Brothers of Peril: A Story of old Newfoundland

by Theodore Goodridge Roberts

"Ay; to dream so, a man would gladly have done with waking," he replied. "If it were not in life that Beatrix were mine, then would I follow the vision through eternal sleep—as God is my judge."

"Hush, dear lad," she murmured, "for the heart and the body of Beatrix are of right Somersetshire stuff, to fade not at any whim of fever—and the love she gives you will outlast life—as God is our judge and love His handiwork." And she kissed him again, blushing sweetly at her daring. And so they remained, she kneeling beside the couch, and he with his bandaged head against her lovely shoulder, until Sir Ralph entered the cabin, fumbling discreetly at the latch.

The days passed slowly in the heart of that frozen wilderness between the white river and the long graves. Stockade and wall were repaired. Fresh meat was trapped and shot in sheltered valley and rough wood. The forge rang again with the clanging of sledges, and the tracts of timber with the swinging axes. Hope reawoke in hearts long dismayed, and blood ran more redly to the stir of work and freedom. Master Kingswell gained fresh strength with the rounding of every day, and Mistress Westleigh recovered all her glory of eyes and lips and hair. Ouenwa, honoured by all, carried himself like a gentleman and a warrior. Black Feather, with his wife and his surviving child in a snug lodge, felt again the zest and peace of living. Only Sir Ralph seemed to find no ray of comfort in the days of security. He brooded alone, avoiding even his daughter. His face grew thinner, and his shoulders lost something of their youthful vigour. The desolation and bitterness had, at last, dimmed his courage and his philosophy. The very relief at Panounia's defeat and D'Antons' supposed overthrow had, somehow, weakened his gallant endurance. He counted it a grievance that God had not led him to his death in the last fight, as he had prayed so earnestly. He had been eager then. Now he must plan it over again—over and over—in cold reasoning and cold blood, and alone by the fire. A foolish, causeless anger got hold upon him at times; and again he would be all repentance, telling his heart that, no matter how bitter his fate, it was fully deserved. And so, day by day, the shadows grew behind his brain, and a little seed of madness germinated and took root.

For a time Beatrix did not notice the change in her father's manner and habits. The thing disclosed itself so gradually, and she was so intent upon the nursing of her lover; and yet again, the baronet had been variable in his moods, to a certain extent, ever since the beginning of his troubles—years enough ago. It was Ouenwa who first saw that something had gone radically wrong in the broken gentleman's mind, and his knowledge had come about in this wise.

The young Beothic, though an ardent sportsman and warrior, was a still more ardent seeker after bookish wisdom. Kingswell, before his hurt, had taught him something of the art of reading. Later, Mistress Westleigh had carried it further. By the time that Kingswell was safely on the road to his old health and a mended head, Ouenwa could spell out a page of English print very creditably. His primer was one of those volumes of Master Will Shakespeare's plays, which the Frenchman had left behind him. One day Beatrix entered the cabin to take her turn at tending the invalid, and found Ouenwa with the drama in his hands, and his youthful brow painfully furrowed with thought. She took the book from him and fluttered the pages, pausing here and there to read a line or two.

"Run away," said she, "and on a shelf beside our chimney you will find a book with easier words than this contains. There is matter here, I think, that is beyond a beginner."

At that Kingswell raised himself to his elbow and nodded his sore head eagerly.

"Ay, lad, run and find yourself an easier book," he said.

Nothing loath, for his quest of learning was sincere,—as was everything about him,—Ouenwa left the presence of the lovers and ran across the snow to Sir Ralph's cabin. He told his errand to the baronet. That gentleman looked at him long and keenly, so that the boy trembled and wished himself out of the house. Then, with a sudden start and a harsh laugh, "Help yourself, lad," said Sir Ralph. Ouenwa found the shelf of books, and, kneeling before it, was soon busy looking over the divers volumes and broad-sheets with which it was piled high. He found a rhymed and pictured chap-book greatly to his liking. He was spelling out the first verses when a movement behind his back brought him to a sense of his whereabouts. He turned quickly. There stood the baronet, with a walking-cane in his hand, making lunge and thrust at a spot of resin on the log wall. The poor gentleman stamped and straddled, pinked the unseen swordsman, and parried the unseen blade, with a dashing air. There was a light in his eyes and a twist of the lips that struck Ouenwa's heart cold in his side. The light was that which, when seen in the eyes of a man of a primitive people, divides that man from the laws and responsibilities that are the portion of his fellows. It was the gleam of idiocy—that sinister sheen that cuts a man from his birthright.