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

sayin' I'm not."

So, low as she was--sunk with the load in her hold and the gear and casks and what-not on her deck--they took the _Trap and Seine_ into the gale. And she made brave weather of it--holding her own stoutly, cheerily shaking the frothy water from her bows: though 'twas an unfair task to put her to. Skipper Tommy put the first hand at the mainsail halliards, the second hand at the foresail, with orders to cut away at the lift of his hand, lest the vessel get on her beam's ends and capsize. 'Twas thus that they drove her into the wind--stout hearts and stout timber: no wavering or weak complaint, whatever the wind and sea. But night caught them off our harbour--deep night: with the headlands near lost in the black sky; no more than the looming, changing shadow of the hills and the intermittent flash of breakers to guide the way. They were now beating along shore, close to Long Cove of the mainland, which must then have lain placid in the lee of Naked Point. At the cry of "Hard-a-lee!"--sung out in terror when the breakers were fair under the bow--the ship came about and fell off towards the open sea. Then came three great waves; they broke over the bow--swept the schooner, stem to stern, the deck litter going off in a rush of white water. The first wrenched Jacky from his handhold; but Skipper Tommy, standing astern, caught him by the collar as the lad went over the taffrail. Came, then, with the second wave, Timmie, whom, also, the skipper caught. But 'twas beyond the old man's power to lift both to the deck: nor could he cry for help, nor choose whom to drop, loving them alike; but desperately clung to both until the rush of the third wave tore one away.

It was Timmie.

* * * * *


Skipper Tommy Lovejoy, making into our harbour, by way of the Gate, in the depths of that wild night--poor old Skipper Tommy, blind and broken by grief--ran his loaded schooner into the Trap and wrecked her on the Seven Murderers, where she went to pieces on the unfeeling rocks. But we managed to get the crew ashore, and no man lost his life at that time. And Skipper Tommy, sitting bowed in my father's house, told us in a dull, slow way--made tragic, from time to time, by the sweet light in his eye, by the flitting shadow of a smile--told us, thus, that Jagger of Wayfarer's Tickle lay at the point of death, in fear of hell, crying for the help of his enemy: and then put his arm about Jacky, and went with him to the Rat Hole, there to bury his sorrow, that it might not distress us the more, who sorrowed, also.


XXVII

The DAY of The DOG

I was awakened at dawn. 'Twas by a gentle touch of the doctor's hand. "Is it you, zur?" I asked, starting from sad dreams.

"Hush!" he whispered. "'Tis I, Davy."

I listened to the roar of the gale--my sleepy senses immediately aroused by the noise of wind and sleet. The gathered rage was loosed, at last.

"'Tis a bitter night," I said.

"The day is breaking."

He sat down beside me, gravely silent; and he put his arm around me.

"You isn't goin'?" I pleaded.

"Yes."

I had grown to know his duty. 'Twas all plain to me. I would not have held him from it, lest I come to love him less.

"Ay," I moaned, gripping his hand, "you're goin'!"

"Yes," he said.

We sat for a moment without speaking. The gale went whipping past--driving madly through the breaking day: a great rush of black, angry weather. 'Twas dim in the room. I could not see his face--but felt his arm warm about me: and wished it might continue there, and that I might fall asleep, serene in all that clamour, sure that I might find it there on waking, or seek it once again, when sore need came. And I thought, even then, that the Lord had been kind to us: in that this man had come sweetly into our poor lives, if but for a time.

"You isn't goin' alone, is you?"

"No. Skipper Tommy is coming to sail the sloop."

Again--and fearsomely--the gale intruded upon us. There was a swish of wind, rising to a long, mad shriek--the roar of rain on the roof--the rattle of windows--the creaking of the timbers of our house. I trembled to hear it.

"Oh, doctor!" I moaned.

"Hush!" he said.

The squall subsided. Rain fell in a monotonous patter. Light crept into the room.

"Davy!"

"Ay, zur?"

"I'm going, now."

"Is you?"

He drew me very close. "I've come to say good-bye," he said. My head sank in great misgiving against him. I could not say one word. "And you know, lad," he continued, "that I love your sister. Tell her, when I am gone, that I love her. Tell her----"

He paused. "An' what, zur," I asked, "shall I tell my sister for you?"

"Tell her--that I love her. No!" he cried. "'Tis not that. Tell her----"

"Ay?"

"That I loved her!"

"Hist!" I whispered, not myself disquieted by this significant change of form. "She's stirrin' in her room."

It may be that the doctor loved my sister through me--that I found some strange place in his great love for her, to which I had no title, but was most glad to have. For, then, in the sheltering half-light, he lifted me from my bed--crushed me against his breast--held me there, whispering messages I could not hear--and gently laid me down again, and went in haste away. And I dressed in haste: but fumbled at all the buttons, nor could quickly lay hands on my clothes, which were scattered everywhere, by my sad habit; so that, at last, when I was clad for the weather, and had come to my father's wharf, the sloop was cast off. Skipper Tommy sat in the stern, his face grimly set towards North Tickle and the hungry sea beyond: nor did he turn to look at me. But the doctor waved his hand--and laughed a new farewell.

* * * * *


I did not go to the hills--because I had no heart for that (and had no wish to tell my sister what might be seen from there): but sat grieving on a big box, in the lee of the shop, drumming a melancholy refrain with my heels. And there I sat while the sad light of day spread over the rocky world; and, by and by, the men came out of the cottages--and _they_ went to the hills of God's Warning, as I knew they would--and came back to the wharf to gossip: but in my presence were silent concerning what they had seen at sea, so that, when I went up to our house, I did not know what the sloop was making of the gale. And when I crossed the threshold, 'twas to a vast surprise: for my breakfast was set on a narrow corner of the kitchen table (and had turned cold); and the whole house was in an amazing state of dust and litter and unseasonable confusion--the rugs lifted, the tables and chairs awry, the maids wielding brooms with utmost vigour: a comfortless prospect, indeed, but not foreign to my sister's way at troublous times, as I knew. So I ate my breakfast, and that heartily (being a boy); and then sought my sister, whom I found tenderly dusting in my mother's room.

"'Tis queer weather, Bessie," said I, in gentle reproof, "for cleanin' house."

She puckered her brow--a sad little frown: but sweet, as well, for, downcast or gay, my sister could be naught else, did she try it.

"Is you thinkin' so, Davy?" she asked, pulling idly at her dust-rag. "Ah, well!" she sighed.

"Why," I exclaimed, "'tis the queerest I ever knowed!"

"I been thinkin'," she mused, "that I'd get the house tidied up--while the doctor's away."

"Oh, _was_ you?"

"Ay," she said, looking up; "for he've such a wonderful distaste for dust an' confusion. An' I'll have the house all in order," she added, with a wan smile, "when he gets back."

'Tis the way of women to hope; but that my clever sister should thus count sure that which lay in grave doubt--admitting no uncertainty--was beyond my understanding.

"Does you think," she asked, looking away, "that he will be back"--she hesitated--"the morrow?"

I did not deign to reply.

"May be," she muttered, "the day after."

'Twas hard to believe it of her. "Bessie," I began, ignoring her folly, "afore the doctor went, he left a message for you."

Her hands went swiftly to her bosom. "For me?" she whispered. "Ah, tell me, Davy!"

"I'm just about t' tell," said I, testily. "But, sure, 'tis nothin' t' put you in a state. When he come t' my room," I proceeded, "at dawn, t' say good-bye, he left a message. 'Tell her,' said he, 'that I love her.'"

It seemed to me, then, that she suffered--that she felt some glorious agony: of which, as I thought, lads could know nothing. And I wondered why.

"That he loves me!" she murmured.

"No," said I. "'Tell her not that,' said he," I went on. "'Tell her that I loved her.'"

"Not that!" she cried. "'Twas that he loves me--_not_ that he loved me!"

"'Twas that he loved you."

"Oh, no!"

"I got it right."

"Ah, then," she cried, in despair, "he've no hope o' comin' back! Oh," she moaned, clasping her hands, "if only I had----"

But she sighed--and turned again to her womanly task; and I left her tenderly caring for my mother's old room. And when, at midday, I came up from the wharf, I found the house restored to order and quiet: my sister sitting composed in my mother's place, smiling a welcome across the table, as my mother used to do. And I kissed her--for I loved her!

* * * * *


It blew up bitter cold--the wind rising: the sea turned white with froth. 'Twas a solemn day--like a sad Sunday, when a man lies dead in the harbour. No work was done--no voice was lifted boisterously--no child was out of doors: but all clung peevishly to their mothers' skirts. The men on the wharf--speculating in low, anxious voices--with darkened eyes watched the tattered sky: the rushing, sombre clouds, still in a panic fleeing to the wilderness. They said the sloop would not outlive the gale. They said 'twas a glorious death that the doctor and Skipper Thomas Lovejoy had died; thus to depart in the high endeavour to succour an enemy--but shed no tears: for 'tis not the way of our folk to do it.... Rain turned to sleet--sleet to black fog. The smell of winter was in the air. There was a feeling of snow abroad.... Then came