OLD MAN LEDGE

OLD MAN LEDGE⁠[15]

By MAY STANLEY

(From The Pictorial Review)

Beyond Bald Head a long white curve of beach held the old house in an encircling arm. There were no other buildings in sight. A thick growth of stunted spruces ran down to a meadow covered with coarse beach-grass, and the house stood on a small rise of ground at the edge of the meadow, commanding an unbroken view seaward. On one side the foundation had rotted away, so that the gray, weather-beaten dwelling leaned slightly as though striving to catch the faint murmur of the tides.

Out at sea the waters glowed vividly, reflecting the brilliant colors of sunset in wavering bars of rose and mauve and gold. The surface of the bay heaved gently, thrusting long rollers beneath the fishing boat as it swung in a wide curve around Bald Head.

“Thar she is!” Orin Pettishall twitched the tiller-ropes as he spoke. The boat swung obediently toward an old dock which made a gray blot against the background of white sand.

The girl nodded. “Bigger’n I thought ’twuz,” she said happily. “I wuz over here onct cranberryin’ when I wuz leetle, but it’s bigger’n I thought ’twuz then.”

“Yeah, it’s a good house,” he agreed, “even ef ’tis kind uv old. Still an’ all, ’tain’t old when ye think they’s oak beams in it. Paw says Captain Beath got some uv the beams fer his house outer his vessel—arter she wuz wrecked on Old Man Ledge out thar.”

“Wonder how long ago ’tis?” Emily Widden glanced seaward. Half-tide revealed the jagged rocks of Old Man Ledge standing up sharply above the water.

“Dunno. ’Fore paw’s time, fer ’twuz grampy told him.” He swung the boat deftly in beside the dock and made it fast. “Looks like the house’s kinder settlin’ ter the one side. Hev ter straighten her up fust uv all. Come on! I got ter see how much fixin’ the dock’ll need.”

With Emily beside him he went proudly across the dock, keeping a sharp lookout for loose or rotting boards. Reaching shore, they paused involuntarily and stood, hand in hand, looking up at the old house.

“Nicer’n I thought ’twuz goin’ ter be,” the girl murmured.

“Guess she’s goin’ ter be wuth what I’m payin’ fer her.” He tried to speak calmly. “Seven hundred dollars ain’t sich a lot when ye think ’at they’s twenty acres goes with it—all this here shore-front an’ back inter the woods a piece. Paid the real estate fellers two hundred dollars cash money, an’ I got three years ter find the rest in.”

Emily nodded. She had heard the story from Orin a half-dozen times today, but it did not lose interest with repetition.

“We kin do ’at easy,” she said. “I kin hev chickens an’ put in a garden. ’Twon’t cost us much ter live.”

“An’ they ain’t no reason ter put off gittin’ married,” he declared. “We kin git married soon ez I git the house fixed up a mite an’ a fish-house built.”

“Guess we kin,” she assented shyly.

They went quickly up the slope, along a path overgrown with weeds and blackberry brambles. Emily cried out with pleasure at sight of a great hedge of yellow lilies which lifted their slender stalks defiantly above the encroaching weeds. At the front of the house a bricked walk led up to a hooded doorway. High-backed seats had once stood on either side. One of them was still in good repair, but the other sagged forlornly on its broken supports.

“’Nough fixin’ ter keep me busy fer a while, I guess,” Orin commented as he unlocked the front door. It swung open with painful creakings, showing a square hall with doors on either side. “S’pose this must ’a’ been the parlor.” He led the way into a fair-sized room with windows looking directly toward sea. Now they were so dark with dust and spider-webs that little light came through. Opposite the door a stone fireplace yawned.

“It’ll be nice here when we git it fixed up.” Emily looked about the room curiously. “Le’s see the rest uv it.”

They passed through the door at the back which led into a small bedroom, returned to the hall, and inspected in turn the dining room, kitchen, and woodshed on the opposite side of the house.

“Le’s go down in the yard an’ see what the well’s like,” Emily proposed.

“I’d oughter go down cellar an’ hev a look at the foundation,” he objected. “Ef I wait any longer it’ll be too dark ter see anythin’. You go an’ hev a look at the well while I’m down cellar.”

“A’ right. I won’t be long.”

She ran down the steps, paused for a moment while her eyes searched for a path, found it, and ran lightly along, pushing aside weeds and brambles. Near a clump of spruces she saw the well-sweep and was going toward it when her glance was caught by something at the left of the house—something which showed gray in the surrounding greenness.

“Wonder what’s thar?” Making her way through the intervening growth, she cautiously lifted a matted bramble, then dropped it with a startled exclamation and began to run back toward the house.

“Orin!” she called. “Orin!”

Orin came out on the back porch, his face reflecting the satisfaction he felt.

“’Tain’t goin’ ter be much work ter fix up the foundation. Not near so much——” He paused at sight of her white face. “What’s come ter ye?”

“Thar’s a grave out thar!” Her voice was trembling. “Somebody’s grave! I see it when I wuz goin’ down ter the well.”

“Guess ye must be mistook,” he said wonderingly. “Never heared tell uv nobody bein’ buried here.”

“I see the gravestun ez I wuz goin’ down ter the well,” she explained breathlessly. “It’s kind uv layin’ down. Ye kain’t hardly see it ’ceptin’ it ketches the light. Come an’ see fer yerself.” She led him down the path, unmindful of the brambles which caught and tore at her skirt. “Thar ’tis!”

Orin Pettishall stared at it thoughtfully, then stooped and tried to read the words cut in the moldy stone.

“Too dark,” he said at length. “Torch’s down in the boa-at. I’ll go git it.”

“Let me go fer it—I’d ruther.”

“What’s the matter?” He glanced up, conscious of the fear in her voice. “Ain’t scart uv an ol’ gravestun, air ye?”

“N-o. Only I’d ruther go.” She hurried off.

Left to himself, the boy sat down beside the grave and gazed proudly up at the house. His house! Pretty nice to be able to buy it and move into his own home this fall, when he and Emily were married. Pretty nice! If lobster prices stayed up he’d maybe be able to pay something more on it before Christmas. He was whistling jubilantly when Emily, hurrying back, thrust the torch into his hands.

“Read what it says!” she directed.

Holding the light close to the moldy stone, he read slowly: “‘Sacred—to the m—Nehemiah Hill—departed’—they’s a big chip out uv the stone here—‘May thirtieth, eighteen hundred an’ fifty-two—Greater love hath no man than this’—I kain’t read no more; it’s chipped off some.”

“‘That a man lay down his life for his friends.’” The girl finished the quotation in a hushed voice.

“Wonder who he wuz—Nehemiah Hill? I ain’t never heared tell uv no Hills ’round here.”

“Dunno.” She rose, shivering. “Le’s go back, Orin. It’s gittin’ late.”

“I wanted ye ter see the cellar afore we go.”

“At’ll keep,” she said hastily, and turned to the path which led down to the dock.

When he had started his engine and the fishing boat was chug-chugging its way back to West Harbor, Pettishall turned to the girl.

“What come ter ye, Em’ly?” he asked. “Ye ain’t said a word sense we started. ’At grave didn’t upset ye none, did it?”

“Yes—kind uv.”

“It don’t do no hurt, fur ez I kin see.” Disappointment made his voice cold. “Thought ye liked the place.”

“So I do, only——”

“Only what?”

She turned to face him. “Dunno ez I c’d live whar they’s a grave,” she said slowly. “It’s a nice place an’ all, only I dunno ez I c’d live whar they’s a grave.”

“Dunno what makes ye feel like ’at. An’ anyways we got ter live thar. I bought the place, ain’t I?”

“Yes.”

“Wa-al, we got ter live thar, ain’t we?”

She was silent.

“We got ter live thar, ain’t we? Seein’ I bought it, we got ter live thar.” Frustration, injured pride, bewilderment, were in the words.

“Dunno ez we hev,” she retorted. “Leastways, dunno ez I hev. They ain’t nothin’ ter make me!”

He did not reply, but stared straight in front of him, head up and lips set in a stubborn line. She could talk like that! That was all she thought of their home, the home he was planning to get ready for her! Well, if that was the way she felt about things——

“Orin!” Her voice was timid.

“Yes.”

“I ain’t meanin’ ter be cross ner spiteful. It’s only——”

“Only ye don’t like the place I bought fer us. Wa-al, guess they ain’t nothin’ more ter be said.”

“A’ right,” she replied coldly, “ef ’at’s the way ye feel. I ain’t goin’ ter stay by myself, day in an’ day out, ’ith a grave ter keep me comp’ny. I’d like the place fine ef the grave wa’n’t thar. Even ef we knowed who ’twuz——”

“I kain’t he’p it, way things air,” he interrupted. “I didn’t know ’bout the grave when I bought the place, but it wouldn’t uv made no diff’rence ter me ef I hed knowed. Way I see it we got ter live thar, grave er no grave.”

She shook her head sorrowfully. “No, I ain’t goin’ ter live thar. I knowed I wouldn’t soon ez ever I see the grave. I jes’ kain’t an’ they ain’t no use in talkin’ uv it!”

“Wa-al,” Mrs. Widden said cheerfully, “what ye think uv the place Orin bought?”

Her daughter, heavy-eyed from a sleepless night, looked up and said drearily, “A’ right, I guess.”

“Mercy me! Is ’at all ye think uv it?”

“Did ye know somebody wuz buried thar?” Emily demanded. “Right beside the house?”

“Mercy me!” Mrs. Widden exclaimed again. “I been cranberryin’ in the medder a coupla times sense the ol’ captain died, but I never seed no grave. Whose is it?”

“Dunno. Name on it’s Nehemiah Hill. D’ye know who ’at is?”

“Never heared tell uv no Hills in these here parts,” Mrs. Widden shook her head solemnly. “They’s Hills over Lewiston way an’ they’s a fambily—say, Paw,” as the door opened to admit Jeremy Widden’s bulk, “did ye know somebody wuz buried over ter the ol’ Beath place?”

“Never heared tell uv it.” Widden clumped across to the sink and drank hugely from a tin dipper. “Here’s Hannah Anne Pettishall comin’. Mebbe she’ll know.”

“’Lo, ev’ybody!” Mrs. Pettishall panted genially. She was a huge woman whose bulk almost filled the doorway and quite overflowed the rocking-chair which Mrs. Widden pushed forward. “I’m all outer crochet-cotton,” she explained, “an’ I thought I’d run over an’ borrer a mite ter last till I kin git some f’om Po’tland.”

“Yeah, I got some,” Mrs. Widden replied, “same number ez what ye’re usin’. D’ye know ’bout thar bein’ a grave on the place Orin jes’ bought?”

“Never heared tell uv one. Mebbe ’at’s what made Orin so grumpy—wouldn’t say a decent word breakfus’-time.” She wiped her face meditatively with a corner of her apron. “My, it’s hot fer this time uv year! Ef ye hurry up an’ git married, Em’ly Widden, ye’ll still hev summer fer yer weddin’.”

“I ain’t goin’ ter git married,” Emily said dully.

“Ye ain’t what?” her elders demanded in chorus.

“Me an’ Orin hed words las’ night,” Emily replied in a dull voice, “’bout ’at grave. An’—an’—we hed words.”

“D’ye mean ter say you an’ Orin fit?” Mrs. Pettishall demanded. “Wisht ye’d hurry an’ make up ef ye did, so’s he won’t be so grumpy.”

“I tol’ him I wouldn’t live no place whar they’s a grave ’longside uv the house.”

“Fer any sakes!” Mrs. Pettishall stared at her prospective daughter-in-law in frank amazement. “Ye don’t mean ter say ’at jes’ ’cause they happens ter be a grave——”

“Wa’al, ef’ ’at’s the way Em’ly feels I guess she’s got a right,” Mrs. Widden broke in.

“Now, Maw!” Widden counseled. “Stay out uv it an’ let the young folks fight things out fer tharselves.”

But his wife was not to be so easily silenced. “Tell yer maw ’bout it, Em’ly,” she commanded soothingly. “Tell yer maw what the trouble is. Ye didn’t want ter live thar ’count uv the grave? Wuz ’at it?”

Emily nodded.

“Wa-al, I mus’ say—” Mrs. Pettishall began heavily.

“Orin said we’d hev ter live thar,” Emily explained. “An’ I said I didn’t hev ter. An’ he said—” She dissolved into tears.

“Wa-al, he didn’t hev no right ter say it!” Mrs. Widden stormed. “Guess my girl ain’t goin’ ter set up housekeepin’ in no graveyard!”

“Orin didn’t aim ter live in no graveyard,” Mrs. Pettishall returned sharply. “I mus’ say, Lucindy——”

“An’ he kin jes’ stay ’way f’om Em’ly!” Mrs. Widden threw down the wooden needle with which she had been knitting trap-heads, crossed the kitchen, and took her disconsolate daughter into her arms. “Thar! Ye don’t need ter take on! Ye don’t hev ter do nothin’ ye don’t want ter!”

Mrs. Pettishall got to her feet.

“Ef ye’d leave the young ’uns ’lone, Lucindy, an’ mind yer own business,” she said angrily, “they’d mebbe git things patched up! Stan’s ter reason they won’t so long ez ye keep interferin’!”

“Who’s interferin’?” Mrs. Widden demanded belligerently.

“You, fer one! I mus’ say I think Orin’s patient to put up ’ith Em’ly actin’ like she’s doin’——”

“Thar now, Maw! Ca’m yerself!” Widden interposed.

“An’ ef I wuz in his place I wouldn’t stand fer it!” Mrs. Pettishall continued bitterly. “They’s other girls——”

“Now, now, Hannah Anne!”

“Ez fer you, Jeremy Widden,” Mrs. Pettishall turned to him, the slowly kindling wrath of a fat woman in her voice, “ef ye wuzn’t so petticoat-ruled an’ put upon in yer own house ye’d do better——”

But here Mrs. Widden found voice. “Ef ye’ll jes’ go out uv my house, Hannah Anne,” she said majestically, “an’ stay out it’s all I ask. I don’t want you ner none uv your fambily ter darken my doors ag’in!”

“Now, Maw—” but the sound of the kitchen door slamming to behind Mrs. Pettishall drowned Widden’s vain attempts to make peace.

Before nightfall every one in West Harbor knew that Lucinda Widden had put Hannah Anne Pettishall out of her house because Hannah Anne didn’t want Orin to marry Emily Widden, that some one of whom no one had ever heard was buried over on the old Beath place, and that the real estate people had given Orin Pettishall a hundred dollars to take the place off their hands. Additional zest was given to these rumors when, in the store that afternoon, the elder Pettishall told Jeremy Widden that he’d just as soon have back the trawl which Widden had borrowed, and Widden had retorted that any time Pettishall wanted to pay for having the new engine put in his boat he’d better do it.

West Harbor gasped! Nothing so exciting had happened since the time Hepsibah Gutch and Lefey Williams quarreled one day at dinner and threw hot soup at each other. This was even worse than Hepsibah and Lefey!

Fred Hosmer said that in his opinion “growed-up folks hed oughter hev more sense’n ter fight like kids.”

Will Ellery retorted that “it’s all in the way a feller looks at things. Some folks ain’t got ’nough spunk ter start a fight.”

On which Fred Hosmer promptly invited Ellery out into the back yard if he had any doubts about there being enough spunk around to lick any Ellery that ever walked!

Some one intervened and a truce was patched up. Thereupon Mrs. Will Ellery, indignant at the insinuation directed against her husband, instituted a campaign against Mrs. Fred Hosmer, whose dearest wish it was to be elected president of the church sewing-circle. She was defeated by three votes and indignantly resigned, taking with her six devoted friends who were among the best workers and who had always cooked lavishly for box socials and baked-bean suppers.

Mrs. Uriah Goomes was heard to say that no one but a fool would think of marrying Orin Pettishall, anyway. He was too smart and always trying to get ahead of other folks. It was time he stubbed his toe. Which remark, duly repeated, immediately dissolved friendly relations between the Goomes and Pettishall families and led Mrs. Widden to remark caustically that maybe Emily wasn’t such a fool as some people seemed to think and, anyway, she wouldn’t ever be fool enough to marry any one as lazy as Uriah Goomes, who, with his family, would have starved last winter if every one in the Harbor hadn’t turned to and fed them!

Alva Ryder, the storekeeper, told some one that in his opinion the whole trouble started with the Widdens and Pettishalls and ought to have stayed there. Folks were foolish, he said, to mix up in other folks’ rows. Every one on hearing this said that it was no wonder Alva Ryder thought West Harbor folks foolish. The way they’d dealt with him, year in and year out, paying the awful prices he charged for everything, would make any one think they were weak in the head! Hereafter they would buy groceries in Bath or Portland or else do without.

Meetings at the schoolhouse had to be discontinued. No one but old Uncle Henry Breedon, who was too deaf to hear anything, would go to meeting after the Sunday when the Reverend Amos Putney preached from the text, “Blessed are the peacemakers,” and referred pointedly to local difficulties. Every one felt that Brother Putney might say what he liked about people who danced or played cards or smoked—that was his business. But any disagreement we might have with the Goomeses or the Pettishalls or the Widdens was our own business and why did he want to interfere? Besides, hadn’t the Widdens and the Pettishalls and the Goomeses been the first to start trouble? Well, then, what could you expect?

Time failed to heal the dissensions, which, indeed, grew in number and bitterness as the weeks went by. Two of West Harbor’s most respected citizens charged two others, equally respected, with stealing lobsters from the former’s traps. The fish warden was pressed into service and spent several long, chilly, and fruitless nights in watching for the supposed offenders. He did not catch any one, but the sight of a mysterious figure “pokin’ ’round” on Jim Mears’s dock so upset Mrs. Mears that she took to her bed and remained there until Jimmy, junior, was born. Thereafter she laid blame for the undeniable fact that Jimmy wasn’t very bright to the scare which Warden Jim had given her, and talked darkly of suing the State and getting even with somebody.

With the Sunday meetings discontinued and the sewing-circle disrupted West Harbor women no longer convened save in groups of two or three. Friendly borrowing of a cup of sugar or the “lend uv ’nough flour ter make a mess uv biscuits” had ceased. Crochet- and dress-patterns were no longer exchanged.

When the Fred Hosmers drove to Bath in their car they did not, as in former days, stop to ask folks if they wanted anything from town, but drove straight ahead. Fishermen no longer gathered in Alva Ryder’s store in the evenings to exchange news of the Portland market or to “swap yarns.” The chair dedicated to the fisherman who could tell the best story was empty evening after evening. Down at the fish-houses or out in the boats solitary figures worked sullenly, refraining from looking up or giving a friendly hail when another boat passed.

Such was the state of things when Grammy Tagel—grandmother to the Ellerys and the Tagels and great-aunt of Hannah Anne Pettishall—came over from Augusta for a visit.

At first Emily Widden had refused to admit even to herself that her quarrel with Orin was serious. He would come over to see her, she was quite sure, and they would talk things over. Then Orin would sell the old Beath place and buy somewhere else. She couldn’t live beside a grave. Nobody could! But Orin would see how things were, once they had a good talk.

But Orin did not come. The days became weeks, and still, to Emily’s dismay and hurt surprise, he made no sign. She couldn’t believe he meant to stay away. Surely he was just mad at the fuss every one was making and the things she herself had said. But he would get over it soon. Then he would come to see her and they would talk things over. From her father Emily learned that Orin had begun to “fix up” the old house in his spare time. Mereen Tagel had gone over to help him repair the foundation and build a fish-house.

The girl’s spirits sank at the news. She was forced to admit to herself that Orin had no intention of selling. And that meant he didn’t really care for her or how she felt about things. He had never cared! Perhaps—the awful thought smote her like a blow—Orin must be going to marry some one else. He wouldn’t be fixing up the house unless he planned to live there soon. The girl ceased to watch for his coming. At night she cried into her pillow quietly and unobtrusively as she did everything else. She refused to say anything when her mother railed angrily at the Pettishals, and only her pale, miserable face and red-rimmed eyes told Mrs. Widden her daughter was not forgetting Orin Pettishall—that she would never forget him.

And Orin was no happier. A hundred times he planned to see Emily, to talk with her. Then he would remember that Emily did not really care for him, that she had turned her back on the home he had bought for her, refusing to live there. What was the use of going to see her when she didn’t think enough of him to give up that silly feeling about a grave? Some time she would be sorry for acting like she did!

He would fix up the old place and live there alone, the way Captain Beath had done. Perhaps he would die there, alone. Emily would come to the funeral. Maybe she would cry when she saw what she had done—sent him away to die. Or, perhaps, she wouldn’t care enough to come to the funeral. She would marry some one else, and when she heard the news she would say, “He was always queer. Went away to live alone with nothing to keep him company but a grave. No wonder he died!” Orin resolved bitterly to live. What was the use of dying when nobody would care what happened to you?

The only comfort he found was in hard work. He rose before dawn, hauled trawl, carried his fish to market, then came back to work on the old house until approaching twilight warned him it was time to bait trawl for the next day’s set.

All through the quiet afternoons of late August he worked about the place, completing his fish-house, cutting away weeds and brambles from paths long unused, resetting bricks in the walk, repairing the broken settle. Sometimes he pictured Emily sitting here in the long summer evenings, busy with her sewing. He would be down at the fish-house baiting trawl. Emily would come out after the supper dishes were washed and wait here for him. When all the tubs of trawl were finished he would come up to sit in the other high-backed seat. They would talk or, perhaps, just sit listening to the tides along the beach.

He shook his head angrily, winking back unmanly tears. Emily would never sit there in the quiet evenings. One seat would always be empty. When his work was done he would come up to the house. There would be no one to welcome him. He would sit there, watching the empty place—an old, old man—alone.

West Harbor folks looked on Grammy Tagel as a “character.” Perhaps, in days not so far gone, she would have been known as a soothsayer, and people would have consulted her when grave decisions were to be made and followed her shrewd advice. But now she was just an old woman with a philosophy wrought out of long, hard years, an old woman who didn’t hesitate to tell folks what she thought of their words and actions, and who took an unbounded interest in the affairs of those about her.

Although more than ten years had passed since Grammy Tagel moved to Augusta to make her home with a married granddaughter she still kept in touch with all the principal events of the Harbor. She knew about all births, marriages, and deaths. She could tell you who had moved away in recent years and who had “built new”; had accurate information regarding those who had “perfessed” religion at the annual revival meetings and those who were still unsaved.

Today, with her chair drawn comfortably close to the stove, the old woman turned inquiring eyes on Hannah Anne Pettishall.

“What’s wrong ’ith Orin?” she asked. “Looks kinder meachin’ ter me.”

“Yeah, he’s meachin’, a’ right,” Mrs. Pettishall agreed. She carried a pan of cookies to the oven, put them in, dusted the flour from her hands, and wiped her face thoughtfully with a corner of her blue-and-white-checked gingham apron.

Grammy Tagel waited patiently.

“I hate ter say it,” Hannah Anne went back to the table and began to roll out another mound of cooky dough, “but it looks ter me like he’s still takin’ on ’count uv Em’ly Widden.”

“Which Widden?”

“Em’ly—Lucindy Means’s girl. Ye mind ’at Lucindy married Jeremy Widden, Uncle Uriah’s first. The other boy, Lige, went ter Po’tland, an’ folks say he’s doin’ well workin’ in a garage. Makin’ money hand over fist, Uncle Uriah says. I dunno.”

“Don’t seem like Orin’s old ’nough ter be keepin’ comp’ny.” Grammy Tagel deftly brought the conversation back. “Wuzn’t nothin’ but a leetle squirt when I went off ter Augusty. Wuz they keepin’ comp’ny, did ye say?”

Mrs. Pettishall nodded. “Yeah, fer more’n a year. Right up ter the time Orin bought the ol’ Beath place——”

“Did he, now? Ye hedn’t told me afore. He’s a smart boy ter buy it. Reel sightly place.”

“’At’s what I say—mercy! I fergot the cookies!” Snatching the pan from the oven, she tested its contents anxiously, found them unharmed, and transferred the cookies to a plate. “Hev one, Aunt ‘Miry?”

“Don’t mind ef I do. An’ ’n what happened?”

“Wa-al, right arter he bought the place Em’ly found a grave thar—leastways she says she did—an’ started actin’ up. Lucindy, who’d oughter hed more sense, ups an’ sides ’ith Em’ly. Says ’at no girl uv hern is goin’ ter set up housekeepin’ in a graveyard. The very idear! I’m a good-tempered woman, ez ev’ybody knows, but I don’t stand fer bein’ put upon, an’ I give the hull Widden fambily a piece uv my mind.”

“An’ ’n what happened?”

“Folks ’at hed any sense tuck my side an’ some tuck ’tother. Stirred up considerable to-do, ez ye might say.”

“Sh’dn’t wonder,” Grammy Tagel commented dryly. “What’d Orin an’ his girl do?”

“They ain’t spoke sense—not ’at I know uv. An’ ef Orin hez any right pride ’bout him——”

“Guess he’s got pride ’nough. I’ve allus noticed ’at young folks hez too much pride ’bout things ’at matter.” The old woman got stiffly to her feet. “Guess I’ll go ’long over an’ set ’ith Jerushy Spinney fer a spell. Still in bed, ain’t she?”

“Yes, an’ likely ter stay thar. Doctor said ’smornin’ ’twuz the wust stroke he’d ever see anybody hev.”

“Sh’dn’t wonder. Allus hed considerable temper, Jerushy hed, an’ temper brings its own reward. You comin’ ’long?”

“No, don’t guess I kin. Got a mess uv biscuits ter make when I git these here cookies done an’ a couple uv pies.”

“Wa-al, I won’t be long.”

Gathering an ample gray shawl about her shoulders and grasping her stick, Grammy Tagel went down the steps and along the path to the Spinney house. But she did not spend many minutes there. On learning that Mrs. Spinney was asleep she declined an invitation to come in and sit for a while, and turned to hobble along the road.

“Mercy me!” Mrs. Widden exclaimed, “ef ’at ain’t Grammy Tagel comin’ ter see us!” She hastened to the door. “Come right in, Grammy! I wuz kinder wonderin’ ef ye’d drop in ter see us er ef ye wouldn’t—things bein’ like they air.” She ushered her visitor into the kitchen.

“When ye git ter be my age, Lucindy,” Grammy Tagel replied, “ye won’t pay much ’tention ter folks’ foolishness”; then, as Emily put down her crocheting and came forward to place a chair for the old woman, “Ye don’t say this is Em’ly! My, ain’t she growed up!”

“Sure is,” Mrs. Widden rejoined. “Kain’t make myself b’lieve it sometimes.”

Grandmother Tagel regarded the girl searchingly, nodded as though some question in her mind had been answered satisfactorily, and said, “I stopped in ter see Jerushy Spinney on my way over. They been wonderin’ ef they’d oughter move her downstairs, but I tol’ ’em ter wait till they’d talked ’ith you. I said ef anybody’d know whether they’d oughter move her it’d be Lucindy Widden.”

“S’pose I best go over some time today,” Mrs. Widden mused.

“Yes, ef I wuz in yer place I’d go right now an’ see how things air. I’ll jes’ set here an’ talk whilst ye’re gone.”

“Wa-al, I won’t be long.”

When Mrs. Widden’s apron-clad form had disappeared up the road Grandmother Tagel beckoned to Emily.

“Come here an’ set down by me,” she said. “I got somethin’ ter tell ye ’at mebbe ye’ll be glad ter hear.”

The sunshine of early afternoon had disappeared, swallowed up in threatening, black clouds which trailed sooty vapors faster and faster across the sky. Fitful gusts of wind had begun to lash the tops of the long rollers into foam. Waves climbed higher and higher, vainly seeking to escape the fury of the wind. Like a toy in the hands of an angry child the fishing-boat was tossed and shaken violently to and fro. It slipped sideways in the trough of a wave, started sluggishly to climb, stopped half-way, and buried its nose in the water, which swept over the canvas covering the bow and flew backward in sheets of spray.

The girl, who had until now been working frantically over the engine, started up, grasped the tiller-ropes, and coaxed the bow up into the wind. With no power to keep it going the little craft dropped off again and swung about. The next wave caught it a violent blow and poured water over the canvas until the floor of the boat was awash.

“Ef I c’d only make this en-jine go!” Sweat stood out on the girl’s face in spite of the bitter chill which had crept into the air. Lifting an arm impatiently, she swept the damp hair back from her forehead and once more bent over the lifeless engine.

It had seemed such an easy thing to do a half-hour back. She had left Grammy Tagel sitting by the fire and hurried down to the dock, the old woman’s words ringing in her ears: “They’s only one time ter put trouble straight an’ ’at’s right away.”

She hadn’t even noticed that a storm was gathering. Her father’s boat was not at the mooring. That meant he had gone to Portland. He wouldn’t be back before five or six o’clock, and she couldn’t ask any one to take her—not with the whole Harbor knowing about her quarrel with Orin. It had seemed such a simple thing to just take Will Ellery’s boat for an hour. He wouldn’t be using it again until tomorrow morning and the engine was the same as her father’s. Who would think that it would stop when she was out here opposite the Head?

A huge, wind-driven mountain of water towered suddenly above the helpless boat, crashed down, just missing the bow and blotting out the world in a welter of foam. A white squall! She must make land somehow. The boat wouldn’t ride out a squall with the engine crippled.

She couldn’t even hope for the chance of a tow. The weather-wise fishermen had seen the storm coming and were all safe in harbor. If only the engine would start she could still make the shelter beyond Bald Head although wind and tide were sweeping her each moment farther and farther out to sea.

Against the frail shelter of canvas the wind was now beating with long moans that ended in furious shrieks. All around the drifting boat the waves rose, horrible monsters with the foam of madness on their lips. They struck against the boat with blows that made the frail thing tremble like a creature in the last agony of fear. It plunged, rose, and plunged again, vainly striving to shake off its tormentors. Long, jagged streaks of lightning played across the sky and were reflected fearfully in the black, tossing water, but no rain fell. If it would only begin to rain! The sea would grow calm with the rain lashing across it. But still the pent-up torrents remained in the black clouds. Wind and sea screamed across the world.

Suddenly a new sound, a sound as of giant drums beaten furiously, made the girl creep to the stern of the boat, heedless of the lashing spray, and stare westward.

Old Man Ledge! The helpless boat was being carried straight toward it, to the place where mighty waves lifted high in air before crashing down on the jagged teeth of the reef. No boat could live once it was caught in the grip of that swirling water! The girl sank to the floor of the boat, shivering convulsively, her fear-numbed hands still clutching the tiller-ropes.

At sight of the approaching storm Orin Pettishall ceased work on the dock and went up to the house to close windows and make everything secure. Kindling a heap of driftwood he had piled in the fireplace, he sat down before it to watch the leaping flames. The wind struck against the old house, rattling windows and screaming angrily around the gables. Through the windows, which looked westward, the boy could see inky clouds rolling above the water and watch the giant waves pounding across Old Man Ledge.

“Gosh, I hope ev’ybody’s in!”

Even as he spoke Pettishall’s eyes were caught by a black speck which showed for a moment on the crest of a wave, then sank from sight. When it appeared again the speck was farther out. It was some time before it rose again, and then the young fisherman’s experienced eyes told him something was wrong. No one would dare go near Old Man Ledge in such a storm. He looked again, then hurried out of the room. A moment later he was running down toward the dock, struggling into a sweater as he ran. By the time he reached his boat, started the engine, and headed out toward sea, the storm had burst in full fury.

Yielding to the furious onset of wind and sea, his boat checked, then came up stanchly to its work, water and spray streaming from the canvas covering, rising and plunging while the engine coughed convulsively. Pettishall bent over the engine, nursing it with care against the onslaughts of flying spray while he guided, almost instinctively, the desperate battle his boat was making. Twice only did he catch sight of the helpless craft which was his goal and each time his heart came up into his throat sickeningly, for it seemed that no power on earth could snatch it away from the threatening reef. Still he urged his boat on, confident in its strength, in the power of the engine choking and coughing at its labor.

A third time the drifting boat rose. “Will Ellery!” the boy gasped in astonishment, but the wind caught up the words and seemed to drive them back into his mouth. Now he was near it! He swung his own boat out in a wide circle, rope coiled in his hand ready to throw. A figure in oilskins scrambled to its feet and called something which he could not hear. His spray-blinded eyes tried to measure the distance between the boats. He threw the rope, only to see it fall short in the boiling water.

No one but a fisherman, born and bred to the world-old cruelty of the sea, could have coaxed his boat once more near the disabled one, fighting inch by inch nearer to the reef, the roar of its waters beating in his ears and the driven spray striking against his face like flying needles. Only a fisherman, fighting desperately for the life of another, would have dared swing his boat in until for one ghastly moment it stood poised on the crest of a giant wave, directly above the one which wallowed helplessly in the trough beneath. It slipped, clung to the wall of water for the eternity of a second, then plunged, barely missing the other. In the moment he shot past, Pettishall flung the rope outward. As it was caught and made fast he saw the girl’s white face and knew who it was he had come out to rescue.

Blinding torrents of rain had begun to fall, drawing a swirling white curtain across the water. Presently the rain would cease and the sea grow calm, but there could be still no question of rounding the Head. He would have to take Emily ashore with him instead of bringing her home.

Towing the crippled boat as far back of him as the length of his painter permitted, Pettishall at last gained shelter. After making his own boat fast to its mooring he drew in the other.

Emily looked up and made a brave attempt to smile. Glancing sharply at her blue lips and haggard face, the boy swept her into his arms and put her down in the dory.

“Hev ye ashore in a minute.” Swiftly he moored the second boat and then dropped into the dory with her. When they reached the dock he asked anxiously, “S’pose ye kin go up the ladder?”

“Sure I kin.” She stood up, swayed, and would have fallen had he not caught her.

“I kin walk now,” she told him when he had climbed with her to the dock, and went slowly beside him along the path to the house.

In the living room the fire still burned. Orin threw an armful of wood on it.

“Set up here close an’ git yerself good an’ warm,” he said. “Maw left a dress here the day she come over ter clean fer me. I’ll fetch it fer ye.”

When he returned a second time, after leaving oilskins and seaboots in the kitchen, Emily looked up and smiled.

“I’m a’ right now,” she told him. “I wuz jes’—jes’ kinder upset.”

“Yes,” he returned grimly, “sh’dn’t wonder ef ye wuz. What wuz ye doin’ out in ’at boa-at? Ye might ’a’ been—ef I hedn’t happened ter see ye—” The words stuck in his throat.

“I’d ’a’ been drownded,” she said soberly, “ef ye hedn’t come out. I’d ’a’ struck the ledge in no time. I wuz comin’ here,” she explained simply. “I hed ter see ye.”

“Comin’ ter see me?” he echoed incredulously. “Comin’ here?”

She nodded. “I hed somethin’ ter tell ye—somethin’ ’at made me want ter git here fast ez ever I c’d. Set down here by me. I kin tell it plainer ef ye do.” She nestled her cold fingers in his.

“It’s what Grammy Tagel tol’ me,” she began, “’bout this house an’ the grave out yan an’ how they happened ter be. She wuz only a young ’un when it happened, but she says ’at she minds the awful storm an’ hearin’ folks tell ’bout how Captain Beath’s vessel wuz wrecked on Ol’ Man Ledge an’ nobody saved, only jes’ him. Seven men in the crew an’ only him saved, an’ he wouldn’t ’a’ been ef it hedn’t been fer one uv the men. Him an’ Captain Beath hed gone ter school tergether an’ they’d allus been friends, Grammy says.

“They wuz hangin’ onto the dory, jes’ the two uv ’em. The vessel was bustin’ up an’ they wa’n’t no trace uv the other men. Twict Captain Beath wuz washed off, but the other feller got him both times an’ fetched him up. The las’ time he says, ‘Ye got ter hang onto the plug-strap. It’s yer turn,’ he says, but Captain Beath allus said arterwards ’at it wuzn’t his turn.

“Grammy says ’at when the captain come ter hisself he wuz layin’ on the beach here. The storm wuz over an’ the sea wuz all shinin’ an’ blue. He got up onto his feet an’ called fer his friend an’ then went ’round lookin’ fer him, but they wa’n’t nobody else thar—only the shinin’ water an’ the white beach an’ the tide comin’ in. They never found no sign uv the other feller, never—”

“The other feller,” Orin asked in a hushed voice, “who wuz he?”

“Arter a while the captain built him a house here, so’s he c’d allus see the place whar him an’ his friend wuz tergether fer the las’ time. Grammy says ’at when folks made him see ’at his friend hadn’t been saved it wuz then he put up the gravestun—kinder so’s they c’d be tergether like they’d allus been. He uster tend it an’ put flowers on it an’ got inter the habit uv settin’ out thar an’ talkin’.

“They wa’n’t never nothin’ in the grave, nothin’! Grammy says ’at’s the way things often is—’at folks makes trouble an’ sorrer fer tharselves an’ fer others over things ’at wa’n’t never thar in the fust place—like—like I done—” The words were lost in a passion of tears.

The boy swept her into his arms, murmuring broken words: “It’s a’ right! They wa’n’t never nothin’ wrong, Em’ly. It’s a’right!”

Emily stood up at length, wiping the tears from her eyes. “Look,” she said, “the storm’s breakin’.”

The rain, which had been pattering steadily on the old roof, had ceased. A broad band of sunlight streamed through the western window, flooding across the quiet old room like a benediction.

“Come on,” the girl said in a low voice, “it’ll be a good time arter the rain ter pull weeds. We got ter git all the weeds ’way f’om ’round the grave. I’m glad they’s lots uv lilies still so’s I kin trim it up nice. Arter a while they’ll be bayberry an’ maple leaves fer me ter put on it—an’ in winter they’ll be pine.”

FOOTNOTES: