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

still.

"Out with you!" said my sister to the doctor-woman. "I'll have no more o' your cures!"

"Oh, my!" shrilled the woman, dropping into her most biting manner. "_She_ won't have no more o' my cures! Oh, dear, she----"

"Out with you!" cried my sister, as she smartly clapped her hands under the woman's nose. "Out o' the house with you!"

"Oh, 'tis _out_ with me, is it? Out o' the _house_ with me! Oh, dear! Out o' the house with _me_! I'll have you t' know----"

My sister ignored the ponderous fist raised against her. She stamped her small foot, her eyes flashing, the blood flushing her cheeks and brow.

"Out you go!" she cried. "_I'm_ not afeared o' you!"

I stood aghast while the doctor-woman backed through the door. Never before had I known my gentle sister to flash and flush with angry passion. Nor have I since.

* * * * *


Next morning, my father paid the woman from Wolf Cove a barrel of flour, with which she was ill content, and traded her two barrels more for the horse-chestnut, which my mother wished to keep lying on her breast, because it comforted her. To Skipper Tommy Lovejoy fell the lot of taking the woman back in the punt; for, as my father said, 'twas he that brought her safely, and, surely, the one who could manage that could be trusted to get her back without accident.

"An' 'tis parlous work, lad," said the skipper, with an anxious shrug, while we waited on the wharf for the woman to come. "I'm very much afeared. Ay," he added, frowning, "I is that!"

"I'm not knowin' why," said I, "for the wind's blowin' fair from the sou'west, an' you'll have a fine time t' Wolf Cove."

"'Tis not that," said he, quietly. "Hist!" jerking his head towards our house, where the woman yet was. "'Tis _she_!"

"I'd not be afeared o' _she_," said I. "'Twas but last night," I added, proudly, "my sister gave her her tea in a mug."

"Oh, ay," said he, "I heared tell o' that. But 'tis not t' the point. Davy, lad," in an undertone which betrayed great agitation, "she've her cap set for a man, an' she's desperate."

"Ay?" said I.

He bent close to my ear. "An' she've her eye on _me_!" he whispered.

"Skipper Tommy," I earnestly pleaded, "don't you go an' do it."

"Well, lad," he answered, pulling at his nose, "the good Lard made me what I is. I'm not complainin' o' the taste He showed. No, no! I would not think o' doin' that. But----"

"He made you kind," I broke in, hotly, "an' such as good folk love."

"I'm not knowin' much about that, Davy. The good Lard made me as He willed. But I'm an obligin' man. I've turned out, Davy, most wonderful obligin'. I'm always doin' what folks wants me to. Such men as me, lad," he went on, precisely indicating the weakness of his tender character, "is made that way. An' if she tells me she's a lone woman, and if she begins t' cry, what is I to do? An' if I has t' pass me word, Davy, t' stop her tears! Eh, lad? Will you tell me, David Roth, _what_ is I t' do?"

"Turn the punt over," said I, quickly. "They's wind enough for that, man! An' 'tis your only chance, Skipper Tommy--'tis the only chance _you_ got--if she begins t' cry."

He was dispirited. "I wisht," he said, sadly, "that the Lard hadn't made me _quite_ so obligin'!"

"'Tis too bad!"

"Ay," he sighed, "'tis too bad I can't trust meself in the company o' folk that's givin' t' weepin'."

"I'll have the twins pray for you," I ventured.

"Do!" he cried, brightening. "'Tis a grand thought! An' do you tell them two dear lads that I'll never give in--no, lad, their father'll never give in t' that woman--till he's just _got_ to."

"But, Skipper Tommy," said I, now much alarmed, so hopeless was his tone, stout as his words were, "tell my father you're not wantin' t' go. Sure, he can send Elisha Turr in your stead."

"Ay," said he, "but I _is_ wantin' t' go. That's it. I'm thinkin' all the time o' the book, lad. I'm wantin' t' make that book a good book. I'm wantin' t' learn more about cures."

"I'm thinkin' _her_ cures isn't worth much," said I.

He patted me on the head. "You is but a lad," said he, indulgent with my youth, "an' your judgment isn't well growed yet. Some o' they cures is bad, no doubt," he added, "an' some is good. I wants no bad cures in my book. I'll not _have_ them there. But does you think I can't _try_ un all on _meself_ afore I has un _put_ in the book?"

* * * * *


When the punt was well through North Tickle, on a free, freshening wind, I sped to the Rat Hole to apprise the twins of their father's unhappy situation, and to beg of them to be constant and importunate in prayer that he might be saved from the perils of that voyage. Then, still running as fast as my legs would go, I returned to our house, where, again, I found the shadow and the mystery, and the hush in all the rooms.

"Davy!"

"Ay, Bessie," I answered. "'Tis I."

"Our mother's wantin' you, dear."

I tiptoed up the stair, and to the bed where my mother lay, and, very softly, I laid my cheek against her lips.

"My sister sent me, mum," I whispered.

"Yes," she sighed. "I'm--just wanting you."

Her arm, languid and light, stole round my waist.


IX

A WRECK on The THIRTY DEVILS

Fog--thick, stifling, clammy! A vast bank of it lay stranded on the rocks of our coast: muffling voices, making men gasp. In a murky cloud it pressed against my mother's windows. Wharves, cottages, harbour water, great hills beyond--the whole world--had vanished. There was nothing left but a patch of smoking rock beneath. It had come--a grey cloud, drifting low and languidly--with a lazy draught of wind from the east, which had dragged it upon the coast, spread it broadcast and expired of the effort to carry it into the wilderness.

"Wonderful thick, b'y!" was the salutation for the day.

"'S mud," was the response.

Down went the barometer--down, down, slowly, uncompromisingly down! 'Twas shocking to the nerves to consult it.

"An' I'm tellin' you this, lads," said a man on my father's wharf, tugging uneasily at his sou'wester, "that afore midnight you'll be needin' t' glue your hair on!"

This feeling of apprehension was everywhere--on the roads, in the stages, in the very air. No man of our harbour put to sea. With the big wind coming, 'twas no place for punt, schooner or steamer. The waters off shore were set with traps for the unwary and the unknowing--the bluffs veiled by mist, the drift ice hidden, the reefs covered up. In a gale of wind from the east there would be no escape.

* * * * *


Through the dragging day my mother had been restless and in pain. In the evening she turned to us.

"I'm tired," she whispered.

Tired? Oh, ay! She was tired--very, very tired! It was near time for her to rest. She was sadly needing that.

"An' will you try t' sleep, now?" my sister asked.

"Ay," she answered, wanly, "I'll sleep a bit, now, if I can. Where's Davy?"

"Sure, mama," said I, in surprise, "I'm sittin' right by the bed!"

"Ah, Davy!" she whispered, happily, stretching out a hand to touch me. "My little son!"

"An' I been sittin' here all the time!" said I.

"All the time?" she said. "But I've been so sick, dear, I haven't noticed much. And 'tis so dark."

"No, mum; 'tis not so very. 'Tis thick, but 'tis not so very dark. 'Tis not lamp-lightin' time yet."

"How strange!" she muttered. "It seems so very dark. Ah, well! Do you go out for a run in the air, dear, while your mother sleeps. I'm thinking I'll be better--when I've had a little sleep."

My sister busied herself with the pillows and coverlet; and she made all soft and neat, that my mother might rest the better for it.

"You're so tender with me, dear," said my mother "Every day I bless God for my dear daughter."

My sister kissed my mother. "Hush!" she said. "Do you go t' sleep, now, little mother. Twill do you good."

"Yes," my mother sighed, "for I'm--so very--tired."

* * * * *


When she had fallen asleep, I slung my lantern over my arm and scampered off to the Rat Hole to yarn with the twins, making what speed I could in the fog and untimely dusk, and happy, for the moment, to be free of the brooding shadow in our house. The day was not yet fled; but the light abroad--a sullen greyness, splashed with angry red in the west, where the mist was thinning--was fading fast and fearfully. And there was an ominous stirring of wind in the east: at intervals, storm puffs came swirling over the hills from the sea; and they ran off inland like mad, leaving the air of a sudden once more stagnant. Fresh and cool they were--grateful enough, indeed, blowing through the thick, dead dusk--but sure warning, too, of great gusts to come. We were to have weather--a gale from the northeast, by all the lore of the coast--and it would be a wild night, with the breakers of Raven Rock and the Thirty Black Devils leaping high and merrily in the morning. As I ran down the last hill, with an eye on the light glowing in the kitchen window of Skipper Tommy Lovejoy's cottage, I made shift to hope that the old man had made harbour from Wolf Cove, but thought it most unlikely.

He had.

"You got home, Skipper Tommy," I cried, shouldering the door shut against a gust of wind, "an' I'm glad o' that! 'Tis goin' t' blow most awful, I'm thinkin'."

My welcome was of the gloomiest description. I observed that the twins, who lay feet to feet on the corner-seat, did not spring to meet me, but were cast down; and that Skipper Tommy, himself, sitting over the fire with a cup of tea on the table at his elbow, was glum as a deacon.

"Oh," said he, looking up with the ghost of a laugh, "I got in. You wasn't frettin' about _me_, was you, Davy? Oh, don't you ever go frettin' about me, lad, when--ah, well!--when they's nothin' but fog t' fear. Sure, 'twasn't no trouble for _me_ t' find