On the Off-Shore Lights

I.

THE LOSING OF MOTHER.

“’T AIN’T brownkitis, ye don’t think, ma? ” he croaked.

“Lord, no!” said mother, bringing the smallest washtub and crowding it in between father’s chair and the stove. “’T ain’t on’y a cold in yer head, father, kinder gone down on yer chest. You ’ve slep’ jest like an infant right here ’side the fire this good while. It’s ’most midnight. Git yers tockin’s off, father.”

“I gut ter g’win the light,” he protested.

“Well, I guess yer hain’t gut ter do no sech a thing, ” mother replied stoutly. “I guess I kin g’win the light myself an’ not kill myself, I guess. Git yer stockin’s off, father. An’ now you tip yer head back so’s I kin git the salt pork round yer neck good, an’ the ki-en ’ll fetch the cold out. I ’ll make yer some ki-en tea when I come out o’ the light. My soul an’ body ! I hain’t set the kittle on front. Hev ter hev the water hot or the pepper ’ll float.”

“I wisht yer hed n’t gut ter g’win the light, ma! ”

“O Lord! ’T ain’t goin’ ter kill me ! There, now, pa, I guess you kin git both feet in, now — you try.”

The old man was dandling a bare foot scarily over the hot water. Mother threw a little woolen shawl across his knees to hang over his long thin legs.

“Dunno when I hain’t hed a cold ’fore, ef’t ain’t brownkitis, an’ prob’ly it’s the grip. Blasted gov’munt orter ’low me an ’sistant.”

“Lord, no, pa, anybuddy else ’d be sech a bother ’round, ’sides ourselves. My soul an’ body! how it doos blow, to be sure! ” The stout little house trembled and rocked in the gale.

“You ketch a holt o’ somethin’, mother, ” said the old man anxiously.

“I’ll ketch a holt — the — door jamb, ” she said, out of breath, stooping to draw on father’s long stockings over her shoes. “My goodness gracious! I hain’t gut yer balsam, an’ ye might ez well be a-snuffin’ it whilst I’m gone,” she added, trotting hastily out of the room with soft woolen footsteps.

The balsam was set afloat on boiling water in a little yellow and blue pitcher, and given to the old man to hold close under his nose.

“I hain’t a bit o’ doubt that ’ll go straight ter yer pipes an’ do ’em a lot o’ good, ” said mother cheerily. “Em’line said so, when daughter giv it to me three years ago, bein’ so fur frum a doctor. It’s the same her husband took when he died. ' It ’s good fer chest troubles an’ lung difficulties, ’ ” she read, laboriously, from the bottle. “An’ here ’s a picter of the man thet made it, prob’ly, an’ thet shows it’s good, an’ some of his writin’ on the back. Lemme see, you gut ter hev somethin’ throwed over yer head. It ’s the steam o’ the balsam ’s the good part.” And she covered his head and the pitcher from view under a generous draping of red flannel.

“Can’t breathe! ” came from under it.

“Oh yes you kin! You gut ter breathe! Hold yer nose down close. It ’ll limber up yer pipes, splendid, pa! ”

She lighted the lantern and set it ready on the table, and then wound herself up in a long knitted scarf, over which she put father’s reefer with the sleeves turned up, and crowned herself with a big fur cap, with lappet strings tied in a bow under her chin.

“There, ain’t thet nice! ” she purred. “See how nice an’ warm I be, pa! Oh, you can’t see ! Well, I guess I ’m ready. Lord ! don’t the wind blow ! ” she said, peering out of the window. “Ain’t it a pretty night! Don ’ t the water look black! Mercy! Well, I guess I ’ll be goin’.”

“Blasted gov’munt orter built a passageway ’fore now,” the old man said, through the flannel.

“OLord, no! The gov’munt’s giv us a fence, pa! A real nice fence. Don’t yer fret. Keep yer legs covered, pa.”

The door banged after her, and the old man listened eagerly for the heavy, muffled bang of the tower door, a few steps beyond the house. There was no bang.

“She orter gut there,” he said to himself uneasily.

Mother Tabb crossed the piazza serenely enough, but the wind took her petticoats as she went down the steps, slapping and twisting them round her.

“Lord! ” she said, “don’t it blow! ” cuddling the flickering lantern between two billows of skirts, and turning her back to the wind. “My land! ain’t it a pretty night! ” The little round island was covered with crusted snow, and the light burned aloft like a candle on a holiday cake.

The pretty was mother’s undoing. A less broad back than hers would have tempted the wind to push, so mother never reached the tower.

The wind pushed her, expostulating, surely and steadily down the slippery incline of the garden, forcing her unwilling feet to take unconsidered steps in the sadly wrong direction. In vain she tried to dig the gray woolen heels into the glassy crust. Then she turned, as she scudded, and resolutely dropped on her hands and knees.

But mother was plump and as handy to push one way as another. She went scudding along, dragging the tipsy lantern after her, out through the lower garden gate to the brink of the icy hill, where even Father Tabb, in ice times, always sat down to coast to the beach on the two fat back buttons of his ulster.

“I wisht mother’d come,” said the old man after a time, lifting the flannel off his head, and feeling justified in setting down the balsam. “I don’t see what in time’s gut mother, ” he whined fretfully. “W’y, I seen t’ the whole business myself, lightin’-up time. Ma didn’t on’y hev ter wind her up.”

He fidgeted and waited, and the water in the tub got chilly about his legs.

“I dunno what in time ’s gut mother, ” he said, as he lifted his feet out and felt round for his stockings. He got up stiffly, bent with his hard cough, and pattered to the window. But mother had passed that way some time before.

“Giftin’ some worried ’bout ma, ” he said. “S’pose I gut ter go see what’s gut her.” And he warmed his rubber boots one at a time over the glowing stove, and stamped his bare, damp feet into them. Then he felt along the entry wall for his reefer and found his ulster, and felt along for his fur cap and found his sou’wester.

“I dunno hardly which leg I be a-standin’ on, ” he said tremblingly, putting the little woolen shawl over his head and buttoning the sou’wester on over it. “Wind ’d like t’ blow m’ head off, ef I didn’t hev it made fast,” he said, and lighted the second best lantern in a panic of clumsy haste.

He did not stop at the house corner to look at the pretty night. He fought the wind across the open space to the tower.

“Ma! Mo-ther! ” he called hoarsely at the foot of the stairs, and the hollow tower, full of weird wind noises, took his cry and tossed it up and brought it back, but with it no message from mother. “I gut ter g’wup! ” he said anxiously.

He climbed the iron stairs, and the little cramped ladder to the gusty lantern, with the wind roaring through its peaked hood like a chimney afire. “She ain’t here!” he gasped breathlessly, peering ahead as he climbed.

“She ain’t ben here! ” he said, putting the crank on. The lamp had run down.

“I dunno hardly which leg I be a-standin’ on,” he chattered, coming fast and feebly down the stairs again. “I dunno — I dunno whar ter look, ” he said. He went round the corner of the house, bowing before the wind, carrying the lantern on his doubled - up arm, and step by step winning his way out of the upper garden gate. He looked down the smooth cold north hill, this way and that. There was nothing mother could hide behind in that long, white slant. The ice floes grated and groaned in the black water below as the tide heaved under them and the waves tore between, and black water lay far and wide, beyond. He turned back helplessly, hustled now the same way mother had gone, but he kept to the path, and presently it brought him to the back door, and the wind hurried him in.

Mother was watching him from the hillock where she had lodged. And frantic about his cold and the danger and all the things left undone and to be done, she started toward the house again, on hands and knees. She lost her hold at times, foothold and handhold, and remembered a certain little toy turtle on her parlor mantel, — a little green turtle that rested, with wildly fluttering feet, on a pivot.

Father Tabb pattered distractedly about the kitchen, fumbling with his coat, and going to the window again and again to look out, and listening to the wind, and poking the fire. Presently mother burst in, her nose red, and her eyes wild, and her fur cap all awry.

“W’y, mother! ” the old man said, coming toward her delightedly. “ Whar you ben ? ”

“Where’ve I ben! I guess better say where you ben! W’y, Josiah Tabb, don’t yer know you’ve prob’ly gut yer death o’ cold, or somethin’ or ruther, goin’ ou’doors right out o’ hot water? I declare ter goodness! Here, lemme git my things off! You git right ter bed, quick, this minute, an’ I ’ll fetch the brown jug in out th’ oven, an’ the ki-en tea. My goodness gracious! I never wuz so scared in all my born days! ”

“Oh, I guess ’t ain’t goin’ ter be ez bad ez thet, ma, ” he said, from the kitchen bedroom, much subdued and comforted, and hurrying into bed. Then when all was still in the bedroom, mother drew the tub across to her chair and emptied it at the sink and softly filled it again with hot water.

“Makes me feel bad hevin’ you watch both ends the night, ma! ” came from deep down in the bedclothes.

“Oh, you go ter sleep an’ stop worryin’, pa,” mother answered fretfully. “I kin see the light good frum whar I set, an’ I shell doze, some.” She was fixing the little pitcher with more hot water and balsam, and gathering the shawls handy to her chair.

“’T ain’t brownkitis, yer don’t think, ma? ” the old man called out again.

“Lord, no! Go ter sleep, father! ”

“Better put yer feet in hot water, ma, ” he said.

“Lord, no! I don’t want no coddlin’. Mercy!”

Mother’s feet were already in the water, and the balsam steaming beneficently close to her nose. The cold air and the comforting foot-bath made her sleepy. She dropped into a little doze, and waked with a start.

“Bet yer ’ll hev brownkitis ef yer don’t,” he said.

II.

AN ISLAND SORROW.

“I SAYS to him when I bought ’em, says I, ’I don’t want no mistake ’bout it, ’ long ez they wuz done up in little tight papers. ’ I told him, says I, ‘ I want two papers o’ scarlet runner beans, ’ says I, ‘ like what my mother used ter hev, ’ says I; I ’ve lived out ter the island so long I did n’t know but what them common garding flowers hed kinder gone by, an’ I wanted jest them kind, an’ I didn’t want no others, so he told me, ‘There ain’t no mistake,’ says he; ‘ them ’s the ones yer want.’

“Well, I don’t go off’n the island but once in the spring o’ the year, an’ once ev’ry fall, an’ I ’d set out all winter ter hev me them beans when I went ashore, an’ buy ’em myself, so I did, an’ the baigs hed picters o’ jest the kind o’ beans they wuz, so I dunno ter save my soul how it come ter go ez it did. Husband, he gut the dirt an’ fetched it ’crost in the dory fer me ter make me my garding of, an’ ’t wuz a good job we saved over thet ole pig’s trough thet come ’shore high water, thet time the tide riz so, an’ pile o’ stuff come ’crost thet time frum folkses dooryards we wuz real glad ter git an’ use, same ez thet green garding chair come same tide, thet I gut out now, there, front the house. Husband, he nailed it down some ter the plank walk so it hain’t never bruk adrift, an’ I set out there, consid’ble, summers, with an umbrella, an’ the pig’s trough come same tide. Husband, he wuz fer breakin’ of it up fer firewood, but ‘ The idea! ’ I says, ‘ when there ’s a plenty plain wood comin’ ashore the whole time, ’ I says, ‘ an’ ’t ain’t ev’ry day yer git a real nice, handsome pig’s trough,’ says I, an’ good job we saved it. Clear in the middle o’ the winter I wuz settin’ thinkin’ how we’d fix to hev some green stuff growin’ kinder round the house so ’s ’t would n’t wash off’n the rock, an’ thet pig’s trough come into my head. I gut me a lantern lighted, an’ I knocked on the wall fer the other keeper’s wife, an’ she come in, an’ Mis’ Hopkins an’ me we went ri’ down ter the boathouse an’ looked at it, where it laid. Then she come in my side, an’ set a spell, an’ we hed it over how we ’d hev that flower garding. My idea wuz, we ’d git the beans up fust, jest where it laid, so ’s ter give ’em a good start case of an extra bad blow fust o’ June same ez sometimes it is. An’ so, thet spring, when I fetched the beans back an’ the dirt come ’crost, we begun the garding down ter the boathouse, her one side the trough, an’ me the other, an’ divided it in the middle, an’ we gut ri’ down on our knees, workin’ in the dirt. Don’t no more green stuff grow on the rock than out’n the back yer hand, an’ real dirt wuz awful good ter feel of an’ smell of, an’ so we fixed, an’ dug, an’ planned, an’ talked, an’ bime-by we stuck in the beans. I dunno to goodness how it ever come ter go ez it did. Them beans looked jest alike, an’ the baigs wuz the same. It wuz a good job we gut that garding agoin’ inside, when the big blow come. We’d ’a’ lost it, ef we didn’t. An’ bime-by, come stiddy weather, husband he an’ Mr. Hopkins they hed the garding out an’ set it long ways up an’ down ’tween our two sets o’ doorsteps. It war n’t more’n five feet long, an’ husband an’ Mr. Hopkins they drove in two, three nails agin ’nother blow. An’ when them beans really come through, I ’most hed a fit! Seems I ’d ’most fergut how them kind o’ things did look,a-loopin’ up green an’ a-liftin’ up them dry skins, an’ keepin’ of ’em a spell. I didn’t hardly feel to part with them dry skins, hardly. An’ bime-by them little plants begun ter kinder reach out an’ try ter vine, they wuz five come up each side, an’ Mis’ Hopkins an’ me we put strings to keep ’em sep’ret. Seems they’d kinder mix in the trough ef we did n’t. Well, they done well, both sides of it, her’n an’ mine, an’ bime-by they begun ter bud. I dunno ter goodness how it ever come out ez it did, an’ I wuz real sorry, ’cause I often said ter husband, says I, ‘ We hain’t never hed a fust assistant’s wife so easy ter live with sence we ben out t’ the light, ’ says I. ‘ Mis’ Hopkins an’ her husband,’ says I, ‘ they ’re both fine folks, ’ I says. But when I come out my door the mornin’ them beans fust blowed a leetle mite, Mis’ Hopkins she come jest plumb into her door past me,an’ she never said a word. She shet her door right square in my face an’ eyes, an’ she never said a word. Well, I wuz some mad myself, but thinks says I ter myself, ‘ I dunno ez I know what’s the matter,’ says I. Well, I felt like a toothpick, myself, but I kep’ on a-lookin’ my beans over, an’ sure ’s you live, Mis’ Hopkins must o’ thought I cheated. Her’n was buddin’ white, an’ mine wuz buddin’ red. Seems mother did hev two colors o’ scarlet runner beans when I wuz small. An’ it come so sudden. Mis’ Hopkins used me splendid when I wuz took sick same time ez Mr. Hopkins hed his lumbago. She ’d set his watch in the tower nights, an’ miss the two of us daytimes. But thet ’s what she thought ’bout them beans. ’T war n’t no good gittin’ her ter hear ter reason. Mr. Hopkins be says to husband, says he, ‘ She ’s ez sot ez a fence-post,’ says he, an’ so she wuz. Well, I kep’ a-goin’ over it in my mind all day, an’ then I done it. I crep’ out after dark same night, wind blowin’ good an’ seas a-poundin’ so ’s she could n’t ’a’ possibly heard my door, an’ I felt all roun’ them little five vines o’ mine, an’ I nipped off ev’ry single bud. Them poor little doubledup blooms. I set ’em in a bottle o’ water, them little mites o’ green. I felt kinder ez ef somethin’ hed happened. That little garding would n’t never be the same ter me. Mis’ Hopkins’s beans come mixed, white an’ red, jest a whole tumblin’, spreadin’ lot o’ vines an’ blooms. But Mis’ Hopkins she hez n’t never spoke ter me sence. That’s two years ago, an’ the on’y other two of us here on the island jest men, that’s all. So ’t is kinder lonesome, not hevin’ her talk. Thet ’s how she come ter not to.”

III.

THEIR WEDDING DAY.

THE tide was over the bar, and the little white tower far from shore stood deep in the rip. The sun was coming up red over the gray sea line, and pines along the shore showed black against the sky. Sounds of breakfast-getting echoed in the tower, and the smell of something long fried rose to the lantern. The keeper was shouting a song as he worked among his wicks and measures and cans and curtains: —

“ Hi-tiddy-i-tiddy,
Hi-ti-ti.
Hi-tiddy-i ” —

“Ja-y,” a mild voice called, far down below.

“Ay! Ay!” he shouted.
“ Hi-tiddy-i-tiddy,
Hi-ti-ti.”

And he came noisily tramping down the iron stairs, round and round the echoing spiral till he reached the kitchen.

“Haul the table out little mite,” said his wife; “hevin’ a round kitchen kinder bothers, some, ’bout settin’ ter table. Times I wisht we hed a square one. You wash yer face, Ja-y. I gut buttered toast this mornin’. Doos soak the butter consid’ble, an’ some says it’s bad fer the indigestion, but I ain’t half so ’fraid o’ hot butter ez I be of my death pocket. Thet’s why I allus seed my raisins sence brother died of it, but his wuz a cherry stone, I b’lieve. Some folks likes little dried-up toast, an’ put yer butter on yerself, but not me. I ’m awful glad you fetched over this liver an’ sausage yestiddy, Ja-y. I love the two of ’em together, of a Sunday, an’ I got some fresh sponge cake I made; I ’ll git right up an’ git it, an’ pumpkin pie, whilst I’m on my feet. An’ I done some doughnuts fer yer ter eat in yer watch, Ja-y.”

“Bully fer you ! ”

“Case o’ my toothache; but I guess I ’ll be able ter set up all right ter-niglit, my watch out. I hain’t felt it jump. Nobody would n’t know we come frum the Cape, ’thout the pie an’ doughnuts. ’T is kinder long ways, ain’t it ? ’ Bout two hundred miles, I guess. Ain’t so much here ter tell it ’s Sunday ez where we wuz, bells an’ all.”

“Ain’t no diff’unce between ter-day an’ yestiddy forenoon, fur’s I see, ” said Jay, “’thout there ’s fog in the air. Good gosh! see them ducks! ” he cried, tipping his chair to look out of the deepset window. “Portland boat ’s comin’ down, too. She ’s kinder late. Ben t’ the bottom, mebbe! ”

“You didn’t oughter make game o’ death, Ja-y,” murmured his wife.

“That’s right! You keep right on a-sassin’ me an’ you ’ll git fat ez a pollywog, Drusy, an’ pretty ez a picter, ” he said with rough tenderness, squaring himself with the table again, and looking across admiringly at his little fair, sad-eyed wife.

“By Jove!” he cried suddenly, bringing his fist down with a thump that shifted the dishes. “Bet yer don’t know what day ’t is! ”

“Ain’t it Sunday ? ” his wife exclaimed with a nervous flush. Once she washed clothes out at the light on Sunday, mistaking it for Monday.

“Oh yes, it ’s Sunday, all right, ” her husband answered, “but it’s more ’n thet, Drusy! It ’s October the twenty - fith! ”

“W’y, so ’t is! I declare! I dunno how I come ter fergit, ” said Drusilla.

“Thet ’s how I come ter fetch the liver an’ sausage over yestiddy,” her husband continued triumphantly. “ Ketch a weasel asleep ! ” And then, a little less boisterously, —

“You hain’t sorry yer merried me, Drusy, be yer ? ”

“Lord, no! W’y, no indeed!”

“An’ come here ter live?”

“Oh my, no! No indeed ! I like here real well. I think it’s real kinder pretty here, summers.”

“’Cause ef yer don’t, Drusy, I’ll lay by fer a noo light, an’ git yer one with a square kitchen. What say ter that ? ”

“ Oh no, Ja-y! Mebbe we ’d git a lot worse one ter live in. I like this one real well. On’y I do git kinder deprest when water gits in the sullar.”

“I ’ll hev them damn port-holes fixed outer my own pocket,ef the gov’munt’s too stingy,” said Jay with spirit.

“An’ it gits kinder dark, times, when we hev a good long spell o’ weather. An’ wind a-hoo-in’, an’ the seas jigglin’ things so when I set here nights, an’ I hain’t never liked the fog-bell sence brother died.”

“Damn fog’s so thick round here, keeps the bell a-goin’ out o’ all reason.”

“I wuz thinkin’ it wuz the twentysix, but I remember thet ’s the way we fixed it fust, an’ the minister he changed it ’cause of a funeral he hed a-comin’ off thet time.”

“Gol darn the minister! He mixed me up same way, but I worked it all out pullin’ ’cross yestiddy. Too darn smart, thet fellar wuz, fer my taste, but he ’ll git his tail pulled one o’ these days, all right.”

“An’ course I ’d kinder like ter go ter church, on’y the bar ain’t never out long nuff ter walk. An’ thet ’s funny, too, ’cause ter home, down ter the Cape, the ones thet lives the furthest off is alius them thet goes.”

“Well, Drusy, year’s gone quick; what say ? ”

“Oh my, yes! Real quick. I wisht I liked ter read books. But I think a lot. Sometimes I wisht I’d took oilpaint lessons ’fore I wuz merried. I could ’a’ done lots o’ oil-paint fancy work out here. Sunday ’s kind of a long day. Mis’ James she’s ben rippin’ up her ole black dress, two, three Sundays, over to Rockhaven. I hed a letter frum her; you seen it. Somehow I can’t feel to, myself. Of course ef I hev a button come off, or anythin’, thet’s diff’rent. I often says ter Mis’ James when we wuz neighbors, ’Don’t yer trim you a hat on the Sabbath ; yer won’t never like it ef yer do,’ I says. She trims hats real pretty.”

“Say! What ’ll we do ter celebrate ? ” cried her husband excitedly.

“Oh we ’ll, — well, we ’ve hed the extra breakfast, thet ’s one, an’ then we could — W’y! w’y not hev three meals, Ja-y?”

“Thet’s the idea! ” he shouted. “Hev three meals! Thet’s the idea! ”

“Sunday is so kinder long, ” his wife said, in a sorrowful voice. “Doos seein almost a waste o’ time. I jest set an’ set on Sunday, thinkin’ ’bout Monday. I ’m real glad I slep’ late. Thet takes off a lot o’ the time. Oh my, yes, the day ’ll go real quick ef we hev three meals! An’ kinder spin my work out! We ’ll hev the pork steak fer dinner, an’ we ’ll — we ’ll ” —

“What say ter openin’ a can o’ sweet stuff fer supper? ” her husband suggested with great animation.

“W’y, of course! There’s two of pear, — you git up the pear, Ja-y. Now I ’ll be workin’ good piece the day, gittin’ the meals an’ washin’ the dishes, an’ ef we don’t git our supper till after light-up, I kin be washin’ my dishes good piece the evenin’ whilst I’m on watch! ’T is long ter set. I wisht I could feel ter play tiddledy-winks, ” she said wistfully. “You play ’em, Ja-y, on Sunday, ’cause course ’t is Sunday all the time you set Sat’dy night, after I turn in at midnight.”

“Good Lord! I guess I do,” said Jay decisively. “I jest guess I reckon ter do more work an’ hev better fun Sundays than Mondays.”

“An’ ef I ever do crochet a stitch, I don’t never feel comfortable afterwards. I can’t help it. I wisht I could. I don’t mind livin’ here in the summer time the least mite. I alius wuz a terrible hand ter git up early, an’ it’s real nice an’ pleasant here mornin’s, sun cornin’ up ’bout half-past four. I allus like ter lay in the hammock a spell, out on deck, after I’ve gut my pies in the oven, ’bout sun-up. I don’t fergit them times. The tide kinder brims up so, an’ when the bar ’s under, yer feel a long ways off frum folks, an’ vessels movin’ ’long so creepy, kinder like meetin’ ” —

“All right; now hang the rest, Drusy! When ’s thet extra grub comin’ ’long? ” said Jay, rattling his chair back, and drawing off his boots.

“Hev it — say — ’bout low tide,” she said. “An’ mebbe you kin git two, three clams off’n the bar, fer a soup fer supper, mebbe, after you wake up.”

“Thet’s the idea! Clam soup,” he said, and trolled away up the winding stairs to the little gray cell bedroom.

“Ja-y,” came up after him.

“Ay! Ay! ”

“Case I fergit, I’ve set them doughnuts — fer night — yer know — right under the fog-bell.”

“ Hi-tiddy-i-tiddy,
Hi-ti-ti.”

Louise Lyndon Sibley.