"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 st.u.r.diness 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 pa.s.sions. 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.

Of course that boy cares as much for my looks as for those of the Egyptian Sphinx. At one time I really hoped that Helen and he, since she would have to leave me some day, might grow fond of one another. I know how devoted he is to my girl, but I'm afraid she has made her own choice.

I must write to Harry that we shall be leaving before long and that it will be too late for him to come now,--as, indeed, it is. What puzzles me is that, on his own part, that doctor never has seemed to be anything but a good friend to Helen. I suppose I was an old fool, and never saw things that went on under my nose. Poor Harry, he's such a splendid lad, and his father was my dearest friend, as you know.

Helen has been gone for hours, and I'm going to send Susie after her. In the meanwhile I have sought to possess my soul in patience by writing to you.

Affectionately yours, WALTER

CHAPTER XVIII

_From Miss Helen Jelliffe to Miss Jane Van Zandt_

_Dearest Aunt Jennie_:

It is very disturbing to think that one has, in some ways, been a very naughty bad girl, and yet to be utterly unable to see how one could have acted any differently.

It is my fault that we are still here, though we were all ready to start, and were on our way to the yacht when we discovered that Dr. Grant had just returned from one of the outports and was dreadfully ill. He has been so kind to us that it was utterly impossible for us to leave him at such a time and I just had to insist on delaying our departure, and of course I made poor Daddy very miserable. The _s...o...b..rd_ had to wing its flight away without us, hastening to seek help. We needed succor ever so badly, so very badly that if one of those strange vows of ancient days could have hastened her return by one little hour I would willingly have undertaken to drag myself on my knees along scores of miles of this rock-strewn sh.o.r.e. I begged Dad to send her, and he did, at once, for he was only too glad to do anything he could for the doctor, but he has been so dreadfully anxious on my account, and was so eager to take me away at once to some big place where I could be treated if I fell ill. You understand, of course, that I am not ill at all, and never was better in my life, and that there is no reason at all to be afraid for me.

Mr. Barnett and I left the house yesterday morning to go to the Frenchman's place, where the doctor has insisted on remaining. I was quite surprised to see a number of people around the poor little shack.

They all knew that Dr. Grant was very ill, and were gathered there with anxious faces. They simply looked worried to death. Isn't it wonderful, Aunt Jennie, how some people have the faculty of causing themselves to be loved by every one? Of course, his coming here has been such a great thing for these poor fishermen that they have learned to regard him as their best friend, one whose loss would be a frightful calamity. He certainly has never spared himself in their behalf.

Mr. Barnett stopped to shake hands with a few of them, and I heard little bits of their talk, which made me feel very unhappy.

"I jist seen Frenchy little whiles ago," one of them was saying, "and they wuz tears runnin' erlong the face o' he. Yes, man, he were cryin'

like a young 'un, though some does say as his bye be better. Things must sure be awful bad with th' doctor."

The fisherman brandished his splitting knife as he spoke, and, with his torn oilskins dripping with blood and slime he was a terrible-looking figure, until his arms fell to his side and he stood there, an abject picture of dejection.

Then I heard a woman's voice. She is a poor thing whose husband and two sons were "ketched" last year, as they say, by these dreadful seas, and some think that her brain is a little affected.

"I mistrust as they is times when th' Lord 'Un's kept too busy ter be tendin' ter all as needs Him bad," she cried.

"Hush, woman!" an old man reproved her. "Ye'll be temptin' the wrath o'

G.o.d on all of us wid sich talkin's."

The poor creature stopped, awed by the dread possibilities of bringing down further punishment upon the Cove, and began to weep in silence.

The men had removed their sou'westers and their caps when we came up to them. I believe that our arrival relieved them a little from their fears.

They have such a touching faith in all who have been kind and friendly to them. It looked as if our coming was something material that they could lean upon, for, in their ignorance, they deem us capable of achieving wonderful things. I am certain that they firmly believe that their little parson is able to intercede with higher powers far more effectively than they possibly can, with their humble prayers. So a few of them returned to their fish-houses, and women and children hastened back to the flakes, since the sun was shining and the cod must be dried even if the heavens fall. I remember that when we entered the house I was very nervous and afraid. It is very natural, Aunt Jennie, for a girl to be frightened when she has never seen much sickness before, and one is lying helpless who has always been such a kind friend.

His little iron bed had been put up in a corner of the room, and the doctor was lying upon it, with his face very red. His breathing came very hard and rapidly, and it was horribly distressing to see a man brought to such a state, who, a few days ago, was so full of life and strength. Yet when he saw me he made an effort to rise to a sitting position, and his eyes brightened, but he looked anxiously at me.

"You haven't gone yet," he said, hoa.r.s.ely. "And you, Barnett, have you no regard for your little chaps? You have no right to be here, and Frenchy is looking after me all right."

"You keep your breath to cool your porridge, boy," said the little parson. "I'm in charge now."

What a queer sort of freemasonry there must be among strong men, Aunt Jennie, which allows them to say gruff things to one another in friendly tones. The sick man seemed to recognize the little parson's authority and lay back, exhausted and conquered.

"I've done all I could," he said.

I was so sorry to hear the tone of discouragement in his voice. He is just a man, Aunt Jennie, with a man's weaknesses and a man's strength, and for the moment the latter had forsaken him. I suppose that some of his self-reliance had gone, for after a moment he smiled at us, and doubtless was glad to have friends with him and was comforted by their sympathy.

I could not help marvelling at the efficiency of the little parson, who, before they had a doctor here, was compelled to do the best he could to take care of sick people, a.s.sisted by his wife. He questioned the doctor, who wearily told him of some things that might be done for him, but without appearing to care. Mr. Barnett ran out of the house and up to Sammy's, returning with some bottles. He looked at labels ever so carefully and mixed some drugs with water, after which he wound some cotton on a stick to make a sort of a brush.

"Now sit up a little and let me fix your throat," he said. "Yes, you've got to take some of your own medicine now, old fellow. Frenchy, you get behind him and hold him up. The light is poor here; better bring your candle. Miss Jelliffe, hold it just this way for me. That's good. Now open your mouth, my boy."

He swabbed the throat, in which there were ugly, white patches, so conscientiously that it brought on severe coughing, and after this he compelled the doctor to swallow some medicine.

"If keeping at it will do you any good, old man, you may depend on me.

And now we'll have a look at that kiddie."

I looked around the room, where there was an awful penury of all sorts of things, so that I went up to our house and brought back some provisions.

I am afraid that I established a corner in milk, for I took nearly all that the poor, lone, lean cow of Sweetapple Cove could provide.

When Mr. Barrett finally sat down I noticed that he looked quite weary and exhausted.