told in the twilight.
And he thought he observed a strange change in the waters, whereon he was gazing; he imagined he saw in the depths a white, ghastly face—the face of a woman, with wide-staring eyes, and parted lips where the teeth could be seen, and long, dishevelled hair, in which the green sea-grasses were intertwined. He thought that the deathly face, with its awful, fixed smile, was rising toward his own so close to the water—rising, as if to press those cold, chilled lips to his—rising, nearer and nearer, till the staring eyes were close to the surface, where the hair and grasses now floated.
His hand clutched harder than ever the flaming torch; he was frozen by fear; he was chilled into silence; he saw, as one sees in a dream, vaguely and doubting, for in all of his experience he never had seen such an apparition as that which now appeared in the waters.
A wild, hoarse, terrified cry broke the tranquil stillness of the night, and resounded far over the sea; the old boat quivered and trembled as the man in the bow suddenly sprang to his feet.
“’Fore God! what is that?”
“What?—Ha! Reach me the hook—there! by ye feet, Seth! Air ye turned into stone, man? It air the hand o’ God, raisin’ the dead out o’ the depths, and sendin’ a light through the darkness!”
But Nathan himself was obliged to get the boat-hook, for Seth Skellet was palsied.
And the child’s blue eyes, not wondering, but terrified now, saw the three men lift the cold, dead form into the boat and lay her dripping before him; and the torch fell from his grasp and its flame expired, as her life’s flame had, in the black, choking waters.
Through the darkness they rowed to the shore—an hour of darkness, when it seemed that even the stars were dimmed and withheld their accustomed light—an hour of darkness, while the child stared, fascinated, at the void eyes, which were staring at him, and his innermost soul shrieked in fear for it to move and ease the horrible spell that held him.
“Youngster, run to the village store an’ tell ’em we hev found it.” They were hoarse words from Seth Skellet’s lips, spoken as she was borne, by strong, tender hands, away from the rippling waters that sang upon the beach, and laid upon the grass-land which her feet had often trod.
And the child obeyed; turned and fled, across fields and meadows—fled from that awful presence, which, to him, was and was not—fled, and paused not till he stood in the village store, where some half-dozen loungers were sitting.
And one man there was who saw in the terrified face the shadow of death; and he cried:
“My life! my Hetty!”
“Dead! drowned!” gasped the child. And he saw the man—tall and grand, with curling hair and warm, dark eyes—spring to his feet, with a cry of anguish; saw him grasp the clothing above his heart, then reel, totter, and fall—fall, as if shot, face downward upon the floor.
A few days after, the boy heard the bells tolling; saw a sorrowing throng pass through the village street; followed, and saw two forms laid near together in a quiet corner of the country churchyard. He heard the weeping people speak of love, of retribution, of mercy; heard them speak of a wife, his wife—who had been thought dead, but lately discovered—discovered, when his love was another’s; heard them speak of a heart, his heart, broken by anguish; heard them speak of a child, his child and hers—a child, who had died when she died.
And the boy heard, but he did not understand.
Do not ask me where Goose Point is, nor in what year these foregoing episodes occurred, for I would prefer not to tell you; but, hearing with the ears of a child, seeing with the eyes of a child, I relate their sadness in the language of a man; for their impressive stamp, undimmed by time, is still vivid upon the tablets of my memory.
