By the second day of the northwester,
Sheldon was in collapse from
his fever. It had taken an unfair
advantage of his weak state,
and though it was only ordinary
malarial fever, in forty-eight
hours it had run him as low as
ten days of fever would have
done when he was in condition.
But the dysentery had been swept
away from Berande. A score of
convalescents lingered in the
hospital, but they were improving
hourly. There had been but one
more death--that of the man whose
brother had wailed over him instead
of brushing the flies
away.
On the morning of the fourth
day of his fever, Sheldon lay
on the veranda, gazing dimly
out over the raging ocean. The
wind was falling, but a mighty
sea was still thundering in on
Berande beach, the flying spray
reaching in as far as the flagstaff
mounds, the foaming wash creaming
against the gate-posts. He had
taken thirty grains of quinine,
and the drug was buzzing in his
ears like a nest of hornets,
making his hands and knees tremble,
and causing a sickening palpitation
of the stomach. Once, opening
his eyes, he saw what he took
to be an hallucination. Not far
out, and coming in across the
Jessie's anchorage, he saw a
whale-boat's nose thrust skyward
on a smoky crest and disappear
naturally, as an actual whale-boat's
nose should disappear, as it
slid down the back of the sea.
He knew that no whale-boat should
be out there, and he was quite
certain no men in the Solomons
were mad enough to be abroad
in such a storm.
But the hallucination
persisted. A minute later,
chancing to open
his eyes, he saw the whale-boat,
full length, and saw right into
it as it rose on the face of
a wave. He saw six sweeps at
work, and in the stern, clearly
outlined against the overhanging
wall of white, a man who stood
erect, gigantic, swaying with
his weight on the steering-sweep.
This he saw, and an eighth man
who crouched in the bow and gazed
shoreward. But what startled
Sheldon was the sight of a woman
in the stern-sheets, between
the stroke-oar and the steersman.
A woman she was, for a braid
of her hair was flying, and she
was just in the act of recapturing
it and stowing it away beneath
a hat that for all the world
was like his own "Baden-Powell."
The boat disappeared behind
the wave, and rose into view
on the face of the following
one. Again he looked into it.
The men were dark-skinned, and
larger than Solomon Islanders,
but the woman, he could plainly
see, was white. Who she was,
and what she was doing there,
were thoughts that drifted vaguely
through his consciousness. He
was too sick to be vitally interested,
and, besides, he had a half feeling
that it was all a dream; but
he noted that the men were resting
on their sweeps, while the woman
and the steersman were intently
watching the run of seas behind
them.
"Good boatmen," was
Sheldon's verdict, as he saw
the boat leap
forward on the face of a huge
breaker, the sweeps plying swiftly
to keep her on that front of
the moving mountain of water
that raced madly for the shore.
It was well done. Part full of
water, the boat was flung upon
the beach, the men springing
out and dragging its nose to
the gate-posts. Sheldon had called
vainly to the house-boys, who,
at the moment, were dosing the
remaining patients in the hospital.
He knew he was unable to rise
up and go down the path to meet
the newcomers, so he lay back
in the steamer-chair, and watched
for ages while they cared for
the boat. The woman stood to
one side, her hand resting on
the gate. Occasionally surges
of sea water washed over her
feet, which he could see were
encased in rubber sea-boots.
She scrutinized the house sharply,
and for some time she gazed at
him steadily. At last, speaking
to two of the men, who turned
and followed her, she started
up the path.
Sheldon attempted to rise,
got half up out of his chair,
and fell back helplessly. He
was surprised at the size of
the men, who loomed like giants
behind her. Both were six-footers,
and they were heavy in proportion.
He had never seen islanders like
them. They were not black like
the Solomon Islanders, but light
brown; and their features were
larger, more regular, and even
handsome.
The woman--or girl, rather,
he decided--walked along the
veranda toward him. The two men
waited at the head of the steps,
watching curiously. The girl
was angry; he could see that.
Her gray eyes were flashing,
and her lips were quivering.
That she had a temper, was his
thought. But the eyes were striking.
He decided that they were not
gray after all, or, at least,
not all gray. They were large
and wide apart, and they looked
at him from under level brows.
Her face was cameo-like, so clear
cut was it. There were other
striking things about her--the
cowboy Stetson hat, the heavy
braids of brown hair, and the
long-barrelled 38 Colt's revolver
that hung in its holster on her
hip.
"Pretty hospitality, I must
say," was her greeting, "letting
strangers sink or swim in your
front yard."
"I--I beg your pardon," he
stammered, by a supreme effort
dragging himself to his feet.
His legs wobbled under him,
and with a suffocating sensation
he began sinking to the floor.
He was aware of a feeble gratification
as he saw solicitude leap into
her eyes; then blackness smote
him, and at the moment of smiting
him his thought was that at last,
and for the first time in his
life, he had fainted.
The ringing of the big bell
aroused him. He opened his eyes
and found that he was on the
couch indoors. A glance at the
clock told him that it was six,
and from the direction the sun's
rays streamed into the room he
knew that it was morning. At
first he puzzled over something
untoward he was sure had happened.
Then on the wall he saw a Stetson
hat hanging, and beneath it a
full cartridge-belt and a long-barrelled
38 Colt's revolver. The slender
girth of the belt told its feminine
story, and he remembered the
whale-boat of the day before
and the gray eyes that flashed
beneath the level brows. She
it must have been who had just
rung the bell. The cares of the
plantation rushed upon him, and
he sat up in bed, clutching at
the wall for support as the mosquito
screen lurched dizzily around
him. He was still sitting there,
holding on, with eyes closed,
striving to master his giddiness,
when he heard her voice.
"You'll lie right down again,
sir," she said.
It was sharply imperative,
a voice used to command. At the
same time one hand pressed him
back toward the pillow while
the other caught him from behind
and eased him down.
"You've been unconscious for
twenty-four hours now," she went
on, "and I have taken charge.
When I say the word you'll get
up, and not until then. Now,
what medicine do you take?--quinine?
Here are ten grains. That's right.
You'll make a good patient."
"My dear madame," he
began.
"You musn't speak," she interrupted, "that
is, in protest. Otherwise, you
can talk."
"But the plantation--"
"A dead man
is of no use on a plantation.
Don't you want
to know about ME? My vanity is
hurt. Here am I, just through
my first shipwreck; and here
are you, not the least bit curious,
talking about your miserable
plantation. Can't you see that
I am just bursting to tell somebody,
anybody, about my shipwreck?"
He smiled; it was the first
time in weeks. And he smiled,
not so much at what she said,
as at the way she said it--the
whimsical expression of her face,
the laughter in her eyes, and
the several tiny lines of humour
that drew in at the corners.
He was curiously wondering as
to what her age was, as he said
aloud:
"Yes, tell
me, please."
"That I will not--not now," she
retorted, with a toss of the
head. "I'll find somebody to
tell my story to who does not
have to be asked. Also, I want
information. I managed to find
out what time to ring the bell
to turn the hands to, and that
is about all. I don't understand
the ridiculous speech of your
people. What time do they knock
off?"
"At eleven--go
on again at one."
"That will
do, thank you. And now, where
do you keep the key
to the provisions? I want to
feed my men."
"Your men!" he gasped. "On
tinned goods! No, no. Let them
go out and eat with my boys."
Her eyes flashed as on the
day before, and he saw again
the imperative expression on
her face.
"That I won't;
my men are MEN. I've been out
to your miserable
barracks and watched them eat.
Faugh! Potatoes! Nothing but
potatoes! No salt! Nothing! Only
potatoes! I may have been mistaken,
but I thought I understood them
to say that that was all they
ever got to eat. Two meals a
day and every day in the week?"
He nodded.
"Well, my men
wouldn't stand that for a single
day, much less
a whole week. Where is the key?"
"Hanging on
that clothes-hook under the
clock."
He gave it easily enough, but
as she was reaching down the
key she heard him say:
"Fancy niggers
and tinned provisions."
This time she really was angry.
The blood was in her cheeks as
she turned on him.
"My men are
not niggers. The sooner you
understand that the
better for our acquaintance.
As for the tinned goods, I'll
pay for all they eat. Please
don't worry about that. Worry
is not good for you in your condition.
And I won't stay any longer than
I have to- -just long enough
to get you on your feet, and
not go away with the feeling
of having deserted a white man."
"You're American, aren't you?" he
asked quietly.
The question disconcerted her
for the moment.
"Yes," she vouchsafed, with
a defiant look. "Why?"
"Nothing. I
merely thought so."
"Anything further?"
He shook his head.
"Why?" he asked.
"Oh, nothing.
I thought you might have something
pleasant
to say."
"My name is Sheldon, David
Sheldon," he said, with direct
relevance, holding out a thin
hand.
Her hand started
out impulsively, then checked. "My name is Lackland,
Joan Lackland." The hand went
out. "And let us be friends."
"It could not be otherwise--" he
began lamely.
"And I can feed my men all
the tinned goods I want?" she
rushed on.
"Till the cows come home," he
answered, attempting her own
lightness, then adding, "that
is, to Berande. You see we don't
have any cows at Berande."
She fixed him coldly with her
eyes.
"Is that a joke?" she
demanded.
"I really don't
know--I--I thought it was,
but then, you
see, I'm sick."
"You're English, aren't you?" was
her next query.
"Now that's too much, even
for a sick man," he cried. "You
know well enough that I am."
"Oh," she said absently, "then
you are?"
He frowned, tightened his lips,
then burst into laughter, in
which she joined.
"It's my own fault," he confessed. "I
shouldn't have baited you. I'll
be careful in the future."
"In the meantime
go on laughing, and I'll see
about breakfast.
Is there anything you would fancy?"
He shook his head.
"It will do
you good to eat something.
Your fever has burned
out, and you are merely weak.
Wait a moment."
She hurried out of the room
in the direction of the kitchen,
tripped at the door in a pair
of sandals several sizes too
large for her feet, and disappeared
in rosy confusion.
"By Jove, those are my sandals," he
thought to himself. "The girl
hasn't a thing to wear except
what she landed on the beach
in, and she certainly landed
in sea-boots."
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