Part 1 (1/2)
Cape Cod Folks.
by Sarah P. McLean Greene.
CHAPTER I.
ON A MISSION.
”Lo, on a narrer neck o' land, 'Twixt two unbounded seas, I stand!”
Aunt Sibylla was not sporting, now, in the airy realms of metaphor. Aunt Sibylla stood upon Cape Cod, and her voice rang out with that peculiar sweep and power which the presence of a dread reality alone can give.
Something of the precariousness of her situation, too, was expressed in The wild, alarming, though graceful, gesture of her arms.
It was before the long-projected ca.n.a.l separating Cape Cod from the mainland had been put under active process of preparation.
It was at an evening meeting in the Wallencamp school-house. A row of dingy, smoking lanterns had been set against the wall and afforded the only light cast upon the scene. Aunt Sibylla Cradlebow, the speaker, was tall and dark-eyed, with an almost superhuman litheness of body, and a weird, beautiful face.
”And, oh, my dear brothers and sisters and onconvarted friends!” she continued; ”how little do we realize the reskiness of our situwation here on the Cape! Here we stand with them ar identical unbounded seas a rollin' up on ary side of us! the world a pintin' at us as them that should be always ready, with our lamps trimmed and burnin'! and, yit, oh my dear brothers and sisters and onconvarted friends! as fur as I have been inland--and I have been a consid'able ways inland, as you all know, whar it would seem no more than nateral that folks should settle down kind o' safe and easy on a dry land univa.r.s.e--I say, as fur as I have been inland, I never see sech keeryins on and carnal works, sech keerlessness for the present and onconsarn for the futur', as I have amongst the benighted critturs who stand before me this evenin', a straddlin' this poor, old, G.o.dforsaken Pot Hook!”
Clearer and louder grew Aunt Sibylla's tones; her eyes lightened with terrible meaning; her words flowed with an unction that was unmistakable; and, at length, ”Oh, run for the Ark, ye poor, lost sinners,” she exclaimed. ”Oh, run for the Ark, my onconvarted friends! Don't ye hear the waves a comin' in? They're a rollin' swift and sure! They're a rollin' in sure as death! Run for the Ark! Run for the Ark!”
Now, there was in Wallencamp a literal Ark, otherwise this exhortation would have lacked its most convincing force and significance. But Aunt Sibylla paused. Among the usually restless audience, there was a moment of almost breathless suspense. Not half a mile away, behind a strip of cedar woods, we could plainly hear the surf rolling in from the bay, breaking hard against the sh.o.r.e with its awful, monotonous moan, moan, moan.
My heart was already faint with home-sickness. The effect of that waiting moment was as sombre as anything I had ever experienced. Much to my distaste, I found myself sympathizing with the vague terror and unrest around me. I can hear it still, the voice that then rose, singing, through the sullen gloom of the school-room, a strangely sweet and rapturous voice--Madeline's. I learned to know it well afterwards. I listened with rapt surprise to the pathos with which it thrilled the simple words of the song:--
”Shall we meet beyond the River, Where the surges cease to roll, Where, in all the bright forever, Sorrow ne'er shall press the soul?”
A keenly responsive chord had been touched in the simple, agitated b.r.e.a.s.t.s of the Wallencampers, and they joined in the chorus--those rough people--not with their usual reckless exuberance of tone, but plaintively, tremblingly even, as though, whatever the words, they would make of them a prayer in which to hide some secret doubt or longing of their souls.
”Shall we meet, shall we meet, Shall we meet beyond the River?”
The strain was repeated with a most pathetic quaver in the rendering, and then big Captain Sartell broke down, with a helpless gulp in his voice, and I, who believed myself of too superior and refined a nature to be moved by such tawdry sentiment, was further dismayed to feel the tears gathering fast in my own eyes.
After the meeting, on the school-house steps, the big Captain, as if to atone for any unmanly exhibition of feeling into which he might have been betrayed inside, took little Bachelor Lot up by the shoulders, and gently and playfully held him suspended in mid-air, while he put to him the following riddle:--
”I'll wager a quarter, on a good, squar' guess, Bachelder. Why is--why air Aunt Sibby's remarks like this 'ere peninshaler, eh, Bachelder?”
”Because--ahem!--because they're always a runnin' to a p'int, eh?”
inquired the keen little bachelor.
”No, by thunder!” exclaimed the discomfited Captain, setting the magician down promptly. ”As near as I calk'late,” he continued, endeavoring to resume his former air of cool and reckless raillery; ”as near as I calk'late, Bachelder,--yes, sir, as near as I calk'late,--it's--it's--by thunder! it's because they're both liable to squalls in fa'r weather!”
Amazed, and almost frightened at the unexpected brilliancy of his evil success, the Captain yet kept a rueful and furtive eye on the little bachelor.
Bachelor Lot coughed slightly and smiled. ”Very true,” he drawled, cheerfully, in his small, thin voice; ”I'm--ahem!--I'm not a married man myself, you know, Captain. However,” he added; ”you should have given me another try. I had the correct answer on my tongue's end.”
During this brief exchange between the stars of the Wallencamp debate ground, murmurs of appreciative applause arose from the group of bystanders, and ”Pretty tight pinch for you, Captain!” and ”Three cheers for Bachelder! ye can't git ahead of Bachelder!” sprang delightedly from lip to lip.
Aunt Sibylla had scented from within this buoyant resumption of the Wallencamp mirth, and now appeared on the scene, bearing a burning lantern in her hand. She first turned the glare of its full orb on the late sin-convicted Captain, who stood revealed with a guilty grin frozen helplessly on his alarmed features, and next directed the beams of disclosing justice towards the form of the little bachelor, who, with too p.r.o.nounced meekness, was engaged in readjusting the collar of his coat.
”At it ag'in!” Aunt Sibylla exclaimed, with slow and cutting emphasis.