Sweetapple Cove Part 34

_Aunt Jennie_, _darling_:

Isn't the world just the most wonderful place? No one knows it at all until after it has played battledore and shuttlec.o.c.k with them, and they have been tossed to and fro for a long time. Weren't those old Persians wonderful people? Of course they had no means of knowing the real truth but it surely was the next thing to it to wors.h.i.+p the dear sun. It goes away and leaves things dark and dismal, and there may be hail and sleet and rain, and the outlook is all dark, but presently the clouds move and the fog blows away and the path of light twinkles over the big ocean and the very gra.s.ses of the hillsides perk up and the birds try to split their little throats with song. They are all sun-wors.h.i.+ppers.

Of course you want to know at once how it all came about. I am still shaky and uncertain, as if I had just been awakened. Sometimes I hardly believe that it is the real truth that I behold, but merely some vision that must pa.s.s away like the gold and the crimson of the fading day.

John is getting well! I feel that I want to shout it farther than the voice of man ever carried before. I wish that wonderful Marconi could set all these little waves he makes in the air to vibrating at once and carry over the whole world the tidings that my John is going to live! Of course there were a few very dreadful days, and some nights that were agony, and that nice little doctor lost his red cheeks and looked pale and wan, and of course I was very, very tired. That dear Mrs. Barnett or her husband were always with me, and no one could ever make Frenchy leave the place for a minute, and old Sammy hovered around constantly. The people walked about the tiny village as if it had been a town smitten by a great pestilence, as used to happen in those old dark ages. There have been no more cases, because the doctor has injected some of that stuff in the arms of all who had been in the slightest degree exposed, and it doesn't hurt very much, Aunt Jennie.

But the amazing day was the one upon which I arose, before dawn, because they had just forced me to go to bed the night before, and I hurried down to Frenchy's, in the keen cold air, and met Dr. Johnson who was quietly pacing the road and smoking his pipe, which must have been very bad for him so early in the morning. But then I think we have all lost count of hours. When he heard my steps he turned quickly, and his cheeks looked quite pink again, perhaps owing to the cold, and his eyes were just as bright as bright could be, and he just ran towards me. I think my hands began to shake, for I had lost all memory of what a happy face looked like, I think, and the sight of his was like something that strikes one full in the chest and takes one's breath away.

He just grabbed both my hands, because he is such a nice friendly boy.

"Do you mean to tell me...." I began, but he interrupted me.

"Indeed I certainly do," he answered, speaking ever so quickly. "You had not been gone for more than a couple of hours when he opened his eyes and looked at me, very much puzzled, and made a little effort to rise, which of course I checked at once, though his pulse and temperature had gone down, and he looked a lot better.

"'You just keep still, old man,' I told him. 'Now is just the time to look out for sudden heart failure, so you must keep still, and have a good swig of this stuff, and try and have a nap. You've given us a proper scare, I can tell you, but now you're right side up.'

"And would you believe it, Miss Jelliffe, that big Frenchman jumped off his bunk and stared at him, and then he grabbed me and kissed me on both cheeks as if I'd been another blessed frog-eater, and I wanted to punch his nose but compromised by shaking hands instead. I could just have danced a hornpipe. And by this time Dr. Grant has taken a whole lot of nourishment, and got a good deal of real sleep during the night, and now he's behaving first-rate. I left Frenchy sitting near him, a short time ago, and came out to smoke the pipe of peace with all the world."

"You have saved him!" I cried.

"Well, we've all helped," he said. "It really looks now as if he were quite out of danger, because there is an immense change for the better, and that's a whole lot. I'll just take a peep in now to see if he's awake, because we mustn't disturb him if he isn't."

He left me standing in front of the poor little building, within whose walls we all had spent such terrible hours, and went in on tiptoe.

Frenchy came out in his stocking-feet, the most disheveled man you ever saw, and suddenly I felt as if I were about to fall, in spite of the joy his eyes betrayed, and I grasped his big, hairy arm. But I felt better in a moment. The immense newborn sun was rising out of the waters, a huge, great, blood-hued thing, and the sky was aflame at last--after the awful, somber days, and seemed to burst out with tidings of great joy, like that wondrous star in the East.

And then the little parson came trotting down the road, for he is the most active little man you ever saw, and when he looked into our faces he stretched out his hands, and we grasped them happily.

"Oh! Mr. Barnett," I told him. "Indeed, it seems too good to be true."

"Dear young lady," he said, "nothing is ever too good to be true."

He was looking far away at the flaming sky, as if beyond it he had been able to discern some wonderful vision. He surely believes in infinite goodness, Aunt Jennie. His whole life is based upon his trust in it, and it is very beautiful. His words carried with them a world of hope, and suddenly I felt as if some great blessing were perhaps hovering above, like the big, circling sea-birds, and might descend to me.

Then Dr. Johnson came out and greeted the little parson, who has taken a great liking to him. Despite the great, dark circles around his eyes, strained as they had been by so many weary hours of watching, the young man's face was merry and boyish, for all that it gives promise of splendid manliness, and it was good to see. As he came to us his steps showed no signs of the fatigue he must have felt.

"He's awake," he announced. "He must have a great deal of rest and quiet just now, but I am sure your presence would give him pleasure, Miss Jelliffe. You won't let him talk very much, will you?"

"No," I promised, and could find no other words.

I moved towards the door, slowly, expecting the others to follow me, but they never stirred. It was as if by some common consent they had acknowledged some right of mine to enter alone. Suddenly my limbs began to drag under me, as if I had been a tottering, old woman. I wondered what his first look would say to me, what the first word from his lips would portend? It seemed as if I were going in there like one who sought some hidden treasure, knowing which door it lay behind but stricken with fear lest some unseen Cerberus might be crouching in wait for the rash seeker after happiness. Oh! Aunt Jennie! The tenseness of that moment!

The feeling that, like the _s...o...b..rd_ a few days ago, I was moving through a fog-hidden world of peril!

My nails were dug into the palms of my hands as I entered the shack, and his head turned slowly as I came in, and in his eyes I saw the confession his babbling had revealed to me. But then an expression of pain came also, that made me involuntarily look at Frenchy's little crucifix on the wall.

So I just kneeled down by him, and once more took that poor thin hand within my own. I spoke very low, and in such a shaky voice, but very quick, for fear I might not be able to continue.

"Don't give up hope," I said. "We despaired for so many long days, and now you are getting well again, and the dear sun is rising from the mists, and the world is very beautiful, and I long to make it more beautiful for you."

I saw two big tears gathering in the corners of the poor sunken eyes, and the long white hand pressed mine, weakly, and that mark of the pangs of the crucified pa.s.sed away.

"You must lie very still," I continued, "and let us make you well and strong again, for you've made dear Sweetapple Cove now, after being nearly 'ketched' by those dreadful seas, and I know that our little s.h.i.+p is coming safely to port."

For a moment he could only close his eyes, as if the poor, little, dawning light that was beginning to come through the windows had been too bright for him, but his hand pressed mine again. Then he looked at me once more, eagerly, as if he longed for other words of mine.

"No," I said. "One mustn't talk too much to people who have been so dreadfully ill, and really I can say nothing more now. Indeed I have said all I could, because a woman can't let her happiness fly away on account of--of people who are too proud to speak, but--but you can whisper a word or two."

There were three of them that came from his lips, those three thrilling words I had despaired of ever hearing from him.

"And I also love you, John, with all my heart and soul," I answered.

Then we were very still for some time, and presently some one coughed rather hard outside, and fumbled with the door, and the nice doctor boy came in.

"I mustn't allow you people to talk too long," he said. "It is time he had a good drink of milk, and after that he must have some more sleep, and we'll have him topside up in no time."

Then Mr. Barnett came in too, but he never said a word. There was just a glance, a pressure of hands, and that was all, but it seemed to mean ever so much to them.

So after a short time I went away, and the bright sun was streaming down upon our poor, little, smelly Sweetapple Cove, that was really like a corner of Paradise.

And now, Aunt Jennie, several more days have gone by, and John is getting stronger and stronger every hour.

Yesterday, for the first time, he sat up in a long deck chair that had been brought up from the _s...o...b..rd_, and I sat beside him, with my knitting, which was only a pretence, for it lay on my lap, idly. It seemed to me that I had a million things to talk about, but when I spoke he answered in brief little weary words, so that I became afraid I might tire him. There is no porch to the little house, so he sat indoors in front of the widely opened door, whence he could see the cove, glittering in the suns.h.i.+ne, and the flakes covered with the silver-grey fish that were drying.

We remained in silence for a long time, and my hand rested on his, that was stretched out on the arm of the chair. Then he turned to me.

"Dearest," he said, "I am but sorry company for you, after all these days of devoted attention on your part."

"You are my own dear John," I answered. "I wish--I wish I knew that you were as happy as I."

"Listen, Helen," he said. "There is something that you must know."

And then, slowly, he told me a tale that began with his boyhood. There was a little girl, and he was very fond of her, and many times he told her she must be his little wife. And always she a.s.sented, so that gradually, as the years went by, it had become a habit of his mind to think of the days to come, when they would be married. Then he had gone away to a little college. When he returned for the holidays he always saw her again, but when he spoke of marrying her she blushed, and was timid, for she was pa.s.sing away from childhood. In later days he saw less of her, but he always wrote long letters to his little comrade. After a few years he went abroad to study, but they corresponded often, telling of their plans and ambitions. One day he heard that she was going to New York to become a trained nurse, and he had finished his work abroad, so he took a steamer and went there too. On the days when she was at liberty for a few hours he met her, and those ideas of his boyhood became stronger than ever, and he asked her to marry him. Her reply was that they were too young yet and that they must wait, for she had no idea of becoming married for the present, because there were many things she wanted to do, and while she was ever so fond of him as a friend she did not think she loved him, though some day she might. But he had always thought it would be just a matter of time, for he had considered it a settled thing. Then he had come to Sweetapple Cove, and written to her often, for he expected her to return to Newfoundland soon. Her letters came rather seldom, for she was working very hard.

"And now, when she comes," he continued, "I shall have to tell her it was all a ghastly mistake on my part. I shall have to tell her the truth, brutally, frankly. I will have to say that I really never loved her; that it was a boy's idea that continued into a man's thoughts, until one day he realized that he loved another woman."

"But she really never loved you, John," I exclaimed. "If she had she never would have allowed you to go away."

"I hope to G.o.d she never did!" he exclaimed. "But in those old days I asked her to be my wife, and I told her I would wait for her. And she has always been very fond of me, at least as a good friend, and--and--who knows? I hate the idea that I must perhaps inflict pain upon her, some day."

But I shook my head, obstinately.

"No, she never loved you," I insisted. "I know now how people love. It is a desire to cling to one, to be ever with him, to share with him toil, and pain, and hunger, joyfully, happily, for all the days and days to come. And when you have to leave me I shall be restless and nervous, like that poor dear Mrs. Barnett, until you come back and I can be glad again.

Oh! John! That girl never loved you!"

Just then the little parson's wife came up, smilingly as ever.

"Are you two having lover's quarrels already?" she asked.

"No," I answered, "I was explaining to him that no other woman ever could--or--or ever would...."