The Flutter of Sable Wings
A path took form on the mossy rock as Jack MacRae strode on. He followed
this over patches of grass, by lone firs and small thickets, until it
brought him out on the rim of the Cove. He stood a second on the cliffy
north wall to look down on the quiet harbor. It was bare of craft, save
that upon the beach two or three rowboats lay hauled out. On the farther
side a low, rambling house of logs showed behind a clump of firs. Smoke
lifted from its stone chimney.
MacRae smiled reminiscently at this and moved on. His objective lay at
the Cove's head, on the little creek which came whispering down from the
high land behind. He gained this in another two hundred yards, coming to
a square house built, like its neighbor, of stout logs with a
high-pitched roof, a patch of ragged grass in front, and a picket-fenced
area at the back in which stood apple trees and cherry and plum,
gaunt-limbed trees all bare of leaf and fruit. Ivy wound up the corners
of the house. Sturdy rosebushes stood before it, and the dead vines of
sweet peas bleached on their trellises.
It had the look of an old place--as age is reckoned in so new a
country--old and bearing the marks of many years' labor bestowed to make
it what it was. Even from a distance it bore a homelike air. MacRae's
face lightened at the sight. His step quickened. He had come a long way
to get home.
Across the front of the house extended a wide porch which gave a look at
the Cove through a thin screen of maple and alder. From the
grass-bordered walk of beach gravel half a dozen steps lifted to the
floor level. As MacRae set foot on the lower step a girl came out on the
porch.
MacRae stopped. The girl did not see him. Her eyes were fixed
questioningly on the sea that stretched away beyond the narrow mouth of
the Cove. As she looked she drew one hand wearily across her forehead,
tucking back a vagrant strand of dusky hair. MacRae watched her a
moment. The quick, pleased smile that leaped to his face faded to
soberness.
"Hello, Dolly," he said softly.
She started. Her dark eyes turned to him, and an inexpressible relief
glowed in them. She held up one hand in a gesture that warned
silence,--and by that time MacRae had come up the steps to her side and
seized both her hands in his. She looked at him speechlessly, a curious
passivity in her attitude. He saw that her eyes were wet.
"What's wrong, Dolly?" he asked. "Aren't you glad to see Johnny come
marching home? Where's dad?"
"Glad?" she echoed. "I never was so glad to see any one in my life. Oh,
Johnny MacRae, I wish you'd come sooner. Your father's a sick man. We've
done our best, but I'm afraid it's not good enough."
"He's in bed, I suppose," said MacRae. "Well, I'll go in and see him.
Maybe it'll cheer the old boy up to see me back."
"He won't know you," the girl murmured. "You mustn't disturb him just
now, anyway. He has fallen into a doze. When he comes out of that he'll
likely be delirious."
"Good Lord," MacRae whispered, "as bad as that! What is it?"
"The flu," Dolly said quietly. "Everybody has been having it. Old Bill
Munro died in his shack a week ago."
"Has dad had a doctor?"
The girl nodded.
"Harper from Nanaimo came day before yesterday. He left medicine and
directions; he can't come again. He has more cases than he can handle
over there."
They went through the front door into a big, rudely furnished room with
a very old and worn rug on the floor, a few pieces of heavy furniture,
and bare, uncurtained windows. A heap of wood blazed in an open
cobblestone fireplace.
MacRae stopped short just within the threshold. Through a door slightly
ajar came the sound of stertorous breathing, intermittent in its volume,
now barely audible, again rising to a labored harshness. He listened, a
look of dismayed concern gathering on his face. He had heard men in the
last stages of exhaustion from wounds and disease breathe in that
horribly distressed fashion.
He stood a while uncertainly. Then he laid off his mackinaw, walked
softly to the bedroom door, looked in. After a minute of silent watching
he drew back. The girl had seated herself in a chair. MacRae sat down
facing her.
"I never saw dad so thin and old-looking," he muttered. "Why, his hair
is nearly white. He's a wreck. How long has he been sick?"
"Four days," Dolly answered. "But he hasn't grown old and thin in four
days, Jack. He's been going downhill for months. Too much work. Too much
worry also, I think--out there around the Rock every morning at
daylight, every evening till dark. It hasn't been a good season for the
rowboats."
MacRae stirred uneasily in his chair. He didn't understand why his
father should have to drudge in a trolling boat. They had always fished
salmon, so far back as he could recall, but never of stark necessity. He
nursed his chin in his hand and thought. Mostly he thought with a
constricted feeling in his throat of how frail and old his father had
grown, the slow-smiling, slow-speaking man who had been father and
mother and chum to him since he was an urchin in knee breeches. He
recalled him at their parting on a Vancouver railway platform,--tall and
rugged, a lean, muscular, middle-aged man, bidding his son a restrained
farewell with a longing look in his eyes. Now he was a wasted shadow.
Jack MacRae shivered. He seemed to hear the sable angel's wing-beats
over the house.
He looked up at the girl at last.
"You're worn out, aren't you, Dolly?" he said. "Have you been caring for
him alone?"
"Uncle Peter helped," she answered. "But I've stayed up and worried, and
I am tired, of course. It isn't a very cheerful home-coming, is it,
Jack? And he was so pleased when he got your cable from London. Poor old
man!"
MacRae got up suddenly. But the clatter of his shoes on the floor
recalled him to himself. He sat down again.
"I've got to do something," he asserted.
"There's nothing you can do," Dolly Ferrara said wistfully. "He can't
be moved. You can't get a doctor or a nurse. The country's full of
people down with the flu. There's only one chance and I've taken that. I
wrote a message to Doctor Laidlaw--you remember he used to come here
every summer to fish--and Uncle Peter went across to Sechelt to wire it.
I think he'll come if he can, or send some one, don't you? They were
such good friends."
"That was a good idea," MacRae nodded. "Laidlaw will certainly come if
it's possible."
"And I can keep cool cloths on his head and feed him broth and give him
the stuff Doctor Harper left. He said it depended mostly on his own
resisting power. If he could throw it off he would. If not--"
She turned her palms out expressively.
"How did you come?" she asked presently.
"Across from Qualicum in a fish carrier to Folly Bay. I borrowed a boat
at the Bay and rowed up."
"You must be hungry," she said. "I'll get you something to eat."
"I don't feel much like eating,"--MacRae followed her into the
kitchen--"but I can drink a cup of tea."
He sat on a corner of the kitchen table while she busied herself with
the kettle and teapot, marveling that in four years everything should
apparently remain the same and still suffer such grievous change. There
was an air of forlornness about the house which hurt him. The place had
run down, as the sands of his father's life were running down. Of the
things unchanged the girl he watched was one. Yet as he looked with
keener appraisal, he saw that Dolly Ferrara too had changed.
Her dusky cloud of hair was as of old; her wide, dark eyes still
mirrored faithfully every shift of feeling, and her incomparable creamy
skin was more beautiful than ever. Moving, she had lost none of her
lithe grace. And though she had met him as if it had been only yesterday
they parted, still there was a difference which somehow eluded him. He
could feel it, but it was not to be defined. It struck him for the first
time that many who had never seen a battlefield, never heard a screaming
shell, nor shuddered at the agony of a dressing station, might still
have suffered by and of and through the reactions of war.
They drank their tea and ate a slice of toast in silence. MacRae's
comrades in France had called him "Silent" John, because of his lapses
into concentrated thought, his habit of a close mouth when he was hurt
or troubled or uncertain. One of the things for which he had liked Dolly
Ferrara had been her possession of the same trait, uncommon in a girl.
She could sit on the cliffs or lie with him in a rowboat lifting and
falling in the Gulf swell, staring at the sea and the sky and the
wheeling gulls, dreaming and keeping her dreams shyly to herself,--as he
did. They did not always need words for understanding. And so they did
not talk now for the sake of talking, pour out words lest silence bring
embarrassment. Dolly sat resting her chin in one hand, looking at him
impersonally, yet critically, he felt. He smoked a cigarette and held
his peace until the labored breathing of the sick man changed to
disjointed, muttering, incoherent fragments of speech.
Dolly went to him at once. MacRae lingered to divest himself of the
brown overalls so that he stood forth in his uniform, the R.A.F. uniform
with the two black wings joined to a circle on his left breast and below
that the multicolored ribbon of a decoration. Then he went in to his
father.
Donald MacRae was far gone. His son needed no M.D. to tell him that. He
burned with a high fever which had consumed his flesh and strength in
its furnace. His eyes gleamed unnaturally, with no light of recognition
for either his son or Dolly Ferrara. And there was a peculiar tinge to
the old man's lips that chilled young MacRae, the mark of the Spanish
flu in its deadliest manifestation. It made him ache to see that gray
head shift from side to side, to listen to the incoherent babble, to
mark the feeble shiftings of the nervous hands.
For a terrible half hour he endured the sight of his father struggling
for breath, being racked by spasms of coughing. Then the reaction came
and the sick man slept,--not a healthy, restful sleep; it was more like
the dying stupor of exhaustion. Young MacRae knew that.
He knew with disturbing certainty that without skilled
treatment--perhaps even in spite of that--his father's life was a matter
of hours. Again he and Dolly Ferrara tiptoed out to the room where the
fire glowed on the hearth. MacRae sat thinking. Dusk was coming on, the
long twilight shortened by the overcast sky. MacRae glowered at the
fire. The girl watched him expectantly.
"I have an idea," he said at last. "It's worth trying."
He opened his bag and, taking out the wedge-shaped cap of the birdmen,
set it on his head and went out. He took the same path he had followed
home. On top of the cliff he stopped to look down on Squitty Cove. In a
camp or two ashore the supper fires of the rowboat trollers were
burning. Through the narrow entrance the gasboats were chugging in to
anchorage, one close upon the heels of another.
MacRae considered the power trollers. He shook his head.
"Too slow," he muttered. "Too small. No place to lay him only a doghouse
cabin and a fish hold."
He strode away along the cliffs. It was dark now. But he had ranged all
that end of Squitty in daylight and dark, in sun and storm, for years,
and the old instinctive sense of direction, of location, had not
deserted him. In a little while he came out abreast of Cradle Bay. The
Gower house, all brightly gleaming windows, loomed near. He struck down
through the dead fern, over the unfenced lawn.
Halfway across that he stopped. A piano broke out loudly. Figures
flittered by the windows, gliding, turning. MacRae hesitated. He had
come reluctantly, driven by his father's great need, uneasily conscious
that Donald MacRae, had he been cognizant, would have forbidden harshly
the request his son had come to make. Jack MacRae had the feeling that
his father would rather die than have him ask anything of Horace Gower.
He did not know why. He had never been told why. All he knew was that
his father would have nothing to do with Gower, never mentioned the name
voluntarily, let his catch of salmon rot on the beach before he would
sell to a Gower cannery boat,--and had enjoined upon his son the same
aloofness from all things Gower. Once, in answer to young Jack's curious
question, his natural "why," Donald MacRae had said:
"I knew the man long before you were born, Johnny. I don't like him. I
despise him. Neither I nor any of mine shall ever truck and traffic with
him and his. When you are a man and can understand, I shall tell you
more of this."
But he had never told. It had never been a mooted point. Jack MacRae
knew Horace Gower only as a short, stout, elderly man of wealth and
consequence, a power in the salmon trade. He knew a little more of the
Gower clan now than he did before the war. MacRae had gone overseas with
the Seventh Battalion. His company commander had been Horace Gower's
son. Certain aspects of that young man had not heightened MacRae's
esteem for the Gower family. Moreover, he resented this elaborate summer
home of Gower's standing on land he had always known to be theirs, the
MacRaes'. That puzzled him, as well as affronted his sense of ownership.
But these things, he told himself, were for the moment beside the point.
He felt his father's life trembling in the balance. He wanted to see
affectionate, prideful recognition light up those gray-blue eyes again,
even if briefly. He had come six thousand miles to cheer the old man
with a sight of his son, a son who had been a credit to him. And he was
willing to pocket pride, to call for help from the last source he would
have chosen, if that would avail.
He crossed the lawn, waited a few seconds till the piano ceased its
syncopated frenzy and the dancers stopped.
Betty Gower herself opened at his knock.
"Is Mr. Gower here?" he asked.
"Yes. Won't you come in?" she asked courteously.
The door opened direct into a great living room, from the oak floor of
which the rugs had been rolled aside for dancing. As MacRae came in out
of the murk along the cliffs, his one good eye was dazzled at first.
Presently he made out a dozen or more persons in the room,--young people
nearly all. They were standing and sitting about. One or two were in
khaki--officers. There seemed to be an abrupt cessation of chatter and
laughing at his entrance. It did not occur to him at once that these
people might be avidly curious about a strange young man in the uniform
of the Flying Corps. He apprehended that curiosity, though, politely
veiled as it was. In the same glance he became aware of a middle-aged
woman sitting on a couch by the fire. Her hair was pure white,
elaborately arranged, her eyes were a pale blue, her skin very delicate
and clear. Her face somehow reminded Jack MacRae of a faded rose leaf.
In a deep armchair near her sat Horace Gower. A young man, a very young
man, in evening clothes, holding a long cigarette daintily in his
fingers, stood by Gower.
MacRae followed Betty Gower across the room to her father. She turned.
Her quick eyes had picked out the insignia of rank on MacRae's uniform.
"Papa," she said. "Captain--" she hesitated.
"MacRae," he supplied.
"Captain MacRae wishes to see you."
MacRae wished no conventionalities. He did not want to be introduced, to
be shaken by the hand, to have Gower play host. He forestalled all this,
if indeed it threatened.
"I have just arrived home on leave," he said briefly. "I find my father
desperately ill in our house at the Cove. You have a very fast and able
cruiser. Would you care to put her at my disposal so that I may take my
father to Vancouver? I think that is his only chance."
Gower had risen. He was not an imposing man. At his first glimpse of
MacRae's face, the pink-patched eye, the uniform, he flushed
slightly,--recalling that afternoon.
"I'm sorry," he said. "You'd be welcome to the _Arrow_ if she were here.
But I sent her to Nanaimo an hour after she landed us. Are you Donald
MacRae's boy?"
"Yes," MacRae said. "Thank you. That's all."
He had said his say and got his answer. He turned to go. Betty Gower put
a detaining hand on his arm.
"Listen," she put in eagerly. "Is there anything any of us could do to
help? Nursing or--or anything?"
MacRae shook his head.
"There is a girl with him," he answered. "Nothing but skilled medical
aid would help him at this stage. He has the flu, and the fever is
burning his life out."
"The flu, did you say?" The young man with the long cigarette lost his
bored air. "Hang it, it isn't very sporting, is it, to expose us--these
ladies--to the infection? I'll say it isn't."
Jack MacRae fixed the young man--and he was not, after all, much younger
than MacRae--with a steady stare in which a smoldering fire glowed. He
bestowed a scrutiny while one might count five, under which the other's
gaze began to shift uneasily. A constrained silence fell in the room.
"I would suggest that you learn how to put on a gas mask," MacRae said
coldly, at last.
Then he walked out. Betty Gower followed him to the door, but he had
asked his question and there was nothing to wait for. He did not even
look back until he reached the cliff. He did not care if they thought
him rude, ill-bred. Then, as he reached the cliff, the joyous jazz broke
out again and shadows of dancing couples flitted by the windows. MacRae
looked once and went on, moody because chance had decreed that he should
fail.
* * * * *
When a ruddy dawn broke through the gray cloud battalions Jack MacRae
sat on a chair before the fireplace in the front room, his elbows on his
knees, his chin in his cupped palms. He had been sitting like that for
two hours. The fir logs had wasted away to a pile of white ash spotted
with dying coals. MacRae sat heedless that the room was growing cold.
He did not even lift his head at the sound of heavy footsteps on the
porch. He did not move until a voice at the door spoke his name in
accents of surprise.
"Is that you, yourself, Johnny MacRae?"
The voice was deep and husky and kind, and it was not native to Squitty
Cove. MacRae lifted his head to see his father's friend and his own,
Doctor Laidlaw, physician and fisherman, bulking large. And beyond the
doctor he saw a big white launch at anchor inside the Cove.
"Yes," MacRae said.
"How's your father?" Laidlaw asked. "That wire worried me. I made the
best time I could."
"He's dead," MacRae answered evenly. "He died at midnight."