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

declared, his head on one side, the letter held gingerly before him, "I wouldn't read that letter an I could. No, lad--not an I could! But I've heared tell she had a deal o' l'arnin'; an' I'd kind o'--like t'--take a peek inside. Just," he added, hurriedly, "t' see what power she had for writin'."

This pretense to a purely artistic interest in the production was wondrously trying to the patience.

"Skipper Davy," he went on, awkwardly, skippering me with a guile that was shameless, "it bein' from a woman--bein' from a _woman_, now, says I--'twould be no more 'n po-lite t' open it. Come, now, Davy!" he challenged. "You wouldn't _say_ 'twould be more 'n po-lite, would you? It bein' from a lone woman?"

I made no answer: for, at that moment, I caught sight of the twins, listening with open-mouthed interest from the threshold.

"I wonders, Davy," the skipper confided, taking the leap, at last, "what she've gone an' writ!"

"Jacky," I burst out, in disgust, turning to the twins, "I just _knowed_ he'd get t' wonderin'!"

Skipper Tommy started: he grew shamefaced, all in a moment; and he seemed now first conscious of guilty wishes.

"Timmie," said Jacky, hoarsely, from the doorway, "she've writ."

"Ay, Jacky," Timmie echoed, "she've certain gone an' done it."

They entered.

"I been--sort o'--gettin' a letter, lads," the skipper stammered: a hint of pride in his manner. "It come ashore," he added, with importance, "from the mail-boat."

"Dad," Timmie asked, sorrowfully, "is you been askin' Davy t' read that letter?"

"Well, no, Timmie," the skipper drawled, tweaking his nose; "'tisn't quite so bad. But I been wonderin'----"

"Oh, is you!" Jacky broke in. "Timmie," said he, grinning, "dad's been wonderin'!"

"Is he?" Timmie asked, assuming innocence. "Wonderin'?"

"Wasn't you sayin' so, dad?"

"Well," the skipper admitted, "havin' _said_ so, I'll not gainsay it. I _was_ wonderin'----"

"An' you _knowin'_," sighed Timmie, "that you're an obligin' man!"

"Dad," Jacky demanded, "didn't the Lard kindly send a switch o' wind from the sou'east t' save you oncet?"

The skipper blushed uneasily.

"Does you think," Timmie pursued, "that He'll turn His hand _again_ t' save you?"

"Well----"

"Look you, dad," said Jacky, "isn't you got in trouble enough all along o' wonderin' too much?"

"Well," the skipper exclaimed, badgered into self-assertion, "I _was_ wonderin'; but since you two lads come in I been _thinkin'_. Since them two twins o' mine come in, Davy," he repeated, turning to me, his eyes sparkling with fatherly affection, "I been thinkin' 'twould be a fine plan t' tack this letter t' the wall for a warnin' t' the household agin the wiles o' women!"

Timmie and Jacky silently embraced--containing their delight as best they could, though it pained them.

"Not," the skipper continued, "that I'll have a word said agin' that woman: which I won't," said he, "nor no other. The Lard knowed what He was about. He made them with His own hands, an' if _He_ was willin' t' take the responsibility, us men can do no less than stand by an' weather it out. 'Tis my own idea that He was more sot on fine lines than sailin' qualities when He whittled His model. 'I'll make a craft,' says He, 'for looks, an' I'll pay no heed,' says He, 't' the cranks she may have, hopin' for the best.' An' He done it! That He did! They're tidy craft--oh, ay, they're wonderful tidy craft--but 'tis Lard help un in a gale o' wind! An' the Lard made _she_," he continued, reverting to the woman from Wolf Cove, "after her kind, a woman, acquaint with the wiles o' women, actin' accordin' t' nature An'," he declared, irrelevantly, "_'tis_ gettin' close t' winter, an' _'twould_ be comfortable t' have a man t' tend the fires. She _do_ be of a designin' turn o' mind," he proceeded, "which is accordin' t' the nature o' women, puttin' no blame on her, an' she's not a wonderful lot for looks an' temper; but," impressively lifting his hand, voice and manner awed, "she've l'arnin', which is ek'al t' looks, if not t' temper. So," said he, "we'll say nothin' agin' her, but just tack this letter t' the wall, an' go split the fish. But," when the letter had thus been disposed of, "I wonder what----"

"Come on, dad!"

He put an arm around each of the grinning twins, and Timmie put an arm around me; and thus we went pell-mell down to the stage, where we had an uproarious time splitting the day's catch.

* * * * *


You must know, now, that all this time we had been busy with the fish, dawn to dark; that beyond our little lives, while, intent upon their small concerns, we lived them, a great and lovely work was wrought upon our barren coast: as every year, unfailingly, to the glory of God, who made such hearts as beat under the brown, hairy breasts of our men. From the Strait to Chidley, our folk and their kin from Newfoundland with hook and net reaped the harvest from the sea--a vast, sullen sea, unwilling to yield: sourly striving to withhold the good Lord's bounty from the stout and merry fellows who had with lively courage put out to gather it. 'Twas catch and split and stow away! In the dawn of stormy days and sunny ones--contemptuous of the gray wind and reaching seas--the skiffs came and went. From headland to headland--dodging the reefs, escaping the shifting peril of ice, outwitting the drifting mists--little schooners chased the fish. Wave and rock and wind and bergs--separate dangers, allied with night and fog and sleety rain--were blithely encountered. Sometimes, to be sure, they wreaked their purpose; but, notwithstanding, day by day the schooners sailed and the skiffs put out to the open, and fish were cheerily taken from the sea. Spite of all, the splitting-knives flashed, and torches flared on the decks and in the mud huts ashore. Barren hills--the bleak and uninhabited places of the northern coast--for a season reflected the lurid glow and echoed the song and shout. Thanks be to God, the fleet was loading!

In the drear autumn weather a cloud of sail went to the s'uth'ard--doughty little schooners, decks awash: beating up to the home ports.


XIX

The FATE of The MAIL-BOAT DOCTOR

My flag flapped a welcome in the sunny wind as the mail-boat came creeping through the Gate and with a great rattle and splatter dropped anchor in the basin off my father's wharf: for through my father's long glass I had from the summit of the Watchman long before spied the doctor aboard. He landed in fine fettle--clear-eyed, smiling, quick to extend his strong, warm hand: having cheery words for the folk ashore, and eager, homesick glances for the bleak hills of our harbour. Ecod! but he was splendidly glad to be home. I had as lief fall into the arms of a black bear as ever again to be greeted in a way so careless of my breath and bones! But, at last, with a joyous little laugh, he left me to gasp myself to life again, and went bounding up the path. I managed to catch my wind in time to follow; 'twas in my mind to spy upon his meeting with my sister; nor would I be thwarted: for I had for many days been troubled by what happened when they parted, and now heartily wished the unhappy difference forgot. So from a corner of the hillside flake I watched lynx-eyed; but I could detect nothing amiss--no hint of ill-feeling or reserve: only frank gladness in smile and glance and handclasp. And being well content with this, I went back to the wharf to lend Tom Tot a hand with the landing of the winter supplies, the medical stores, the outfit for the projected sloop: all of which the doctor had brought with him from St. John's.

* * * * *


"And not only that," said the doctor, that night, concluding his narrative of busy days in the city, "but I have been appointed," with a great affectation of pomposity, "the magistrate for this district!"

We were not impressed. "The magistrate?" I mused. "What's that?"

"What's a magistrate!" cried he.

"Ay," said I. "I never seed one."

"The man who enforces the law, to be sure!"

"The law?" said I. "What's that?"

"The law of the land, Davy," he began, near dumbfounded, "is for the----"

My sister got suddenly much excited. "I've heard tell about magistrates," she interrupted, speaking eagerly, the light dancing merrily in her eyes. "Come, tell me! is they able t'----"

She stuttered to a full stop, blushing. "Out with it, my dear," said I.

"Marry folk?" she asked.

"They may," said the doctor.

"Oh, Davy!"

"Whoop!" screamed I, leaping up. "You're never tellin' me that! Quick, Bessie! Come, doctor! They been waitin' this twenty year."

I caught his right hand, Bessie his left; and out we dragged him, paying no heed to his questions, which, by and by, he abandoned, because he laughed so hard. And down the path we sped--along the road--by the turn to Cut-Throat Cove--until, at last, we came to the cottage of Aunt Amanda and Uncle Joe Bow, whom we threw into a fluster with our news. When the doctor was informed of the exigency of the situation, he married them on the spot, improvising a ceremony, without a moment's hesitation, as though he had been used to it all his life: a family of six meanwhile grinning with delight and embarrassment.

"You sees, zur," Uncle Joe explained, when 'twas over, "we never had no chance afore. 'Manda an' me was down narth when the last parson come this way. An' 'Manda she've been wantin'----"

"T' have it done," Aunt Amanda put in, patting the curly head of the smallest Bow, "afore----"

"Ay," said Uncle Joe, "wantin' t' have it done, shipshape, afore she----"

"Died," Aunt Amanda concluded.

By this time the amazing news had spread. Far and near the guns were popping a salute--which set the dogs a-howling: so that the noise was heartrending. Presently the neighbours began to gather: whereupon (for the cottage was small) we took our leave, giving the pair good wishes for the continuance of a happy married life. And when we got to our house we found waiting in the kitchen Mag Trawl, who had that day brought her fish from Swampy Arm--a dull girl, slatternly, shiftless: the mother of two young sons.

"I heared tell," she drawled, addressing the doctor, but looking elsewhere, "that you're just after marryin' Aunt Amanda."

The doctor nodded.

"I 'low," she went on, after an empty pause, "that I wants t' get married, too."

"Where's the man?"

"Jim he 'lowed two year ago," she said, staring at the ceiling, "that we'd go south an' have it done this season if no parson come."

"Bring the man," said the doctor, briskily.

"Well, zur," said she, "Jim ain't here. You couldn't do it 'ithout Jim bein' here, could you?"

"Oh, no!"

"I 'lowed you might be able," she said, with a little sigh, "if you tried. But you couldn't, says you?"