Miss Grief and Other Stories (17 page)

The six feet that walked over the beautiful beach of the
southern ocean were those of Keith, Carrington, and Sister St. Luke.

“Now go, Miss Luke,” Melvyna had said, waving her energetically away with the skimmer as she stood irresolute at the kitchen door. “'Twill do you a power of good, and they're nice, quiet gentlemen who will see to you, and make things pleasant. Bless you,
I
know what they are. They ain't none of the miserable, good-for-nothing race about here! Your convent is fifty miles off, ain't it? And besides, you were brought over here half dead for me to cure up—now, warn't you?”

The Sister acknowledged that she was, and Melvyna went on:

“You see, things is different up North, and I understand 'em, but you don't. Now you jest go right along and hev a pleasant walk, and I'll hev a nice bowl of venison broth ready for you when you come back. Go right along now.” The skimmer waved again, and the Sister went.

“Yes, she's taken the veil, and is a nun for good and all,” explained Melvyna to her new guests the evening of their arrival, when the shy little Sister had retreated to her own room above. “They thought she was dying, and she was so long about it, and useless on their hands, that they sent her up here to the village for sea air, and to be red of her, I guess. 'Tany rate, there she was in one of them crowded, dirty old houses, and so—I jest brought her over here. To tell the truth, gentlemen—the real bottom of it—my baby died last year—and—and Miss Luke she was so good I'll never forget it. I ain't a Catholic—fur from it; I hate 'em. But she seen us coming up from the boat with our little coffin, and she came out and brought flowers to lay on it, and followed to the grave,
feeble as she was; and she even put in her little black shawl, because the sand was wet—this miserable half-afloat land, you know—and I couldn't bear to see the coffin set down into it. And I said to myself then that I'd never hate a Catholic again, gentlemen. I don't love 'em yet, and don't know as I ever shell; but Miss Luke, she's different. Consumption? Well, I hardly know. She's a sight better than she was when she come. I'd like to make her well again, and, someway, I can't help a-trying to, for I was a nurse by trade once. But then what's the use? She'll only hev to go back to that old convent!” And Melvyna clashed her pans together in her vexation. “Is she a good Catholic, do you say? Heavens and earth, yes! She's
that
religious—my! I couldn't begin to tell! She believes every word of all that rubbish those old nuns have told her. She thinks it's beautiful to be the bride of heaven; and, as far as that goes, I don't know but she's right: 'tain't much the other kind is wuth,” pursued Melvyna, with fine contempt for mankind in general. “As to freedom, they've as good as shoved her off their hands, haven't they? And I guess I can do as I like any way on my own island. There wasn't any man about their old convent, as I can learn, and so Miss Luke, she hain't been taught to run away from 'em like most nuns. Of course, if they knew, they would be sending over here after her; but they don't know, and them priests in the village are too fat and lazy to earn their salt, let alone caring what has become of her. I guess, if they think of her at all, they think that she died, and that they buried her in their crowded, sunken old graveyard. They're so slow and sleepy that they forget half the time who they're burying! But Miss Luke, she ought to go out in the air, and she is so afraid of everything that it don't do her no good to go alone. I haven't
got the time to go; and so, if you will let her walk along the beach with you once in a while, it will do her a sight of good, and give her an appetite—although what I want her to hev an appetite for I am sure I don't know; for, ef she gets well, of course she'll go back to the convent. Want to go?
That
she does. She loves the place, and feels lost and strange anywhere else. She was taken there when she was a baby, and it is all the home she has.
She
doesn't know they wanted to be red of her, and she wouldn't believe it ef I was to tell her forty times. She loves them all dearly, and prays every day to go back there. Spanish? Yes, I suppose so; she don't know herself what she is exactly. She speaks English well though, don't she? Yes, Sister St. Luke is her name; and a heathenish name it is for a woman, in my opinion.
I
call her Miss Luke. Convert her? Couldn't any more convert her than you could convert a white gull, and make a land-bird of him. It's his nature to ride on the water and be wet all the time. Towels couldn't dry him—not if you fetched a thousand!”

“Our good hostess is a woman of discrimination, and sorely perplexed, therefore, over her
protégée,”
said Keith, as the two young men sought their room, a loft under the peaked roof, which was to be their abode for some weeks, when they were not afloat. “As a nurse she feels a professional pride in curing, while as a Calvinist she would almost rather kill than cure, if her patient is to go back to the popish convent. But the little Sister looks very fragile. She will probably save trouble all around by fading away.”

“She is about as faded now as a woman can be,” answered Carrington.

The two friends, or rather companions, plunged into all the
phases of the southern ocean with a broad, inhaling, expanding delight which only a physique naturally fine, or carefully trained, can feel. George Carrington was a vigorous young Saxon, tall and broad, feeling his life and strength in every vein and muscle. Each night he slept his eight hours dreamlessly, like a child, and each day he lived four hours in one, counting by the pallid hours of other men. Andrew Keith, on the other hand, represented the physique cultured and trained up to a high point by years of attention and care. He was a slight man, rather undersized, but his wiry strength was more than a match for Carrington's bulk, and his finely cut face, if you would but study it, stood out like a cameo by the side of a ruddy miniature in oils. The trouble is that but few people study cameos. He was older than his companion, and “one of those quiet fellows, you know,” said the world. The two had never done or been anything remarkable in their lives. Keith had a little money, and lived as he pleased, while Carrington, off now on a vacation, was junior member of a firm in which family influence had placed him. Both were city men.

“You absolutely do not know how to walk, señora,” said Keith. “I will be doctor now, and you must obey me. Never mind the crabs, and never mind the jelly-fish, but throw back your head and walk off briskly. Let the wind blow in your face, and try to stand more erect.”

“You are doctor? They told me, could I but see one, well would I be,” said the Sister. “At the convent we have only Sister Inez, with her small and old medicines.”

“Yes, I think I may call myself doctor,” answered Keith gravely. “What do you say, Carrington?”

“Knows no end, Miss, Miss—Miss Luke—I should say,
Miss St. Luke. I am sure I do not know why I should stumble over it when St. John is a common enough name,” answered Carrington, who generally did his thinking aloud.

“No end?” repeated the little Sister inquiringly. “But there is an end in this evil world to all things.”

“Never mind what he says, señora,” interrupted Keith, “but step out strongly and firmly, and throw back your head. There now, there are no crabs in sight, and the beach is hard as a floor. Try it with me: one, two; one, two.”

So they treated her, partly as a child, partly as a gentle being of an inferior race. It was a new amusement, although a rather mild one Carrington said, to instruct this unformed, timid mind, to open the blinded eyes, and train the ignorant ears to listen to the melodies of nature.

“Do you not hear? It is like the roll of a grand organ,” said Keith as they sat on the door-step one evening at sunset. The sky was dark; the wind had blown all day from the north to the south, and frightened the little Sister as she toiled at her lace-work, made on a cushion in the Spanish fashion, her lips mechanically repeating prayers meanwhile; for never had they such winds at the inland convent, embowered in its orange-trees. Now, as the deep, low roll of the waves sounded on the shore, Keith, who was listening to it with silent enjoyment, happened to look up and catch the pale, repressed nervousness of her face.

“Oh, not like an organ,” she murmured. “This is a fearful sound; but an organ is sweet—soft and sweet. When Sister Teresa plays the evening hymn it is like the sighing of angels.”

“But your organ is probably small, señora.”

“We have not thought it small. It remains in our chapel, by
the window of arches, and below we walk, at the hour of meditation, from the lime-tree to the white rose-bush, and back again, while the music sounds above. We have not thought it small, but large—yes, very large.”

“Four feet long, probably,” said Carrington, who was smoking an evening pipe, now listening to the talk awhile, now watching the movements of two white heron who were promenading down the beach. “I saw the one over in the village church. It was about as long as this step.”

“Yes,” said the Sister, surveying the step, “it is about as long as that. It is a very large organ.

“Walk with me down to the point,” said Keith—“just once and back again.”

The docile little Sister obeyed; she always did immediately whatever they told her to do.

“I want you to listen now; stand still and listen—listen to the sea,” said Keith, when they had turned the point and stood alone on the shore. “Try to think only of the pure, deep, blue water, and count how regularly the sound rolls up in long, low chords, dying away and then growing louder, dying away and then growing louder, as regular as your own breath. Do you not hear it?”

“Yes,” said the little Sister timorously.

“Keep time, then, with your hand, and let me see whether you catch the measure.”

So the small brown hand, nerveless and slender, tried to mark and measure the roar of the great ocean surges, and at last succeeded, urged on by the alternate praises and rebukes of Keith, who watched with some interest a faint color rise in the pale oval face, and an intent listening look come into the
soft, unconscious eyes, as, for the first time, the mind caught the mighty rhythm of the sea. She listened, and listened, standing mute, with head slightly bent and parted lips.

“I want you to listen to it in that way every day,” said Keith, as he led the way back. “It has different voices: sometimes a fresh, joyous song, sometimes a faint, loving whisper; but always something. You will learn in time to love it, and then it will sing to you all day long.”

“Not at the dear convent; there is no ocean there.”

“You want to go back to the convent?”

“Oh, could I go! could I go!” said the Sister, not impatiently, but with an intense yearning in her low voice. “Here, so lost, so strange am I, so wild is everything. But I must not murmur”; and she crossed her hands upon her breast and bowed her head.

THE TWO YOUNG MEN
led a riotous life; they rioted with the ocean, with the winds, with the level island, with the sunshine and the racing clouds. They sailed over to the reef daily and plunged into the surf; they walked for miles along the beach, and ran races over its white floor; they hunted down the center of the island, and brought back the little brown deer who lived in the low thicket on each side of the island's backbone. The island was twenty miles long and a mile or two broad, with a central ridge of shell-formed rock about twenty feet in height, that seemed like an Appalachian chain on the level waste; below, in the little hollows on each side, spread a low tangled thicket, a few yards wide; and all the rest was barren sand, with movable hills here and there—hills a few feet in height,
blown up by the wind, and changed in a night. The only vegetation besides the thicket was a rope-like vine that crept over the sand, with few leaves far apart, and now and then a dull purple blossom—a solitary tenacious vine of the desert, satisfied with little, its growth slow, its life monotonous; yet try to tear it from the surface of the sand, where its barren length seems to lie loosely like an old brown rope thrown down at random, and behold, it resists you stubbornly. You find a mile or two of it on your hands, clinging and pulling as the strong ivy clings to a stone wall; a giant could not conquer it, this seemingly dull and half-dead thing; and so you leave it there to creep on in its own way, over the damp, shell-strewn waste. One day Carrington came home in great glory; he had found a salt marsh. “Something besides this sand, you know—a stretch of saw-grass away to the south, the very place for fat ducks. And somebody has been there before us, too, for I saw the mast of a sail-boat some distance down, tipped up against the sky.”

“That old boat is ourn, I guess,” said Melvyna. “She drifted down there one high tide, and Pedro he never would go for her. She was a mighty nice little boat, too, ef she
was
cranky.”

Pedro smiled amiably back upon his spouse, and helped himself to another hemisphere of pie. He liked the pies, although she was obliged to make them, she said, of such outlandish things as figs, dried oranges, and pomegranates. “If you could only see a pumpkin, Pedro,” she often remarked, shaking her head. Pedro shook his back in sympathy; but, in the mean time, found the pies very good as they were.

“Let us go down after the boat,” said Carrington. “You have only that old tub over at the inlet, Pedro, and you really
need another boat.” (Carrington always liked to imagine that he was a constant and profound help to the world at large.) “Suppose anything should happen to the one you have?” Pedro had not thought of that; he slowly put down his knife and fork to consider the subject.

“We will go this afternoon,” said Keith, issuing his orders, “and you shall go with us, señora.”