_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 the _Snowbird_ will
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. The _Snowbird_ surely 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.