by Helen Wells
The Sandy Fergus was tied up at some distance down the wharf. They passed small vessels moored alongside and could see through the mist the shapes of tankers, fishing boats, and ships anchored in the harbor.
At last they reached the ferryboat and were met, as they stepped aboard, by the captain, John Rab, a grizzle-headed old sea dog with a pipe in his mouth.
“I’ve been expecting ye,” he said, gripping Sir Ian’s hand in his big paw. “Told Lloyd I’d hold the boat if need be. Welcome home, Ian.”
This was the first time Cherry had heard the mine owner called anything but Sir Ian.
The captain was obviously delighted to see Sir Ian and Meg, and they to see him. When Cherry was introduced, he gave her a sharp look from under shaggy eyebrows.
“A fine lass of a nurse, eh?” he said in a deep, singing Scottish voice. “I’m glad ye’ve come.” He jerked his head toward Sir Ian. “This old chap here can do with a bit of looking after. Ulcers are pawky things.”
“The captain means they’re stubborn,” Sir Ian growled amiably. “He still talks the way he did when we were in school together in Scotland.”
While they were talking to the captain, the boat had been gradually taking on passengers. There were forty or so men, women, and children scattered about the deck and leaning against the rail of the old fishing vessel. That is what the Sandy Fergus had been originally. And, indeed, Captain Rab still used it for occasional fishing, as was quite evident from the odor.
A deckhand came to report to Captain Rab that a place in the cabin had been arranged where Sir Ian and his party would be comfortable.
As they moved toward the cabin, Cherry felt herself jostled. Turning her head, she saw a man hurrying past in a group of latecomers, for it was within a few minutes of departure time. As she watched him, he stopped suddenly a little ahead of them. He was a short, powerful little man, with a dark hat pulled down at an angle. Dressed in a gray suit, it was a bit too obviously expensive to be in the best of taste.
He saw Cherry glance at him through the cabin window as she sat down inside, and moved quickly out of her sight.
Sir Ian, settled comfortably on the window seat and was immediately surrounded by well-wishers who had been on business, shopping trips, or visits to relatives on the mainland.
Cherry would have retired to the background, but Sir Ian kept bringing her forward to introduce her to one more of the returning islanders.
Far from being annoyed by the fuss made over him, Sir Ian was enjoying himself hugely. He was like a king holding court. And he was genuinely interested in what everyone had to say. He knew all about their families and plied them with questions.
Hearing them talk, Cherry felt that she had been dropped into a corner of Scotland. In fact, as Lloyd had once said to her, “Balfour and its people are a bit of Scotland, only separated, of course, by the Atlantic Ocean.”
It was all very warm and friendly between Sir Ian and his visitors. But Cherry observed that things were somewhat different between him and a little, wiry, white-haired lady, accompanied by a skinny, tow-headed boy about ten or eleven years old.
When Cherry had entered the cabin, she had heard the boy ask, “Grandma, aren’t we going in to see Sir Ian and Miss Meg?”
“Oh, dear, no! We’ll not be troubling them,” the elderly woman had answered, and hustled the boy away.
Now and then, Cherry caught sight of the two walking up and down the deck or leaning against the rail outside.
During a period when Sir Ian and Meg were in lively conversation with their visitors, Lloyd suggested to Cherry that she might like to take a turn around the deck.
“I’d love to,” she told him.
“Meg will look after Uncle Ian,” he said. “Besides, nobody will miss us when they have their lord and lady of the manor.”
“Why, Lloyd, you sound bitter,” Cherry said, as he guided her outside.
“Not really,” he replied. “It’s just that I’ve been away so long, at school and working in the States, that people here treat me rather like a stranger.”
They walked to the bow of the boat and stood gazing at the rough water. Waves rolled in white plumes off the sides and cast salt spray in their faces. The mist, like tattered veils, trailed over the boat and the water. It was as though they were floating in space.
“I think I love the sea,” Cherry said musingly.
“You’ll make a good Balfourian,” Lloyd complimented her, “if you can enjoy the sea and the fog. That’s the first test. But wait until we have a clear, sunny day. You’ll really love it then. This narrow passage between Balmaghie Bay on the west and the Atlantic Ocean on the east—we’re crossing it now—is always rough. Never much quieter than this. And in bad weather, of course, the water rushes through like a torrent. In fine weather, though, Balmaghie Bay is calm and blue and the Atlantic grows quieter. The island lies between the bay and the sea, rising out of the waters like a jewel.” Lloyd broke off suddenly. “Sorry, Cherry,” he apologized. “I get carried away. I didn’t mean to give you a lecture on natural history.”
Lloyd watched the water alongside the boat a hit, then said abruptly, “Cherry, remember the story in the newspaper?”
“Oh, my!” she exclaimed, laughing. “I wondered when you were going to say something about that. How could I forget it? I’ve practically bitten my tongue off to keep from asking questions. The story of the explosion brought you flying back here.”
“You are right,” Lloyd said. He grinned ruefully at her and went on, “Well, it was a tempest in a teapot. The explosion, that is. For some reason, probably someone’s carelessness, there was a small, delayed blast in Number Two mine just after the miners had knocked off work. It did some damage in one of the tunnels.”
“But it might have injured some of the men,” said Cherry.
“It might,” agreed Lloyd. “Though there are safety measures that probably would have prevented it. I’ve been investigating our safety methods. Some of the miners aren’t nearly as careful as they should be.”
“Isn’t it strange that all the trouble has been in Number Two mine?” asked Cherry. “What does Mr. Cameron say?”
“Well, Jock can’t explain it,” replied Lloyd. “In fact, he was quite evasive about the whole thing. I couldn’t seem to get a direct answer out of him. I don’t know what in the world has happened to him. He actually avoids me. And every day he has off he goes fishing. That may not sound unusual to you because you expect people on an island to go fishing. But not Old Jock. He used to sail his boat on Sundays in summer in Balmaghie Bay. When I was a boy, he would take me and some of the other boys sailing. But he never cared much about fishing. Now, every chance he gets, out in that rowboat he goes. And he doesn’t go in the bay; he goes out in the ocean, deep-sea fishing not far from our big sea cave we call Rogues’ Cave. As they say in Scotland, I don’t know what’s come over the man.”
“What about McGuire?” asked Cherry. “I thought you rushed up here to give McGuire a piece of your mind.”
“That was the idea,” Lloyd admitted. “But that young fellow appears to know his business. He’s from the new iron mines in northern Quebec and he brought a good crew with him. Broderick recommended him, incidentally. I did start to tear into him about giving out the statement to the press on the explosion and telling Uncle Ian about the weakened walls in the tunnel of Number Two mine. Then he explained that Mr. Cameron was off on those days and he was technically in charge. And, of course, the man was right. I respect McGuire’s skill as a miner and his ability to handle a mining crew, but I can’t say I like him particularly,” Lloyd confessed. “He’s too aggressive and extremely ambitious.”
“Perhaps that’s why Mr. Cameron is behaving so strangely,” suggested Cherry. “Wouldn’t you be angry and terribly hurt if you were in his place? A younger man is brought in, an ambitious fellow, and Mr. Cameron feels he is being pushed out of his job.”
“Oh, Old Jock—everyone calls him that—knows that Uncl
e Ian would never let that happen,” declared Lloyd. “But Old Jock’s nose undoubtedly is out of joint over McGuire and he’s being stubborn and uncooperative—that’s about what it amounts to and I’ll have to bear with him for the time being.”
“Well, please don’t tell your uncle about all this just now,” Cherry cautioned. “He’s in no condition to be excited or worried about anything.”
Lloyd patted her hand and smiled engagingly at her. “There now, I’ll always be as soft as a kitten with the old tyrant. So don’t get the wind up, nurse lass. Haven’t I behaved well so far?” He tweaked one of her curls.
“No complaints so far,” she said, grinning. Just then, she saw the little old lady and the boy and plucked Lloyd’s sleeve. “Who are they?” she asked quickly.
“Who? Where?” Lloyd swiveled his head about.
“Oh, dear! You can’t see them now. They’re behind all those other people,” Cherry told him. “It’s an old lady and a boy. The boy wanted to see your uncle, but his grandmother wouldn’t let him. She doesn’t seem to like him much.”
“Maybe she doesn’t like Uncle Ian,” said Lloyd, laughing. “Some people have been known not to like him, you know. He can be a grizzly bear at times. Scares people, makes them mad.”
“Well, I’m sure he doesn’t go around frightening old ladies and little boys,” scoffed Cherry. “I think I’d better go back. It’s my responsibility to see that your uncle doesn’t tire himself out. And just let him try being a grizzly bear to scare me,” she boasted with mock severity, “and I’ll clobber him.”
“That’s the way to talk,” said Lloyd. “Well, where you go, I go, pretty maid.” He took her arm with a gallant air and escorted her back to the cabin.
It was not long before they reached Balfour. The distance from St. John’s was about four miles or so, but the time varied with the state of the weather. The Sandy Fergus on good days in fair seas could cross in under an hour. On bad days it was hard to tell how long the crossing would take. Today, the boat had made good time. Captain Rab considered the fog too slight to be worthy of the name.
Standing on deck, Cherry saw Balfour Island when it was at neither its best nor its worst. The noonday sun, shining through the mist, gave a milky sort of light. The breeze off the island smelled of balsam and pine. There was a view of the sandy beach of the harbor, the wharves, boats, and little frame houses. Back of them were trees and the network of conveyors and bridges and power lines of the mines. They formed a lacy pattern on ridges and hills and above the little valleys.
“There!” Meg was saying and prodding Cherry. “Up there on the cliffs to the right is Barclay House. That’s where we’re going. It faces the ocean on one side and Balmaghie Bay on the other.”
Cherry looked up to the gray walls of the big house, with its square tower, balconies, and tall chimneys, like a castle, atop the cliff.
“How beautiful!” Cherry exclaimed. “Makes me think of gallant knights and fair ladies.”
The Sandy Fergus drew alongside the wharf. In a moment, then, they were going ashore—Lloyd close to his uncle and Cherry and Meg behind. There was a little crowd of men, women, and children on the wharf.
There were cheers for Sir Ian. Some called out greetings to Meg and Lloyd. Youngsters waved. Everyone stared at Cherry attentively, interested as people in a small community always are in a stranger.
Two men detached themselves from the crowd—a lanky, sandy-haired young man with a pleasantly homely face; and a big, jovial, red-faced, red-haired man with prominent blue eyes. They shook hands with the Barclays, then Meg introduced them to Cherry. Dr. Douglas Mackenzie was the lanky one and Michael McGuire the big fellow, who, judging from his build, had probably played end on a college football team.
Cherry’s impression on seeing Dr. Mackenzie was one of surprise. From hearing Sir Ian and Dr. Joe talk about him (Dr. Joe had gotten his impression from the man’s voice over the phone), Cherry had imagined the doctor as a very young, very studious and earnest type of fellow with horn-rimmed glasses. Then, too, she had expected him to be quite reserved and formal.
But he was not in the least what she had imagined. He was not very young. She thought he was between thirty and thirty-five. His manner was easy and informal; his bony face was wonderfully kind; he wore no glasses and his large brown eyes were keenly observant.
“I like him,” Cherry thought. “I think we’ll get on together.”
Because he was Sir Ian’s physician, she would have to work under Dr. Mackenzie’s direction. If the doctor were a difficult person, her nursing job could be made quite trying. Cherry worked well with most people, even temperamental ones. But it was always easier to work with those who had agreeable personalities. She liked Dr. Mackenzie very much indeed on sight. And it was plain to be seen that he and Meg were very much in love. They could scarcely take their eyes off each other.
“Where’s Jock Cameron?” Sir Ian demanded all of a sudden.
“I saw him take his boat out early this morning,” piped up a man in the crowd. “He’s probably gone fishing.”
“Gone fishing?” Sir Ian cried in amazement. Turning to McGuire, he asked, “Wasn’t he in the office this morning?”
“Oh, well, it’s Old Jock’s day off and he’s gone fishing,” McGuire answered.
“You’re a fine one to be asking for Jock Cameron, Sir Ian,” cried a thin, quavery voice, and a wisp of a man advanced slowly toward the mine owner. “Ye think a man’s got no pride? He dinna take it kindly that ye’ve seen fit to make certain changes in operating the mines. Bringing in a young sprout from Quebec to lord it over him.” The man glanced at McGuire with dislike.
Sir Ian glared down at the little old man. “Just what do you mean talking such stuff and nonsense, Tim Morgan?” he demanded angrily.
Dr. Mackenzie moved quickly and laid a gentle hand on Tim Morgan’s shoulder. “You must excuse Sir Ian now, Mr. Morgan,” the doctor said. “After he’s rested, I’m sure he’ll be glad to see you.”
Cherry stepped to Sir Ian’s side, and putting her hand on his elbow, propelled him firmly but gently toward the foot of the wharf where the chauffeur stood beside the open door of the Barclays’ not-very-new Rolls-Royce.
“Sir Ian has had an exhausting trip,” she said crisply to McGuire and those gathered around. “He must go home and get some rest at once.”
Dr. Mackenzie, Sir Ian, Cherry, Lloyd, and Meg walked to the car. The chauffeur started the motor. They drove off up High Street that led from the waterfront, through the village, climbing up and up to Barclay House on the cliffs.
CHAPTER VII
Island Nurse
IT WAS THE MIDDLE OF THE AFTERNOON WHEN CHERRY finally went downstairs to lunch. Sir Ian was in an agitated state and refused point-blank to go to bed and rest. Dr. Mackenzie, or Dr. Mac as everyone called him on Balfour, was friendly but firm, shooed everyone away but Cherry, and got Sir Ian into bed. By that time Sir Ian was glad to go, for he had too much pain to stir about.
Dr. Mac gave him medication to relieve any acid condition in his stomach. Cherry gave him a feeding of milk and cream to which he reacted well.
Between little twitches of pain, Sir Ian complained and grumbled. He had come back, he said, to look after his mines and how was he going to do it if some young whippersnapper of a doctor and a mere lass of a nurse kept him in bed? Couldn’t they see that everything was at sixes and sevens on the island?
Dr. Mac listened gravely, nodding in agreement to everything the mine owner said.
“Weel, why don’t you say something, Mackenzie?” Sir Ian burst out at last in exasperation.
The doctor grinned, his face wrinkling in amusement. “Why, sir, you didn’t give me a chance,” he replied.
“Weel, then, why didn’t you stop me?” demanded Sir Ian irascibly. “No, you sat bobbing your head like a silly nuthatch pecking open a nut. And you, Cherry, what was the matter with you?”
“I agreed with Dr. Mac’s unvoiced opinion,” Cher
ry said primly. “It was better to let you get it off your chest. Perhaps now you’ll settle down and get some rest.”
“Ye are a red-cheeked tyrant,” Sir Ian accused her. “Ye wait. When I get well, I’ll show ye who’s boss.”
“Unless you quit upsetting yourself over things you can do nothing about,” said Dr. Mac, “you are going to lie there and be a milksop. Isn’t that correct, Miss Ames?”
“Absolutely, Doctor,” Cherry agreed with vigor.
“Ought never to get sick,” grumbled Sir Ian, turning his head aside and closing his eyes. “Lose your independence. Have to do as you’re bid.”
Sir Ian pretended to sleep for a while. When the pain left, he began to doze. The trip had tired him.
“Call me at the hospital,” Dr. Mac told Cherry on leaving, “if you need me for anything. But I’ll be back later, anyway, to see how he is.”
Cherry sat alone with Sir Ian for a while longer, then Meg peeked in to say that she would relieve her.
“You must have lunch, Cherry,” Meg told her. “Lloyd and I had ours ages ago, then he went down to the mines. I’ll stay with father. I had Higgins lay a place in the dining room and keep the chops warm. If you don’t like lamb chops, just tell Higgins and he’ll have Tess—that’s the cook—fix you something you do like.”
Robert Higgins was the family’s butler.
“Thank you, Meg. A lamb chop will do nicely,” Cherry assured her. “I’ll not take long.”
Cherry left, going into her own room across the hall for a moment to freshen up. The family’s bedrooms and the guest rooms were all on the second floor. Cherry’s room was on the northeast corner of the house, overlooking the cliffs above a great cave, called Rogues’ Cave, in the cliffside.
From the east windows, Cherry had a magnificent view of the cliffs and the sea. On the north, the windows looked out over the island and onto the big hill where iron ore had first been discovered on the island and the first mine located well over a hundred years before. That mine had been worked out and abandoned long ago. The top of the hill where the entrance to the mine shaft had once been was grown over now with bushes and vines.