CHAPTER XXX
OF MY SICK HUMOURS
Next day I awoke early and my wound very painful and troublesome; thisnotwithstanding, I presently got me out into the early sunshine and, tomy wonder, found the fire already lighted and no sign of my companion.Hereupon I fell to shouting and hallooing, but getting no answer, satme down mighty doleful, and seeing her stool where it stood straddledon its three legs I cursed it for its unsightliness and turned my backon it. And now crouched in the sunlight I grew mightily sorry formyself thus solitary and deserted, and the hurt in my shoulder all onfire. And in a little, my self-love gave place to a fretful unease sothat I must needs shout her name again and again, listening for soundof her voice, for some rustle to tell me she was nigh, but heard onlythe faint booming of the surf. So I arose and (albeit I found my legsmighty unwilling) came out upon the plateau, but look how and where Imight, saw only a desolation of sea and beach, whereupon, being greatlydisquieted, I set out minded to seek her. By the time I reachedDeliverance the sun was well up, its heat causing my wound to throb anditch intolerably, and I very fretful and peevish. But as I tramped onand no trace of her I needs must remember how I had sought herhereabouts when I had thought her dead, whereupon a great andunreasoning panic seized me, and I began to run. And then, all atonce, I spied her. She was sitting upon a rock, her head bowed wearilyupon her hands, and seeing how her shoulders heaved I knew she wasbitterly a-weeping. Therefore I stopped, and glancing from herdesolate figure round about upon her desolate surroundings, knew thisgrim solitude for the reason of her tears. At this thought a wave ofhot anger swept over me and a rage that, like my panic, reasoned notas, clenching my fists, I strode on. Suddenly she looked up and seeingme, rose at once, and lifting the great turtle-shell limped wearilytowards me with this borne before her.
"Ha," says I, viewing her tear-wet cheeks as she came, "must ye weep,madam, must ye weep?"
"May I not weep, Martin?" says she, head pitifully a-droop. "Come, letus go back, you look very pale, 'twas wrong of you to come so far!Here is our breakfast, 'tis the best I can find." And she showed me afew poor shellfish.
"Give me the turtle-shell!" says I.
"Indeed I can bear it very easily, Martin. And you so white andhaggard--your wound is troubling you. Come, let me bathe it--"
"Give me the turtle-shell!"
"No, Martin, be wise and let us--"
"Will you gainsay me--d'ye defy me?"
"O Martin, no, but you are so weak--"
"Weak! Am I so?" And stooping, I caught her up in my arms, upsettingthe turtle-shell and spilling the result of her labours. So with hercrushed to me I turned and set off along the beach, and she, lying thushelpless, must needs fall to weeping again and I, in my selfish andblind folly, to plaguing the sweet soul therewith, as:
"England is far away, my Lady Joan! Here be no courtly swains, noperfumed, mincing lovers, to sigh and bow and languish for you. Hereis Solitude, lady. Desolation hath you fast and is not like to let yougo--here mayhap shall you live--and die! An ill place this and, likenature, strong and cruel. An ill place and an ill rogue for company.You named me rogue once and rogue forsooth you find me. England is faraway--but God--is farther--"
Thus I babbled, scowling down on her, as I bore her on until my breathcame in great gasps, until the sweat poured from me, until I sank to myknees and striving to rise found I might not, and glaring wildly up sawwe were come 'neath Bartlemy's cursed pimento tree. Then she, loosingherself from my fainting arms, bent down to push the matted hair frommy eyes, to support my failing strength in tender arms, and to lower myheavy head to her knee.
"Foolish child!" she murmured, "Poor, foolish child! England is veryfar I know, but this I know also, Martin, God is all about us, and herein our loneliness within these great solitudes doth walk beside us."
"Yet you weep!" says I.
"Aye, I did, Martin."
"Because--of the--loneliness?"
"No, Martin."
"Your--lost friends?"
"No, Martin."
"Then--wherefore?"
"O trouble not for thing so small, a woman's tears come easily, theysay."
"Not yours, Joan. Yet you wept--"
"Your wound bleeds afresh, lie you there and stir not till I bringwater to bathe it." And away she hastes and I, burning in a fever ofdoubt and questioning, must needs lie there and watch her bring theturtle-shell to fill it at the little rill that bubbled in that rockycleft as I have described before. While this was a-doing I stared upat the pimento tree, and bethinking me of Black Bartlemy and the poorSpanish lady and of my hateful dream, I felt sudden great shame, forhere had I crushed my lady in arms as cruel well-nigh as his. This putme to such remorse that I might not lie still and strove to rise up,yet got no further than my knees; and 'twas thus she found me. And nowwhen I would have sued her forgiveness for my roughness she soothed mewith gentle words (though what she spake I knew not) and gave me todrink, and so fell to cherishing my hurt until, my strength coming backsomewhat, I got to my feet and suffered her to bring me where shewould, speaking no word, since in my fevered brain I was asking myselfthis question, viz.,
"Why must she weep?"
Now whether the Indian's knife was poisoned or no I cannot say, but fortwo days I lay direly sick and scarce able to crawl, conscious only ofthe soothing tones of her voice and touch of her hands. But upon thethird day, opening my eyes I found myself greatly better thoughmarvellous weak. And as I stirred she was beside me on her knees.
"Drink this, Martin!" says she. And I obeying, found it was excellentbroth. And when I had drunk all I closed my eyes mighty content, andso lay a while.
"My Lady Joan," says I at last, "wherefore did you weep?"
"O Martin!" she sighed, "'Twas because that morning I had sought solong and found so little to give you and you so sick!" Here wassilence a while.
"But whence cometh the broth?" quoth I at last.
"I caught a young goat, Martin; in a noose of hide set among the rocks;and then--then I had to kill it--O Martin!"
"You--caught and--killed a goat!"
"Yes, Martin. You had to be fed--but O, the poor thing--!"
"Surely," said I at last, "O surely never had man so brave a comrade asI! How may I ever show you all my gratitude?"
"By going to sleep, Martin. Your wound is well-nigh healed, sleep isall you need." And sleep I did; though at that time and for manynights to come my slumber was haunted by a fear that the Indian wasback again, and others with him, all stealing upon us to our tormentand destruction. But in this night I awoke parched with thirst and thenight very hot and with the moon making pale glory all about me. So Igot to my feet, albeit with much ado, being yet very feeble when hervoice reached me:
"What is it, Martin? Are you thirsty?"
"Beyond enduring!" says I.
"Bide you still!" she commanded, and next moment she flits soft-footedinto the moonlight with one of our larger shells to bring me water fromthe rill near by; but seeing me on my feet, looks on me glad-eyed, thenshakes reproving head.
"Lie you down!" says she mighty serious, "Lie you down!"
"Nay, I'll go myself--" But she was past me and out of the cave orever I might stay her; but scarce had I seated myself upon my bed thanshe was back again, the shell brimming in her hands; so I drank eagerlyenough but with my gaze on the sheen of white, rounded arm and dimpledshoulder. Having emptied the shell I stooped to set it by, and when Ilooked again she had vanished into her own small cave.
"I am glad you are so greatly better, Martin," says she from the dark.
"Indeed, I am well again!" quoth I. "To-morrow I make my bow andarrows. Had I done this before, the Indian should never have got away."
"Think you he will return and with others, Martin?"
"No," says I (albeit my mind misgave me). "Yet 'tis best to beprepared, so I will have a good stout pike also in place of my brokensword."
"And strengthen our door, Martin?"
"Aye, I will so, 'tis a mighty stout door, thank God."
"Thank God!" says she mighty reverent. "And now go to sleep, Martin."So here was silence wherein I could hear the murmur of the breakersafar and the soft bubbling of the rill hard by, and yet sleep I couldnot.
"And you caught and killed a goat!" says I.
"Nay, Martin, 'tis a horror I would forget."
"And you did it that I might eat?"
"Yes, Martin. And now hush thee."
"Though indeed," says I in a little, "thus much you would have done forany man, to be sure!"
"To be sure, Martin--unless he were man like Black Bartlemy. Good-nightand close your eyes. Are they shut?"
"Yes," says I. "Good-night to thee, comrade."