We fell to.
“Wild night,” my tutor remarked.
’Twas blowing wildly, indeed: the wind come to the east––sweeping in from the vast gray sea, with black rain to fling at the world. The windows rattled as the gusts went crying past the cottage. But a warm glow, falling from the lamp above the table, and the fire, crackling and snorting in the grate, put the power of the gale to shame. ’Twas cosey where we sat: warm, light, dry, with hunger driven off––a cosey place on a bitter night: a peace and comfort to thank the good God for, with many a schooner off our coast, from Chidley to the Baccalieu light, riding out the gale, in a smother of broken water, with a rocky shore and a flash of breakers to leeward. Born as I am––Newfoundlander to the marrow of my body and the innermost parts of my soul––my heart puts to sea, unfailingly, whatever the ease and security of my place, when the wind blows high in the night and the great sea rages. ’Tis a fine heritage we have, we outport Newfoundlanders––this feeling for the toss and tumult and dripping cold of the sea: this sympathy, born of self-same experience. I’d not exchange it, with the riches of cities to boot, for the thin-lipped, gray, cold-eyed 113 astuteness, the pomp and splendid masks, of the marts and avenues I have seen in my time. I’d be a Newfoundlander, outport born, outport bred, of outport strength and tenderness of heart, of outport sincerity, had I my birth to choose....
“Dannie,” says my uncle, peering inquisitively into the cabin, “how d’ye like that there fresh beef?”
’Twas good.
“He likes it!” cries my uncle, delighted. “Parson, he likes it. Hear un? He likes it. An’ ’tis paid for, parson––paid for! Dannie,” says he, again leaning forward, eyes bent upon my plates, “how d’ye like them there fresh greens? Eh, lad?”
They were very good.
“An’ paid for, parson––all paid for!”
My tutor, poor man! stared agape, his knife and fork laid by; for my uncle, become now excited and most indiscreet, was in a manner the most perplexing––and in some mysterious indication––pointing, thumb down, towards the oil-cloth that floored the room, or to the rocks beneath, which the wind ran over, the house being set on spiles, or to the bowels of the earth, as you may choose. ’Twas a familiar thing to me––the mystery of the turned thumb and spasmodic indication, the appearance, too, at such times, of my uncle’s eyes: round, protruding, alight with wicked admiration, starting from the scars and bristles and disfigurements of his face, but yet reflecting awe, as of some unholy daring, to be mightily suffered for in due time. 114 But ’twas not familiar to my tutor, nor, doubtless, had ever occurred to his imagination, sophisticated as he may have thought it; he could do nothing but withstand the amazement as best he might, and that in a mean, poor way, as he gazed alternately upon my uncle’s flushed and deeply stirred countenance and upon my own saddened, aged face, speaking its ancient bewilderment. I pitied his disquietude, rather: for he was come from abroad to our coast––and could not understand.