Uncle Terry: A Story of the Maine Coast

by Charles Clark Munn

Albert looked at the roughly clad and withered old man who sat near, and in whose words lurked an undertone of sadness mingled with a faint hope, and in an instant back came a certain evening months before when the Widow Leach had uttered a prayer that had stirred his feelings as no such utterance ever had before. All the pathos of that simple petition, all its abiding faith in God's goodness and wisdom, all its utter self-abnegation and absolute confidence in a life beyond the grave, came back, and all the consolation that feeling surely held for the old and poverty-environed soul who uttered it impressed him in sharp contrast to the doubting "mebbe—mebbe" of Uncle Terry.

Then again he thought of all the sneers against faith and religious conviction he had found in the writings of Paine and Voltaire; all the brilliant epigrams and sharp sarcasms he had heard fall from the lips of Ingersoll, and how he had felt a growing belief that faith in the Bible was but an evidence of ignorance and the ear-mark of superstition. Then following that came a contrasting comparison of the peace of mind that was the widow's and the lack of it that was Uncle Terry's, both of whom must feel that only a few short years were left them. And again following the line of comparison, what had he to look forward to when the end of all things earthly drew near? Truly, as he had thought the night that poor but devout old soul had clasped her hands and thanked God for the blessed belief that was her comfort and staff, what availed the doubt and distrust of atheism? All the epigrams of Ingersoll and the sneers of Voltaire served only to remove a hope and left nought to take its place; a hope, the divine solace of which is and will be for all time a blessed ray of light piercing the dark shadow of the beyond; a beacon beside which all the cold philosophy of sceptics will at the end fade away.

Then as Albert looked out to where the waves were breaking upon a ledge, and back again to this old man, sitting with bowed head beside him, a sincere regret that it was not in his power to utter one word that would aid in dispelling the clouds of doubt came to him. "Since I lack in faith myself," he thought, "all I can say will only increase his doubt. I wish I had as much faith as the widow, but I have not, and possibly never shall have." For a long time he sat in silence, living over the years during which scepticism had been slowly but surely growing upon him, and then Uncle Terry suddenly looked up at him. It is likely the old man's keen eyes read at a glance what was in Albert's mind, for he said: "It don't do no good ter brood over this matter o' believin', Mr. Page; I've wished I thought different many a time, an' more so now I'm gittin' near the end o' life, but I can't, an' so thar's no use in worryin'. Our 'pinions 'bout these matters are a good deal due to our bringin' up, and the experiences we've met with. Mine connected with those as has perfessed religion has, to say the least, been unfortnit, but as I said afore, I wish I believed different."

He paused a few moments, watching the ground swells breaking below them on the rocks, and then added sadly: "This hopin' ain't allus best fur some on us either, fur it's hopin' fur some one to cum year after year that's made Telly what she is, an' grieved Lissy an' me more'n she ever knew."

Albert looked curiously at the old man beside him, whose rough garb and storm-beaten face gave so little evidence of the tender heart beneath, and a new feeling of trust and affection came to him. In some ways Uncle Terry seemed so like his own father. Then following that came a sudden impulse to be utterly frank with him.

"Uncle Terry," he said, "I have a little story to tell you, and as it comes close to you, I believe it's right that you should know it. The first time I saw Telly I said to myself, 'That girl is a prize any man may feel proud to win.' I asked her if I might write to her, and what with her few letters, and the little I have seen of her, I feel that she is the one I want for a wife. I have not even hinted it to her yet, and before I do I would like to feel that you are satisfied with me. May I have your consent to win her if I can?"

Uncle Terry reached out and grasped Albert's hand, and shaking it cordially answered: "Ye hev my best wishes in the matter, an' I wouldn't say that if I didn't think ye worthy o' her!" Then he added with a droll smile, "Lissy an' me sorter 'spected that Telly was the magnet that drew ye down here!"

"I thank you for your confidence and consent," replied Albert gratefully, glad that he had spoken. "I am earning an income that is more than sufficient for two, and if Telly will say 'yes,' I shall be the happiest man on earth. And now," he added, "let's go fishing, Uncle Terry."

"I guess it's 'bout time," was the answer, "fur thar's two schools workin' into the cove, an' we'll have some fun."

Three hours after, when they landed at the cove, fairly sated with pulling in the gamy little mackerel, and happy as two boys, Telly met them with a smile and the news that dinner was ready.