"May be," she muttered, "the day after."
'Twas hard to believe it of her. "Bessie," I began, ignoring her folly,
"afore the doctor went, he left a message for you."
Her hands went swiftly to her bosom. "For me?" she whispered. "Ah, tell
me, Davy!"
"I'm just about t' tell," said I, testily. "But, sure, 'tis nothin' t'
put you in a state. When he come t' my room," I proceeded, "at dawn, t'
say good-bye, he left a message. 'Tell her,' said he, 'that I love
her.'"
It seemed to me, then, that she suffered--that she felt some glorious
agony: of which, as I thought, lads could know nothing. And I wondered
why.
"That he loves me!" she murmured.
"No," said I. "'Tell her not that,' said he," I went on. "'Tell her that
I loved her.'"
"Not that!" she cried. "'Twas that he loves me--_not_ that he loved me!"
"'Twas that he loved you."
"Oh, no!"
"I got it right."
"Ah, then," she cried, in despair, "he've no hope o' comin' back! Oh,"
she moaned, clasping her hands, "if only I had----"
But she sighed--and turned again to her womanly task; and I left her
tenderly caring for my mother's old room. And when, at midday, I came up
from the wharf, I found the house restored to order and quiet: my
sister sitting composed in my mother's place, smiling a welcome across
the table, as my mother used to do. And I kissed her--for I loved her!
* * * * *
It blew up bitter cold--the wind rising: the sea turned white with
froth. 'Twas a solemn day--like a sad Sunday, when a man lies dead in
the harbour. No work was done--no voice was lifted boisterously--no
child was out of doors: but all clung peevishly to their mothers'
skirts. The men on the wharf--speculating in low, anxious voices--with
darkened eyes watched the tattered sky: the rushing, sombre clouds,
still in a panic fleeing to the wilderness. They said the sloop would
not outlive the gale. They said 'twas a glorious death that the doctor
and Skipper Thomas Lovejoy had died; thus to depart in the high
endeavour to succour an enemy--but shed no tears: for 'tis not the way
of our folk to do it.... Rain turned to sleet--sleet to black fog. The
smell of winter was in the air. There was a feeling of snow abroad....
Then came the snow--warning flakes, driving strangely through the mist,
where no snow should have been. Our folk cowered--not knowing what they
feared: but by instinct perceiving a sudden change of season, for which
they were not ready; and were disquieted....
What a rush of feeling and things done--what rage and impulsive
deeds--came then! The days are not remembered--but lie hid in a mist, as
I write.... Timmie Lovejoy crawled into our harbour in the dusk of that
day: having gone ashore at Long Cove with the deck-litter of the _Trap
and Seine_; which surprised us not at all, for we are used to such
things. And when he gave us the message (having now, God knows! a tragic
opportunity, but forgetting that)--when he sobbed that Jagger, being in
sound health, would prove the doctor a coward or drown him--we
determined to go forthwith by the coast rocks to Wayfarer's Tickle to
punish Jagger in some way for the thing he had done. And when I went up
the path to tell my poor sister of the villany practiced upon the
doctor, designed to compass his very death--ah! 'tis dreadful to recall
it--when I went up the path, my mother's last prayer pleading in my
soul, the whitening world was all turned red; and my wish was that, some
day, I might take my enemy by the throat, whereat I would tear with my
naked fingers, until my hands were warm with blood.... But it came on to
snow; and for two days and nights snow fell, the wind blowing mightily:
so that no man could well move from his own house. And when the wind
went down, and the day dawned clear again, we put the dogs to my
father's komatik and set out for Wayfarer's Tickle: whence Jagger had
that morning fled, as Jonas Jutt told us.
"Gone!" cried Tom Tot.
"T' the s'uth'ard with the dogs. He's bound t' the Straits Shore t' get
the last coastal boat t' Bay o' Islands."
"Gone!" we repeated, blankly.
"Ay--but ten hours gone. In mad haste--alone--ill provisioned--fleein'
in terror.... He sat on the hills--sat there like an old crag--in the
rain an' wind--waitin' for the doctor's sloop. 'There she is, Jutt!'
says he. 'No,' says I. 'Thank God, Jagger, that's a schooner, reefed
down an' runnin' for harbour!' ... 'There she is!' says he. 'No,' says
I. 'Thank God, that's the same schooner, makin' heavy weather o' the
gale!' ... 'There she is, Jutt!' says he. 'Ay,' says I, 'God help her,
that's the doctor's sloop! They've wrecked the _Trap an' Seine_'.... An'
there he sat, watchin', with his chin on his hand, 'til the doctor's
sloop went over, an' the fog drifted over the sea where she had been....
An' then he went home; an' no man seed un agin 'til he called for the
dogs. An' he went away--in haste--alone--like a man gone mad...."
The lean-handed clerk broke in. He was blue about the lips--his eyes
sunk in shadowy pits--and he was shivering.
"'Timmons,' says he to me," he chattered, "'I'm going home. I done
wrong,' says he. 'They'll kill me for this.'"
"An' when he got the dogs in the traces," Jonas proceeded, "I seed he
wasn't ready for no long journey. 'Good Lord, Jagger,' says I, 'you
isn't got no grub for the dogs!' 'Dogs!' says he. 'I'll feed the dogs
with me whip.' 'Jagger,' says I, 'don't you try it. They won't _eat_ a
whip. They can't _live_ on it.' 'Never you fear,' says he. 'I'll feed
them ugly brutes when they gets me t' Cape Charles Harbour.' 'Jagger,'
says I, 'you better look out they don't feed theirselves afore they gets
you there. You got a ugly leader,' says I, 'in that red-eyed brute.'
'Him?' says he. 'Oh, I got _him_ broke!' But he _didn't_ have----"
"And with that," said the clerk, "off he put."
"Men," cried Tom Tot, looking about upon our group, "we'll cotch un
yet!"
So we set out in pursuit of Jagger of Wayfarer's Tickle, who had fled
over the hills--I laugh to think of it--with an ugly, red-eyed leader,
to be fed with a whip: which dog I knew.... No snow fell. The days were
clear--the nights moonlit. Bitter cold continued. We followed a plain
track--sleeping by night where the quarry had slept.... Day after day
we pushed on: with no mercy on the complaining dogs--plunging through
the drifts, whipping the team up the steeper hills, speeding when the
going lay smooth before us.... By and by we drew near. Here and there
the snow was significantly trampled. There were signs of confusion and
cross purposes. The man was desperately fighting his dogs.... One night,
the dogs were strangely restless--sniffing the air, sleepless, howling;
nor could we beat them to their beds in the snow: they were like wolves.
And next day--being then two hours after dawn--we saw before us a bloody
patch of snow: whereupon Tom Tot cried out in horror.
"Oh, dear God!" he muttered, turning with a gray face. "They've eat him
up!"
Then--forgetting the old vow--he laughed.
* * * * *
... And this was true. They had eaten him up. The snow was all trampled
and gory. They had eaten him up. Among the tatters of his garments, I
found a hand; and I knew that hand for the hand of Jagger of Wayfarer's
Tickle.... They had turned wolves--they had eaten him up. From far
off--the crest of a desolate hill--there came a long howl. I looked
towards that place. A great dog appeared--and fled. I wondered if the
dog I knew had had his day. I wondered if the first grip had been upon
the throat....
* * * * *
When we came again to our harbour--came close again to the grief we had
in rage and swift action forgot--when, from the inland hills, we caught
sight of the basin of black water, and the cottages, snuggled by the
white water-side--we were amazed to discover a schooner lying at anchor
off my father's wharf: the wreck of a craft, her topmast hanging, her
cabin stove in, her jib-boom broke off short. But this amazement--this
vast astonishment--was poor surprise as compared with the shock I got
when I entered my father's house. For, there--new groomed and
placid--sat the doctor; and my dear sister was close to him--oh, so
joyfully close to him--her hand in his, her sweet face upturned to him
and smiling, glowing with such faith and love as men cannot deserve: a
radiant, holy thing, come straight from the Heart of the dear God, who
is the source of Love.
"Oh!" I ejaculated, stopping dead on the threshold.
"Hello, Davy!" the doctor cried.
I fell into the handiest chair. "You got home," I observed, in a gasp.
"Didn't you?"
He laughed.
"Sure," I began, vacantly, "an', ecod!" I exclaimed, with heat, "what
craft picked _you_ up?"
"The _Happy Sally_."
"Oh!" said I. 'Twas a queer situation. There seemed so little to say.
"Was you drove far?" I asked, politely seeking to fill an awkward gap.
"South o' Belle Isle."
"Ah!"
The doctor was much amused--my sister hardly less so. They watched me
with laughing eyes. And they heartlessly abandoned me to my own
conversational devices: which turned me desperate.
"Is you goin' t' get married?" I demanded.
My sister blushed--and gave me an arch glance from behind her long, dark
lashes. But--
"We are not without hope," the doctor answered, calmly, "that the Bishop
will be on our coast next summer."
"I'm glad," I observed, "that you've both come t' your senses."
"Oh!" cried my sister.
"Ecod!" the doctor mocked.
"Ay," said I, with a wag. "I is _that_!"
The doctor spoke. "'Twas your sister," said he, "found the way. She
discovered a word," he continued, turning tenderly to her, his voice
charged with new and solemn feeling, "that I'd forgot."
"A word!" said I, amazed.
"Just," he answered, "one word."
'Twas mystifying. "An' what word," I asked, "might that word be?"
"'Expiation,'" he replied.
I did not know the meaning of that word--nor did I care. But I was glad
that my dear sister--whose cleverness (and spirit of sacrifice) might
ever be depended upon--had found it: since it had led to a consummation
so happy.
"Skipper Tommy saved?" I enquired
"He's with the twins at the Rat Hole."
"Then," said I, rising, "as you're both busy," said I, in a saucy flash,
"I'll be goin'----"
"You'll not!" roared the doctor. And he leaped from his seat--bore down
upon me, indeed, like a mad hurricane: my sister laughing and clapping
her little hands. So I knew I must escape or have my bones near crack
under the pressure of his affection; and I was agile--and eluded him.
* * * * *
I found Skipper Tommy and the twins at the Rat Hole--the skipper
established in comfort by the stove, a cup of tea at his hand, his
stockinged feet put up to warm: the twins sitting close, both grinning
broadly, each finely alert to anticipate the old man's wants, who now
had acquired a pampered air, which sat curiously upon him. "Seems t' me,
Davy," he said, in a solemn whisper, at the end of the tale, new told
for me, "that the dear Lard took pity. 'You done pretty well, Tommy,'
says He, 't' put out t' the help o' Jagger in that there gale. I'm
thinkin' I'll have t' change my mind about you,' says He. 'The twins,
Tommy,' says He, 'is well growed, an' able lads, both, as I knowed when
I started out t' do this thing; but I'm thinkin',' says He, 'that I'll
please you, Tommy,' says He, 'by lettin' you live a little longer with
them dear lads.' Oh," the skipper concluded, finding goodness in all the
acts of the Lord, the while stretching out his rough old hand to touch
the boys, his face aglow, "'twas wonderful kind o' Him t' let me see my
lads again!"
The twins heartily grinned.