"Now hold her firmly," he ordered, "and you, Mrs. Atkins, get behind her and take her head. Hold it steady, just this way. Never mind her crying."
But the little one wrenched herself away from the woman's grasp. The breath entered its lungs with an awful long hoarse sound and the poor little lips were very blue.
"For God's sake, hold her better," he cried again.
"I'm all of a tremble," said Mrs. Atkins, weeping. "She's sure goin' ter die. I kin never hold her, she do be fightin' me so."
Of course there was only one thing to do. I ran out of the corner to which I had retreated and pushed the foolish woman away and seized the baby's head so that it could not move.
Dr. Grant stared at me, shaking his head, but I suppose I looked at him defiantly, for I was really angry with him.
"This is all wrong, Miss Jelliffe," he said. "You should not expose yourself to this infection."
He spoke so quietly that I became rather sorry I had been provoked at him, but he paid no more heed to me. Once he placed a hand on one of mine, to show me exactly how to hold the head, and then he took a long handle to which something was fastened at right angles. The child's mouth was widely opened by the gag he had inserted, and his left finger went swiftly down into the child's throat and the instrument, pushed by his right hand, followed, incredibly quick. There was just a rapid motion, I heard the release of a catch, and then, suddenly, there was a terrifying attack of violent coughing. But in a moment this ceased, the child lay back quietly in her mother's arms, the color began to return to her lips, and she was breathing quietly. Then we watched, in silence, and finally the little head turned to one side and the baby closed her eyes, while the poor woman's tears streamed down and even fell on the tiny face.
"She is all right for the time being," said Dr. Grant, in that quiet voice of his, which I have heard change so quickly. "If she can only resist until the antitoxine acts upon her we may pull her through. I am greatly obliged to you, Miss Jelliffe. I am afraid your father will scold us both for taking such chances with your health."
But by this time my eyes were full of tears also, I don't know why. I was unsteady on my feet and held on to the back of a chair.
"I never saw anything like this before," I said. "I didn't quite realize that it ever happened. The poor little thing was dying, and you did it all so quickly! That thing went in like a flash, and then she coughed so and I thought she was lost. And now she sleeps, and I am sure you have saved her, and she must get well. How dreadful it was, at first, and how wonderfully beautiful it is to be able to do such things! I am so glad!"
Wasn't it silly of me to get so excited, Aunt Jennie. But I suppose one can't understand such happenings until one has witnessed them. I know that I had taken the doctor's arm, without realizing what I was doing, and found myself patting it, stupidly, like a silly, hysterical thing.
His face was very serious, just then, and he looked at me as if he had been studying another patient. Then came that little smile of his, very kindly, which made me feel better.
"I think you had better go now, Miss Jelliffe," he advised. "I beg you not to expose yourself further. It is a duty you owe your good old father and any one who cares for you."
Then I was myself again. The excitement of those tense moments had passed away and I knew I had been a little foolish and that he spoke ever so gently.
"I will go since you wish me to," I answered. "But I am ever so glad thatI was able to help you. You will come to supper, won't you?"
"I am afraid you will have to excuse me," he said. "I can hardly do so now, for I must remain here and watch this child for some time. You will please change all your clothing and have it hung out on the line, and you will gargle your throat with something I will send you. I'll call to-morrow and see your father, and give you the latest news of this little patient."
"I didn't know that you ever got so angry," I said, now prompted by some spirit of mischief. "You were in a dreadful temper when I came in."
"Of course I was," he readily admitted. "But do you realize that this is the continuation of an old story. This woman was in St. John's last week, with the child, and I suppose they may have brought the disease from there. Then the child became ill, the night before last, and she waits until this morning to bring it over to me. When she reaches here she finds me away, but of course every woman in the place strolls in, with children in arms, to look on and give advice. We may be in for a fine epidemic. I shall have to send to St. John's at once for a new supply of antitoxine. I have only a little, and it is not very fresh. Atkins is away with his schooner but he is expected to-morrow. I hope he turns up. Thank you ever so much, Miss Jelliffe. Now please run away and follow my directions."
So I left him and returned to the house and obeyed his orders. We soon had supper, but when I told Daddy all about it, it was his turn to be angry.
"That's all very well," he said, "but after all he could have found some one else to help him and you had no business to disobey. When the time comes for you to have babies of your own you can risk your life for them as much as you please, but you have no right to run into danger now. You are my only child, and I have no one else to love since your poor mother died. Please don't do such things again. Grant was perfectly right in trying to chase you away. He should have taken a stick to you."
Daddy's ruffled tempers are never proof against my method of smoothing the raging seas. My arm around his neck and a kiss will make him eat out of my hand, as Harry Lawrence puts it. Naturally he succumbed again and in a minute was just as nice as ever.
We had only just finished our supper when Frenchy came in, leading his little boy by the hand. He bore a letter which he gravely handed to Daddy who, as usual, had to look into three or four pockets before he found his glasses. Then he read, and his face became serious, as it always does when he takes sudden decisions.
"Yves," he said, "will you oblige me by going down to the cove at once and hailing the schooner. I want my captain to come over here."
Frenchy departed, after saluting as usual, his little fellow trotting beside him, and Daddy, without a word, handed the letter to me. I read as follows:
Dear Mr. Jelliffe:
I had intended to see you to-morrow morning, and expect to do so, but I believe it might be best for you to obtain my advice at once. Miss Jelliffe has doubtless told you how she helped me with a case of diphtheria, although I am sure she omitted to say how brave and helpful she was. The danger to her is comparatively slight, I am sure, yet we must not forget that such a danger exists. If you were to start to-morrow morning you could be in St. John's before night. From there two days would find you in Halifax and two more in New York, so that you would be always near good care and advice.
With a little care and prudence in regard to your leg I am sure that you can reach home quite safely.
With kindest regards,Very sincerely yours,JOHN GRANT.
I stared at Daddy, hardly knowing what to say.
"That boy has a lot of good sound horse-sense!" he exclaimed. "I am just going to follow his advice. Bring me my check-book. I am going to make out something for that little parson. He needs a place to give the folks what he calls readings, and other things. He told me that two-fifty would give him unutterable joy. I'll make it five hundred so that he can shout. Now in regard to Dr. Grant…."
"Are we really going to-morrow, Daddy?" I interrupted.
"You bet we are going to-morrow, always providing that yacht of ours is ready. I gave orders yesterday to have something done and…."
But I didn't listen any more. I went to the window and drew aside the little curtain. Down below, in the cove, I could see theSnowbird'sanchor light, gleaming brilliantly. The windows of some of the houses shed a sickly pale radiance, but beyond this everything was in darkness, with just the faintest suggestion of enormous masses representing the jagged cliffs. There was not a single star in the heavens, and all at once everything seemed to be plunged in desolation. It felt as when one awakes in the darkness from some beautiful dream. I knew then that I would be actually home-sick for Sweetapple Cove when I returned to New York.
Please don't laugh at me, Aunt Jennie dear, you know I have had no one but you to confide in since I have grown out of short skirts. Perhaps it was this thing I saw in Atkins' house that has upset me so, and I suppose that my life has always been too easy, and that I have not been prepared to meet some of the grim horrors it can reveal to one.
I could not think of leaving without saying good-by to Mrs. Barnett. My hand shook as I pushed a hatpin through my cap. Then I told Daddy where I was going and ran out into the darkness.
When I reached the poor little house they insist on calling the rectory the dear woman opened her arms to greet me, and I saw that her beautiful eyes were filled with tears.
"What is the matter, dear?" I asked.
"I was a coward to-day," she cried. "Such an awful coward! I had no business to leave when Dr. Grant told me to. I should have stayed and helped. But when he spoke of diphtheria I couldn't help it and thought of my little chaps. I have already seen that dreadful thing come and sweep little lives away, just in a day or two. It took the one we buried on the other side of the cove, and we saw it suffocating, helpless to aid. And that's why I ran out, terror-stricken. But I hear that you held the baby for him. You don't know what it is to have babies of your own, and were not afraid. It is dreadful, you know, that fear that comes in a mother's heart!"
She looked quite weak when she sat down, in a poor, worn, upholstered chair that was among the things they brought from England, and I sat on the arm of it, beside her.
"I have changed all my clothes," I told her, "and I don't think I'm dangerous. Now Daddy insists that we must leave to-morrow, and I'm just broken-hearted about it. Dr. Grant wrote him that it would be better for us to leave, but I don't want to go."
"Did the doctor write that?" she exclaimed.
"Yes, because there might be danger in my staying longer. Why can't I share it with all the others who will have to stay here? I shall never forgive him!"
I suppose that we were both rather excited, and I know I had to dab my eyes with my handkerchief. Then Mrs. Barnett forgot all about her own worries, for she was patting me on the arm, looking at me intently all the time, just as Daddy has been doing, in a queer way that I can't understand.
"I daresay it will be best for both of you," she said, in that sweetest voice of hers.
"Yes, I think Daddy wants to get back," I said, and she stared at me again, as I rose and bade her good-by.
"Don't say it yet, dear," she told me, "I will certainly come down to see you off in the morning. It has been so delightful to have had you here all these weeks, and I shall miss you dreadfully when you are gone. I can hardly bear to think of it."
So I kissed her and had to tear myself away. Like a pair of silly women we were on the verge of tears once more, and there was nothing left for me to do but to run.
It was perhaps some unusual effect of the night air, but I was quite husky when I spoke to Daddy again.
"You will be glad to get back, won't you. Daddy?" I asked him. "It will be so nice for you to go to the club again, and see all your old friends."
He looked at me, and only nodded in a noncommittal way.
"I will leave you now," I said. "There is a lot of packing to do, and that poor silly Susie is perfectly useless, since she heard we were going. She is sitting on a stool in the kitchen and weeping herself into a fit. Her nose is the reddest thing you ever saw. But you and I are old travelers, aren't we, and used to quick changes? You remember, in Europe, how we used to get to little towns and decide in a moment whether we would stay or not, when we were tired of all those old museums and cathedrals?"
But Daddy only patted my hand, and I have decided that he is a wonderfully clever man. I am sure he understood that I was just forcing myself to talk, and that he could say nothing that would make me feel better.
Then there was a knock at the door, and Stefansson came in with one of his long faces.
"Good evening," said Daddy. "Have a cigar? The box is there on the table.I have good news for you, since I know you don't enjoy this place much.Too far from Long Island Sound, isn't it? I want to sail to-morrowmorning."
Our skipper's long Swedish face lengthened out a bit more, and he looked a very picture of distress.
"But you told me yesterday that you were going to stay at least another week, Mr. Jelliffe," he objected. "So to-day when the engineer he tells me about bearings needing new packing, and about a connecting rod being a bit loose, I told him to get busy."
"I'd like to know what you fellows were doing all the time in St.John's?" asked Daddy, angrily.
"Engines always need looking after, Mr. Jelliffe," replied the skipper in an injured tone that was not particularly convincing. "Of course I can make him work all night, and to-morrow, with his helper, so that maybe we can start day after to-morrow early. Everything is all apart now. If you say so we can start under sail, but I know you don't like bucking against contrary winds without a bit of steam to help, and this is a forsaken coast to be knocking about, Mr. Jelliffe, and I'll be glad to get away from it."
"Well, I suppose that a day or so won't make much difference," saidDaddy. "How's your coal?"
"Plenty coal, sir."
"All right, get those fellows at work in the engine room, Stefansson.They haven't had much to do of late."
Our skipper departed and I was so happy that I wanted to dance. In the kitchen Susie was washing dishes and assisting her work by intoning the most doleful hymn. I turned up the lamp a little, and things seemed ever so much more cheerful.
So I suppose that I have been ever so foolish. Just now I can hear Daddy and Mr. Barnett saying good night, and I know that they have been fighting tooth and nail over that chess board. And I hear Mr. Barnett thanking Daddy, in a voice that is all choked up with emotion. I am so glad to think the dear little man is happy. Isn't it too bad, Aunt Jennie, that we can't all be happy all the time?
Your lovingHELEN.
From John Grant's Diary
Here I am writing again, just for the purpose of trying to keep awake. A fellow in my profession, in such places as this, is much like a billiard ball that finds itself shot into all sorts of corners, without the slightest ordering from any consciousness of its own. I left that child at Atkins' doing fairly well, and have once more been compelled to make one of those rather harrowing choices I dread. I had either to abandon that child, though its mother is fairly intelligent and seems to understand my instructions, fortunately, or to refuse to answer this call, where another man with a large family is lying at the point of death.
It seems strange that I shall probably never see Miss Jelliffe again. The yacht has been delayed for several days, and they did not start as they expected to. But when I return I have no doubt that theSnowbirdwill be gone, and with it two charming people who will be but delightful memories. I had thought to show Dora how willing I was to do what she calls a man's work, and expected to accomplish it at the cost not only of hard toil, which is an easy enough thing to get through with, but also at the price of exile among dull people. I have had plenty of work, but for the last two months there has not been a stupid moment. The girl's bright intelligence and fine womanliness, the old gentleman's kindly and practical ways, have made my visits to them ever so pleasant, and those journeys to the barrens and the river have been delightful.
And now the Barnetts will be left, pleasanter companions by far than I had any right to expect in this out-of-the-way corner of the island. And then I always hope that Dora will soon be coming home, as she calls it, and I will hasten away to her, and perhaps plead with her for the last time. I do hope she will approve of the man's work; perhaps also of the man!
I last saw Miss Helen the day before yesterday morning, just before the summons came for me to go to Edward's Bay, and she told me she hoped I would return before her departure. She said it so kindly that I am rather proud of having won the friendship of such a splendid girl.
Here I found a man with pneumonia, who has still a chance. His wife and children are sleeping on the floor, all around me. Once more I am seeking to preserve one life, that others may go on too, and I ordered the woman to take a rest, for she has been up two nights.
When I last went to the Jellifies', after changing all my clothes, and taking all possible precautions, I told her that the child was better, and that I was under the impression that the antitoxine was having a favorable effect. Also I informed her that I was going to start Atkins off to St. John's for another supply in case the malady should spread, for I only had about enough left for one bad case.
"I hope he makes good time," I said, "but of course one can never tell, though he's a first rate man and can make his way into the cove in weather of all kinds, barring an offshore gale. Fog doesn't bother him."
"You have had a sleepless night," she told me. "It must have been hard to keep awake after all the work you have done in the last few days."
I assured her that I had enjoyed some sleep, having dozed off several times on my chair. I had ordered Mrs. Atkins, under dire threats, to awaken me at least every half hour, and she had obeyed fairly well.
"You know that we may perhaps be able to leave to-morrow," she said.
"Yes, it is best that you should," I told her. "Your father is quite well able to stand the journey now. They can easily warp the schooner up to the little dock so that he may walk aboard without trouble. I hope this wind may change soon, for just now it looks rather threatening."
We were walking away from the house, in the direction of the cliff which forms one of the iron-bound limits of the cove and extends out into the open sea. Miss Jelliffe was very silent. It is easy to see that she regrets the idea of leaving, but now something seemed to be oppressing her.
"You don't know how greatly I shall miss all this," she told me, in a low voice. "It has been a simple existence full of a charm that has meant more than all the golf and autos and dancing. I have regretted none of the yachting or the Newport gayeties. None of those things compare at all with what one finds in poor old Sweetapple Cove, with all its smell of fish, or even its rains and fogs. These only blot out an outer world that seems of little interest now, and after a while the sun always comes out again."
I walked by her side, and after going for a short distance we sat upon a rock and looked out over the ocean, which extended afar, under a sky that was dark with mountainous masses of piled-up clouds. The great roll of the sea struck the foot of the cliffs rather slowly, as if performing some solemn function, and the swash of the returning water was like some strange dirge. The very waves had lost their blueness and were tinted with a leaden, muddy hue.
"It looks as if some awful storm were coming," said Miss Jelliffe.
"It may pass away," I answered, "but I don't generally shine as a weather prophet."
We sat there for some time, watching the ominous stirring of the clouds, that seemed like an invading army whose might would soon be unleashed and burst out with fierce violence. Then, in the distance, we saw a small boat. The tan-hued sails flapped idly and one could see that the men were rowing hard.
"They are pulling for their lives," I said. "I hope they get in soon. It looks as if they were coming from Edward's Bay. It is likely enough that it is another call for me. All the boats belonging to the Cove are in, as far as I can see. They all know very well what is coming."
"Then you will have to rush away again!" she exclaimed.
"It is all in the game," I answered. "One has to try to play it according to the rules."
"Yes, and you try very hard," she said. "Those journeys over rough waters, those nights of watching, the toil over hopeless cases, the meager reward when devoted care has saved. It is surely a wonderful game, and you play it well."
I have always been glad to see the enthusiasm of healthy and strong young womanhood. The girls of to-day like to see a man's game played, and they surely know how to help.
We continued to watch the small boat, which rose and fell to the swing of the long rollers. The wind was beginning to rise a little, striking the water with black squalls, and we saw the little sails grow rigid as the boat careened and sped towards us like an affrighted bird.
"They will make it all right, thank goodness," I said.
After this we strolled back, to find Susie sitting on the little porch as she mopped her face with her blue apron.
"Look at this silly girl," said Miss Jelliffe. "She has been weeping off and on like a Niobe, and makes me feel like crying too. Among us poor women tears are dreadfully contagious things, and I'm trying hard to escape the infection."
"I can't help it," said the girl, showing a red nose and swollen eyes. "Sweetapple Cove ain't a-goin' ter be the same place after you folks goes. 'Course I knows ye'd have no room fer a girl like me over ter yer place in Ameriky. 'Tain't my fault if we Newfoundlanders is said ter be that green th' devil has to put us in th' smoke-house ter dry afore we'll burn. Ye'd ought ter have hustled me hard an' said mean things ter me. Then I'd 'a' been glad when ye left. It's a sight better ter say good riddance ter bad rubbish than ter lose people one's fond of."
She was bravely trying to smile, and accused herself of being a silly fool. Miss Jelliffe put her hand on the girl's shoulder.
"You never said you would like to go with us, Susie," she said. "I'll be only too glad to take you if you want to come."
"Now don't be after foolin' me jest ter make me stop greetin' like a silly calf!" exclaimed Susie. "Yer sure don't mean it, does yer?"
"Now I am determined to take you if I have to tie you up and have you carried on board by the crew," laughed Miss Helen, whereupon a broad smile illumined the girl's face.
"If I doesn't allers do what yer tells me to," she declared, "ye kin take me by the scruff of me neck an' ship me back ter work on the flakes again. Oh, Lord! I got ter run off an' tell the folks. I'll jest be back in a minute."
She scampered up the path, scaring two goats and sending a hen flying over some palings into a cabbage patch, while we entered the house.
"I am afraid I have come to say good-by, Mr. Jelliffe," I said to Mr. Jelliffe. "I rather think that some one is coming for me to go to the Bay, and I shall probably not be back in time to see you off. Be very prudent about using your leg and have some one hold your arm when you move about the yacht."
"Hold on!" exclaimed Mr. Jelliffe. "First I want to thank you ever so much for the excellent care you have taken of me, and for your kindness to Helen. You have been exceedingly good and attentive to us both. And I want to say that I think you are doing fine work in this jumping-off place, and it seems a pity that a man like you should be wasted here. Now here's a bit of paper in this envelope, and you can spend it on codfish or codfisherrnen, just as you please. Thank you again for my spliced leg, it's a fine job."
He put out his hand, which I shook heartily. Indeed I felt very sorry over this separation. These people are friends such as I have never had yet, and the salt of the earth.
When I sought to open the door I was compelled to push hard against the force of the fierce wind that had arisen during our conversation. The rocky spurs which close in the cove were now a foaming mass over which mighty combers were hurling themselves, to the shrieking of the gale.
I found Miss Jelliffe on the porch, with locks of her hair flying about her pretty head.
"You are not going," she cried. "You can't possibly go off in such a storm."
"I can see that no boat could leave the cove now," I replied, "but if I should be badly wanted I might be able to make my way over there by land."
"Oh! I hope you won't go," she said. "It is a terrible storm."
Some men were coming towards us, their oilskins slatting in the wind that sought to tear them from their backs.
"'Tis a hard bit of a blow, sir," said one of them. "It's too bad, for they is Dicky Jones, as has seven young 'uns, and they says he is mortal sick. The woman o' he she were bawlin' terrible fer us to go an' fetch yer, an' we resked it, but now 'tain't no use, for there ain't no boat could ever get out o' th' cove an' live."
The other man was Sammy, who nodded gravely, in confirmation.
I looked at the raging seas that were now leaping over the little strait into our cove.
"I'll have to try and get there by land," I said.
"'Tis an awful long ways around," said Sammy. "Not as I says it can't be done."
"We's fair done with th' long pull we's had," said the messenger. "I mistrust us men couldn't do it."
"You will stay here and rest," I told him. "I think I will have to try it."
"You goin' now?" asked Sammy.
"I'll be off in a few minutes."
"Then I goes wid yer, in course," said the sturdy old fellow. "I might be hinderin' you a bit with th' walkin', 'count o' them long legs o' yourn, but I knows th' way an' ye'll be safer from gettin' strayed."
So I ran up to Atkins', to see once more how the child was getting on, finding everything satisfactory enough. I left some medicine and gave careful directions, after which I returned to the Jelliffes' house. Miss Helen was waiting, wrapped in a waterproof coat. Her head was bare, and she did not appear to mind the gusts of rain which came down upon it, driven under the porch by the gale.
"Good-by, oh! good-by!" she cried. "Thank you for everything and God be with you!"
She gave me a grip of the hand that was strong with a nervous force one would hardly have deemed her capable of, and I left her regretfully, I must say, for she had become such a comrade as a man seldom meets with. Then Sammy and I started on our long walk over the ridges and barrens, striking well inland. We had been gone but a few minutes before Sweetapple Cove was blotted from our sight by the pelting rain that spattered fiercely over our oilskins.
And now I am putting in another long night.
The storm still beats upon the roof and the wind is howling like some unmerciful beast unleashed. TheSnowbirdsurely could not sail away to-day, for the dawning is showing its first gleams through the tiny window panes, and there is no sign of any change.
From Miss Helen Jelliffe to Miss Jane Van Zandt
Dearest Aunt Jennie:
Why does the world sometimes seem to turn the wrong way, so that everything becomes miserably topsy-turvy? I have often had to struggle to keep awake when writing you these long letters, which you say you are so glad to get. But now I am writing because I am so dreadfully awake that I don't feel as if I ever could sleep again.
It is now a week since Stefansson came up to the house, and the water dripping from him ran down and joined the baby rivers that were rushing down the little road before our house.
"I've come for orders, Mr. Jelliffe," he said.
"Orders! What orders?" asked Daddy, irascibly. "I'd like to know what orders I can give except to wait till this fiendish weather gets better. You don't expect to start in such a gale, do you?"
"We couldn't make it very well, sir, and that's a fact. I don't even think I could take her out of the cove. If we could only get her clear of the coast we'd be all right enough, but I wouldn't like to take chances."
"Who wants to take chances? Do you suppose I'm so anxious to go that I'm going to risk all our lives? Come back or send word as soon as you think it safe to start. That's all I want. I suppose everything is all right in the engine room now."
Our skipper confirmed this and left. All day the storm gathered greater fury, and has kept it up ever since. At times the rain stops, and the great black clouds race desperately across the sky while the world outside our little cove is a raging mass of spume that becomes wind-torn and flies like huge snow flakes high up in the air. And then the rain begins again, slanting and beating down wickedly, and I feel that no such thing can ever have existed as clear skies and balmy breezes.
A number of hours ago, I don't really know how many, I was sitting with Daddy, who looked very disconsolate. I am afraid that this long storm has got on his nerves, or perhaps the poor dear is worrying about me. I think he has been afraid that I might catch the disease from that sick child. And now I am sure that his worries have increased ever so much, but what can one do when it really becomes a matter of life and death to go out and help, to the best of one's poor abilities? How could any one stand on a river bank, with a rope, however frail, in one's hands, and obey even one's father if he forbade you to throw it to a drowning child?
I am afraid I have again wandered off, as I so often do when I write to you, Aunt Jennie. Well, we were there, and the lamp flickered, and the rain just pelted the house so that it looked as if it were trying to wash us down into the cove. But I heard a knock at the door, and listened, and it came again. So I went and opened it to find Yves, with his long black hair disheveled and his face a picture of awful anxiety. In the gesture of his hands there was pitiful begging, and his voice came hoarsely as he sought to explain his coming.
I interrupted him and bade him enter.
"Pardon," he said, "please pardon. Eet is de leetle bye. All day I wait. I tink heem docteur maybe come back. But heem no come. Maybe you know about leetle byes very seek. You help docteur once."
"I am afraid I know very little, my poor Yves," I cried, shaking my head.
"What is the matter with him, Frenchy?" asked Daddy.
"Me not know, monsieur," he answered. "Heem now cry out heem wantla belle dame. Heem lofe de yong lady. Seek all day, de poor leetle bye, an' lie down and cry so moch! An' now heem terreeble red in ze face, an' so hot, an' speak fonny. An' heem don' want eat noding, noding at all. So I know mademoiselle she help fix heem leetle girl, de oder day, an' me tink maybe she tell me what I do. All de oder womans dey know noding at all, an' I hear Docteur say oder day zey all big fool. Please you come, mademoiselle."
"I have to go, Daddy," I cried, and caught up my woollen cap and wrapped myself up in my waterproof.
"I wish you wouldn't, daughter," said poor Daddy. "I am sure it must be something catching."
"I'm so sorry, Daddy, but I just have to go. I'll try to be back soon."
"But why doesn't he go for Mrs. Barnett?" asked Dad. "She knows all about sick babies."
"Oh! I don't want her to be sent for. She has those dear little ones of her own," I said.
Then I kissed him quickly and ran out into the darkness before he could object any further. The wind just tore at me, and I had to seize Frenchy's arm as we splashed through the puddles, with heads bent low, leaning against the storm.
And so we reached the poor little shack Yves calls his home. On the floor he had placed some pans that caught some of the drippings from the leaky roof, and a piece of sail-cloth was stretched upon a homemade pallet covered with an old caribou hide, upon which the poor little fellow was lying. Unable to bear any heat he had cast away all his coverings, in the fever that possessed him, and when I heard him moan and knelt beside him he stretched out his arms to me, and his pleading face grew sweet with hope.
"Heem too young to be widout moder ven seek," said Frenchy, apologetically. "Heem moder is dead."
I bathed the hot little head, and the touch of my hand made the poor wee thing more contented. After this I sent Frenchy to our house for some alcohol, with which I washed the boy, who finally fell into a restless sleep.
Frenchy had placed his only chair near the pallet for me, and after a while he drew up a big pail, on the bottom of which he sat, with his elbows upon his knees and his jaws in the palm of his hands, staring at the child. One could see that an immense fear was upon the man, but that my presence was of some comfort to him. It really looks as if men in trouble always seek help from women, and this poor fellow was now leaning upon me, just as I had leaned on his big arm when we had made our way through the storm. Something was tearing away at his heart-strings, and after a time the pain of it, I think, opened the fount of his memories, as if an irresistible desire had come upon him for the balm there is in pouring them out.
How can I tell you all that he said? It was in fragments, disconnected, and represented the great tragedy of a humble life. I remember that several times, while he told it to me, my hand rested in sympathy upon that great arm of his, that had now become very weak. It was at first just the simplest little tale of love somewhere on the coast of Brittany, and of vows exchanged before a Virgin that stretched out her arms towards the sea. And then Yves was taken away upon a warship, and there were tears and prayers for his return. He couldn't remember all the countries from which he had sent letters, but after many months answers ceased to come.
Then a new recruit had joined, who belonged to his town, and informed him that the family had moved away on the other side of the ocean, to St. Pierre-Miquelon. So Yves had written, but still no letters came. But one day it chanced that the cruiser was sent up there, to keep an eye on the fisheries, and he was in a fever of waiting until they should arrive. On the first day that he obtained shore leave he had wandered up and down the little streets, and looked at names overcafésand shops, and asked questions of all who would listen to him. No one knew anything of Jeanne-Marie Kermadec. At last one man remembered that a family of that name had remained less than a year and had gone back to France.
Then he had wandered off again, and from the cafés comrades of his called to him to join them, but he strolled on, and suddenly he had seen a hollow-eyed woman enter a drinking-shop, and on her arm she bore a baby. So of course he had followed her, feeling as if he had been very drunk. But he had not had a drop. She had gone to a bleary man who sat at a little table, with others, and tried to make him come out with her. But the man swore at her, and the woman left, crying, and Yves had followed her out into the street, and when he spoke she knew him, and cried harder. So he had gone as far as her house, and then she wept on his shoulder. Her people had gone away but she had remained, for her love had gone out to this man and the Virgin on the hill was very far away. At first she had been very happy, but now Yves could see what was happening, and the baby was very hungry, for there was no bread in the house.
Then Yves had emptied his pocket on the table and gone away, very unsteadily, and some of the men on his ship laughed at him. But perhaps he was looking dangerous, because after he had glared at them once they left him alone.
After this he had met Jeanne-Marie several times, but his ship soon left on a trip to some places in Canada. In one of these there was a great coal mine near the sea, and in another town perched queerly on a rock they had anchored in theSaint Laurent. Yes, perhaps it was Quebec; he knew the people spoke French there. Then after a time the cruiser had returned to St. Pierre. He thought it might be better not to go back to that house, but he found that he could not keep away.
It was some illness he did not know that killed her. Yes, he had been there when she died, and had paid money to a doctor and to the priest. Perhaps she just died of not having enough to eat, he didn't know. She had asked him to kiss her before she died, and it was the only time since he had left Brittany. Then Jeanne-Marie's husband had come into the house, and borrowed five francs from him and was very maudlin, and asked what the devil he was going to do with that brat, which cried all the time. But the little one was quiet when Yves took it in his arms, so poor Frenchy asked if he might take it, because he knew it would die if left there. The man had laughed, so he had taken it on his arm and wandered out in the street with it, and a quarter-master asked him what he was doing with a baby. He answered that he didn't know, for one can't take little ones away on warships. He had met a man from the French shore, who told him there was a schooner from Newfoundland which had lost two men in a blow, and needed a hand or two. Then he had gone and offered to ship for nothing, if they would let him take the baby. Yes, they had laughed at him, but the skipper was drunk and good-natured, and told him to come aboard. He had done so at night, when no one was looking, and had with him some milk that comes in cans. So they had sailed away for Newfoundland, and he supposed it was as good a place as any for a man who was now a deserter. Very likely they had looked for him a long time, and had been surprised, for he was accounted a good man. Anyway it was Jeanne-Marie's baby, and one could not leave it to be neglected and to die, because Jeanne-Marie had loved it very much.
Of course he would never see France again, unless the boy died. If this happened he would go and give himself up, because nothing would matter any more. So many of his shipmates had gone to lands of black and yellow people, and had never returned. They were dead, and some day he also would be dead, and it made no difference.
I really think, Auntie dear, that he had quite forgotten me as he spoke, low, haltingly, in mingled French and English words. He was just rehearsing to himself something that had been all of his life, because everything that had happened before, and the struggle for a living afterwards, were of no moment. Through the poor man's ignorance, through his wondrous folly, I could discern an immense love that had overpowered him and broken him forever. He was an exile from his beloved land of Brittany, and would never see its heather and gorse again, or the flaming foxgloves that redden some of its fields.
And all this because of a little child that was the only thing left that had belonged to the woman he had loved so greatly! He said that perhaps that Virgin on the hills might still be looking far out over the waters, and he knelt before a little crucifix which hung from a nail in the rough boards of the walls. I heard him repeating, in a low voice, in soft quick words, the prayers his faith led him to hope might be hearkened to by the Lady of Sorrows, as she watched from that little hill on the other side of the great sea.
The poor candle was guttering and the wind howled outside. I looked around and saw the few clothes hanging from pegs, the rusty cracked stove, the table made of rough boards, the bunk filled with dry moss and seaweed, and then my eye caught one flaring note of color. It was a gaudily hued print representing a woman holding aloft a tricolor flag, and labelledLa République Française! And the poor cheap picture was all of the inheritance of this man, marooned and outlawed for the sake of a woman and her dying kiss, which had been the only reward of all his devotion.
So I sat there, awed by the greatness of it all. There were no tears in my eyes; indeed, it seemed too big a thing for tears, a revelation and an outlook upon life so vast that it held me spell-bound. I had never realized that love could be such a thing as that, feeding upon a mere sad memory, able to take this rough viking of a man and toss him, a plaything of its stupendous force, upon these barren rocks. Surely it was arrant folly, utter insanity, but it showed that men's lives are not regulated by clockwork, and that, however erring an ideal may be, the passions it may inspire can bring out the greatness of manhood or the ardent devotion of women.
It awed me to think that among the teeming millions of the earth there were thousands upon thousands bound to potential outbursts of a love that may slumber quietly until death or awake, great and inspiring in its might.
As the muttered prayers went on I watched the uneasy tossing of the child, until Susie Sweetapple came in, hurried and dripping.
"You's got ter come home," she said. "Yer father he's bawlin' as how he wants yer back. My, the poor mite of a young 'un! The face o' he looks dreadful bad! D'ye know it's most midnight? Come erlong now, ma'am."
I rose, feeling very trembly about the knees. There was nothing that I could do. I could not let poor Daddy worry any longer about me.
"Come for me, Yves," I told the man, "if he seems worse, or if there is anything I can do."
He came to me, and I saw that his eyes were full of tears as I put my hand out to him. He lifted it up to his lips with a sob.
So we two hurried back home. By this time the wind had abated a little, and the moon was shining through some great rifts in the clouds, the waters of the cove reflecting a shiny path. The road was no longer in darkness; I could see it dimly, rising to higher ground.
I will write again very soon,Your lovingHELEN.
From Mr. Walter B. Jelliffe to Miss Jane Van Zandt
My dear Jennie:
You know I'm no great hand at letter writing when I have no stenographer at hand. It may not be courteous of me to say I am writing to you because I am the lonesomest old party you have seen in a half a century, but you have your dear sister's sweet disposition, and I know you will forgive me. I am all alone in this packing-box of a house, when I expected to be at sea and sailing for Newport to say how d'you do on my way to New York. I wanted to have the pleasure of seeing your kindly face and of having you take that niece of yours in hand for a time. The girl is getting beyond me, and when I want to bluster she looks at me just as her mother used to and I get so weak that you could knock me over with a feather. She looks so much like Dorothy that sometimes I have to pinch myself to make sure it is not her mother sitting at the other end of the table.
When a man is sixty, and begins to think he owns his fair share of the earth, or even a bit more, I daresay that it does him good to be humbled a little, but it's a hard thing to become used to. Hitherto when Helen wanted anything I always let her have it, for on the whole she has always been sensible in her desires and requests, or maybe I have been an old fool. Didn't some Frenchman say once that an old man is a fellow who thinks himself wise because he's been a fool longer than other people? Anyway, that's me! For the last few days I have been itching to scrap with her, and I find she minds me about as much as the man in the moon.
Of course, Jennie, it is a disgruntled old brother-in-law who writes this, and you will have to make allowances.
Would you believe that last night she went out and remained till after midnight in a sailor's house, watching a sick child, after I had objected to her doing so, as forcibly as I could? I had to send the queer female native who looks after us to that shanty to bring her back, and the child returned with swollen eyes and a drawn face that positively hurt me to see. She has derived so much benefit from her stay here, and was looking so splendidly just a few days ago, that I felt angry enough to have whipped her, if a silly old chap like me could ever chastise a daughter like Helen. At any rate I rushed her off to bed, and I know she never went there for a long time. I have no doubt that instead of sleeping she was probably scribbling to you.
This morning she was down before eight, and I will acknowledge that she looked better than I had expected. Yet there were great dark rings under her eyes, and I tried to look as disagreeable as possible. But you women are too smart for an old fellow like me. She simply cuddled up to me as I sat in the only armchair in Sweetapple Cove and put her arm around my neck, and I could only grumble a little like a decrepit idiot.
Then she looked out of doors and rushed back again, and put on that crazy woollen cap you crocheted for her, and opened the door to the kitchen, where Susie was singing some hoarse ditty of her own, and told her that she was going out again to see that child, and that she would be back in a few minutes. That Susie showed her sense, and I'm going to give her a big tip.
"Ye'll not be doin' no sich thing," shrieked our domestic. "They be plenty sickness already in th' Cove, an' Doctor not back yet. Ye'll jist take yer coffee as is waitin' fer ye, an' not be goin' ter see illness on a empty stummick. An' Captain he've been round ter say they is still quite a jobble of a sea outside but he can make it fine, and he've steam up. So it's good-by to th' Cove this fine marnin.'"
"Yes," I said hurriedly. "We're off just as soon as we've had breakfast and the men have moved everything down to the yacht. It is a corking fine day, and as we're all proof against sea-sickness we've got nothing to worry over. Of course you're all played out after that nursing all night, and are a foolish girl, but I suppose one can't keep women away from those jobs. Sit right down and have your breakfast."
"I'll have to see that child before we leave, Daddy," she said, "and—and—and then I will be all ready."
She spoke in such a queer way that I was positively alarmed. I am sure I have never seen her look like that.
"What's the matter?" I asked her. "You speak in such a weary, discouraged way that you must be getting ill. You have simply tired yourself to death over that boy of Frenchy's. By George! But I'll be glad when we get away from this place!"
And then the minx looked at me, just as sweetly as ever, and her voice had that little caressing tone of hers.
"Don't worry, dear Daddy, I'll have plenty of rest at sea," she told me.
So we had our breakfast, very pleasantly, and I was thanking my stars that all our troubles would be over in no time, little thinking that they were just beginning. So I rose, and took my stout cane, very proud of showing the population how nicely I could walk, and went out on the porch, ready to go on board the yacht. The men were coming up to get our baggage and the furniture we had taken from theSnowbird, and Susie was ready to boss them. Then Helen, who had run upstairs, came down and joined me.
"I'll help you down the road, Daddy," she said, "and after that I'll run back to Frenchy's. I hear that Mr. Barnett went off somewhere in the middle of the night, so as to return in time to see us off. He will be back soon, and an hour or so won't matter, will it? TheSnowbirddoesn't run on a schedule, Dad."
I looked at my watch, it was a quarter to nine.
"We're off by ten," I said. "First thing I know we won't get away till afternoon if I listen to you another minute."
We had gone but a very little way down the road, which is nothing but a deplorable sort of goat-path or gutter running down the side of the hill, when we saw Dr. Grant coming down from Sammy's house, and the old fisherman was remonstrating with him. My dear Jennie, it gave me the shock of my life! The young man was actually staggering, and I immediately decided that he was drunker than a whole batch of lords.
"Yer isn't fit ter be goin'," the old fellow was objecting. "Ye jist come back ter th' house an' git ter bed, where ye belongs. Ye'll get a mite o' sleep an' feel better. 'Tain't fair ter be goin' again right off. You can't hardly be a-holdin' of yerself up."
Of course all this made me positive that the doctor had been hitting a bottle pretty hard, and I was angry and sorry that Helen should see it too, because she's taken a huge liking to that chap, and hitherto I could hardly blame her. When I turned to her she was staring at him, and looked as if some one had hit her with a club.
"It is too bad, daughter," I said. "I would never have thought that he was that kind of a man."
Then the poor girl grabbed my arm with a clutch which actually hurt.
The doctor and the old man were coming very near. I saw the lad look up at us, and it was really pathetic to see how he tried to straighten himself up and steady his gait as he took his cap off, with a shaking hand.
"It's really too bad," I said again.
And then Helen just stared at me for an instant, shaking her head.
"I don't believe it," she cried. "I won't believe it."
She let go my arm and dashed away from me. I could see that the poor child was moved again by that instinct of helpfulness which you dear women have, and by the sense of loyalty to friends which girls like Helen always show.
"Oh! What is the matter?" she cried.
Then I saw the doctor move back, and hold up his hand as if seeking to repel her.
"Go back! Don't come near me," he said, hoarsely, and hurried on,unsteadily, while she stood there, dumbfounded, unable to understand.I saw her sense of helplessness grow into resentment and wounded pride.The poor little girl was hurt, Jennie, deeply hurt.
Our men had already invaded the house and were carrying the things away, and the population of Sweetapple Cove was gathering, for our departure was even a more wonderful event than our arrival. There was not a house in the Cove that Helen had not visited, and she has made friends with every last Tom, Dick and Harry in the place, and their wives and children. I know that the women have appreciated her friendly interest in their humble lives. Some little children were howling, possibly at the prospect of being henceforth deprived of the sweets she has distributed among them. All the fish-houses and the flakes were deserted, though it was a fine drying day. The men came towards us, with slightly embarrassed timidity, and I shook hands all around as they grinned at us and wished us a good journey. They actually wanted to carry me down to the yacht.
So I took Helen's arm again, after declining their kind offers, and began my slow descent to the cove.
My poor girl was walking very erect, and she often smiled at the people who surrounded us. But I could see that it took the greatest effort on her part. I'm sure she was impatient to be gone and wanted to shut herself up in her stateroom. It was so hard, Jennie, to see the dear child whose nature has ever been such a happy, cheery one, and who has never seemed to have a moment's suffering in her life, give such evidence of pain and sorrow.
It was at this moment, Jennie, that the suspicion entered my soul, that I had been wrong in letting her enjoy so much of the society of this young man, who is certainly a fine, attractive fellow when in his right mind. Isn't it wonderful how young people become attracted by one another, and their heads and hearts get filled while we old people can only worry, for whether they choose well or ill it always ends in our being left alone.
I noticed that Frenchy and Sammy were not among the people who crowded about us to say good-by. I looked for them in vain, and was a bit hurt that they should be absent, for we have become very fond of them. Helen was also searching the friendly faces, and I knew that she missed them.
Her head was held high up, and but for the little curling up of her lip, in which her teeth bit hard, she would have looked a picture of serene indifference. We were nearing Frenchy's shack, in front of which the path leads to the cove, and finally we were opposite the ramshackle place. It must be very dreadful to a girl, who has learned to admire a man, perhaps even to love him, to discover that her idol has feet of clay. She had allowed the best of her nature, I could see it now, to be drawn in admiration and regard towards a man she deemed unworthy. That odor of the fish-houses had always been bad enough before, but now it seemed to rise in her nostrils and sicken her. And now, Jennie, I can only repeat Puck's words, "What fools we mortals be!"
That man Frenchy rushed out of the door as we were going by. His face looked as if he had been suffering tortures.
"Please, please!" he cried. "Come, vite, heem Docteur hawful seek. Me no can stan' it no more! You so good in de las' night, mademoiselle, now please come in, for de lofe ofle bon Dieu!"
And then the strain that had been on the heart of my poor girl seemed to give way, suddenly. The tension was released, like a powerful spring, and the hardness went out of her face. She dropped my arm and dashed past the man who sought her help, and entered the place, where I followed as fast as my leg would let me.
First she looked towards the child, which I suppose she expected to see under a sheet that would have just revealed the stark little form, but the little thing was smiling at her, weakly.
"Je vous aime bien" he said.
Then her eyes filled with tears, and she turned towards the man who, with a gesture of his hand, had swept her from his path. He had arisen on her entrance, and leaned hard on the back of the chair. To my surprise he spoke quite composedly, and I realized I had made an awful mistake.
"This is all wrong, Miss Jelliffe," he said. "I tried to prevent Yves from calling you. The child has diphtheria and you must leave at once."
The man's voice was frightfully hoarse, and he unconsciously put his hand up to his throat. She looked at him without answering. Then she went up to the little table and picked up a small vial she had noticed.
"Antitoxine, seven thousand units," she read. Then she took up a small glass syringe armed with a bright steel needle, and stared at it.
"You have given it to the child?" she asked.
"Yes, just a few minutes ago," he answered. "We only left Edward's Bay at sunrise. The man is getting well. I was told of this case and went up to Sammy's for the antitoxine."
"But it was the last you had!" she cried, "and Atkins has only been able to start this morning for more, and the wind is very bad for him. It may be days before he returns."
The man shrugged his shoulders, very slightly, and Helen went up to him, scrutinizing his face, silently. Then she put her fingers on the wrist that was supporting his hand on the back of the chair.
"I am not well," he said, "and I wish you would leave. I think I will have to let Mrs. Barnett into this mess. She's away at Goslett's house, where they expect a baby."
"How long have you known that you had diphtheria too?" asked Helen, and I could detect in her voice an intensity of reproof that was wonderful, for she was scolding the man, just as excited mothers sometimes scold a little one that has fallen down and hurt itself.
"I was beginning to feel it last night," he answered, "but please go away now, for it is dangerous."
Then he addressed me.
"Mr. Jelliffe, do take her away. I hear that she was here last night and remained for hours. You will take her away to St. John's at once, and have her given a preventive injection. Now please hurry off."
I could see that the poor chap's voice rasped his throat painfully. His two hands dropped to his side, with the palms turned forward, in a feeble gesture of entreaty.
"You knew this morning that you had it," said Helen again. "And you only had that vial and used it all for the boy."
He nodded, with another slight shrug of his shoulders.
"I see that you have been playing the game!" she said quietly.
Then she turned to me, seizing one of my arms.
"Hurry!" she cried. "You must hurry, Daddy. Why don't you go on? He has diphtheria, and perhaps half the people here will have it now. Perhaps he is going to die! Come, Daddy, you must hurry. TheSnowbirdwill take you to St. John's and you must buy antitoxine, a lot of it, and come back with it at once. And you should get a doctor, and a nurse or two, and I will stay here, and please don't look at me that way! Do hurry, Daddy! Oh! I was forgetting your poor leg. Never mind, take your time, Daddy, but as soon as you are on board make them hurry. Susie will stay with me. A few days won't matter, Daddy!"
"Oh! Daughter. Please come," I implored her. "I promise that I will send the yacht back at once with a doctor and everything."
She looked at me in amazed surprise.
"But how can I leave now, Dad?" she asked. "Don't you understand that a lot of people may die if you don't get help at once, and of course I must stay. You will do your best, won't you? Come, dear, and let me help you down the path. You can be gone in a few minutes."
"Leave you here!" I exclaimed, indignantly. "You are crazy, girl! I'll stay with you, of course. Here, some of you fellows, run down to the cove and tell my skipper to come here at once."
So I stood there, just outside the door, watching a man scramble down the road, who finally returned with Stefansson. Helen stood perfectly still, except for the toe of one of her boots, which was tapping a tattoo on the boards.
"Get theSnowbirdunder weigh at once," I shouted. "Run up to St. John's and buy all the antitoxine you can get hold of, any amount, barrels of it, if it comes that way. And bring a doctor back with you. Promise him all the money he wants. And get a nurse, or a couple of them, or a dozen. Regular trained nurses, you understand. Yes, it's antitoxine I want. Write it down. It's the stuff they use for diphtheria. Then get back here at once. Carry all the sail she'll bear and all the steam she'll take. Look lively and don't waste a minute. Here, you Sammy! Go aboard too and help pilot her back if it's dark or foggy. Good luck to you and jump her for all she's worth!"
I suppose I spoke like a crazy man, but the two started down hill. Stefansson, who has long legs, only beat the old fellow by a skip and a jump. Then I saw the men casting off the hawsers, and the thin film of smoke became black, and the good oldSnowbirdshook herself. I was tickled to see how a crew of chaps used to count seconds in racing were handling her. She was moving, the smoke pouring thicker and thicker from her funnel, and the screw began to churn hard. Then her sharp bowsprit turned around a little, till it was aimed at that cleft between the rocks. She gathered speed and struck the billowing seas outside and turned a bit. Then the big sails began to rise, as did the jibs, and I saw a man run out to the end of the bowsprit as a thick white rope ran up to the fore topmast head and broke out into a fleecy white cloud of silk. Then, under the great balloon jib topsail my little ship flew off like a scared bird and disappeared behind the edges of the cliffs.
"Byes, did yer ever see the like o' that?" shouted an old fisherman, enthusiastically. "My, but Sammy's a lucky dog ter be gettin' sich a sail. I'd give a quintal fer the chance."
I must say that I was pleased with this expert appreciation, and began to feel better.
"But why didn't we send the doctor on her?" I suddenly asked. "He would have been attended to sooner. We could have taken him with us."
"He wouldn't have gone," said Helen, whose cheeks had now become red with excitement. "He would never leave until some one came to take his place. He thinks he can still help that child of Frenchy's."
So after a time we returned to the house we had thought we were seeing the last of, and it seemed very different, having been dismantled of many things which were now lying on the dock.
Helen sat down for a moment, putting her elbows on the table and resting her face on her hands. So of course I went to her, and stroked her head, and she looked at me with eyes that were full of tears.
"I'm ashamed," she said. "At first I thought just as you did. I was sure he had been drinking. And he seemed so awfully rude when he motioned me away. But he could hardly drag himself, the poor fellow, and he was trying to keep me away from him, because he was afraid for me."
She was utterly disconsolate, and I could only keep on stroking the child's head as I used to, when she came to seek consolation for babyish sorrows. Of course I was worried about her, and realized how helpless I was. She hadn't grown over night, naturally, yet something appeared to have been added to her stature. She was a woman now, full of the instincts of womanhood, and she was escaping from my influence. Her life was shaping itself independently of me. It is pretty tough, Jennie, to see one's ewe lamb slipping away. She loves me dearly, I know it, but she is now flowering into something that will never be entirely mine again, and the realization of it is cutting my heart.
After a moment she was restless again, and we went out on the porch. We could hear Susie Sweetapple messing about in her kitchen, whose destinies she again cheerfully controls, and presently some men came down the road, carrying a bed.
"'Un says he've got ter have his bed at Frenchy's," one of them explained to me.
"'Un's scared to give the diphtherias ter Sammy's young 'uns."
They started again, wiping their brows, for the late September day was growing warm, and soon after we saw a small boat entering the cove and Helen, who seems to know everything about this place, declared that it was not one of our boats, as she calls the fleet at Sweetapple Cove. It reached the dock and a man jumped out while the sails were still slatting.
Susie had stuck her head out of the window.
"'Un's parson comin'," she announced.
Mr. Barnett hastened towards us as fast as his little legs would carry him. He passed Frenchy's house, not knowing that the doctor was there, and stopped in surprise when he saw us.
"I thought I was too late!" he exclaimed. "We saw theSnowbirdflying, miles away, and I thought I should never see you again."
"The doctor is at Frenchy's!" cried Helen. "He is dreadfully ill. Please go and see what you can do for him."
"I'll go at once," he replied. "We intercepted the mail-boat and I have a letter for you, Mr. Jelliffe, and one for the doctor. I hear he saved that man's life, over to the Bay. Been up with him day and night. You can't understand what it means to us to have a man like him here, who permeates us all with his own brave confidence. The blessing of it! It was a terrible storm that he went through when he walked over to the Bay. It is an awful country, and his steps were surely guided over pitfalls and rocks."
The little man is quite admirable in the sturdiness of his faith, in the power of his belief, that is the one supreme ideal always before him, and I shook hands with him.
"But I fear he is very ill now. A boy just told me they had to carry him from his boat, when he returned this morning."
"I'll go with you now to Frenchy's," said Helen.
"Are you not afraid?" asked the little parson.
"Are you?" she asked, just a little rudely, I fear.
"With me it is a matter of duty and love, you know," he replied.
"With me also," she said, with head bent down. Then she looked up again.
"I don't think you have any better right to expose yourself than I," she said, with spirit. "You have children of your own, and a wife to think of. Your life is a full one, rounded out and devoted to a work that is very great. Mine is only beginning; nothing has come from it yet; I have done nothing. It all lies before me and I won't stand aloof as if I were outside of laboring humanity, while there is sickness to be fought. I'm going with you."
She came to me.
"I hope you don't think I'm very bad, Daddy?" she said. "I'm sorry to give you so much trouble, but something tells me I must go. I just have to!"
I looked at her, as she walked rapidly away with the parson, and then sat down on the steamer chair that had been brought up again, and for the first time I felt that age was creeping up on me. It looks as if all of us, ill or hale, poor or rich, are but the playthings of nature, bits of flotsam on the ocean of human passions. Your poor dear sister, Jennie, died young, and I believe that her life with me was a happy one as long as she was spared. After a little while Helen began to fill some of the emptiness she had left, but now there come again to me memories of a sweet face, uplifted lovingly to my own, and I am overcome with a sense of loss indescribable. And yet this is mingled with some pride. My daughter is no doll-like creature, no romantic, unpractical fool destined to be nothing but a clog to the man who may join his life to hers. She will never lag behind and cry for help, and hers will be the power to walk side by side with him. She can never be a mere bauble, and will play her own part.
Oh! Jennie. The pluck of the child, the readiness with which she wants to give the best of herself because she thinks it right and just, and because she refuses to concede to others a monopoly of helpful love!
That young man, if he lives, will be a fit mate for any woman, but I swear to you that if it comes to that I will insist upon paying the salary of some man to take his place. I want my girl nearer to me than in Sweetapple Cove!
After a time I pulled out the letter Mr. Barnett had handed me. It was from that young rascal Harry Lawrence. He says he's heard from you about that caribou shooting, and wants to come up anyway and find out how I look after my tough summer in this neck of the woods, and he's never been to Newfoundland anyway, etc., etc.