The Goodness of St. Rocque | Page 8

the last day, her voice rising to a shriek in its
eagerness, "tell them I'm your wife; it'll be the same. Only say it, Tony,
before you die!"
He raised his head, and turned stiff eyes and gibbering mouth on her;
then, with one chill finger pointing at John, fell back dully and heavily.
They buried him with many honours by the Society of Italia's Sons.
John took possession of the shop when they returned home, and found
the money hidden in the chimney corner.
As for Tony's wife, since she was not his wife after all, they sent her
forth in the world penniless, her worn fingers clutching her bundle of
clothes in nervous agitation, as though they regretted the time lost from
knitting.

THE FISHERMAN OF PASS CHRISTIAN
The swift breezes on the beach at Pass Christian meet and conflict as
though each strove for the mastery of the air. The land-breeze blows
down through the pines, resinous, fragrant, cold, bringing breath-like
memories of dim, dark woods shaded by myriad pine-needles. The
breeze from the Gulf is warm and soft and languorous, blowing up
from the south with its suggestion of tropical warmth and passion. It is
strong and masterful, and tossed Annette's hair and whipped her skirts
about her in bold disregard for the proprieties.
Arm in arm with Philip, she was strolling slowly down the great pier
which extends from the Mexican Gulf Hotel into the waters of the
Sound. There was no moon to-night, but the sky glittered and
scintillated with myriad stars, brighter than you can ever see farther
North, and the great waves that the Gulf breeze tossed up in restless

profusion gleamed with the white fire of phosphorescent flame. The
wet sands on the beach glowed white fire; the posts of the pier where
the waves had leapt and left a laughing kiss, the sides of the little boats
and fish-cars tugging at their ropes, alike showed white and flaming, as
though the sea and all it touched were afire.
Annette and Philip paused midway the pier to watch two fishermen
casting their nets. With heads bared to the breeze, they stood in clear
silhouette against the white background of sea.
"See how he uses his teeth," almost whispered Annette.
Drawing himself up to his full height, with one end of the huge seine
between his teeth, and the cord in his left hand, the taller fisherman of
the two paused a half instant, his right arm extended, grasping the folds
of the net. There was a swishing rush through the air, and it settled with
a sort of sob as it cut the waters and struck a million sparkles of fire
from the waves. Then, with backs bending under the strain, the two
men swung on the cord, drawing in the net, laden with glittering
restless fish, which were unceremoniously dumped on the boards to be
put into the fish-car awaiting them.
Philip laughingly picked up a soft, gleaming jelly-fish, and threatened
to put it on Annette's neck. She screamed, ran, slipped on the wet
boards, and in another instant would have fallen over into the water
below. The tall fisherman caught her in his arms and set her on her feet.
"Mademoiselle must be very careful," he said in the softest and most
correct French. "The tide is in and the water very rough. It would be
very difficult to swim out there to-night."
Annette murmured confused thanks, which were supplemented by
Philip's hearty tones. She was silent until they reached the pavilion at
the end of the pier. The semi-darkness was unrelieved by lantern or
light. The strong wind wafted the strains from a couple of mandolins, a
guitar, and a tenor voice stationed in one corner to sundry engrossed
couples in sundry other corners. Philip found an untenanted nook and
they ensconced themselves therein.
"Do you know there's something mysterious about that fisherman?"
said Annette, during a lull in the wind.
"Because he did not let you go over?" inquired Philip.
"No; he spoke correctly, and with the accent that goes only with an
excellent education."

Philip shrugged his shoulders. "That's nothing remarkable. If you stay
about Pass Christian for any length of time, you'll find more things than
perfect French and courtly grace among fishermen to surprise you.
These are a wonderful people who live across the Lake."
Annette was lolling in the hammock under the big catalpa-tree some
days later, when the gate opened, and Natalie's big sun-bonnet appeared.
Natalie herself was discovered blushing in its dainty depths. She was
only a little Creole seaside girl, you must know, and very shy of the
city demoiselles. Natalie's patois was quite as different from Annette's
French as it was from the postmaster's English.
"Mees Annette," she began, peony-hued