_From Miss Helen Jelliffe to Miss Jane Van Zandt_
_Dear Aunt Jennie_:
Harry Lawrence was telling me one day that the proper study of man is
girl, and vice versa. It is his modification of the ancient and mossy
saw.
Daddy is doing very well, and now that he is asleep through the hypnotic
virtues of a best seller which I have read to him in large doses, I
resume my correspondence with you, and, incidentally, my study of man. He
is really very interesting, Aunt Jennie, with the tiniest bit of
secretiveness as to his own purposes in life which, of course, makes one
more curious about him. In a frock coat, with gardenia in his button
hole, he would make an ideal usher at a fashionable wedding. A few days
ago, when we took that trip to Will's Island, I observed that he has
capable limbs, properly clean-cut features and a general appearance of
energetic efficiency. There are scores just like him, that we meet on
golf links and tennis courts, and, in spite of his rough garb, he really
is a most presentable young man.
I received your letter yesterday, and of course my own Auntie Jennie
could not have foreborne to say that there is no island so deserted that
I would not find a nice young man in it. I consider this statement as
merely displaying the most ordinary and even superficial acquaintance
with the laws of gravitation.
By this time I am naturally entirely at home in the social circles of
Sweetapple Cove. The ancient dames grin at me, most toothlessly and
pleasantly, and since I recklessly distributed all my stock of Maillard's
among the urchins I have a large following among the juvenile population.
To guard against the impending famine I have obtained from St. John's
some most substantial and highly colored candies at very little a pound
which are just now quite as popular to an undiscriminating taste. I wish
I had not been so prodigal with the other ones.
I have foregathered with Mrs. Barnett a great deal and have simply
fallen in love with her. Aunt Jennie, dear, she is a lady to her poor
needle-pricked fingers' ends. She is one of the numerous offspring of an
English parson who was the seventh or eighth son of an inpecunious
baronet, I believe. Her husband starved as a curate in the most genteel
fashion, for some years, and suddenly announced that he was coming here.
We don't know whether Ruth was quite so subservient after the wedding was
over, for I understand that some brides change to some extent after
marriage. Mrs. Barnett was a Ruth before and remained one ever since.
She quietly packed up her trunks and her infants and doubtless bought the
tickets, as Mr. Barnett was probably writing a sermon or visiting old
ladies up to the last moment. Then she found herself here and immediately
made the best of it, and that best is a thing to marvel at. She is a
beautiful, tired-looking thing in dreadful clothes who wears an aureola
of hair that is a perfect wonder. Her back is beautifully straight and
she is capable of a smile I wish I could imitate.
She has the softest, cultured, sweet, English accent, which came with a
little quiver of her voice when she told of a little one who died here,
before there was any doctor. The three that are left are to her as
Cornelia's jewels.
I would just give anything to bring her to New York, give her the run of
the best _couturières_ and show her to some of our diamonds-at-breakfast
dowagers. As Harry would say, she would make them look like thirty cents.
They would perish with jealousy. She holds the savor and fragrance of
centuries of refinement.
Yesterday I went to their little church. It was built by Mr. Barnett and
the inhabitants, who cheerfully gave their labor. Every board of it
represents untold begging and saving. It was a nice, simple, little
service, in which the people were much interested and sang hymns with
fervor and plenty of false notes. My voice is hardly worth the money that
has been squandered upon it, but such as it is I began to sing also. To
my intense dismay I was soon singing alone, for the rest of the
congregation respectfully stopped. Mr. Barnett looked at me most
benevolently over his spectacles, but this was hardly enough to subdue my
sudden stage fright.
On the day before the nice little man called on us, soon after dinner,
which here is a midday function. Before this particular feast I had
apologized to Daddy for leaving him alone and going sailing for a few
hours.
"That's the worst of you women-folk," he rebuffed me. "Just because a
fellow happens to be fond of you, you must pretend that you are entirely
indispensable. I got on very nicely, thank you, and your absence had no
deleterious influence upon my leg. There is some slight pain in it,
whether you are here or not."
"I know that the charm of my conversation makes you forget it at times,"
I told him.
"I don't deny the charm," said Daddy, who is the most scrupulously polite
man, as you know, "but just now the delight of something to eat is what
I'm hankering for."
"You are going to have Newfoundland turkey," I told him.
Daddy looked at me incredulously, and then his countenance fell.
"Don't tell me you are referring to codfish," he said.
"That is the sad news," I told him. "It is going to be perfectly
delicious, and you will have to wait a moment."
So I turned up my sleeves and armoured myself in a blue gingham apron
before invading the realm of Susie Sweetapple, who only knows how to boil
things, including the tea. Like a true artist I engaged in an
improvisation. The only really bad thing about codfish, Aunt Jennie, is
its intrusive quality when it is prepared by the hundreds and thousands
of quintals. Otherwise, like eggs and potatoes, it is capable of a
multiplicity of avatars. We brought the dish back in triumph.
"Here, at last, is some return for the money squandered upon my
education," I announced. "Aren't you glad I took a course in cookery?"
But Daddy refused to commit himself until after he had thoroughly sampled
my effort.
"It is first rate," he said, "and you can take another course if you
like."
"You know I brought the cookery book with me," I informed him, "but I've
stopped using it. It tells one to take pinches of this, and pints of
that, and cupfuls of other things that have never been heard of in
Sweetapple Cove. It is dreadfully discouraging. I suggested roast beef to
Susie, for to-night, and she stared at me and I laughed at my own folly.
There is just one recently imported cow in the place, and a small calf,
and they're alive, as are the goats. I can't reconcile my mind to the
idea of a live cow being beef, and the calf is a personal friend of
mine."
"I have hitherto considered you as being somewhat ornamental," said
Daddy. "Now that you are also proving useful I am deeming you a
profitable investment."
So we had lunch together, for I can't get used to the custom of calling
it dinner.
"That was a splendid sail we had," I said. "The sea was perfectly
delightful. And that poor man was so glad to be brought here. Dr. Grant
is doing wonderful things."
"A smart chap," commented Daddy. "If he has to do this for a living I'm
sorry for him, and if he isn't compelled to he's probably some sort of
useful crank."
"At any rate Sweetapple Cove appreciates him," I said.
"I have no doubt he's an angel with pin-feathers sprouting all over him,"
retorted Dad. "But it isn't business, which I take the liberty of
defining as the way of making the best of one's opportunities instead of
frittering them away. He has unquestionably done a few dozens of poor
devils a lot of good, including myself. But he could find many more
cripples in any big city, and a few of them might have bank accounts."
Just then we heard some one whistling. I was interested to note that the
tune was from a fairly recent comic opera that can hardly have reached
the general population of Sweetapple Cove.
"There is your crank," I said, rather viciously.
He knocked at the door and came in, breezily, as he generally does.
"I've got to be off," he announced. "I shall probably not return till
to-morrow night, or perhaps the morning after. You are getting along very
well, Mr. Jelliffe. Just let me have another look before I go away."
The inspection seemed to be entirely satisfactory.
"Well, I'll run now," said Dr. Grant. "I'll come and see you the moment I
get back."
He hurried out again, and I saw him join Sammy and the Frenchman. I waved
my hand at him as the boat was leaving the cove, but I suppose that he
wasn't looking for he made no answer, though Yves wigwagged with a
flaming bandanna.
"Now wouldn't that jar you?" said Daddy. "Wouldn't it inculcate into you
a chastened spirit? Doesn't he consider me as an important patient? Just
comes in and grins and runs away again, for a couple of days, as if I
were not likely to need him at any moment. He's the limit!"
"I don't really think he is going away just for the fun of it," I
objected.
At this moment Susie Sweetapple burst into the room like a Black Hand
bomb. It is one of her little ways.
"Parson's coming," she declared, breathlessly, and nodded her head
violently to emphasize the importance of her statement.
"I suppose it is Mr. Barnett," I said. "They expected him back to-day. He
has been away to a place they call Edward's Bay."
"I presume it is," assented Daddy. "His arrival appears to cause the same
sort of excitement on this population as the fire-engines produce among
the juveniles of New York, judging from Susie's display."
The girl had run to the door and opened it widely. Then she backed away
before a little man who removed a clerical hat that was desperately green
from exposure to the elements, and which revealed a shock of hair of a
dull flaxen hue doubtless washed free of any pigment by salt spray and
rain. His garments were also of distinctive cut, though they frankly
exposed well-meant though unvailing efforts at matching buttons and
repairing small rents. He bowed to me, his thin face expanding into a
most gentle and somewhat professional smile, and he expressed
commiseration at the sight of Daddy in his bed.
"I hope I don't intrude upon your privacy," he said, with an intonation
just as refined as that of his wife, though scarcely as sweet. "I took
the liberty of calling, having been informed of your very distressing
accident. I fear you have not finished your repast, and perhaps I had
better..."
"Do come in and take a seat," I told him. "It is ever so kind of you to
call."
"I am very glad to see you, sir," said Daddy, very cordially. "We have
not had many opportunities to welcome visitors here, and even our doctor
is too busy a man to pay long calls."
"Yes, quite so. Indeed he is at times exceedingly busy. We think him an
extremely nice young man; quite delightful, I assure you, and he does a
great deal of good."
The man was rubbing his thin little hands together, with his head cocked
to one side, looking like an intellectual and benevolent sparrow.
I must say that I was impressed by him. From conversations with the
fishermen I had gathered the impression that Mr. Barnett was a perfectly
fearless man on land and water, and I had imagined an individual cast in
a rather heroic mold.
It hardly seemed possible that this little parson was the subject of the
tales I had heard, for he bore a tiny look of timidity and, I was sorry
to see, of overwork and underfeeding. But the latter may have been
dyspepsia.
"This is rather a large field to which we have been called," he
continued. "It gives one very fine opportunities as well as some
difficulties to contend with. But of course we keep on striving. It is
not missionary work, you understand, for the people are all very firm
believers. It is merely a question of lending a helping hand, to the best
of one's ability."
"It must be dreadfully hard at times," I put in. "You had quite a long
sail to get here, didn't you? And isn't it perfectly awful in winter?"
"I have been carried out to sea, and things have looked rather badly
sometimes," he said, deprecatingly. "But one must expect a little trouble
now and then, you know."
Daddy began to ask him questions. You know how he prides himself on his
ability to turn people inside out, as he expresses it. The poor little
man answered, slowly, smiling blandly all the time and looking quite
unfit, physically, to face the perils of such a hard life. I became
persuaded that under that frail exterior there must be a heart full of
strength to endure, of determination to carry out that which he considers
to be his duty.
"You know I really am afraid I'm a dreadful coward," he suddenly
confessed. "I have been rather badly frightened some times."
"My father was the bravest man I ever knew," said Daddy, "and he
acknowledged that he was scared half to death whenever he went into
battle, during the war. Yet he was several times promoted for gallantry
in the field. I feel quite sure that you must have deserved similar
advancement, more than once."
Mr. Barnett looked at him, doubtfully, and with a funny little frightened
air.
"I am afraid you must be chaffing me," he said, with a tentative smile.
"No, sir, I am not," clamored Daddy. "Bravery lies in facing the odds,
when you have to, and putting things through regardless of one's fears.
The chap who never gets scared hasn't enough brains to know danger."
The uneasy look of the parson's face gave way to a pleased expression.
It was interesting to watch Daddy getting at all the facts, as he calls
it, and I suppose that it is a precious talent. In the shortest possible
time he knew the birth rate, the chief family histories, the rates for
the transportation of codfish to the remotest parts of the world, and how
many barrels of flour it took to keep a large family alive for one year,
besides a few hundred other things.
During a lull I asked Mr. Barnett whether he would have some tea. Your
cultivated taste is the one I have followed as regards this beverage, and
I have an ample provision. Before the full-flavored North China infusion,
which I kept out of Susie's devastating hands, and the little biscuits
coming from the most British-looking tin box, I saw the Reverend Basil
Barnett, late of Magdalen, gradually becoming permeated by a sense of
something that had long been missing from his life. When he first caught
the aroma he looked incredulous, then his features relaxed in the smile
of the expert utterly satisfied.
"Mrs. Barnett and I are exceedingly fond of tea," he said, after I had
compelled him to let me fill his cup for the third time.
To-morrow I shall discover some manner of making the dear woman accept a
pound or two of it. The appreciation of her spouse made me think of some
lion-hearted, little, strenuous lady with an inveterate tea-habit. Can
you understand such a confused statement? I realize that it is badly
jumbled. At any rate he held his cup daintily, with three fingers,
and looked at it as Daddy looks at a glass of his very special
Château-Larose.
"I shall have to go now," he announced, perhaps a little regretfully. "I
hear, Miss Jelliffe, that you have helped minister to the needs of that
poor Dick Will. I am going to see him now. By the way, I trust I may have
the pleasure of seeing you to-morrow at our little church, if you can
leave your dear patient long enough."
"Of course I'll come," I promised, "and I would be glad to go with you
now and see Dick. I know Daddy won't mind, and I should like to see
whether I can do anything to make the man more comfortable."
"Run along, my dear," said Daddy.
Mr. Barnett expressed thanks, and we walked away together. I actually had
to shorten my steps a little to accommodate myself to his quick,
shuffling gait. It is queer, Aunt Jennie, but before this tiny,
unpretentious parson I feel a sense of deference and high regard. To
think he is able to overcome his fears, that his gracile body has been
called upon to withstand the bufferings of storms, and that his notion of
duty should appear to raise him, physically, to the level of these rough
vikings among whom he labors, is quite bewildering. And the best of it is
that when he talks he is entirely free from that didactic authority so
often assumed by men of his cloth. He just admits you into his
confidence, that is all.
"Mrs. Barnett has told me of your kindness to her and the little chaps,"
he said. "I am so pleased that you have become acquainted. The thing a
woman misses most, in places like this, is her circle of friends. But she
is the bravest soul in the world, and although she worries a good deal
when I am away in bad weather she always looks cheerful when I return. I
have been blessed beyond my deserts, Miss Jelliffe."
The little man looked up at me, and I could see that his face was bright
with happiness, so that I had to smile in sympathy. I don't know that I
have ever realized before what a huge thing love and affection mean in
the lives of some people, how they can cast a glamour over sordid
surroundings and reward one for all the hardships.
"I am glad that you are happy," I told him. "I think that you have become
very fond of the place and of these people."
"I shall miss them if ever I am called away," he acknowledged, looking at
the poor, unpainted houses and the rickety flakes.
Dear Auntie Jennie, it looks to me as if these were people to be envied.
To the parson life is the prosecution of a work he deems all-important,
and which he carries on with the knowledge that there is always a helping
hand lovingly to uphold his own. And yet I admire his wife still more
deeply, for she looks like a queen who loves her exile, because the king
is with her.
We went into the house in which Dick found shelter. The men were away
fishing, of course, but two women were there, with their fair share of
the children who swarm in the Cove. At once aprons were produced for the
polishing of the two rough chairs of the establishment.
"We has some merlasses now," one of the women told me, proudly. "Th'
little bye he be allers a puttin' some on bread an' leavin' it on th'
cheers."
Daddy is calling me, so good by for the present. I am so glad the people
of Sweetapple Cove interest you.
Lovingly,
HELEN.