But Clara gave no sign of having heard her.
“Come on in!” urged Bess. “Ef yuh don’t start tuh git yuh dinner, yuh won’t hab nuttin’ ready fuh de mens w’en dey gits in.”
After a moment the idea penetrated, and the half-dazed woman turned toward Bess, her eyes pleading.
“You come wid me, an’ talk a lot. I ain’t likes tuh be all alone now.”
“Sho’ I will,” replied the other comfortingly. “I min’ de baby fuh yuh, an’ yuh kin be gittin’ de dinner.”
Clara’s face quivered; but she turned from the sight of the far red flag and opened her door for Bess to pass in.
After the two women had remained together for half an hour, Bess left the room for a moment to fetch some sewing. The sun was gone, and the sky presented a smooth, leaden surface. She closed the door quickly so that Clara might not see the abrupt change, and went out of the entrance for a look to sea.
Like the sky, the bay had undergone a complete metamorphosis. The water was black, and strangely lifeless. Thin, intensely white crests rode the low, pointed waves; and between the opposing planes of sky and sea a thin westerly wind roamed about like a trapped thing and whined in a complaining treble key. A singularly clear half-light pervaded the world, and in it she could see the harbor mouth distinctly, as it lay ten miles away between the north and south jetties that stretched on the horizon like arms with the finger-tips nearly touching.
Her eyes sought the narrow opening. Guiltless of the smallest speck, it let upon utter void.
“It’d take ’em t’ree hour tuh mek harbor from de banks wid good win’,” said a woman who was also watching. “But dere ain’t no powuh in dis breeze, an’ it a head one at dat.”