Doctor Luke of the Labrador - Norman Duncan (e reader .TXT) 📗

his back to us, still gazed, continuing tranquil, through the broad window to the world without. And Jagger, overmastered by this confident assumption of authority, went away, as he was bidden, casting backward glances, ominous of machinations to come.

* * * * *


What Jagger uttered on my father's wharf--what on the deck of the sloop while he moored his dog to the windlass for a beating--what he flung back while she gathered way--strangely moved Tom Tot, who hearkened, spellbound, until the last words of it (and the last yelp of the dog) were lost in the distance of North Tickle: it impelled the old man (as he has said many a time) to go wash his hands. But 'tis of small moment beside what the doctor said when informed of the occurrences in our house: being this, that he must have a partnership in our firm, because, first, it was in his heart to help my sister and me, who had been kind to him and were now like sheep fallen in with a wolf-pack, and second, because by thus establishing himself on the coast he might avert the suspicion of the folk from such good works as he had in contemplation.

"More than that," said he, "we will prove fair dealing possible here as elsewhere. It needs but courage and--money."

"I'm thinkin'," my sister said, "that Davy has the courage."

"And I," said he, "have the money."

I was very glad to hear it.


XVI

A MALADY of The HEART

In the firelight of that evening--when the maids had cleared the cozy room and carried away the lamp and we three sat alone together in my father's house--was planned our simple partnership in good works and the fish business. 'Tis wonderful what magic is abroad at such times--what dreams, what sure hopes, lie in the flickering blaze, the warm, red glow, the dancing shadows; what fine aspirations unfold in hearts that are brave and hopeful and kind. Presently, we had set a fleet of new schooners afloat, put a score of new traps in the water, proved fair-dealing and prosperity the selfsame thing, visited the sick of five hundred miles, established a hospital--transformed our wretched coast, indeed, into a place no longer ignorant of jollity and thrift and healing. The doctor projected all with lively confidence--his eyes aflash, his lean, white hand eloquent, his tongue amazingly active and persuasive--and with an insight so sagacious and well-informed, a purpose so pure and wise, that he revealed himself (though we did not think of it then) not only as a man of heart but of conspicuous sense. It did not enter our minds to distrust him: because our folk are not sophisticated in polite overreaching, not given to the vice of suspicion, and because--well, he was what he was.

My sister's face was aglow--most divinely radiant--with responsive faith and enthusiasm; and as for me----

"Leave me get down," I gasped, at last, to the doctor, "or I'll bust with delight, by heaven!"

He laughed, but unclasped his hands and let me slip from his knee; and then I began to strut the floor, my chest puffed out to twice its natural extent.

"By heaven!" I began. "If that Jagger----"

The clock struck ten. "David Roth," my sister exclaimed, lifting her hands in mock horror, "'tis fair scandalous for a lad o' your years t' be up 't this hour!"

"Off to bed with you, you rascal!" roared the doctor.

"I'll not go," I protested.

"Off with you!"

"Not I."

"Catch un, doctor!" cried my sister.

"An you can, zur!" I taunted.

If he could? Ecod! He snatched at me, quick as a cat; but I dodged his hand, laughed in his face and put the table between us. With an agility beyond compare--with a flow of spirits like a gale of wind--he vaulted the broad board. The great, grave fellow appeared of a sudden to my startled vision in midair--his arms and legs at sixes and sevens--his coat-tails flapping like a loose sail--his mouth wide open in a demoniacal whoop--and I dropped to the floor but in the bare nick of time to elude him. Uproarious pursuit ensued: it made my sister limp and pain-stricken and powerless with laughter; it brought our two maids from the kitchen and kept them hysterically screaming in the doorway, the lamp at a fearsome angle; it tumbled the furniture about with rollicking disregard, led the doctor a staggering, scrambling, leaping course in the midst of upturned tables and chairs, and, at last, ran the gasping quarry to earth under the sofa. I was taken out by the heels, shouldered, carried aloft and flung sprawling on my bed--while the whole house rang again with peal upon peal of hearty laughter.

"Oh, zur," I groaned, "I never knowed you was so jolly!"

"Not so?"

"On my word, zur!"

He sighed.

"I fancied you was never but sad."

"Ah, well," said he, "the Labrador, Davy, is evidently working a cure."

"God be thanked for that!" said I, devoutly.

He rumpled my hair and went out. And I bade him send my sister with the candle; and while I lay waiting in the dark a glow of content came upon me--because of this: that whereas I had before felt woefully inadequate to my sister's protection, however boastfully I had undertaken it, I was now sure that in our new partnership her welfare and peace of heart were to be accomplished. Then she came in and sat with me while I got ready for bed. She had me say my prayers at her knee, as a matter of course, but this night hinted that an additional petition for the doctor's well-doing and happiness might not be out of place. She chided me, after that, for the temper I had shown against Jagger and for the oath I had flung at his head, as I knew she would--but did not chide me heartily, because, as she said, she was for the moment too gratefully happy to remember my short-comings against me. I thanked her, then, for this indulgence, and told her that she might go to bed, for I was safely and comfortably bestowed, as she could see, and ready for sleep; but she would not go, and there sat, with the candle in her hand, her face flushed and her great blue eyes soulfully glowing, while she continued to chatter in an incoherent and strangely irrelevant fashion: so that, astonished into broad wakefulness by this extraordinary behaviour, I sat bolt upright in bed, determined to discover the cause.

"Bessie Roth," said I, severely, "what's come upon you?"

"I'm not knowin', Davy," she answered, softly, looking away.

"'Tis somewhat awful, then," said I, in alarm, "for you're not lookin' me in the eye."

She looked then in her lap--and did not raise her eyes, though I waited: which was very strange.

"You isn't sick, is you?"

"No-o," she answered, doubtfully.

"Oh, you _mustn't_ get sick," I protested. "'Twould _never_ do. I'd fair die--if _you_ got sick!"

"'Tisn't sickness; 'tis--I'm not knowin' what."

"Ah, come," I pleaded; "what is it, dear?"

"Davy, lad," she faltered, "I'm just--dreadful--happy."

"Happy?" cried I, scornfully. "'Tis not happiness! Why, sure, your lip is curlin' with grief!"

"But I _was_ happy."

"You isn't happy now, my girl."

"No," she sobbed, "I'm wonderful miserable--now."

I kicked off the covers. "You've the fever, that's what!" I exclaimed, jumping out of bed.

"'Tis not that, Davy."

"Then--oh, for pity's sake, Bessie, tell your brother what's gone wrong along o' you!"

"I'm thinkin', Davy," she whispered, despairingly, "that I'm nothin' but a sinful woman."

"A--what! Why, Bessie----"

"Nothin'," she repeated, positively, "but a sinful, wicked person."

"Who told you that?" said I, dancing about in a rage.

"My own heart."

"Your heart!" cried I, blind angry. "'Tis a liar an it says so."

"What words!" she exclaimed, changed in a twinkling. "An' to your sister! Do you get back in bed this instant, David Roth, an' tell her that you're sorry."

I was loath to do it, but did, to pacify her; and when she had carried away the candle I chuckled, for I had cured her of her indisposition for that night, at any rate: as I knew, for when she kissed me 'twas plain that she was more concerned for her wayward brother than for herself.

* * * * *


Past midnight I was awakened by the clang of the bell on my father's wharf. 'Twas an unpleasant sound. Half a gale--no less--could do it. I then knew that the wind had freshened and veered to the southeast; and I listened to determine how wild the night. Wild enough! The bell clanged frequently, sharply, jangling in the gusts--like an anxious warning. My window was black; there was no light in the sky--no star shining. Rain pattered on the roof. I heard the rush of wind. 'Twas inevitable that I should contrast the quiet of the room, the security of my place, the comfort of my couch and blankets, with a rain-swept, heaving deck and a tumultuous sea. A gusty night, I thought--thick, wet, with the wind rising. The sea would be in a turmoil on the grounds by dawn: there would be no fishing; and I was regretting this--between sleep and waking--when the bell again clanged dolefully. Roused, in a measure, I got ear of men stumbling up the path. I was into my breeches before they had trampled half the length of the platform--well on my way down the dark stair when they knocked on the door--standing scared in the light of their lantern, the door open, before they found time to hail.

I was addressed by a gray old man in ragged oilskins. "We heared tell," said he, mildly, wiping his dripping beard, "that you got a doctor here."

I said that we had.

"Well," he observed, in a dull, slow voice, "we got a sick man over there t' Wreck Cove."

"Ay?" said I.

"An' we was sort o' wonderin', wasn't we, Skipper Tom," another put in, "how much this doctor would be askin' t' go over an' cure un?"

"Well, ay," the skipper admitted, taking off his sou'wester to scratch his head, "we _did_ kind o' have that idea."

"'Tis a wild night," said I: in my heart doubting--and that with shame--that the doctor would venture out upon the open sea in a gale of wind.

"'Tis _not_ very civil," said the skipper frankly. "I'm free t' say," in a drawl, "that 'tis--well--rather--dirty."

"An' he isn't got used t' sailin' yet. But----"

"No?" in mild wonder. "Isn't he, now? Well, we got a stout little skiff. Once she gets past the Thirty Devils, she'll maybe make Wreck Cove, all right--if she's handled proper. Oh, she'll maybe make it if----"

"Davy!" my sister called from above. "Do you take the men through t' the kitchen. I'll rouse the doctor an' send the maids down t' make tea."

"Well, now, thank you kindly, miss," Skipper Tom called up to the landing. "That's wonderful kind."

It was a familiar story--told while the sleepy maids put the kettle on the fire and