That night I found Judith with the crew of the Likely Lass, sound asleep, her head lying, dear child! on the comfortable breast of the skipper’s wife. And she was very glad, she said, that I had come....
XXVI
THE DEVIL’S TEETH
’Twill not, by any one, be hard to recall that the great gale of that year, blowing unseasonably with snow, exhausted itself in three days, leaving the early birds of the Labrador fleet, whose northward flitting had been untimely, wrecked and dispersed upon the sea. In the reaction of still, blue weather we were picked up by the steamer Fortune, a sealing-craft commissioned by the government for rescue when surmise of the disaster grew large; but we got no word of my uncle and the fool of Twist Tickle until the fore-and-after Every Time put into St. John’s with her flag flying half-mast in the warm sunshine. ’Twas said that she had the bodies of men aboard: and ’twas a grewsome truth––and the corpses of women, too, and of children. She brought more than the dead to port: she brought the fool, and the living flesh and spirit of my uncle––the old man’s body ill-served by the cold, indeed, but his soul, at sight of me, springing into a blaze as warm and strong and cheerful as ever I had known. ’Twas all he needed, says he, t’ work a cure: the sight of a damned little grinnin’ Chesterfieldian young gentleman! Whatever 324 the actual effect of this genteel spectacle, my uncle was presently on his feet again, though continuing much broken in vigor; and when he was got somewhat stronger we set out for Twist Tickle, to which we came, three days later, returning in honor to our own place.
The folk were glad that we were all come back to them....
I loved Judith: I loved the maid with what exalted wish soul and body of me understood––conceiving her perfect in every grace and spiritual adornment: a maid lifted like a star above the hearts of the world. I considered my life, and counted it unworthy, as all lives must be before her: I considered my love, but found no spot upon it. I loved the maid: and was now grown to be a man, able, in years and strength and skill of mind and hand, to cherish her; and I would speak to her of this passion and dear hope, but must not, because of the mystery concerning me. There came, then, an evening when I sought my uncle out to question him; ’twas a hushed and compassionate hour, I recall, the sunset waxing glorious above the remotest sea, and the night creeping with gentle feet upon the world, to spread its soft blanket of shadows.
I remembered the gray stranger’s warning.