The hot poison of the fever in Flora Lockhart's blood was drawn after days of ceaseless care and innumerable doses of quinine and brews of herbs and roots; but it left behind it a weakness of spirit and body, and a dangerous condition of chest and throat. Mother Nolan and Mary Kavanagh saw that the fight was only half won, and neither of them laid aside their arms for a moment, though they changed their tactics. Now the fire in the chimney was kept roaring more fiercely than ever, bottles of hot water were kept always in the bed, the blankets were heated freely, and hot broth and steaming spirits were given in place of the brews of roots and leaves. The skipper and Cormick went far afield and succeeded in shooting several willow-grouse, and these Mother Nolan made into broth for Flora. The best of everything that could be procured was hers. She began to recover strength at last, and then each day brought improvement. By this time she and Mary Kavanagh had warmed toward each other until a friendship was established. Flora had thanked Mary beautifully, many times over, for her care, and had talked a great deal of herself and her ambitions. She had told Mary and Mother Nolan the hardships and glories of her past and her great dreams for the future. On the day that Mary was to go back to her father, Flora drew her down and kissed her fondly.

"You and Mother Nolan have saved my life," she said, "and I am your friend--yours especially, Mary--forever and ever. I shall prove my love and grat.i.tude, you may be sure. Out in the big world, Mary, I am _somebody_--I have the power to do kindnesses and repay debts. New York is full of fame and money, and a great deal of it is waiting for me."

Mary thanked her, kissed her in return, and said gently that she did not want to be rewarded for her nursing, except by love. She added that it was Black Dennis Nolan, the skipper, who had saved Flora's life.

"I remember him vaguely," said the other. "He took me away from that terrible place where I was swaying and tossing between the waves and the sky. The queer things I saw in my fever dreams have dimmed the memory of the wreck, thank G.o.d--and now they themselves are growing dim. He is a big man, is he not, and young and very strong? And his eyes are almost black, I think. I will pay him for what he has done, you may be sure, Mary. I suppose he is a fisherman, or something of that kind?"

"He bain't the kind to want money for what he has done," said Mary, slowly. "He be skipper o' Chance Along, like his father was afore him--but there never was another skipper like him, for all that. He saved ye from the wrack, an' now ye lay in his house--but I warns ye not to offer money to him for the sarvice he has done ye. Sure, he wouldn't be needin' the money, an' wouldn't take it if he was. He lives by the sea--aye, in his own way!--an' when the sea feeds full at all she fills her men with the divil's own pride."

Flora was puzzled and slightly amused. She patted the other's hand and smiled up at her.

"Is he so rich then?" she asked. "And what is a skipper?--if he is not the captain of a ship? How can a man be the skipper of a village like this?"

"His father was skipper," replied Mary. "The fore-an'-aft schooner bes his, an' the store wid flour an' tea in it for whoever needs them. It bes the way o' the coast--more or less."

"Have any letters come for me? Have people from New York arranged yet to take me away?" asked Flora, suddenly forgetting about the skipper and remembering her own career so terribly interrupted and so strangely r.e.t.a.r.ded. "I shall be able to travel in a few days, I think. What have the newspapers said about my misfortunes?"

The pink faded a little from Mary's cheeks and her gray eyes seemed to dim.

"Saints love ye!" she said. "There bes no letters for ye, my dear--an'

how would there be? Up-along they'll be still waitin' for the ship--or maybe they have give up waitin' by this time. How would they know she was wracked on this coast?"

The beautiful singer gazed at her in consternation and amazement. Her wonderful sea-eyes flashed to their clear sea-depths where the cross-lights lay.

"But--but has no word been sent to New York?--to anywhere?" she cried.

"Surely you cannot mean that people do not know of the wreck, and that I am here? What of the owners of the ship? Oh, G.o.d, what a place!"

Mary was startled for a moment, then thoughtful. She had never before wondered what the great world of "Up-along"--which is everywhere south and east and west of Newfoundland, London, New York, Pernambuco, Halifax, Montreal, Africa, China and the lands and seas around and between--must think of the ships that sail away and never return. Wrecks had always seemed to her as natural as tides and storms. When the tide comes in who thinks of reporting it to the great world? Spars and shattered timbers come in on the tides; and sometimes hulls more or less unbroken; and sometimes living humans. Mary had seen something of these things herself and had heard much. She had never known of the spars or hulls being claimed by any person but the folk who found them and fought with the sea for them. She had seen shipwrecked sailors tarry awhile, take their food thankfully, and presently set out for St. John's and the world beyond, by way of Witless Bay. None of them had ever come back to Chance Along.

"I bes sorry for ye wid my whole heart," she said. "Yer folks will be mournin' for ye, I fear--for how would they know ye was safe in Chance Along? But the saints have presarved your life, dear, an' when spring-time comes then ye can sail 'round to St. John's an' away to New York. But sure, we might have writ a letter about ye an' carried it out to Witless Bay. The skipper can write."

"I have been buried alive!" cried Flora, covering her face with her hands and weeping unrestrainedly.

Mary tried to comfort her, then left the room to find Mother Nolan. The old woman was in the kitchen, and Dennis was with her.

"She bes desperate wrought-up because--because her folks up-along will think she bes dead," explained Mary. "She says she bes buried alive in Chance Along. Skipper, ye had best write a letter about herself an' the wrack, an' send it out. She bes a great person up-along."

The skipper sprang to his feet, staring at her with a blank face and with defiance in his eyes.

"A letter!" he exclaimed, huskily. "No, by h.e.l.l! Let 'em t'ink what they wants to! Bain't Chance Along good enough for her?"

CHAPTER XI

THE SKIPPER CARRIES A LETTER

Mary Kavanagh paled, flushed again, and lowered her eyes. Old Mother Nolan turned a searching glance upon her grandson--a glance with derision and something of pity in it.

"An' how would Chance Along be good enough for the likes o' her?" said she. "Denny Nolan, bes ye a fool entirely? Good enough for her, says ye--an' her singin' like a lark afore the young Queen herself, saints presarve her, wid the Prince an' the dukes a-settin' round in their grand gold crowns, a-t'rowin' roses an' jewels at her little feet! What bes Chance Along to her--aye, an' any poor soul in it? We've give her life back to her, Denny, me lad, an' now we'll give herself back to the grand world o' up-along, where great singers bes nigh the same as great ladies, as I have heard me own grandfather tell, who was once in Dublin a-holdin' the gentry's horses at the play-house door."

The skipper glared straight before him, then sank into his chair.

"I'll pen no letter," he said, "I swears it by the knuckle-bones o' the holy saints!"

Mother Nolan turned to Mary, wagging her head.

"There bes ink an' a pen on the shelf there, an' a sc.r.a.p o' clean paper in Denny's great book yonder," she said. "Take 'em to her an' let her pen the word wid her own hand." She turned to Denny. "And ye, Denny Nolan, will send it out to Witless Bay, an' from Witless Bay to St.

John's, an' so to New York."

"I hears ye," returned the skipper.

"Aye, that ye do," said the spirited old woman, "an' a good t'ing for ye I bes here to tell ye! Why for wouldn't ye be sendin' out the letter?

What for d'ye be wantin' Miss Flora Lockhart to stop here in Chance Along?--and her who never put a hand to a stroke o' honest work since her mother bore her!--her who sang to the Queen o' England! Ye'd be better, Denny, wid a real true mermaid, tail an' all, in Chance Along.

Wrack ye kin break abroad; cargoes ye kin lift an' devour; gold an'

jewels ye kin hide away; but when live women be t'rowed up to ye by the sea ye kin do naught but let 'em go. The divil bes in the women, lad--the women from up-along. An' the law would be on yer heels--aye, an' on to yer neck--afore ye knowed how the wind was blowin'! An' what would his riverence be sayin' to ye?"

Mary Kavanagh had left the kitchen by this time, carrying pen, ink and paper to the girl in Father McQueen's room. Denny raised his head, and met the regard of his grandmother's bright old eyes proudly.

"I wants to marry her," he said. "An' why not? Bain't I skipper here--aye, skipper o' every man an' boat in the harbor? She'd have no call to touch her hand to honest work if she was my wife. Bain't I rich?--and like to be richer? I'll build her a grand house. She'll have wine every day, an' jewels on her fingers, an' naught to do all day, by Saint Peter, but put the gowns o' silk on to her back. Bain't that better nor singin' an' cavortin' afore the Queen?"

"Denny, ye bes a fool, sure, for all yer great oaths an' masterful ways wid the men," said Mother Nolan. "Ye bes a fool over a woman--an' that be the weakest kind o' fool! What would a lady like her be wantin' wid ye for a husband?--wid a ignorant great fisherman the like o' ye, skipper o' no skipper? What bes a skipper to the like o' her? No more nor a dog, Denny Nolan! She'd break yer heart an' send yer soul to d.a.m.nation!"

The skipper left his chair without a word, and strode from the kitchen to Mother Nolan's own room, stooping as he pa.s.sed through the low doorway. He advanced until he reached Flora's room. It was shut. He halted for a moment, breathing quickly, then rapped with his knuckles, and opened the door. Flora was sitting upright in the bed, backed by pillows and with a shawl over her shoulders. She had been writing; and Mary stood beside the bed and held the bottle of time-faded ink for her.

Both girls looked up with startled faces at the skipper's entrance. The young man halted in the middle of the room, and stared at the singer. It was the first time he had seen her since the day he had saved her from the _Royal William's_ fore-top and brought her to this house. He saw that her face was thinner now than on that day, but no paler. The wonderful eyes were as clear, as bright as crystal, and yet as limpid, as when they had first opened to him, there on the swaying cross-trees, and worked their spell on him. But the lips were red now--as red and bewitching as a mermaid's lips are supposed to be. She was the first to speak.

"What is it? What do you want?" she asked somewhat fretfully, in that silver voice that had delighted the ears of the young Queen on the other side of the ocean. The question, or perhaps the way it was asked, sent a chill through Black Dennis Nolan. His glance wavered and he crumpled his fur cap in his hands. His sudden confusion showed in his dark face.

"It bes the skipper," said Mary Kavanagh, "him that fetched ye from the wrack."

"Oh, I beg your pardon," said Flora. "Of course I should have remembered your face, and now I do. I am very, very grateful to you for saving my life, and I shall never forget it. I shall do everything in my power to repay you for your courage and kindness, you may be sure; but why did you not send out word that I was here? You knew that I could not do it myself, lying here ill with fever. Perhaps they have grown tired of waiting for me by now, in New York. Perhaps they think I am dead.

Perhaps they have forgotten me--and that would be worse than death!"

The skipper felt like a fool, then like a whipped dog. It was this last sensation that sent a wave of choking anger through him. He was not accustomed to it. Had any other woman taken him to task so he would have laughed and forgotten the incident in a minute. Had any man shown such ingrat.i.tude he would have smashed his head; but now his dark face flushed and he muttered a few words thickly which pa.s.sed unheard and unheeded even by himself.

"I am writing now," continued Flora, "and must ask you to send it out to some place from which it can reach civilization, and be mailed to New York. It is very important--almost a matter of life and death to me--for it may yet be in time to save my career, even my engagement in New York."

The skipper maintained his silence, crushing his cap in his big hands and glowering at the rag-mat under his feet. Two kinds of love, several kinds of devils, pride, anger and despair were battling in his heart.

"Ye'll take out the letter, skipper, sure ye will," said Mary, smiling at him across the bed. Her fair face was pink and her eyes perturbed.

The man did not notice the pink of her cheeks or the anxiety in her eyes.

"Why, of course you will take it--or send it," said Miss Lockhart. "It is a very small thing to do for a person for whom you have already done so much. You are the kindest people in the world--you three. You have saved my life twice, among you. I shall never, never forget your kindness, and as soon as I reach New York I shall repay you all. I shall soon be rich."

Black Dennis Nolan looked at her, straight into her sea-eyes, and felt the bitter-sweet spell of them again to the very depths of his being.

Her glance was the first to waver. A veil of color slipped up softly across her pale cheeks. Young as she was, she had seen other men gaze at her with that same light in their eyes. They had all been young men, she reflected. Others, in Paris and London, had looked with less of pure bewitchment and more of desire in their eyes. She was not ignorant of her charms, her power, her equipment to pluck the pearl from the oyster of the world. She could marry wealth; she could win wealth and more fame with her voice and beauty on the concert-stage; she could do both. But in spite of her knowledge of the great world, her heart was neither blinded to the true things of worth nor entirely hardened. If she ever married, it would be for wealth and position, as the world counted such things, but never a man--lord or commoner--who did not come to her with the light of pure witchery in his eyes. She remembered, smiling down at the half-written letter to her New York agent, how that light had shone in the honest eyes of a young officer of the ship in which she had sailed from America to Europe. Her reflections, which had pa.s.sed through her brain with a swiftness beyond that of any spoken or written words, were interrupted by the skipper.