Part 44 (2/2)

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 b.l.o.o.d.y patch of snow: whereupon Tom Tot cried out in horror.

”Oh, dear G.o.d!” 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 G.o.d, who is the source of Love.

”Oh!” I e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed, stopping dead on the threshold.

”h.e.l.lo, 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.”

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