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

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"No."

"Jim he 'lowed two year ago it ought t' be done. You couldn't do it nohow?"

The doctor shook his head.

"Couldn't make a shift at it?"

"No."

"Anyhow," she sighed, rising to go, "I 'low Jim won't mind now. He's dead."

* * * * *


Within three weeks the mail-boat touched our harbor for the last time that season: being then southbound into winter quarters at St. John's. It chanced in the night--a clear time, starlit, but windy, with a high sea running beyond the harbour rocks. She came in by way of North Tickle, lay for a time in the quiet water off our wharf, and made the open through the Gate. From our platform we watched the shadowy bulk and warm lights slip behind Frothy Point and the shoulder of the Watchman--hearkened for the last blast of the whistle, which came back with the wind when the ship ran into the great swell of the sea. Then--at once mustering all our cheerfulness--we turned to our own concerns: wherein we soon forgot that there was any world but ours, and were content with it.

Tom Tot came in.

"'Tis late for you, Tom," said my sister, in surprise.

"Ay, Miss Bessie," he replied, slowly. "Wonderful late for me. But I been home talkin' with my woman," he went on, "an' we was thinkin' it over, an' she s'posed I'd best be havin' a little spell with the doctor."

He was very grave--and sat twirling his cap: lost in anxious thought.

"You're not sick, Tom?"

"Sick!" he replied, indignantly. "Sure, I'd not trouble the doctor for that! I'm troubled," he added, quietly, looking at his cap, "along--o' Mary."

It seemed hard for him to say.

"She've been in service, zur," he went on, turning to the doctor, "at Wayfarer's Tickle. An' I'm fair troubled--along o' she."

"She've not come?" my sister asked.

For a moment Tom regarded the floor--his gaze fixed upon a protruding knot. "She weren't aboard, Miss Bessie," he answered, looking up, "an' she haven't sent no word. I been thinkin' I'd as lief take the skiff an' go fetch her home."

"Go the morrow, Tom," said I.

"I was thinkin' I would, Davy, by your leave. Not," he added, hastily, "that I'm afeared she've come t' harm. She's too scared o' hell for that. But--I'm troubled. An' I'm thinkin' she might--want a chance--home."

He rose.

"Tom," said I, "do you take Timmie Lovejoy an' Will Watt with you. You'll need un both t' sail the skiff."

"I'm thankin' you, Davy, lad," said he. "'Tis kind o' you t' spare them."

"An' I'm wishin' you well."

He picked at a thread in his cap. "No," he persisted, doggedly, "she were so wonderful scared o' hell she fair _couldn't_ come t' harm. I brung her up too well for that. But," with a frown of anxious doubt, "the Jagger crew was aboard, bound home t' Newf'un'land. An'--well--I'm troubled. They was drunk--an' Jagger was drunk--an' I asked un about my maid--an'...."

"Would he tell you nothing?" the doctor asked.

"Well," said Tom, turning away, "he just laughed."

We were at that moment distracted by the footfall of men coming in haste up the path from my father's wharf. 'Twas not hard to surmise their errand. My sister sighed--I ran to the door--the doctor began at once to get into his boots and greatcoat. But, to our surprise, two deck-hands from the mail-boat pushed their way into the room. She had returned (said they) and was now waiting off the Gate. There was need of a doctor aboard. Need of a doctor! What of the mail-boat doctor? Ah, 'twas he who was in need. My heart bounded to hear it! And how had he come to that pass? He had essayed to turn in--but 'twas rough water outside--and he had caroused with Jagger's crew all the way from Wayfarer's Tickle--and 'twas very rough water--and he had fallen headlong down the companion--and they had picked him up and put him in his berth, where he lay unconscious.

'Twas sweet news to me. "You'll not go?" I whispered to the doctor.

He gave me a withering glance--and quietly continued to button his greatcoat.

"Is you forgot what I told you?" I demanded, my voice rising.

He would not reply.

"Oh, don't go!" I pleaded.

He turned up the collar of his coat--picked up his little black case of medicines. Then I feared that he meant indeed to go.

"Leave un die where he lies, zur!" I wailed.

"Come along, men!" said he to the deck-hands.

I sprang ahead of them--flung the door shut--put my back against it: crying out against him all the while. My sister caught my wrist--I pushed her away. Tom Tot laid his hand on my shoulder--I threw it off with an oath. My heart was in a flame of rage and resentment. That this castaway should succour our enemy! I saw, again, a great, wet sweep of deck, glistening underfoot--heard the rush of wind, the swish of breaking seas, the throb and clank of engines, the rain on the panes--once again breathed the thick, gray air of a cabin where two men sat at cards--heard the curse and blow and outcry--saw my mother lying on the pillows, a red geranium in her thin, white hand--heard her sigh and whisper: felt anew her tender longing.

"You'll _not_ go!" I screamed. "Leave the dog t' die!"

Very gently, the doctor put his arm around me, and gave me to my sister, who drew me to her heart, whispering soft words in my ear: for I had no power to resist, having broken into sobs. Then they went out: and upon this I broke roughly from my sister, and ran to my own room; and I threw myself on my bed, and there lay in the dark, crying bitterly--not because the doctor had gone his errand against my will, but because my mother was dead, and I should never hear her voice again, nor touch her hand, nor feel her lips against my cheek. And there I lay alone, in deepest woe, until the doctor came again; and when I heard him on the stair--and while he drew a chair to my bed and felt about for my hand--I still sobbed: but no longer hated him, for I had all the time been thinking of my mother in a better way.

"Davy," he said, gravely, "the man is dead."

"I'm glad!" I cried.

He ignored this. "I find it hard, Davy," said he, after a pause, "not to resent your displeasure. Did I not know you so well--were I less fond of the real Davy Roth--I should have you ask my pardon. However, I have not come up to tell you that; but this: you can, perhaps, with a good heart hold enmity against a dying man; but the physician, Davy, may not. Do you understand, Davy?"

"I'm sorry I done what I did, zur," I muttered, contritely. "But I'm wonderful glad the man's dead."

"For shame!"

"I'm glad!"

He left me in a huff.

"An' I'll _be_ glad," I shouted after him, at the top of my voice, "if I got t' go 't hell for it!"

'Twas my nature.

* * * * *


Tom Tot returned downcast from Wayfarer's Tickle: having for three days sought his daughter, whom he could not find; nor was word of her anywhere to be had. Came, then, the winter--with high winds and snow and short gray days: sombre and bitter cold. Our folk fled to the tilts at the Lodge; and we were left alone with the maids and Timmie Lovejoy in my father's house: but had no idle times, for the doctor would not hear of it, but kept us at work or play, without regard for our wishes in the matter. 'Twas the doctor's delight by day to don his new skin clothes (which my sister had finished in haste after the first fall of snow) and with help of Timmie Lovejoy to manage the dogs and komatik, flying here and there at top speed, with many a shout and crack of the long whip. By night he kept school in the kitchen, which we must all diligently attend, even to the maids: a profitable occupation, no doubt, but laborious, to say the least of it, though made tolerable by his good humour. By and by there came a call from Blister Harbour, which was forty miles to the north of us, where a man had shot off his hand--another from Red Cove, eighty miles to the south--others from Backwater Arm and Molly's Tub. And the doctor responded, afoot or with the dogs, as seemed best at the moment: myself to bear him company; for I would have it so, and he was nothing loath.


XX

CHRISTMAS EVE at TOPMAST TICKLE

Returning afoot from the bedside of Long John Wise at Run-by-Guess--and from many a bedside and wretched hearth by the way--the doctor and I strapped our packs aback and heartily set out from the Hudson's Bay Company's post at Bread-and-Water Bay in the dawn of the day before Christmas: being then three weeks gone from our harbour, and, thinking to reach it next day. We were to chance hospitality for the night; and this must be (they told us) at the cottage of a man of the name of Jonas Jutt, which is at Topmast Tickle. There was a lusty old wind scampering down the coast, with many a sportive whirl and whoop, flinging the snow about in vast delight--a big, rollicking winter's wind, blowing straight out of the north, at the pitch of half a gale. With this abeam we made brave progress; but yet 'twas late at night when we floundered down the gully called Long-an'-Deep, where the drifts were overhead and each must rescue the other from sudden misfortune: a warm glimmer of light in Jonas Jutt's kitchen window to guide and hearten us.

The doctor beat the door with his fist. "Open, open!" cried he, still furiously knocking. "Good Lord! will you never open?"

So gruff was the voice, so big and commanding--and so sudden was the outcry--and so late was the night and wild the wind and far away the little cottage--that the three little Jutts, who then (as it turned out) sat expectant at the kitchen fire, must all at once have huddled close; and I fancy that Sammy blinked no longer at the crack in the stove, but slipped from his chair and limped to his sister, whose hand he clutched.

"We'll freeze, I tell you!" shouted the doctor. "Open the---- Ha! Thank you," in a mollified way, as Skipper Jonas opened the door; and then, most engagingly: "May we come in?"

"An' welcome, zur," said the hearty Jonas, "whoever you be! 'Tis gettin' t' be a wild night."

"Thank you. Yes--a wild night. Glad to catch sight of your light from the top of the hill. We'll leave the racquets here. Straight ahead? Thank you. I see the glow of a fire."

We entered.

"Hello!" cried the doctor, stopping short. "What's this? Kids? Good! Three of them. Ha! How are you?"

The manner