_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 _Snowbird_ 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 shore. 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'
God 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, hoarsely. "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, assisted 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.
"Now you must go to our house," I told him, "and get Susie to give you
something to eat. I am sure that you have had nothing since last night,
and I won't have you falling ill too. I have arranged it all, so please
don't say anything but just go, and don't hurry back. There is plenty of
time and poor Daddy would be so glad to see you. I am sure it would do
him a lot of good. I can watch both the patients perfectly well. And,
Frenchy, you must go too and Susie will look after you. You look
perfectly starved, and I'm sure you've forgotten to have any breakfast.
Make him go with you, Mr. Barnett!"
They protested a little, but finally went out, reluctantly.
Of course I have always looked after Daddy's comfort a good deal, but
when you have plenty of servants it is very easy to do, especially when
one has also an Aunt Jennie to come around from time to time and put fear
in their hearts, when they don't behave. But it seemed to me that this
was really the first time that I had tried to take charge of things,
although it didn't really amount to anything. I suppose it comes quite
naturally to a woman to boss things a little in a household.
But now all I could do was to sit down by the bed, with my hands folded
in my lap. I have seen so many women do this for hours at a time, Aunt
Jennie, and I could never understand how they did it without an awful
attack of the fidgets. But now I think I have found the solution. I am
persuaded that these women just sit down quietly, and that the strength
flows back into them in some mysterious way, and presently they become as
strong as ever, just as happens with those storage batteries of the
automobile, which are all the time having to be recharged. I don't
exactly know what the folded hands have to do with it, but they are
certainly an indispensable part of the process.
Dr. Grant rested quietly enough, and sometimes, when he opened his eyes,
I saw that he looked at me, in a strange, sad way. But he was exhausted
by the malady and the hard work of the previous days, and seemed too
utterly weary to be suffering much pain. At times the little boy would
moan, and I would go to him. It would only take a passing of my hand over
the little forehead, or a drink of water, to quiet him again. The poor
wee man loves me, I think, and I hope he will never know what a tragedy
he is responsible for, but, indeed, I hope he will learn, some day, that
this great, rough fisherman, Yves, has laid down all of his life for him.
When the child was quiet I would return and sit again by the doctor.
After a short time Mr. Barnett and Yves returned, and were soon followed
by Daddy and Susie, whose sturdy arm supported him. Poor Dad! He was
looking aged and worried, and I felt ever so sorry for him.
Susie's way of speaking to people is invariably to address them as if
they were rather deaf, and as if no one else could possibly hear.
"Yis, sor," she was saying, "it's jist as you says, a real crazy, foolish
thing. But fur as I kin see them kind o' things is what makes up the most
o' folk's lives. They is some gits ketched all by theirselves, and others
gits ketched tryin' ter help others, and some niver gits ketched at all
an' dies peaceful in the beds o' they. If there didn't no one take
chances th' world wouldn't hardly be no fit place ter live in."
I suppose that Daddy could find no reply to such philosophy. He was
doubtless very angry on my account, and I am sure he had been giving
Susie a piece of his mind, all the way down. He entered the shack,
ordering Susie to remain outside.
"Don't you dare come in," he said, quite exasperated. "I have no doubt at
all that you will have to look after all the rest of us when we get ill.
You can go back to your pots and pans or wait for me out of doors, just
as you wish."
Then he came in, closing the door behind him, and looked around the room,
profoundly disgusted. Mr. Barnett was again engaged in swabbing throats
while Frenchy supported the patients and I held a bottle in whose neck a
candle had been planted. No one could pay much attention to him just
then. Poor old Dad! He thinks that because the first emigrant in our
family dates back a couple of hundred years or so we are something rather
special in the way of human beings, and I know very well that he thought
it most degrading for a daughter of his to be in such a miserable place.
Of course it is really very clean, Aunt Jennie, because Yves has been
trained on a man o' war, where the men spend nearly all of their time
scrubbing things. I have seen them so often at Newport, where they wash
down the decks even when it is pouring cats and dogs. The poor dear was
rather red in the face, by which I recognized the fact that he was
holding himself in for fear of an explosion.
But you know that there never was a better man than Dad, and he got all
over this in a moment. Of course he had come with the firm intention of
explaining to the poor doctor what a fine mess he had made of things, but
as soon as he saw that poor, pinched face on the pillow he changed
entirely. Quite a look of alarm came over his countenance, and he was
certainly awfully sorry. I have an idea that people who have never been
very ill, and who have never seen many sick people possess a little
egotism which it takes experience to drive out of them. He had surely
never thought that poor Dr. Grant would look so ill, and his bit of
temper melted away at once. He forced himself to take the hand that was
nearest to him.
"I hope you are doing very well," he said, with a queer accent of
timidity that was really very foreign to his nature.
"They are taking splendid care of me," answered Dr. Grant, with an effort
that made him cough.
Daddy smiled at him, in a puzzled sort of way, and then turned to the
child's couch, gazing at it curiously. Mr. Barnett stood at his side.
"He doesn't look as ill as..."
He whispered this as he pointed to the bed where the doctor was lying.
"The boy is getting well," answered the parson, in a low voice. "He had a
large dose of antitoxine and it is beginning to show its effect."
"Ah? Just so," said Daddy, weakly.
Then he looked around the room again, quite helplessly.
"Is there anything that I could do?" he asked in a general way.
"Nothing, Daddy," I said. "Thank you ever so much for coming, but there
is nothing you can do now. I would go home if I were you. I promise that
I will return in time for supper."
Then Daddy looked around again, as if all his habitual splendid assurance
and decisiveness of manner had forsaken him. After this he tiptoed his
way to the door, outside of which Susie was waiting. I followed him,
because I knew he would feel better if I just put my hand on his arm for
a moment and assured him that I was feeling perfectly well.
The girl pointed out at sea.
"It's a-comin' on dreadful foggy," she said, gloomily.
Daddy and I looked at one another, and we stared at the dark pall that
was sweeping in, raw and chilly. Of course we at once knew its
significance. It must surely detain the _Snowbird_ on its return journey.
Just then an old fisherman came up, touching his cap.
"Beggin' yer pardon, sor," he said. "Is yer after findin' th' doctor
gettin' any better?"
"I can hardly tell you," answered Daddy, impatiently. "I know very little
about such things, but he looks very badly to me."
"Oh! The pity of it!" exclaimed the man. "I tells yer, sor, it's a sad
day, a real sad day fer Sweetapple Cove."
"Damn Sweetapple Cove!" Daddy shouted right in the poor fellow's face
with such energy that he leaped back in alarm.
But Susie had taken hold of Daddy's arm.
"Now you come erlong o' me, sor," she said, soothingly, as if she had
spoken to a child. "Don't yer be gettin' excited. Yer needs a good cup o'
tea real bad, I'm a-thinkin', and a smoke. Yer ain't had a seegar to-day,
and men folks is apt to get awful grumpy when they doesn't get ter smoke.
Come erlong now, there's a good man."
Strange to say, Daddy went with her, willingly enough, after I had kissed
him. He didn't resent Susie's manner at all. As I watched he stopped
after going a few yards, and looked out at sea, beyond the entrance of
the cove. Everything was disappearing in a dull greyness that was
beginning to blot out the rocky cliffs, and he turned to the girl.
"My boat will never get back to-night," he said, "and I suppose that
to-morrow will be worse. It always is. I wonder whether there is another
such beastly country in the world?"
"I've heerd tell," remarked Susie, sagaciously, "as how they is some
places as has been fixed so them as lives in 'em will sure know what a
good place Heaven is when they gits to it."