In the firelight of that evening--when the maids had cleared the cozy
room and carried away the lamp and we three sat alone together in my
father's house--was planned our simple partnership in good works and the
fish business. 'Tis wonderful what magic is abroad at such times--what
dreams, what sure hopes, lie in the flickering blaze, the warm, red
glow, the dancing shadows; what fine aspirations unfold in hearts that
are brave and hopeful and kind. Presently, we had set a fleet of new
schooners afloat, put a score of new traps in the water, proved
fair-dealing and prosperity the selfsame thing, visited the sick of five
hundred miles, established a hospital--transformed our wretched coast,
indeed, into a place no longer ignorant of jollity and thrift and
healing. The doctor projected all with lively confidence--his eyes
aflash, his lean, white hand eloquent, his tongue amazingly active and
persuasive--and with an insight so sagacious and well-informed, a
purpose so pure and wise, that he revealed himself (though we did not
think of it then) not only as a man of heart but of conspicuous sense.
It did not enter our minds to distrust him: because our folk are not
sophisticated in polite overreaching, not given to the vice of
suspicion, and because--well, he was what he was.
My sister's face was aglow--most divinely radiant--with responsive faith
and enthusiasm; and as for me----
"Leave me get down," I gasped, at last, to the doctor, "or I'll bust
with delight, by heaven!"
He laughed, but unclasped his hands and let me slip from his knee; and
then I began to strut the floor, my chest puffed out to twice its
natural extent.
"By heaven!" I began. "If that Jagger----"
The clock struck ten. "David Roth," my sister exclaimed, lifting her
hands in mock horror, "'tis fair scandalous for a lad o' your years t'
be up 't this hour!"
"Off to bed with you, you rascal!" roared the doctor.
"I'll not go," I protested.
"Off with you!"
"Not I."
"Catch un, doctor!" cried my sister.
"An you can, zur!" I taunted.
If he could? Ecod! He snatched at me, quick as a cat; but I dodged his
hand, laughed in his face and put the table between us. With an agility
beyond compare--with a flow of spirits like a gale of wind--he vaulted
the broad board. The great, grave fellow appeared of a sudden to my
startled vision in midair--his arms and legs at sixes and sevens--his
coat-tails flapping like a loose sail--his mouth wide open in a
demoniacal whoop--and I dropped to the floor but in the bare nick of
time to elude him. Uproarious pursuit ensued: it made my sister limp and
pain-stricken and powerless with laughter; it brought our two maids from
the kitchen and kept them hysterically screaming in the doorway, the
lamp at a fearsome angle; it tumbled the furniture about with rollicking
disregard, led the doctor a staggering, scrambling, leaping course in
the midst of upturned tables and chairs, and, at last, ran the gasping
quarry to earth under the sofa. I was taken out by the heels,
shouldered, carried aloft and flung sprawling on my bed--while the whole
house rang again with peal upon peal of hearty laughter.
"Oh, zur," I groaned, "I never knowed you was so jolly!"
"Not so?"
"On my word, zur!"
He sighed.
"I fancied you was never but sad."
"Ah, well," said he, "the Labrador, Davy, is evidently working a cure."
"God be thanked for that!" said I, devoutly.
He rumpled my hair and went out. And I bade him send my sister with the
candle; and while I lay waiting in the dark a glow of content came upon
me--because of this: that whereas I had before felt woefully inadequate
to my sister's protection, however boastfully I had undertaken it, I was
now sure that in our new partnership her welfare and peace of heart were
to be accomplished. Then she came in and sat with me while I got ready
for bed. She had me say my prayers at her knee, as a matter of course,
but this night hinted that an additional petition for the doctor's
well-doing and happiness might not be out of place. She chided me, after
that, for the temper I had shown against Jagger and for the oath I had
flung at his head, as I knew she would--but did not chide me heartily,
because, as she said, she was for the moment too gratefully happy to
remember my short-comings against me. I thanked her, then, for this
indulgence, and told her that she might go to bed, for I was safely and
comfortably bestowed, as she could see, and ready for sleep; but she
would not go, and there sat, with the candle in her hand, her face
flushed and her great blue eyes soulfully glowing, while she continued
to chatter in an incoherent and strangely irrelevant fashion: so that,
astonished into broad wakefulness by this extraordinary behaviour, I sat
bolt upright in bed, determined to discover the cause.
"Bessie Roth," said I, severely, "what's come upon you?"
"I'm not knowin', Davy," she answered, softly, looking away.
"'Tis somewhat awful, then," said I, in alarm, "for you're not lookin'
me in the eye."
She looked then in her lap--and did not raise her eyes, though I waited:
which was very strange.
"You isn't sick, is you?"
"No-o," she answered, doubtfully.
"Oh, you _mustn't_ get sick," I protested. "'Twould _never_ do. I'd fair
die--if _you_ got sick!"
"'Tisn't sickness; 'tis--I'm not knowin' what."
"Ah, come," I pleaded; "what is it, dear?"
"Davy, lad," she faltered, "I'm just--dreadful--happy."
"Happy?" cried I, scornfully. "'Tis not happiness! Why, sure, your lip
is curlin' with grief!"
"But I _was_ happy."
"You isn't happy now, my girl."
"No," she sobbed, "I'm wonderful miserable--now."
I kicked off the covers. "You've the fever, that's what!" I exclaimed,
jumping out of bed.
"'Tis not that, Davy."
"Then--oh, for pity's sake, Bessie, tell your brother what's gone wrong
along o' you!"
"I'm thinkin', Davy," she whispered, despairingly, "that I'm nothin' but
a sinful woman."
"A--what! Why, Bessie----"
"Nothin'," she repeated, positively, "but a sinful, wicked person."
"Who told you that?" said I, dancing about in a rage.
"My own heart."
"Your heart!" cried I, blind angry. "'Tis a liar an it says so."
"What words!" she exclaimed, changed in a twinkling. "An' to your
sister! Do you get back in bed this instant, David Roth, an' tell her
that you're sorry."
I was loath to do it, but did, to pacify her; and when she had carried
away the candle I chuckled, for I had cured her of her indisposition for
that night, at any rate: as I knew, for when she kissed me 'twas plain
that she was more concerned for her wayward brother than for herself.
* * * * *
Past midnight I was awakened by the clang of the bell on my father's
wharf. 'Twas an unpleasant sound. Half a gale--no less--could do it. I
then knew that the wind had freshened and veered to the southeast; and
I listened to determine how wild the night. Wild enough! The bell
clanged frequently, sharply, jangling in the gusts--like an anxious
warning. My window was black; there was no light in the sky--no star
shining. Rain pattered on the roof. I heard the rush of wind. 'Twas
inevitable that I should contrast the quiet of the room, the security of
my place, the comfort of my couch and blankets, with a rain-swept,
heaving deck and a tumultuous sea. A gusty night, I thought--thick, wet,
with the wind rising. The sea would be in a turmoil on the grounds by
dawn: there would be no fishing; and I was regretting this--between
sleep and waking--when the bell again clanged dolefully. Roused, in a
measure, I got ear of men stumbling up the path. I was into my breeches
before they had trampled half the length of the platform--well on my way
down the dark stair when they knocked on the door--standing scared in
the light of their lantern, the door open, before they found time to
hail.
I was addressed by a gray old man in ragged oilskins. "We heared tell,"
said he, mildly, wiping his dripping beard, "that you got a doctor
here."