Next day ’twas queer weather. ’Twas weather unaccountable, weather most mysteriously bent, weather that laughed at our bewilderment, as though ’twere sure of wreaking its own will against us by some trick recently devised. Never before had I known a time so subtly, viciously, confidently to withhold its omens. Queer weather, indeed! here, in early spring, with drift-ice still coming in vast floes from the north, queer weather to draw the sweat from us, while a midsummer blue loom of the main-land hung high and fantastically shaped in the thick air. Breathless, ominously colored weather! Why, the like, for stillness and beggarly expression of intention, had never been known to Twist Tickle: they talked with indignation of it on Eli Flack’s stage; ’twas a day that bred wrecks, said they. Ay, and ’twas an outrage upon the poor fishermen of that coast: what was a man to do, said they––what was he to do with his salmon-gear and cod-traps––in this evil, wilful departure from traditional procedure? And what did the weather mean? would it blow wet or dry? would it come with snow? would the wind jump 277 off shore or from the northeast? and how long, in the name o’ Heaven, would the weather sulk in distance before breaking in honest wrath upon the coast? ’Twas enough, said they, to make a man quit the grounds; ’twas enough, with this sort o’ thing keepin’ up, t’ make a man turn carpenter or go t’ Sydney!
All this I heard in passing.
“Ah, well, lads,” says my uncle, “ye’ll find winter skulkin’ jus’ over the horizon. An’ he’ll be down,” he added, confidently, “within a day or two.”
I led John Cather to the brink of Tom Tulk’s cliff, where, in the smoky sunshine, I might talk in secret with him. ’Twas in my mind to confide my perplexity and miserable condition of heart, without reserve of feeling or mitigation of culpable behavior, and to lean upon his wisdom and tactful arts for guidance into some happier arrangement with the maid I loved. It seemed to me, I recall, as I climbed the last slope, that I had been, all my life, an impassive lover, as concerned the welfare of the maid: that I had been ill-tempered and unkind, marvellously quick to find offence, justified in this cruel and stupid conduct by no admirable quality or grace or achievement––a lad demanding all for nothing. I paused, I recall, at the cairn, to sigh, overcome and appalled by this revelation; and thereupon I felt such a rush of strenuous intention in my own behalf––a determination to strive and scheme––that I had scarce breath to reach the edge of the cliff, and could not, for the life of me, begin to narrate my desperate state to John Cather. But John Cather was not troubled by 278 my silence: he was sprawled on the thick moss of the cliff, his head propped in his hands, smiling, like the alien he was, upon the ice at sea and the untimely blue loom of the main-land and the vaguely threatening color of the sky. I could not begin, wishful as I might be for his wise counsel: but must lie, like a corpse, beyond all feeling, contemplating that same uneasy prospect. I wished, I recall, that I might utter my errand with him, and to this day wish that I had been able: but then could not, being overwhelmed by this new and convincing vision of all my communion with the maid.
“By Jove!” John Cather ejaculated.
“What is it?” cries I.
“I must tell you,” says he, rising to his elbow. “I can keep it no longer.”
I waited.
“I’m in love,” he declared. “Dannie,” cries he, “I––I’m––in love!”
And now a peculiar change came upon the world, of which I must tell: whatever there had been of omen or beauty or curious departure from the natural appearance of sea and sky––whatever of interest or moment upon the brooding shore or abroad on the uttermost waters beyond it––quite vanished from my cognizance. ’Twas a drear day and place I dwelt in, a very dull world, not enlivened by peril or desirable object or the difficulty of toil, not excused or in any way made tolerable by a prospect of sacrificial employment. I had been ill brought up to meet this racking emergency. What had there been, in all my life, fostered in body and happiness, 279 expanding in the indulgent love and pitiably misdirected purpose of my uncle, to fit me for this denial of pure and confident desire? I tried, God knows I tried! summoning to my help all the poor measure of nobility the good Lord had endowed me with and my uncle had cultivated––I tried, God knows! to receive the communication with some wish for my friend’s advancement in happiness. In love: ’twas with Judith––there was no other maid of Twist Tickle to be loved by this handsome, learned, brilliantly engaging John Cather. Nay, but ’twas all plain to me now: my deformity and perversity––my ridiculously assured aspiration towards the maid. I had forgot John Cather––the youth and person of him, his talents and winning accomplishments of speech and manner.