Every Man for Himself

VII – “BY-AN’-BY” BROWN OF BLUNDER COVE

“By-an’-by” Brown he was called at Blunder Cove. And as “By-an’-by” Brown he was known within its fishing radius: Grave Head to Blow-me-down Billy. Momentarily, on the wet night of his landing, he had been “Mister” Brown; then – just “By-an’-by” Brown.

There was no secret about the baby. Young Brown was a bachelor of the outports: even so, there was still no secret about the baby. Nonsense! It was not “By-an’-by’s.” It never had been. Name? Tweak. Given name? She. What! Well, then, It! Age? Recent – somewheres ’long about midsummer. Blunder Cove was amazed, but, being used to sudden peril, to misfortune, and strange chances, was not incredulous. Blunder Cove was sympathetic: so sympathetic, indeed, so quick to minister and to assist, that “By-an’-by” Brown, aged fifteen, having taken but transient shelter for the child, remained to rear it, forever proposing, however, to proceed – by-and-by. So there they were, “By-an’-by” Brown and the baby! And the baby was not “By-an’-by’s.” Everybody knew it – even the baby: perhaps best of all.

“By-an’-by” Brown had adopted the baby at Back Yard Bight of the Labrador. There had been nothing else to do. It was quite out of the question, whatever the proprieties, whatever the requirements of babies and the inadequacy of bachelors – it was quite out of the question for “By-an’-by” Brown, being a bachelor of tender years and perceptions, to abandon even a baby at Back Yard Bight of the Labrador, having first assisted at the interment of the mother and then instantly lost trace of the delinquent father. The monstrous expedient had not even occurred to him; he made a hasty bundle of the baby and took flight for more populous neighborhoods, commanding advice, refuge, and infinitely more valuable assistance from the impoverished settlements by the way. And thereafter he remembered the bleak and lonely reaches of Back Yard Bight as a stretch of coast where he had been considerably alarmed.

It had been a wet night when “By-an’-by” Brown and the baby put into Blunder Cove – wind in the east, the sea in a tumble: a wet night, and late of it. All the windows were black; and the paths of the place – a water-side maze in the lee of great hills – were knee-deep in a flood of darkness. “By-an’-by” Brown was downcast: this because of his years. He was a lad of fifteen. Fifteen, mark you! – a gigantic fifteen: a wise and competent fifteen, too, having for seven years fended for itself in the turf huts of the Labrador and the forecastles of the lower coasts. But still, for the moment, he was downcast by the burden upon his youth. So he knocked diffidently at the first kitchen door; and presently he stood abashed in a burst of warm light from within.

Shelter? Oh, ay! T’ be sure. But (in quick and resentful suspicion):

“B’y,” Aunt Phoebe Luff demanded, “what ye got in them ile-skins? Pups?”

“By-an’-by” Brown observed that there were embers in the kitchen stove, that steam was faintly rising from the spout of the kettle.

“Baby,” said he.

Aunt Phoebe jumped. “What!” cried she:

“Jus’ a baby,” said “By-an’-by” Brown. “Well!– you give that there baby here.”

“I’ll be glad t’, ma’am,” said young “By-an’-by” Brown, in childish tenderness, still withholding the bundle from the woman’s extended arms, “but not for keeps.”

“For keeps!” Aunt Phoebe snorted.

“No, ma’am; not for keeps. I’m ’lowin’ t’ fetch it up myself,” said “By-an’-by” Brown, “by-an’-by.”

“Dunderhead!” Aunt Phoebe whispered, softly.

And “By-an’-by” Brown, familiar with the exigency, obediently went in.

Then there were lights in the cottages of Blunder Cove: instantly, it seemed. And company – and tea and hard bread and chatter – in Skipper Tom Luff’s little white kitchen. A roaring fire in the stove: a kettle that sang and chuckled and danced, glad once more to be engaged in the real business of life. So was the cradle – glad to be useful again, though its activity had been but for an hour suspended. It went to work in a business-like way, with never a creak, in response to the gentle toe of “By-an’-by” Brown’s top-boot. There was an inquisition, too, through which “By-an’-by” Brown crooned to the baby, “Hush-a-by!” and absently answered, “Uh-huh!” and “By-an’-by!” as placid as could be. Concerning past troubles: Oh, they was – yesterday. And of future difficulties: Well, they was – by-an’-by. “Hush-a-by!” and “By-an’-by!” So they gave him a new name – “By-an’-by” Brown – because he was of those whose past is forgot in yesterday and whose future is no more inimical than – well, jus’ by-an’-by.

“By-an’-by” Brown o’ Blunder Cove – paddle-punt fishin’ the Blow-me-down grounds…

It had not been for keeps. “By-an’-by” Brown resisted in a fashion so resolute that no encroachment upon his rights was accomplished by Aunt Phoebe Luff. He had wandered too long alone to be willing to yield up a property in hearts once he possessed it. And Blunder Cove approved. The logic was simple: If “By-an’-by” Brown took the child t’ raise, why, then, nobody else would have t’. The proceeding was never regarded as extraordinary. Nobody said, “How queer!” It was looked upon merely as a commendably philanthropic undertaking on the part of “By-an’-by” Brown; the accident of his sex and situation had nothing to do with the problem. Thus, when Aunt Phoebe’s fostering care was no longer imperative “By-an’-by” Brown said Now for the first time in his life, and departed with the baby. By that time, of course, there was an establishment: a whitewashed cottage by the water-side, a stage, a flake, a punt – all the achievement of “By-an’-by’s” own hands. A new account, too: this on the ledger of Wull & Company, trading the French Shore with the Always Loaded, putting in off and on.

“By-an’-by’s” baby began to grow perceptibly. “By-an’-by” just kept on growing, ’lowin’ t’ stop sometime – by-an’-by. It happened – by-an’-by. This was when he was two-and-twenty: by which time, according to enthusiastic observers from a more knowing and appreciative world, he was Magnificent. The splendor consisted, it was said, in bulk, muscle, and the like, somewhat, too, perhaps, in poise and glance; but Blunder Cove knew that these external and relatively insignificant aspects were transcended by the spiritual graces which “By-an’-by” Brown displayed. He was religious; but it must be added that he was amiable. A great, tender, devoted dog: “By-an’-by” Brown. This must be said for him: that if he by-an’-byed the unpleasant necessities into a future too distant to be troublesome, he by-an’-byed the appearance of evil to the same far exile. After all, it may be a virtue to practise the art of by-an’-bying.

As for the baby at this period, the age of seven years, the least said the less conspicuous the failure to say anything adequate. Language was never before so helplessly mocked. It may be ventured, however, to prove the poverty of words, that dispassionately viewed through the eyes of “By-an’-by” Brown, she was angelic. “Jus’ a wee li’l’ mite of a angel!” said he. Of course, this is not altogether original, nor is it specific; but it satisfied “By-an’-by” Brown’s idea of perfection. A slim little slip of a maid of the roguishly sly and dimpled sort: a maid of delicate fashioning, exquisite of feature – a maid of impulsive affections. Exact in everything; and exacting, too – in a captivating way. And herein was propagated the germ of disquietude for “By-an’-by” Brown: promising, indeed (fostered by the folly of procrastination), a more tragic development. “By-an’-by’s” baby was used to saying, You told me so. Also, But you promised. The particular difficulty confronting “By-an’-by” Brown was the baby’s insistent curiosity, not inconsistent with the age of seven, concerning the whereabouts of her father and the time and manner of his return.

Brown had piqued it into being: just by saying – “By-an’-by!”

“Ay,” says she; “but when will he be comin’ back?”

“Why,” he answered, bewildered – “by-an’-by!”

It was a familiar evasion. The maid frowned. “Is you sure?” she demanded, sceptically.

“Ye bet ye!” he was prompt to reply, feeling bound now, to convince her, whatever came of it; “he’ll be comin’ back – by-an’-by.”

“Well, then,” said the maid, relieved, “I s’pose so.”

Brown had never disclosed the brutal delinquency of Long Bill Tweak. Not to the maid, because he could not wound her; not to Blunder Cove, because he would not shame her. The revelation must be made, of course; but not now – by-an’-by. The maid knew that her mother was dead beyond recall: no mystery was ever made of that; and there ended the childish wish and wonder concerning that poor woman. But her father? Here was an inviting mystery. No; he was not what you might call dead – jus’ sort o’ gone away. Would he ever come back? Oh, sure! no need o’ frettin’ about that; he’d be back – by-an’-by. Had “By-an’-by” Brown said Never, the problem would have been dieposed of, once and for all: the fretting over with, once and for all. But what he said was this uncourageous and specious by-an’-by. So the maid waited in interested speculation: then impatiently. For she was used to saying, You told me so. Also, But then you promised.

As by-an’-by overhauled by-an’-by in the days of “By-an’-by” Brown, and as the ultimate by-an’-by became imminent, “By-an’-by” Brown was ever more disquieted.

“But,” says the maid, “‘by-an’-by’ is never.”

“Oh, my, no!” he protested.

She tapped the tip of his nose with a long little forefinger, and emphasized every word with a stouter tap. “Yes – it – is!” said she.

“Not never,” cried “By-an’-by” Brown.

“Then,” says she, “is it to-morrow?”

Brown violently shook his head.

“Is it nex’ week?”

“Goodness, no!”

“Well,” she insisted – and she took “By-an’-by’s” face between her palms and drew it close to search his eyes – “is it nex’ year?”

“Maybe.”

She touched the tip of her white little nose to the sunburned tip of his. “But is it?” she persisted.

“Uh-huh,” said “By-an’-by” Brown, recklessly, quite overcome, committing himself beyond redemption; “nex’ year.”

And “By-an’-by’s” baby remembered…

Next year began, of course, with the first day of January. And a day with wind and snow it was! Through the interval of three months preceding, Brown had observed the approach of this veritable by-an’-by with rising alarm. And on New Year’s Day, why, there it was: by-an’-by come at last! “By-an’-by” Brown, though twenty-two, was frightened. No wonder! Hitherto his life had not been perturbed by insoluble bewilderments. But how to produce Long Bill Tweak from the mist into which he had vanished at Back Yard Bight of the Labrador seven years ago? It was beyond him. Who could call Bill Tweak from seven years of time and the very waste places of space? Not “By-an’-by” Brown, who could only ponder and sigh and scratch his curly head. And here was the maid, used to saying, as maids of seven will, But you told me so! and, You promised! So “By-an’-by” Brown was downcast as never before; but before the day was spent he conceived that the unforeseen might yet fortuitously issue in the salvation of himself and the baby.

“Maybe,” thought he – “by-an’-by!”

As January progressed the maid grew more eager and still more confident. He promised, thinks she; also, He told me so. There were times, as the terrified Brown observed, when this eagerness so possessed the child that she trembled in a fashion to make him shiver. She would start from her chair by the stove when a knock came late o’ windy nights on the kitchen door; she would stare up the frozen harbor to the Tickle by day – peep through the curtains, interrupt her housewifely duties to keep watch at the window.

“Anyhow, he will come,” says she, quite confidently, “by-an’-by.”

“Uh-huh!” Brown must respond.

What was a shadow upon the gentle spirit of “By-an’-by” Brown was the sunlight of certain expectation irradiating “By-an’-by’s” baby. But the maid fell ill. Nobody knew why. Suspicion dwelled like a skeleton with “By-an’-by” Brown; but this he did not divulge to Blunder Cove. Nothin’ much the matter along o’ she, said the Cove; jus’ a little spell o’ somethin’ or other. It was a childish indisposition, perhaps – but come with fever and pallor and a poignant restlessness. “By-an’-by” Brown had never before known how like to a black cloud the future of a man might be. At any rate, she must be put to bed: whereupon, of course, “By-an’-by” Brown indefinitely put off going to bed, having rather stand watch, he said. It was presently a question at Blunder Cove: who was the more wan and pitiable, “By-an’-by’s” baby, being sick, or “By-an’-by,” being anxious? And there was no cure anywhere to be had – no cure for either. “By-an’-by” Brown conceived that the appearance of Long Bill Tweak would instantly work a miracle upon the maid. But where was Bill Tweak? There was no magic at hand to accomplish the feat of summoning a scamp from Nowhere!

One windy night “By-an’-by” Brown sat with the child to comfort her. “I ’low,” he drawled, “that you wisht a wonderful sight that your father was here.”

“Uh-huh!” the maid exclaimed.

Brown sighed. “I s’pose,” he muttered.

“Is he comin’?” she demanded.

“Oh – by-an’-by!”

“I wisht ’twas now,” said she. “That I does!”

Brown listened to the wind. It was blowing high and bitterly: a winter wind, with snow from the northeast. “By-an’-by” was troubled.

“I ’low,” said he, hopelessly, “that you’ll love un a sight, won’t ye? – when he comes?”

“Ye bet ye!” the maid answered.

“More’n ye love – some folks?”

“A lot,” said she.

Brown was troubled. He heard the kitchen stove snore in its familiar way, the kettle bubble, the old wind assault the cottage he had builded for the baby; and he remembered recent years – and was troubled.

“Will ye love un more?” he asked, anxiously, turning his face from the child, “than ye loves me?” He hesitated. “Ye won’t, will ye?” he implored.

“’Twill be different,” said she.

“Will it?” he asked, rather vacantly.

“Ye see,” she explained, “he’ll be my father.”

“Then,” suggested “By-an’-by,” “ye’ll be goin’ away along o’ he? – when he comes?”

“Oh, my, no!”

“Ye’ll not? Ye’ll stay along o’ me?”

“Why, ye see,” she began, bewildered, “I’ll – why, o’ course, I’ll – oh,” she complained, “what ye ask me that for?”

“Jus’ couldn’t help it,” said “By-an’-by,” humbly.

The maid began to cry.

“Don’t!” pleaded “By-an’-by” Brown. “Jus’ can’t stand it. I’ll do anything if ye’ll on’y stop cryin’. Ye can have your father. Ye needn’t love me no more. Ye can go away along o’ he. An’ he’ll be comin’ soon, too. Ye’ll see if he don’t. Jus’ by-an’-by – by-an’-by!”

“’Tis never,” the maid sobbed.

“No, no! By-an’-by is soon. Why,” cried “By-an’-by” Brown, perceiving that this intelligence stopped the child’s tears, “by-an’-by is – wonderful soon.”

“To-morrow?”

“Well, no; but – ”

“’Tis never!” she wailed.

“’Tis nex’ week!” cried “By-an’-by” Brown…

When the dawn of Monday morning confronted “By-an’-by” Brown he was appalled. Here was a desperately momentous situation: by-an’-by must be faced – at last. Where was Long Bill Tweak? Nobody knew. How could Long Bill Tweak be fetched from Nowhere? Brown scratched his head. But Long Bill Tweak must be fetched: for here was the maid, chirpin’ about the kitchen – turned out early, ecod! t’ clean house against her father’s coming. Cured? Ay; that she was – the mouse! “By-an’-by” Brown dared not contemplate her collapse at midnight of Saturday. But chance intervened: on Tuesday morning Long Bill Tweak made Blunder Cove on the way from Lancy Loop to St. John’s to join the sealing fleet in the spring of the year. Long Bill Tweak in the flesh! It was still blowing high: he had come out of the snow – a shadow in the white mist, rounding the Tickle rocks, observed from all the windows of Blunder Cove, but changing to Long Bill Tweak himself, ill-kempt, surly, gruff-voiced, vicious-eyed, at the kitchen door of “By-an’-by” Brown’s cottage.

Long Bill Tweak begged the maid, with a bristle-whiskered twitch – a scowl, mistakenly delivered as a smile – for leave to lie the night in that place.

The maid was afraid with a fear she had not known before. “We’re ’lowing for company,” she objected.

“Come in!” “By-an’-by” called from the kitchen.

The maid fled in a fright to the inner room, and closed the door upon herself; but Long Bill Tweak swaggered in.

“Tweak!” gasped “By-an’-by” Brown.

“Brown!” growled Long Bill Tweak.

There was the silence of uttermost amazement; but presently, with a jerk, Tweak indicated the door through which “By-an’-by’s” baby had fled.

“It?” he whispered.

Brown nodded.

“’Low I’ll be goin’ on,” said Long Bill Tweak, making for the windy day.

“Ye’ll go,” answered “By-an’-by” Brown, quietly, interposing his great body, “when ye’re let: not afore.”

Long Bill Tweak contented himself with the hospitality of “By-an’-by” Brown…

That night, when Brown had talked with the maid’s father for a long, long time by the kitchen stove, the maid being then turned in, he softly opened the bedroom door and entered, closing it absent-mindedly behind him, dwelling the while, in deep distress, upon the agreement he had wrested by threat and purchase from Long Bill Tweak. The maid was still awake because of terror; she was glad, indeed, to have caught sight of “By-an’-by” Brown’s broad, kindly young countenance in the beam of light from the kitchen, though downcast, and she snuggled deeper into the blankets, not afraid any more. “By-an’-by” touched a match to the candle-wick with a great hand that trembled. He lingered over the simple act – loath to come nearer to the evil necessity of the time. For Long Bill Tweak was persuaded now to be fatherly to the child; and “By-an’-by” Brown must yield her, according to her wish. He sat for a time on the edge of the little bed, clinging to the maid’s hand; and he thought, in his gentle way, that it was a very small, very dear hand, and that he would wish to touch it often, when he could not.

Presently Brown sighed: then, taking heart, he joined issue with his trouble.

“I ’low,” he began, “that you wisht your father was here.”

The maid did.

“I ’low,” he pursued, “that you wisht he was here this very minute.”

That the maid did!

“I ’low,” said “By-an’-by,” softly, lifting the child’s hands to his lips, “that you wisht the man in the kitchen was him.”

“No,” the maid answered, sharply.

“Ye doesn’t?”

“Ye bet ye – no!” said she.

“Eh?” gasped the bewildered Brown.