Miss Grief and Other Stories (6 page)

“But where?”

“Across the channel there is an islet large enough for him; he shall have food and shelter, but here he cannot abide,” said the man, leading the way down to the boat.

The Captain was therefore ferried across, a tent was made for him out of some old mats, food was provided, and, lest
he should swim back, he was tethered by a long rope, which allowed him to prowl around his domain and take his choice of three runs for drinking-water. With all these advantages, the ungrateful animal persisted in howling dismally as we rowed away. It was company he wanted, and not a “dear little isle of his own”; but then, he was not by nature poetical.

“You do not like dogs?” I said, as we reached our strand again.

“St. Paul wrote, ‘Beware of dogs,'” replied Samuel.

“But did he mean—”

“I argue not with unbelievers; his meaning is clear to me, let that suffice,” said my strange host, turning away and leaving me to find my way back alone. A delicious repast was awaiting me. Years have gone by, the world and all its delicacies have been unrolled before me, but the memory of the meals I ate in that little kitchen in the Flats haunts me still. That night it was only fish, potatoes, biscuits, butter, stewed fruit, and coffee; but the fish was fresh, and done to the turn of a perfect broil, not burn; the potatoes were fried to a rare crisp, yet tender perfection, not chippy brittleness; the biscuits were light, flaked creamily, and brown on the bottom; the butter freshly churned, without salt; the fruit, great pears, with their cores extracted, standing whole on their dish, ready to melt, but not melted; and the coffee clear and strong, with yellow cream and the old-fashioned, unadulterated loaf-sugar. We ate. That does not express it; we devoured. Roxana waited on us, and warmed up into something like excitement under our praises.

“I
do
like good cooking,” she confessed. “It's about all I have left of my old life. I go over to the mainland for supplies, and in the winter I try all kinds of new things to pass away the
time. But Samuel is a poor eater, he is; and so there isn't much comfort in it. I'm mighty glad you've come, and I hope you'll stay as long as you find it pleasant.” This we promised to do, as we finished the potatoes and attacked the great jellied pears. “There's one thing, though,” continued Roxana; “you'll have to come to our service on the roof at sunrise.”

“What service?” I asked.

“The invocation. Dawn is a holy time, Samuel says, and we always wait for it; ‘before the morning watch,' you know,—it says so in the Bible. Why, my name means ‘the dawn,' Samuel says; that's the reason he gave it to me. My real name, down in Maine, was Maria,—Maria Ann.”

“But I may not wake in time,” I said.

“Samuel will call you.”

“And if, in spite of that, I should sleep over?”

“You would not do that; it would vex him,” replied Roxana, calmly.

“Do you believe in these visions, madam?” asked Raymond, as we left the table, and seated ourselves in front of the dying fire.

“Yes,” said Roxana; emphasis was unnecessary,—of course she believed.

“How often do they come?”

“Almost every day there is a spiritual presence, but it does not always speak. They come and hold long conversations in the winter, when there is nothing else to do; that, I think, is very kind of them, for in the summer Samuel can fish, and his time is more occupied. There were fishermen in the Bible, you know; it is a holy calling.”

“Does Samuel ever go over to the mainland?”

“No, he never leaves the Flats. I do all the business; take over the fish, and buy the supplies. I bought all our cattle,” said Roxana, with pride. “I poled them away over here on a raft, one by one, when they were little things.”

“Where do you pasture them?”

“Here, on the island; there are only a few acres, to be sure; but I can cut boat-loads of the best feed within a stone's throw. If we only had a little more solid ground! But this island is almost the only solid piece in the Flats.”

“Your butter is certainly delicious.”

“Yes, I do my best. It is sold to the steamers and vessels as fast as I make it.”

“You keep yourself busy, I see.”

“O, I like to work; I couldn't get on without it.”

“And Samuel?”

“He is not like me,” replied Roxana. “He has great gifts, Samuel has. I often think how strange it is that I should be the wife of such a holy man! He is very kind to me, too; he tells me about the visions, and all the other things.”

“What things?” said Raymond.

“The spirits, and the sacred influence of the sun; the fiery triangle, and the thousand years of joy. The great day is coming, you know; Samuel is waiting for it.”

“Nine of the night. Take thou thy rest. I will lay me down in peace, and sleep, for it is thou, Lord, only, that makest me dwell in safety,” chanted a voice in the hall; the tone was deep and not without melody, and the words singularly impressive in that still, remote place.

“Go,” said Roxana, instantly pushing aside her half-washed dishes. “Samuel will take you to your room.”

“Do you leave your work unfinished?” I said, with some curiosity, noticing that she had folded her hands without even hanging up her towels.

“We do nothing after the evening chant,” she said. “Pray go; he is waiting.”

“Can we have candles?”

“Waiting Samuel allows no false lights in his house; as imitations of the glorious sun, they are abominable to him. Go, I beg.”

She opened the door, and we went into the passage; it was entirely dark, but the man led us across to our room, showed us the position of our beds by sense of feeling, and left us without a word. After he had gone, we struck matches, one by one, and, with the aid of their uncertain light, managed to get into our respective mounds in safety; they were shake-downs on the floor, made of fragrant hay instead of straw, covered with clean sheets and patchwork coverlids, and provided with large, luxurious pillows. O pillow! Has any one sung thy praises? When tired or sick, when discouraged or sad, what gives so much comfort as a pillow? Not your curled-hair brickbats; not your stiff, fluted, rasping covers, or limp cotton cases; but a good, generous, soft pillow, deftly cased in smooth, cool, untrimmed linen! There's a friend for you, a friend who changes not, a friend who soothes all your troubles with a soft caress, a mesmeric touch of balmy forgetfulness.

I slept a dreamless sleep. Then I heard a voice borne toward me as if coming from far over a sea, the waves bringing it nearer and nearer.

“Awake!” it cried; “awake! The night is far spent; the day is at hand. Awake!”

I wondered vaguely over this voice as to what manner of voice it might be, but it came again, and again, and finally I awoke to find it at my side. The gray light of dawn came through the open windows, and Raymond was already up, engaged with a tub of water and crash towels. Again the chant sounded in my ears.

“Very well, very well,” I said, testily. “But if you sing before breakfast you'll cry before night, Waiting Samuel.”

Our host had disappeared, however, without hearing my flippant speech, and slowly I rose from my fragrant couch; the room was empty save for our two mounds, two tubs of water, and a number of towels hanging on nails. “Not overcrowded with furniture,” I remarked.

“From Maine to Florida, from Massachusetts to Missouri, have I travelled, and never before found water enough,” said Raymond. “If waiting for the judgment-day raises such liberal ideas of tubs and towels, I would that all the hotel-keepers in the land could be convened here to take a lesson.”

Our green hunting-clothes were soon donned, and we went out into the hall; a flight of broad steps led up to the roof; Roxana appeared at the top and beckoned us thither. We ascended, and found ourselves on the flat roof. Samuel stood with his face toward the east and his arms outstretched, watching the horizon; behind was Roxana, with her hands clasped on her breast and her head bowed: thus they waited. The eastern sky was bright with golden light; rays shot upward toward the zenith, where the rose-lights of dawn were retreating down to the west, which still lay in the shadow of night; there was not a sound; the Flats stretched out dusky and still. Two or three minutes passed, and then a dazzling rim appeared
above the horizon, and the first gleam of sunshine was shed over the level earth; simultaneously the two began a chant, simple as a Gregorian, but rendered in correct full tones. The words, apparently, had been collected from the Bible:—

“The heavens declare the glory of God—

Joy cometh in the morning!

In them is laid out the path of the sun—

Joy cometh in the morning!

As a bridegroom goeth he forth;

As a strong man runneth his race.

The outgoings of the morning

Praise thee, O Lord!

Like a pelican in the wilderness,

Like a sparrow upon the house-top,

I wait for the Lord.

It is good that we hope and wait,

Wait—wait.”

The chant over, the two stood a moment silently, as if in contemplation, and then descended, passing us without a word or sign, with their hands clasped before them as though forming part of an unseen procession. Raymond and I were left alone upon the house-top.

“After all, it is not such a bad opening for a day; and there is the pelican of the wilderness to emphasize it,” I said, as a heron flew up from the water, and, slowly flapping his great wings, sailed across to another channel. As the sun rose higher, the birds began to sing; first a single note here and there, then a little trilling solo, and finally an outpouring
of melody on all sides,—land-birds and water-birds, birds that lived in the Flats, and birds that had flown thither for breakfast,—the whole waste was awake and rejoicing in the sunshine.

“What a wild place it is!” said Raymond. “How boundless it looks! One hill in the distance, one dark line of forest, even one tree, would break its charm. I have seen the ocean, I have seen the prairies, I have seen the great desert, but this is like a mixture of the three. It is an ocean full of land,—a prairie full of water,—a desert full of verdure.”

“Whatever it is, we shall find in it fishing and aquatic hunting to our hearts' content,” I answered.

And we did. After a breakfast delicious as the supper, we took our boat and a lunch-basket, and set out. “But how shall we ever find our way back?” I said, pausing as I recalled the network of runs, and the will-o'-the-wisp aspect of the house, the previous evening.

“There is no other way but to take a large ball of cord with you, fasten one end on shore, and let it run out over the stern of the boat,” said Roxana. “Let it run out loosely, and it will float on the water. When you want to come back you can turn around and wind it in as you come.
I
can read the Flats like a book, but they're very blinding to most people; and you might keep going round in a circle. You will do better not to go far, anyway. I'll wind the bugle on the roof an hour before sunset; you can start back when you hear it; for it's awkward getting supper after dark.” With this musical promise we took the clew of twine which Roxana rigged for us in the stern of our boat, and started away, first releasing Captain Kidd, who was pacing his islet in sullen majesty, like another Napoleon on St. Helena. We took a new channel and
passed behind the house, where the imported cattle were feeding in their little pasture; but the winding stream soon bore us away, the house sank out of sight, and we were left alone.

We had fine sport that morning among the ducks,—wood, teal, and canvas-back,—shooting from behind our screens woven of rushes; later in the day we took to fishing. The sun shone down, but there was a cool September breeze, and the freshness of the verdure was like early spring. At noon we took our lunch and a
siesta
among the water-lilies. When we awoke we found that a bittern had taken up his position near by, and was surveying us gravely:—

“‘The moping bittern, motionless and stiff,

That on a stone so silently and stilly

Stands, an apparent sentinel, as if

To guard the water-lily,'”

quoted Raymond. The solemn bird, in his dark uniform, seemed quite undisturbed by our presence; yellow-throats and swamp-sparrows also came in numbers to have a look at us; and the fish swam up to the surface and eyed us curiously. Lying at ease in the boat, we in our turn looked down into the water. There is a singular fascination in looking down into a clear stream as the boat floats above; the mosses and twining water-plants seem to have arbors and grottos in their recesses, where delicate marine creatures might live, naiads and mermaids of miniature size; at least we are always looking for them. There is a fancy, too, that one may find something,—a ring dropped from fair fingers idly trailing in the water; a book which the fishes have read thoroughly; a scarf caught among the lilies; a
spoon with unknown initials; a drenched ribbon, or an embroidered handkerchief. None of these things did we find, but we did discover an old brass breastpin, whose probable glass stone was gone. It was a paltry trinket at best, but I fished it out with superstitious care,—a treasure-trove of the Flats. “‘Drowned,'” I said, pathetically, “‘drowned in her white robes—'”

“And brass breastpin,” added Raymond, who objected to sentiment, true or false.

“You Philistine! Is nothing sacred to you?”

“Not brass jewelry, certainly.”

“Take some lilies and consider them,” I said, plucking several of the queenly blossoms floating alongside.

“Cleopatra art thou, regal blossom,

Floating in thy galley down the Nile,—

All my soul does homage to thy splendor,

All my heart grows warmer in thy smile;

Yet thou smilest for thine own grand pleasure,

Caring not for all the world beside,