OF MY SICK HUMOURS
Next day I awoke early and my wound very painful and troublesome; this
notwithstanding, I presently got me out into the early sunshine and, to
my wonder, found the fire already lighted and no sign of my companion.
Hereupon I fell to shouting and hallooing, but getting no answer, sat
me down mighty doleful, and seeing her stool where it stood straddled
on its three legs I cursed it for its unsightliness and turned my back
on it. And now crouched in the sunlight I grew mightily sorry for
myself thus solitary and deserted, and the hurt in my shoulder all on
fire. And in a little, my self-love gave place to a fretful unease so
that I must needs shout her name again and again, listening for sound
of her voice, for some rustle to tell me she was nigh, but heard only
the faint booming of the surf. So I arose and (albeit I found my legs
mighty unwilling) came out upon the plateau, but look how and where I
might, saw only a desolation of sea and beach, whereupon, being greatly
disquieted, I set out minded to seek her. By the time I reached
Deliverance the sun was well up, its heat causing my wound to throb and
itch intolerably, and I very fretful and peevish. But as I tramped on
and no trace of her I needs must remember how I had sought her
hereabouts when I had thought her dead, whereupon a great and
unreasoning panic seized me, and I began to run. And then, all at
once, I spied her. She was sitting upon a rock, her head bowed wearily
upon her hands, and seeing how her shoulders heaved I knew she was
bitterly a-weeping. Therefore I stopped, and glancing from her
desolate figure round about upon her desolate surroundings, knew this
grim solitude for the reason of her tears. At this thought a wave of
hot anger swept over me and a rage that, like my panic, reasoned not
as, clenching my fists, I strode on. Suddenly she looked up and seeing
me, rose at once, and lifting the great turtle-shell limped wearily
towards me with this borne before her.
"Ha," says I, viewing her tear-wet cheeks as she came, "must ye weep,
madam, must ye weep?"
"May I not weep, Martin?" says she, head pitifully a-droop. "Come, let
us go back, you look very pale, 'twas wrong of you to come so far!
Here is our breakfast, 'tis the best I can find." And she showed me a
few poor shellfish.
"Give me the turtle-shell!" says I.
"Indeed I can bear it very easily, Martin. And you so white and
haggard--your wound is troubling you. Come, let me bathe it--"
"Give me the turtle-shell!"
"No, Martin, be wise and let us--"
"Will you gainsay me--d'ye defy me?"
"O Martin, no, but you are so weak--"
"Weak! Am I so?" And stooping, I caught her up in my arms, upsetting
the turtle-shell and spilling the result of her labours. So with her
crushed to me I turned and set off along the beach, and she, lying thus
helpless, must needs fall to weeping again and I, in my selfish and
blind folly, to plaguing the sweet soul therewith, as:
"England is far away, my Lady Joan! Here be no courtly swains, no
perfumed, mincing lovers, to sigh and bow and languish for you. Here
is Solitude, lady. Desolation hath you fast and is not like to let you
go--here mayhap shall you live--and die! An ill place this and, like
nature, strong and cruel. An ill place and an ill rogue for company.
You named me rogue once and rogue forsooth you find me. England is far
away--but God--is farther--"
Thus I babbled, scowling down on her, as I bore her on until my breath
came in great gasps, until the sweat poured from me, until I sank to my
knees and striving to rise found I might not, and glaring wildly up saw
we were come 'neath Bartlemy's cursed pimento tree. Then she, loosing
herself from my fainting arms, bent down to push the matted hair from
my eyes, to support my failing strength in tender arms, and to lower my
heavy head to her knee.
"Foolish child!" she murmured, "Poor, foolish child! England is very
far I know, but this I know also, Martin, God is all about us, and here
in our loneliness within these great solitudes doth walk beside us."
"Yet you weep!" says I.
"Aye, I did, Martin."
"Because--of the--loneliness?"
"No, Martin."
"Your--lost friends?"
"No, Martin."
"Then--wherefore?"
"O trouble not for thing so small, a woman's tears come easily, they
say."
"Not yours, Joan. Yet you wept--"
"Your wound bleeds afresh, lie you there and stir not till I bring
water to bathe it." And away she hastes and I, burning in a fever of
doubt and questioning, must needs lie there and watch her bring the
turtle-shell to fill it at the little rill that bubbled in that rocky
cleft as I have described before. While this was a-doing I stared up
at the pimento tree, and bethinking me of Black Bartlemy and the poor
Spanish lady and of my hateful dream, I felt sudden great shame, for
here had I crushed my lady in arms as cruel well-nigh as his. This put
me to such remorse that I might not lie still and strove to rise up,
yet got no further than my knees; and 'twas thus she found me. And now
when I would have sued her forgiveness for my roughness she soothed me
with gentle words (though what she spake I knew not) and gave me to
drink, and so fell to cherishing my hurt until, my strength coming back
somewhat, I got to my feet and suffered her to bring me where she
would, speaking no word, since in my fevered brain I was asking myself
this question, viz.,
"Why must she weep?"
Now whether the Indian's knife was poisoned or no I cannot say, but for
two days I lay direly sick and scarce able to crawl, conscious only of
the soothing tones of her voice and touch of her hands. But upon the
third day, opening my eyes I found myself greatly better though
marvellous weak. And as I stirred she was beside me on her knees.
"Drink this, Martin!" says she. And I obeying, found it was excellent
broth. And when I had drunk all I closed my eyes mighty content, and
so lay a while.
"My Lady Joan," says I at last, "wherefore did you weep?"
"O Martin!" she sighed, "'Twas because that morning I had sought so
long and found so little to give you and you so sick!" Here was
silence a while.
"But whence cometh the broth?" quoth I at last.
"I caught a young goat, Martin; in a noose of hide set among the rocks;
and then--then I had to kill it--O Martin!"
"You--caught and--killed a goat!"
"Yes, Martin. You had to be fed--but O, the poor thing--!"
"Surely," said I at last, "O surely never had man so brave a comrade as
I! How may I ever show you all my gratitude?"
"By going to sleep, Martin. Your wound is well-nigh healed, sleep is
all you need." And sleep I did; though at that time and for many
nights to come my slumber was haunted by a fear that the Indian was
back again, and others with him, all stealing upon us to our torment
and destruction. But in this night I awoke parched with thirst and the
night very hot and with the moon making pale glory all about me. So I
got to my feet, albeit with much ado, being yet very feeble when her
voice reached me:
"What is it, Martin? Are you thirsty?"
"Beyond enduring!" says I.
"Bide you still!" she commanded, and next moment she flits soft-footed
into the moonlight with one of our larger shells to bring me water from
the rill near by; but seeing me on my feet, looks on me glad-eyed, then
shakes reproving head.
"Lie you down!" says she mighty serious, "Lie you down!"
"Nay, I'll go myself--" But she was past me and out of the cave or
ever I might stay her; but scarce had I seated myself upon my bed than
she was back again, the shell brimming in her hands; so I drank eagerly
enough but with my gaze on the sheen of white, rounded arm and dimpled
shoulder. Having emptied the shell I stooped to set it by, and when I
looked again she had vanished into her own small cave.
"I am glad you are so greatly better, Martin," says she from the dark.
"Indeed, I am well again!" quoth I. "To-morrow I make my bow and
arrows. Had I done this before, the Indian should never have got away."
"Think you he will return and with others, Martin?"
"No," says I (albeit my mind misgave me). "Yet 'tis best to be
prepared, so I will have a good stout pike also in place of my broken
sword."
"And strengthen our door, Martin?"
"Aye, I will so, 'tis a mighty stout door, thank God."
"Thank God!" says she mighty reverent. "And now go to sleep, Martin."
So here was silence wherein I could hear the murmur of the breakers
afar and the soft bubbling of the rill hard by, and yet sleep I could
not.
"And you caught and killed a goat!" says I.
"Nay, Martin, 'tis a horror I would forget."
"And you did it that I might eat?"
"Yes, Martin. And now hush thee."
"Though indeed," says I in a little, "thus much you would have done for
any man, to be sure!"
"To be sure, Martin--unless he were man like Black Bartlemy. Good-night
and close your eyes. Are they shut?"
"Yes," says I. "Good-night to thee, comrade."