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

me in her lap, big boy though I was, and rocked me, hushing me, the while, until I should command my grief and disclose the cause of it.

"He's a sinful man," I sobbed, at last. "Oh, dear Bessie, care no more for him!"

She stopped rocking--and pressed me closer to her soft, sweet bosom--so close that she hurt me, as my loving mother used to do. And when I looked up--when, taking courage, I looked into her face--I found it fearsomely white and hopeless; and when, overcome by this, I took her hand, I found it very cold.

"Not sinful," she whispered, drawing my cheek close to hers. "Oh, not that!"

"A sinful, wicked person," I repeated, "not fit t' speak t' such as you."

"What have he done, Davy?"

"I'd shame t' tell you."

"Oh, what?"

"I may not tell. Hug me closer, Bessie, dear. I'm in woeful want o' love."

She rocked me, then--smoothing my cheek--kissing me--hoping thus to still my grief. A long, long time she coddled me, as my mother might have done.

"Not sinful," she said.

"Ay, a wicked fellow. We must turn un out o' here, Bessie. He've no place here, no more. He've sinned."

She kissed me on the lips. Her arms tightened about me. And there we sat--I in my sister's arms--hopeless in the drear light of that day.

"I love him," she said.

"Love him no more! Bessie, dear, he've sinned past all forgiving."

Again--and now abruptly--she stopped rocking. She sat me back in her lap. I could not evade her glance--sweet-souled, confident, content, reflecting the bright light of heaven itself.

"There's no sin, Davy," she solemnly said, "that a woman can't forgive."

* * * * *


I passed that afternoon alone on the hills--the fog thickening, the wind blowing wet and cold, the whole world cast down--myself seeking, all the while, some reasonable way of return to the doctor's dear friendship. I did not know--but now I know--that reason, sour and implacable, is sadly inadequate to our need when the case is sore, and, indeed, a wretched staff, at best: but that fine impulse, the sure, inner feeling, which is faith, is ever the more trustworthy, if good is to be achieved, for it is forever sanguine, nor, in all the course of life, relentless. But, happily, Skipper Tommy Lovejoy, who, in my childhood, came often opportunely to guide me with his wiser, strangely accurate philosophy, now sought me on the hill, being informed, as it appeared, of my distress--and because, God be thanked! he loved me.

"Go 'way!" I complained.

"Go 'way?" cried he, indignantly. "I'll not go 'way. For shame! To send me from you!"

"I'm wantin' t' be alone."

"Ay; but 'tis unhealthy for you."

"I'm thrivin' well enough."

"Hut!" said he. "What's this atween the doctor an' you? You'd cast un off because he've sinned? Ecod! I've seldom heard the like. Who is you? Even the Lard God A'mighty wouldn't do that. Sure, _He_ loves only such as have sinned. Lad," he went on, now, with a smile, with a touch of his rough old hand, compelling my confidence and affection, "what's past is done with. Isn't you l'arned that yet? Old sins are as if they never had been. Else what hope is there for us poor sons of men? The weight o' sin would sink us. 'Tis not the dear Lard's way t' deal so with men. To-day is not yesterday. What was, has been; it is not. A man is not what he was--he is what he is. But yet, lad--an' 'tis wonderful queer--to-day _is_ yesterday. 'Tis _made_ by yesterday. The mistake--the sin--o' yesterday is the straight course--the righteous deed--o' to-day. 'Tis only out o' sin that sweetness is born. That's just what sin is for! The righteous, Davy, dear," he said, in all sincerity, "are not lovable, not trustworthy. The devil nets un by the hundred quintal, for _'tis_ such easy fishin'; but sinners--such as sin agin their will--the Lard loves an' gathers in. They who sin must suffer, Davy, an' only such as suffer can _know_ the dear Lard's love. God be thanked for sin," he said, looking up, inspired. "Let the righteous be damned--they deserve it. Give _me_ the company o' sinners!"

"Is you sure?" I asked, confounded by this strange doctrine.

"I thank God," he answered, composedly, "that _I_ have sinned--and suffered."

"Sure," said I, "_you_ ought t' know, for you've lived so awful long."

"They's nothin' like sin," said he, with a sure smack of the lips, "t' make good men. I knows it."

"An' Bessie?"

"Oh, Davy, lad, _she'll_ be safe with him!"

Then I, too, knew it--knew that sin had been beneficently decreed by God, whose wisdom seems so all-wise, once our perverse hearts are opened to perceive--knew that my dear sister would, indeed, be safe with this sinner, who sorrowed, also. And I was ashamed that I had ever doubted it.

"Look!" Skipper Tommy whispered.

Far off--across the harbour--near lost in the mist--I saw my sister and the doctor walking together.

* * * * *


My sister was waiting for me. "Davy," she asked, anxiously, "where have you been?"

"On the hills," I answered.

For a moment she was silent, fingering her apron; and then, looking fearlessly into my eyes--"I love him," she said.

"I'm glad."

"I cannot help it," she continued, clasping her hands, her breast heaving. "I love him--so _hard_--I cannot tell it."

"I'm glad."

"An' he loves me. He loves me! I'm not doubtin' that. He _loves_ me," she whispered, that holy light once more breaking about her, in which she seemed transfigured. "Oh," she sighed, beyond expression, "he loves me!"

"I'm glad."

"An' I'm content t' know it--just t' know that he loves me--just t' know that I love him. His hands and eyes and arms! I ask no more--but just t' know it. Just once to have--to have had him--kiss me. Just once to have lain in his arms, where, forever, I would lie. Oh, I'm glad," she cried, joyously, "that the good Lord made me! I'm glad--just for that. Just because he kissed me--just because I love him, who loves me. I'm glad I was made for him to love. 'Tis quite enough for me. I want--only this I want--that he may have me--that, body and soul, I may satisfy his love--so much I love him. Davy," she faltered, putting her hands to her eyes, "I love--I _love_--I love him!"

Ecod! 'Twas too much for me. Half scandalized, I ran away, leaving her weeping in my dear mother's rocking-chair.

* * * * *


My sister and I were alone at table that evening. The doctor was gone in the punt to Jolly Harbour, the maids said; but why, they did not know, for he had not told them--nor could we guess: for 'twas a vexatious distance, wind and tide what they were, nor would a wise man undertake it, save in case of dire need, which did not then exist, the folk of Jolly Harbour, as everybody knows, being incorruptibly healthy. But I would not go to sleep that night until my peace was made; and though, to deceive my sister, I went to bed, I kept my eyes wide open, waiting for the doctor's step on the walk and on the stair: a slow, hopeless footfall, when, late in the night, I heard it.

I followed him to his room--with much contrite pleading on the tip of my tongue. And I knocked timidly on the door.

"Come in, Davy," said he.

My heart was swelling so--my tongue so sadly unmanageable--that I could do nothing but whimper. But----

"I'm wonderful sad, zur," I began, after a time, "t' think that I----"

"Hush!" said he.

'Twas all I said--not for lack of will or words, but for lack of breath and opportunity; because all at once (and 'twas amazingly sudden) I found myself caught off my feet, and so closely, so carelessly, embraced, that I thought I should then and there be smothered: a death which, as I had been led to believe, my dear sister might have envied me, but was not at all to my liking. And when I got my breath 'twas but to waste it in bawling. But never had I bawled to such good purpose: for every muffled howl and gasp brought me nearer to that state of serenity from which I had that day cast myself by harsh and willful conduct.

Then--and 'twas not hard to do--I offered my supreme propitiation: which was now no more a sacrifice, but, rather, a high delight.

"You may have my sister, zur," I sobbed.

He laughed a little--laughed an odd little laugh, the like of which I had never heard.

"You may have her," I repeated, somewhat impatiently. "Isn't you hearin' me? I _give_ her to you."

"This is very kind," he said. "But----"

"You're _wantin'_ her, isn't you?" I demanded, fearing for the moment that he had meantime changed his mind.

"Yes," he drawled; "but----"

"But what?"

"She'll not have me."

"Not have you!" I cried.

"No," said he.

At that moment I learned much wisdom concerning the mysterious ways of women.


XXIV

The BEGINNING of The END

From this sad tangle we were next morning extricated by news from the south ports of our coast--news so ill that sentimental tears and wishes were of a sudden forgot; being this: that the smallpox had come to Poor Luck Harbour and was there virulently raging. By noon of that day the doctor's sloop was underway with a fair wind, bound south in desperate haste: a man's heart beating glad aboard, that there might come a tragic solution of his life's entanglement. My sister and I, sitting together on the heads of Good Promise, high in the sunlight, with the sea spread blue and rippling below--we two, alone, with hands clasped--watched the little patch of sail flutter on its way--silently watched until it vanished in the mist.

"I'm not knowin'," my sister sighed, still staring out to sea, "what's beyond the mist."

"Nor I."

'Twas like a curtain, veiling some dread mystery, as an ancient tragedy--but new to us, who sat waiting: and far past our guessing.

"I wonder what we'll see, dear," she whispered, "when the mist lifts."

"'Tis some woeful thing."

She leaned forward, staring, breathing deep, seeking with the strange gift of women to foresee the event; but she sighed, at last, and gave it up.

"I'm not knowin'," she said.

We turned homeward; and thereafter--through the months of that summer--we were diligent in business: but with small success, for Jagger of Wayfarer's Tickle, seizing the poor advantage with great glee, now foully slandered and oppressed us.

* * * *