Doctor Luke of the Labrador by Norman Duncan (i want to read a book .TXT) 📕

I could not make it out.

"Zur?" I said.

His eyes ranged timidly over the sombre waste--the vasty, splendid heavens, the coast, dark and unfeeling, the infinite, sullen sea, which ominously darkened as he looked--and he covered his face with his hands.

"No," he whispered, looking up, "I do not wonder that you believe in God--and fear Him!"

Then I knew that roundabout he felt the presence of an offended God.

"And fear Him!" he repeated.

I levelled my finger at him. "You been wicked!" I said, knowing that my accusation was true.

"Yes," he answered, "I have been wicked."

"Is you goin' t' be good?"

"I am going to try to be good--now."

"You isn't goin' away, is you?" I wailed.

"I am going to stay here," he said, gravely, "and treat the people, who need me, and try, in that way, to be good."

"I'd die t' see it!" cried I.

He laughed--and the tension vanished--and we went happily back to harbour. I had no thought that the resolution to which he had come was in any way extraordinary.

* * * * *


I ran to the Rat Hole, that night, to give the great news to Skipper Tommy Lovejoy and the twins. "Ecod!" the old man cried, vastly astounded. "Is he t' stay, now? Well, well! Then they's no need goin' on with the book. Ecod! now think o' that! An' 'tis all because your mother died, says you, when he might have saved her! Ah, Davy, the ways o' God is strange. He manages somehow t' work a blessin' with death an' wreck. 'I'm awful sorry for they poor children,' says He, 'an' for the owners o' that there fine ship; but I got t' have My way,' says He, 'or the world would never come t' much; so down goes the ship,' says He, 'an' up comes that dear mother t' my bosom. 'Tis no use tellin' them why,' says He, 'for they wouldn't understand. An', ecod!' says He, 'while I'm about it I'll just put it in the mind o' that doctor-man t' stay right there an' do a day's work or two for Me.' I'm sure He meant it--I'm sure He meant t' do just that--I'm sure 'twas all done o' purpose. We thinks He's hard an' a bit free an' careless. Ecod! they's times when we thinks He fair bungles His job. He kills us, an' He cripples us, an' He starves us, an' He hurts our hearts; an' then, Davy, we says He's a dunderhead at runnin' a world, which, says we, we could run a sight better, if we was able t' make one. But the Lard, Davy, does His day's work in a seamanlike way, usin' no more crooked backs an' empty stomachs an' children's tears an' broken hearts than He can help. 'Tis little we knows about what _He's_ up to. An' 'tis wise, I'm thinkin', not t' bother about tryin' t' find out. 'Tis better t' let Him steer His own course an' ask no questions. I just _knowed_ He was up t' something grand. I said so, Davy! 'Tis just like the hymn, lad, about His hidin' a smilin' face behind a frownin' providence. Ah, Davy, _He'll_ take care o' _we_!"

All of which, as you know, was quite characteristic of Skipper Tommy Lovejoy.


XIV

In The WATCHES of The NIGHT

At once we established the doctor in our house, that he might be more comfortably disposed; and this was by my sister's wish, who hoped to be his helper in the sweet labour of healing. And soon a strange thing happened: once in the night--'twas late of a clear, still night--I awoke, of no reason; nor could I fall asleep again, but lay high on the pillow, watching the stars, which peeped in at my window, companionably winking. Then I heard the fall of feet in the house--a restless pacing: which brought me out of bed, in a twinkling, and took me tiptoeing to the doctor's room, whence the unusual sound. But first I listened at the door; and when I had done that, I dared not enter, because of what I heard, but, crouching in the darkness, must continue to listen ... and listen....

* * * * *


By and by I crept away to my sister's room, unable longer to bear the awe and sorrow in my heart.

"Bessie!" I called, in a low whisper.

"Ay, Davy?"

"Is you awake?"

"Ay, I'm wakeful."

I closed the door after me--then went swiftly to her bedside, treading with great caution.

"Listenin'?" I asked.

"T' the doctor," she answered, "walkin' the floor."

"Is you afraid?" I whispered.

"No."

"I is."

She sat up in bed--and drew me closer. "An' why, dear?" she asked, stroking my cheek.

"Along o' what I heared in the dark, Bessie--at his door."

"You've not been eavesdroppin', Davy?" she chided.

"Oh, I wisht I hadn't!"

"'Twas not well done."

The moon was up, broadly shining behind the Watchman: my sister's white little room--kept sweet and dainty in the way she had--was full of soft gray light; and I saw that her eyes were wide and moist.

"He's wonderful restless, the night," she mused.

"He've a great grief."

"A grief? Oh, Davy!"

"Ay, a great, great grief! He've been talkin' to hisself, Bessie. But 'tis not words; 'tis mostly only sounds."

"Naught else?"

"Oh, ay! He've said----"

"Hush!" she interrupted. "'Tis not right for me t' know. I would not have you tell----"

I would not be stopped. "He've said, Bessie," I continued, catching something, it may be, of his agony, "he've said, 'I pay! Oh, God, I pay!' he've said. 'Merciful Christ, hear me--oh, I pay!'"

She trembled.

"'Tis some great grief," said I.

"Do you haste to his comfort, Davy," she whispered, quickly. "'Twould be a kind thing t' do."

"Is you sure he's wantin' me?"

"Were it me I would."

When I had got to the doctor's door again, I hesitated, as before, fearing to go in; and once more I withdrew to my sister's room.

"I'm not able t' go in," I faltered. "'Tis awful, Bessie, t' hear men goin' on--like that."

"Like what?"

"Cryin'."

A little while longer I sat silent with my sister--until, indeed, the restless footfalls ceased, and the blessed quiet of night fell once again.

"An', Bessie," said I, "he said a queer thing."

She glanced a question.

"He said your name!"

She was much interested--but hopelessly puzzled. For a moment she gazed intently at the stars. Then she sighed.

"He've a great grief," I repeated, sighing, "an' he've been wicked."

"Oh, no--not wicked!"

"Ay," I persisted, gently, "wicked; for he've told me so with his own tongue."

"Not wicked!"

"But he've _said_ so," I insisted, nettled, on the instant, by my sister's perversity.

"I'm thinkin' he couldn't be," she said.

"Sure, why not?" I demanded.

She looked away for a moment--through the window, into the far, starlit sky, which the light of the moon was fast paling; and I thought my question forgot.

"Why not, sister?"

"I--don't know--why not!" she whispered.

* * * * *


I kissed my sister good-night, while yet she puzzled over this, and slipped off to my own room, lifting my night-dress, as I tiptoed along, lest I trip and by some clumsy commotion awake my friend to his bitterness. Once back in my bed--once again lying alone in the tranquil night--I found the stars still peeping in at my window, still twinkling companionably, as I had left them. And I thought, as my mother had taught me, of these little watchmen, serene, constant, wise in their great remoteness--and of him who lay in unquiet sleep near by--and, then, understanding nothing of the mystery, nor caring to know, but now secure in the unquestioning faith of childhood, I closed my eyes to sleep: for the stars still shone on, flashing each its little message of serenity to the troubled world.


XV

THE WOLF

In course of time, the mail-boat cleared our harbour of wrecked folk; and within three weeks of that day my father was cast away on Ill Wind Head: being alone on the way to Preaching Cove with the skiff, at the moment, for fish to fill out the bulk of our first shipment to the market at St. John's, our own catch having disappointed the expectation of us every one. My sister and I were then left to manage my father's business as best we could: which we must determine to do, come weal or woe, for we knew no other way. My sister said, moreover, that, whether we grew rich or poor, 'twas wise and kind to do our best, lest our father's folk, who had ever been loyal to his trade, come upon evil times at the hands of traders less careful of their welfare. Large problems of management we did not perceive, but only the simple, immediate labour, to which we turned with naively willing heads and hands, sure that, because of the love abroad in all the world, no evil would befall us.

"'Twill be fortune," my sister said, in her sweet and hopeful way; "for the big world is good, Davy," said she, "to such as are bereft."

"I'm not so sure o' that."

"Ay," she repeated, unshaken, "the world is kind."

"You is but a girl, Bessie," said I, "an' not well acquaint with the way o' the world. Still an' all," I mused, "Skipper Tommy says 'tis kind, an' he've growed wonderful used t' livin'."

"We'll not fear the world."

"No, no! We'll not fear it. I'll be a man, sister, for your sake."

"An' I a true woman," said she, "for yours."

To Tom Tot we gave the handling of the fish and stores, resolving, also, to stand upon his judgment in the matter of dealing supplies to the thriftless and the unfortunate, whether generously or with a sparing hand, for the men of our harbour were known to him, every one, in strength and conscience and will for toil. As for the shop, said we, we would mind it ourselves, for 'twas but play to do it; and thus, indeed, it turned out: so hearty was the sport it provided that my sister and I would hilariously race for the big key (which hung on a high nail in the dining-room) whenever a customer came. I would not have you think us unfeeling. God knows, we were not that! 'Twas this way with us: each hid the pain, and thus thought to deceive the other into a happier mood. We did well enough in the shop; but we could make neither head nor tail of the books in my father's safe; and when our bewilderment and heartache came to ears of the doctor he said that he would himself manage the letters and keep the