the family were all tenderly kind to mr. waddy, but he needed only repose. it was very sad within the house next day. mrs. dempster and miranda made one or two attempts to talk with their patient, but his connection with the wreck was too close and too saddening. he brought their loss too clearly before them. they took refuge, cheerlessly, in household duties.
as the day advanced, mr. waddy was able to move about, and finally, dressed in dan’l’s clothes, to walk slowly with many halts down towards the rocks. here he could sit with the breeze fresh upon him and basking in the bright sun. it was a very different heat to that dull, blasting one which had for years been trying to bake out all the lively juices of his system.
cheroots were mr. waddy’s favourite smoking. of course he had none at present, after his wreck. was it for the want of these that, even through his feebleness of a half-drowned man, his old impatience began to manifest itself? he had fancied,[59] perhaps, that years of absence would have changed him from the hot, ardent, passionate, confident, and confiding youth of three lustra before. were not fifteen years enough to stoicise and epicureanise him? could he not keep cool and take his luxurious opportunities of a wealthy idler with passive content? why must the native air awaken again the old thoughts and the old forgotten hopes? forgotten! ah, mr. waddy! hopes touched with disappointment may blacken into despairs, and pass into the background of shadow, away from foregrounds of sunshine in the heart, but there they must abide unfading.
mr. waddy, sitting by the seaside on the island, was not merely impatient—an invalid may naturally be so when convalescence has made farther advance with his mind than his body—he was also very sad. he could not avoid connecting himself with the terrible disaster which had marked his coming.
“just my luck!” said he to himself. “why must i come home without any object? as soon as i arrive on this wretched continent, my passing at a hundred yards is enough to knock one boy into the water. then i get myself left by the steamer, and to shorten my delay, i take the billy blue nose and i become its jonah. my vessel goes to wreck; my men are drowned: i am put under obligations to some romantic old maid, and then i have to make a whole family miserable with fatal news. and i am[60] saved—for some good purpose i am willing to believe. but for what? have i any duties besides to be a jolly bachelor and tell a boy or two, like that young dunstan and his friend, how to behave? i believe i have not a relative in the world—save possibly that mr. waddie of new york—descendant, perhaps, of my tory ancestor—who wrote me from paris. it is rather pleasant to think of one relative, and then dunstan told me that the old boy had an only child, a lovely daughter. possibly she may be a cousin within the kissing removes. ah, pleasanter still!”
mr. waddy was growing steadily more cheerful; then he fell a long time drowsily silent—dreaming undefined dreams—gazing out across the sea to the horizon, where wavering warmth of air mingled with quivering waves. but at last a chill in the air reminded him that he was still an invalid, and that evening was at hand.
“i must go in,” he said, “and get ready for my start to-morrow. dan’l must be persuaded to cede his clothes to me.”
he went slowly back along the bushy path, pausing now and then to pluck a raspberry, until he came to the kitchen. he hesitated a moment, then went in. everything was as before—the old clock ticking hours of a bitter day just as regularly to their end as it had marked hours of happy holidays, or of careful common days; the kettle of dried apples[61] sputtering on the stove; the hot loaf ready for supper; dan’l depositing the evening’s milk on the dresser. but by the stove sat old dempster, now doubly aged, stooping forward, his face covered with both his hands. waddy hesitated about intruding his questions of business into the old man’s grief. however, he looked up more cheerily than ira expected, and giving him a broad gripe of the hand, asked of his health very cordially.
“i am so well,” said mr. waddy, “that i hope to save you the trouble of keeping me longer than to-night.”
“make yourself to home,” said dempster. “you’re welcome to stay as long as you like. ’tain’t in one day a man gits over bein’ wrecked. besides, i kind er like to have someone ’round; it keeps the women folks from thinkin’ of their troubles. but if you’d oughter go, jake ’ll drive you over to-morrow, over to loggerly.”
“yes,” said ira, “i think i must go. is there anything i can do for you in portland or boston?”
“wal, i guess i’ll ask one thing; ’tain’t much, an’ you said my boy looked arter you a little, ’fore the schooner struck. there’s a spot down on the sheltered side of black rock head, jest to the end o’ my meader, where i allers calkerlated to be buried, some day or other, along with the old woman. i can’t find my boy to bury him there,” he added simply, “but i’d like to put up somethin’ of a[62] moniment t’ make us think of him. these gravestone pedlars don’t come very often to the island; they tried it fer several years, but folks seemed t’ give up dyin’ and they didn’t git no orders. wal, i wish when you git to boston, you’d look ’round an’ buy me a handsome pair o’ stones, a big one with a round top fer the head, an’ a small one fer the feet, an’ have willum’s name an’ age put on—i’ll write it down an’ mirandy ’ll look up a text. have ’em leave room enough below willum’s for another name. when dyin’ once gits into a family, there’s no knowing where it ’ll stop. i feel as if there’d be some more on us goin’ afore long. they kin ship the stones in some of these coasters an’ i’ll pay fer ’em down to the custom house. ’tain’t askin’ too much, i hope, mister?”
“certainly not,” said ira, much affected and resolving that there should be no bill at the custom house. “i’ll see that it is done just as you wish.”
“thanky kindly,” said the old man. “when the stones come along, i’ll set ’em under the cedars. it’ll do mother an’ me a sight o’ good to see ’em an’ kind er make our boy seem near.”
“there’s one thing i wish to speak to you about,” said mr. waddy, after a considerable silence. “this miss sullivan—i have money enough and to spare. do you know of anything i could do for her?”
the question was put rather awkwardly; mr.[63] waddy knew as well as anyone that money is not the current coin to repay an act of devotion.
“wal,” said dempster, seeing the good feeling that suggested and checked the inquiry, “i don’t believe she wants fer money. she offered me a thousand dollars fer our p’int. i told her perhaps i’d sell out the whole farm for two thousand. i’ve been talkin’ some, along back, with willum, of goin’ out west an’ settlin’ by some o’ them big lakes. when folks has been used to water, they don’t like to live away from it. willum’s gone, but dan’l’s a handy boy, an’ mirandy’s as good as a whole drawin’ of some men. i guess we’ll go. it don’t look quite so bright ’round here as it did,” and he passed his hand across his eyes.
“if miss sullivan doesn’t buy it, i will,” said ira quickly. “can you tell me where she is to be found, so that i can have inquiry made what her decision is? this is just the spot i should like to buy—it is a good lonely place, where i can escape from my friends,—if i ever make any,” he added, in a half-voice and rather bitterly.
“she came with a grist o’ folks from york,” said dempster; “pretty good folks, but different kind to her. mirandy had their names on a paper, but it got lost. but she said she’d write about the farm an’ i kin let you know. wal, if you want to go in the mornin’ i must go over an’ tell jake. i’ll be gone to the other field when you start; so good-bye.”
[64]he gave waddy a crushing grasp of the hand and looked at him wistfully, as if he were recalling his son through this one who had seen him last. then, feeling that tears—tears of that better manhood which men call unmanly—were falling over his brown cheeks, now hollow with fatigue and sleepless grief, he unclosed his hand with grave gentleness and walked slowly away.
looking after him, something brought back to waddy’s mind that sentence the old man had uttered a little while before:
“when dying once gets into a family, there’s no knowing where it will stop.”
he felt dimly that he had listened to a prophecy.
