IVMARY
In the dead of winter, great storms of wind and snow raged for days together, so that it was unsafe to venture ten fathoms from the door, and the glass fell to fifty degrees (and more) below zero, where the liquid behaved in a fashion so sluggish that ’twould not have surprised us had it withdrawn into the bulb altogether, never to reappear in a sphere of agreeable activity. By night and day we kept the fires roaring (my father and Skipper Tommy standing watch and watch in the night) and might have gone at ease, cold as it was, had we not been haunted by the fear that a conflagration, despite our watchfulness, would of a sudden put us at the mercy of the weather, which would have made an end of us, every one, in a night. But when the skipper had wrought us into a cheerful mood, the wild, white days sped swift enough—so fast, indeed, that it was quite beyond me to keep count of them: for he was marvellous at devising adventures out-of-doors and pastimes within. At length, however, he said that he must be off to the Lodge, else Jacky and Timmie,the twins, who had been left to fend for themselves, would expire of longing for his return.
“An’ I’ll be takin’ Davy back with me, mum,” said he to my mother, not daring, however, to meet her eye to eye with the proposal, “for the twins is wantin’ him sore.”
“Davy!” cried my mother. “Surely, Skipper Tommy, you’re not thinking to have Davy back with you!”
Skipper Tommy ventured to maintain that I would be the better of a run in the woods, which would (as he ingeniously intimated) restore the blood to my cheeks: whereupon my mother came at once to his way of thinking, and would hear of no delay, but said—and that in a fever of anxiety—that I must be off in the morning, for she would not rest until I was put in the way of having healthful sport with lads of my age. So, that night, my sister made up three weeks’ rations for me from our store (with something extra in the way of tinned beef and a pot of jam as a gift from me to the twins); also, she mended my sleeping-bag, in which my sprouting legs had kicked a hole, and got out the big black wolfskin, for bed covering in case of need. And by the first light of the next day we loaded the komatik, harnessed the joyful dogs and set out with a rush, the skipper’s long whip cracking a jolly farewell aswe went swinging over the frozen harbour to the Arm.
“Hi, hi, b’y!” the skipper shouted to the dogs.
Crack! went the whip, high over the heads of the pack. The dogs yelped. “Hi, hi!” screamed I. And on we sped, raising a dust of crisp snow in our wake. It was a famous pack. Fox, the new leader, was a mighty, indomitable fellow, and old Wolf, in the rear, had a sharp eye for lagging heels, which he snapped, in a flash, whenever a trace was let slack. What with Fox and Wolf and the skipper’s long whip and my cries of encouragement there was no let up. On we went, coursing over the level stretches, bumping over rough places, swerving ’round the turns. It was a glorious ride. The day was clear, the air frosty, the pace exhilarating. The blood tingled in every part of me. I was sorry when we rounded Pipestem Point, and the huddled tilts of the Lodge, half buried in snow, came into view. But, half an hour later, in Skipper Tommy’s tilt, I was glad that the distance had been no greater, for then the twins were helping me thaw out my cheeks and the tip of my nose, which had been frozen on the way.
That night the twins and I slept together in the cock-loft like a litter of puppies.
“Beef!” sighed Jacky, the last thing before falling asleep. “Think o’ that, Timmie!”
“An’ jam!” said Timmie.
They gave me a nudge to waken me. “Thanks, Davy,” said they both.
Then I fell asleep.
Our folk slept a great deal at the Lodge. They seemed to want to have the winter pass without knowing more than they could help of the various pangs of it—like the bears. But, when the weather permitted them to stir without, they trapped for fox and lynx, and hunted (to small purpose) with antiquated guns, and cut wood, if they were in the humour; and whatever necessity compelled them to do, and whatever they had to eat (since there was at least enough of it), they managed to have a rollicking time of it, as you would not suppose, without being told. The tilts were built of slim logs, caulked with moss; and there was but one room—and that a bare one—with bunks at one end for the women and a cock-loft above for the men. The stove was kept at red heat, day and night, but, notwithstanding, there was half an inch of frost on the walls and great icicles under the bunks: extremes of temperature were thus to be found within a very narrow compass. In the evening, when we were all gathered close about the stove, we passed the jolliest hours; for it was then that the folk came in, and tales were told, and (whatwas even more to our taste) the “spurts at religion” occurred.
When the argument concerned the pains of hell, Mary, Tom Tot’s daughter, who was already bound out to service to the new manager of the store at Wayfarer’s Tickle (expected by the first mail-boat), would slip softly in to listen.
“What you thinkin’ about?” I whispered, once.
She sat remote from the company, biting her finger nails, staring, meanwhile, from speaker to speaker, with eyes that were pitifully eager.
“Hell,” she answered.
I was taken aback by that. “Hell, Mary?” I exclaimed.
“Ay, Davy,” she said, with a shudder, “I’m thinkin’ about hell.”
“What for?” said I. “Sure, ’twill do you no good to think about hell.”
“I got to,” said she. “I’m goin’ there!”
Skipper Tommy explained, when the folk had gone, that Mary, being once in a south port of our coast, had chanced to hear a travelling parson preach a sermon. “An’,” said he, “’tis too bad that young man preached about damnation, for ’tis the only sermon she ever heared, an’ she isn’t seemin’ t’ get over it.” After that I tried to persuade Mary that she would not go to hell, but quite dismally failed—andnot only failed, but was soon thinking that I, too, was bound that way. When I expressed this fear, Mary took a great fancy to me, and set me to getting from Skipper Tommy a description of the particular tortures, as he conceived they were to be inflicted; for, said she, he was a holy man, and could tell what she so much wished to know. Skipper Tommy took me on his knee, and spoke long and tenderly to me, so that I have never since feared death or hell; but his words, being repeated, had no effect upon Mary, who continued still to believe that the unhappy fate awaited her, because of some sin she was predestined to commit, or, if not that, because of her weight of original sin.
“Oh, Davy, I got t’ go!” she moaned, tearing one of her nails to the quick.
“No, no!” I cried. “The Lard ’ll never be so mean t’ you.”
“You don’t know Him,” she said, mysteriously. “You don’t know what He’s up to.”
“Bother Him!” I exclaimed, angered that mortals should thus be made miserable by interference. “I wisht He’d leave us be!”
“Hush!” she said, horrified.
“What’s He gone an’ done, now?” I demanded.
“He’ve not elected me,” she whispered, solemnly. “He’ve leftmewith the goats.”
And so, happily, I accumulated another grudge against this misconception of the dear Lord, which Skipper Tommy’s sweet philosophy and the jolly companionship of the twins could not eliminate for many days. But eventually the fresh air and laughter and tenderness restored my complacency. I forgot all about hell; ’twas more interesting to don my racquets and make the round of the fox traps with the twins, or to play pranks on the neighbours, or to fashion curious masques and go mummering from tilt to tilt. In the end, I emerged from the unfortunate mood with one firm conviction, founded largely, I fear, upon a picture which hung by my bed at home: that portraying a rising from the dead, the grave below, a golden, cloudy heaven above, wherefrom a winged angel had descended to take the hand of the free, enraptured soul. And my conviction was this, that, come what might to the souls of the wicked, the souls of the good were upon death robed in white and borne aloft to some great bliss, yet lingered, by the way, to throw back a tender glance.
I had never seen death come.
In three weeks my rations were exhausted, and, since it would have been ungenerous in me to consume Skipper Tommy’s food, I had the old man harness the dogs and take me home. My only regretwas that my food did not last until Skipper Tommy had managed to make Tom Tot laugh. Many a night the old man had tried to no purpose, for Tom Tot would stare him stolidly in the eye, however preposterous the tale to be told. The twins and I had waited in vain—ready to explode at the right moment: but never having the opportunity. The last assault on Tom Tot’s composure had been disastrous to the skipper. When, with highly elaborate detail, he had once more described his plan for training whales, disclosing, at last, his intention of having a wheel-house on what he called the forward deck——
“What about the fo’c’s’le?” Tom Tot solemnly asked.
“Eh?” gasped the skipper. “Fo‘c’s’le?”
“Ay,” said Tom Tot, in a melancholy drawl. “Isn’t you give a thought t’ the crew?”
Skipper Tommy was nonplussed.
“Well,” sighed Tom, “I s’pose you’ll be havin’ t’ fit up Jonah’s quarters for them poor men!”
At home, in the evening, while my mother and father and sister and I were together in the glow of the fire, we delighted to plan the entertainment of the doctor who was coming to cure my mother. He must have the armchair from the best room below,my mother said, that he might sit in comfort, as all doctors should, while he felt her pulse; he must have a refreshing nip from the famous bottle of Jamaica rum, which had lain in untroubled seclusion since before I was born, waiting some occasion of vast importance; and he must surely not take her unaware in a slatternly moment, but must find her lying on the pillows, wearing her prettiest nightgown, which was thereupon newly washed and ironed and stowed away in the bottom drawer of the bureau against his unexpected coming. But while the snow melted from the hills, and the folk returned to the coast for the seal fishing, and the west winds carried the ice to sea, and we waited day by day for the mail-boat, our spirits fell, for my mother was then fast failing. And I discovered this strange circumstance: that while her strength withered, her hope grew large, and she loved to dwell upon the things she would do when the doctor had made her well; and I wondered why that was, but puzzled to no purpose.
VIThe MAN on The MAIL-BOAT
It was in the dusk of a wet night of early June, with the sea in a tumble and the wind blowing fretfully from the west of north, that the mail-boat made our harbour. For three weeks we had kept watch for her, but in the end we were caught unready—the lookouts in from the Watchman, my father’s crew gone home, ourselves at evening prayer in the room where my mother lay abed. My father stopped dead in his petition when the first hoarse, muffled blast of the whistle came uncertain from the sea, and my own heart fluttered and stood still, until, rising above the rush of the wind and the noise of the rain upon the panes, the second blast broke the silence within. Then with a shaking cry of “Lord God, ’tis she!” my father leaped from his knees, ran for his sea-boots and oilskins, and shouted from below for my sister to make ready his lantern. But, indeed, he had to get his lantern for himself; for my mother, who was now in a flush of excitement, speaking high and incoherently, would have my sister stay with her to make ready for the coming of the doctor—todress her hair, and tidy the room, and lay out the best coverlet, and help on with the dainty nightgown.
“Ay, mother,” my sister said, laughing, to quiet her, “I’ll not leave you. Sure, my father’s old enough t’ get his own lantern ready.”
“The doctor’s come!” I shouted, contributing a lad’s share to the excitement. “He’ve come! Hooray! He’ve come!”
“Quick, Bessie!” cried my mother. “He’ll be here before we know it. And my hair is in a fearful tangle. The looking-glass, lassie——”
I left them in the thick of this housewifely agitation. Donning my small oilskins, as best as I could without my kind sister’s help—and I shed impatient tears over the stiff button-holes, which my fingers would not manage—I stumbled down the path to the wharf, my exuberant joy escaping, the while, in loud halloos. There I learned that the mail-boat lay at anchor off the Gate, and, as it appeared, would not come in from the sea, but would presently be off to Wayfarer’s Tickle, to the north, where she would harbour for the night. The lanterns were shining cheerily in the dark of the wharf; and my father was speeding the men who were to take the great skiff out for the spring freight—barrels of flour and pork and the like—and roundly berating them, every one,in a way which surprised them into unwonted activity. Perceiving that my father’s temper and this mad bustle were to be kept clear of by wise lads, I slipped into my father’s punt, which lay waiting by the wharf-stairs; and there, when the skiff was at last got underway, I was found by my father and Skipper Tommy Lovejoy.
“Ashore with you, Davy, lad!” said my father. “There’ll be no room for the doctor. He’ll be wantin’ the stern seat for hisself.”
“Leave the boy bide where he is,” Skipper Tommy put in. “Sure, he’ll do no harm, an’—an’—why, zur,” as if that were sufficient, “he’swantin’ t’ go!”
I kept silent—knowing well enough that Skipper Tommy was the man to help a lad to his desire.
“Ay,” said my father, “but I’m wantin’ the doctor t’ be comfortable when he comes ashore.”
“He’ll be comfortable enough, zur. The lad’ll sit in the bow an’ trim the boat. Pass the lantern t’ Davy, zur, an’ come aboard.”
My father continued to grumble his concern for the doctor’s comfort; but he leaned over to pat my shoulder while Skipper Tommy pushed off: for he loved his little son, did my big father—oh, ay, indeed, he did! We were soon past the lumbering skiff—and beyond Frothy Point—and out of theGate—and in the open sea, where the wind was blowing smartly and the rain was flying in gusts. My father hailed the steamer’s small-boat, inbound with the mail, to know if the doctor was in verity aboard; and the answer, though but half caught, was such that they bent heartily to the oars, and the punt gave a great leap and went staggering through the big waves in a way to delight one’s very soul. Thus, in haste, we drew near the steamer, which lay tossing ponderously in the ground-swell, her engines panting, her lamps bright, her many lights shining from port-hole and deck—all so cozy and secure in the dirty night: so strange to our bleak coast!
At the head of the ladder the purser stood waiting to know about landing the freight.
“Is you goin’ on?” my father asked.
“Ay—t’ Wayfarer’s Tickle, when we load your skiff.”
“’Twill be alongside in a trice. But my wife’s sick. I’m wantin’ t’ take the doctor ashore.”
“He’s aft in the smokin’-room. You’d best speak t’ the captain first. Hold her? Oh, sure,he’llhold her all night, for sickness!”
They moved off forward. Then Skipper Tommy took my hand—or, rather, I took his; for I was made ill at ease by the great, wet sweep of the deck, glistening with reflections of bright lights, and by thethrong of strange men, and by the hiss of steam and the clank of iron coming from the mysterious depths below. He would show me the cabin, said he, where there was unexampled splendour to delight in; but when we came to a little house on the after deck, where men were lounging in a thick fog of tobacco smoke, I would go no further (though Skipper Tommy said that words were spoken not meet for the ears of lads to hear); for my interest was caught by a giant pup, which was not like the pups of our harbour but a lean, long-limbed, short-haired dog, with heavy jaws and sagging, blood-red eyelids. At a round table, whereon there lay a short dog-whip, his master sat at cards with a stout little man in a pea-jacket—a loose-lipped, blear-eyed, flabby little fellow, but, withal, hearty in his own way—and himself cut a curious figure, being grotesquely ill-featured and ill-fashioned, so that one rebelled against the sight of him.
A gust of rain beat viciously upon the windows and the wind ran swishing past.
“’Tis a dirty night,” said the dog’s master, shuffling nervously in his seat.
At this the dog lifted his head with a sharp snarl: whereupon, in a flash, the man struck him on the snout with the butt of the whip.
“That’s for you!” he growled.
The dog regarded him sullenly—his upper lip still lifted from his teeth.
“Eh?” the man taunted. “Will you have another?”
The dog’s head subsided upon his paws; but his eyes never once left his master’s face—and the eyes were alert, steady, hard as steel.
“You’re l’arnin’,” the man drawled.
But the dog had learned no submission, but, if anything, only craft, as even I, a child, could perceive; and I marvelled that the man could conceive himself to be winning the mastery of that splendid brute. ’Twas no way to treat a dog of that disposition. It had been a wanton blow—taken with not so much as a whimper. Mastery? Hut! The beast was but biding his time. And I wished him well in the issue. “Ecod!” thought I, with heat. “I hopes he gets a good grip o’ the throat!” Whether or not, at the last, it was the throat, I do not know; but I do know the brutal tragedy of that man’s end, for, soon, he came rough-shod into our quiet life, and there came a time when I was hot on his trail, and rejoiced, deep in the wilderness, to see the snow all trampled and gory. But the telling of that is for a later page; the man had small part in the scene immediately approaching: it was another. When the wind and rain again beat angrily upon the ship,his look of triumph at once gave place to cowardly concern; and he repeated:
“’Tis a dirty night.”
“Ay,” said the other, and, frowning, spread his cards before him. “What do you make, Jagger?”
My father came in—and with him a breath of wet, cool air, which I caught with delight.
“Ha!” he cried, heartily, advancing upon the flabby little man, “we been waitin’ a long time foryou, doctor. Thank God, you’ve come, at last!”
“Fifteen, two——” said the doctor.
My father started. “I’m wantin’ you t’ take a look at my poor wife,” he went on, renewing his heartiness with an effort. “She’ve been wonderful sick all winter, an’ we been waitin’——”
“Fifteen, four,” said the doctor; “fifteen, six——”
“Doctor,” my father said, touching the man on the shoulder, while Jagger smiled some faint amusement, “does you hear?”
It was suddenly very quiet in the cabin.
“Fifteen, eight——” said the doctor.
My father’s voice changed ominously. “Is you listenin’, zur?” he asked.
“Sick, is she?” said the doctor. “Fifteen, ten. I’ve got you, Jagger, sure ... ’Tis no fit night for a man to go ashore ... Fifteen, ten, did I say? and one for his nibs ... Gofetch her aboard, man ... And two for his heels——”
My father laid his hand over the doctor’s cards. “Was you sayin’,” he asked, “t’ fetch her aboard?”
“The doctor struck the hand away.
“Was you sayin’,” my father quietly persisted, “t’ fetch her aboard?”
I knew my father for a man of temper; and, now, I wondered that his patience lasted.
“Damme!” the doctor burst out. “Think I’m going ashore in this weather? If you want me to see her now, go fetch her aboard.”
My father coughed—then fingered the neck-band of his shirt.
“I wants t’ get this here clear in my mind,” he said, slowly. “Is you askin’ me t’ fetch that sick woman aboard this here ship?”
The doctor leaned over the table to spit.
“Has I got it right, zur?”
In the pause the spectators softly withdrew to the further end of the cabin.
“If he won’t fetch her aboard, Jagger,” said the doctor, turning to the dog’s master, “she’ll do very well, I’ll be bound, till we get back from the north. Eh, Jagger? If he cared very much, he’d fetch her aboard, wouldn’t he?”
Jagger laughed.
“Ay, she’ll do very well,” the doctor repeated, now addressing my father, “till we get back. I’ll take a look at her then.”
I saw the color rush into my father’s face. Skipper Tommy laid a restraining hand on his shoulder.
“Easy, now, Skipper David!” he muttered.
“Is I right,” said my father, bending close to the doctor’s face, “in thinkin’ you says youwon’tcome ashore?”
The doctor shrugged his shoulders.
“Is I right,” pursued my father, his voice rising, “in thinkin’ the gov’ment pays you t’ tend the sick o’ this coast?”
“That’s my business,” flashed the doctor. “That’s my business, sir!”
Jagger looked upon my father’s angry face and smiled.
“Is we right, doctor,” said Skipper Tommy, “in thinkin’ you knows she lies desperate sick?”
“Damme!” cried the doctor. “I’ve heard that tale before. You’re a pretty set, you are, to try to play on a man’s feelings like that. But you can’t takemein. No, you can’t,” he repeated, his loose under-lip trembling. “You’re a pretty set, you are. But you can’t come it over me. Don’t you go blustering, now! You can’t come your bluster on me. Understand? You try any bluster on me, and,by heaven! I’ll let every man of your harbour die in his tracks. I’m the doctor, here, I want you to know. And I’ll not go ashore in weather like this.”
My father deliberately turned to wave Skipper Tommy and me out of the way: then laid a heavy hand on the doctor’s shoulder.
“You’ll not come?”
“Damned if I will!”
“By God!” roared my father. “I’ll take you!”
At once, the doctor sought to evade my father’s grasp, but could not, and, being unwise, struck him on the breast. My father felled him. The man lay in a flabby heap under the table, roaring lustily that he was being murdered; but so little sympathy did his plight extract, that, on the contrary, every man within happy reach, save Jagger and Skipper Tommy, gave him a hearty kick, taking no pains, it appeared, to choose the spot with mercy. As for Jagger, he had snatched up his whip, and was now raining blows on the muzzle of the dog, which had taken advantage of the uproar to fly at his legs. In this confusion, the Captain flung open the door and strode in. He was in a fuming rage; but, being no man to take sides in a quarrel, sought no explanation, but took my father by the arm and hurried him without, promising him redress, the while, at anothertime. Thus presently we found ourselves once more in my father’s punt, pushing out from the side of the steamer, which was already underway, chugging noisily.
“Hush, zur!” said Skipper Tommy to my father. “Curse him no more, zur. The good Lard, who made us, made him, also.”
My father cursed the harder.
“Stop,” cried the skipper, “or I’ll be cursin’ him, too, zur. God made that man, I tells you. Hemusthave gone an’ made that man.”
“I hopes He’ll damn him, then,” said I.
“God knowed what He was doin’ when he made that man,” the skipper persisted, continuing in faith against his will. “I tells you I’llnotdoubt His wisdom. He made that man ... He made that man ... He made that man....”
To this refrain we rowed into harbour.
We found my mother’s room made very neat, and very grand, too, I thought, with the shaded lamp and the great armchair from the best-room below; and my mother, now composed, but yet flushed with expectation, was raised on many snow-white pillows, lovely in the fine gown, with one thin hand, wherein she held a red geranium, lying placid on the coverlet.
“I am ready, David,” she said to my father.
There was the sound of footsteps in the hall below. It was Skipper Tommy, as I knew.
“Is that he?” asked my mother. “Bring him up, David. I am quite ready.”
My father still stood silent and awkward by the door of the room.
“David,” said my poor mother, her voice breaking with sudden alarm, “have you been talking much with him? What has he told you, David? I’m not so very sick, am I?”
“Well, lass,” said my father, “’tis a great season for all sorts o’ sickness—an’ the doctor is sick abed hisself—an’ he—couldn’t—come.”
“Poor man!” sighed my mother. “But he’ll come ashore on the south’ard trip.”
“No, lass—no; I fear he’ll not.”
“Poor man!”
My mother turned her face from us. She trembled, once, and sighed, and then lay very quiet. I knew in my childish way that her hope had fled with ours—that, now, remote from our love and comfort-alone—all alone—she had been brought face to face with the last dread prospect. There was the noise of rain on the panes and wind without, and the heavy tread of Skipper Tommy’s feet, coming up the stair, but no other sound. But Skipper Tommy, entering now, moved a chair to my mother’s bedside, and laida hand on hers, his old face illumined by his unfailing faith in the glory and wisdom of his God.
“Hush!” he said. “Don’t you go gettin’ scared lass. Don’t you go gettin’ scared at—the thing that’s comin’—t’ you. ’Tis nothin’ t’ fear,” he went on, gloriously confident. “’Tis not hard, I’m sure—the Lard’s too kind for that. He just lets us think it is, so He can give us a lovely surprise, when the time comes. Oh, no, ’tis nothard! ’Tis but like wakin’ up from a troubled dream. ’Tis like wakin’ t’ the sunlight of a new, clear day. Ah, ’tis a pity us all can’t wake with you t’ the beauty o’ the morning! But the dear Lard is kind. There comes an end t’ all the dreamin’. He takes our hand. ‘The day is broke,’ says He. ‘Dream no more, but rise, child o’ Mine, an’ come into the sunshine with Me.’ ’Tis only that that’s comin’ t’ you—only His gentle touch—an’ the waking. Hush! Don’t you go gettin’ scared. ’Tis a lovely thing—that’s comin’ t’ you!”
“I’m not afraid,” my mother whispered, turning. “I’m not afraid, Skipper Tommy. But I’m sad—oh I’m sad—to have to leave——”
She looked tenderly upon me.
VIIThe WOMAN from WOLF COVE
My mother lay thus abandoned for seven days. It was very still and solemn in the room—and there was a hush in all the house; and there was a mystery, which even the break of day could not dissolve, and a shadow, which the streaming sunlight could not drive away. Beyond the broad window of her room, the hills of Skull Island and God’s Warning stood yellow in the spring sunshine, rivulets dripping from the ragged patches of snow which yet lingered in the hollows; and the harbour water rippled under balmy, fragrant winds from the wilderness; and workaday voices, strangely unchanged by the solemn change upon our days, came drifting up the hill from my father’s wharves; and, ay, indeed, all the world of sea and land was warm and wakeful and light of heart, just as it used to be. But within, where were the shadow and the mystery, we walked on tiptoe and spoke in whispers, lest we offend the spirit which had entered in.
By day my father was occupied with the men ofthe place, who were then anxiously fitting out for the fishing season, which had come of a sudden with the news of a fine sign at Battle Harbour. But my mother did not mind, but, rather, smiled, and was content to know that he was about his business—as men must be, whatever may come to pass in the house—and that he was useful to the folk of our harbour, whom she loved. And my dear sister—whose heart and hands God fashioned with kind purpose—gave full measure of tenderness for both; and my mother was grateful for that, as she ever was for my sister’s loving kindness to her and to me and to us all.
One night, being overwrought by sorrow, it may be, my father said that he would have the doctor-woman from Wolf Cove to help my mother.
“For,” said he, “I been thinkin’ a deal about she, o’ late, an’ they’s no tellin’ that she wouldn’t do you good.”
My mother raised her eyebrows. “The doctor-woman!” cried she. “Why, David!”
“Ay,” said my father, looking away, “I s’pose ’tis great folly in me t’ think it. But they isn’t no one else t’ turn to.”
And that was unanswerable.
“There seems to be no one else,” my mother admitted. “But, David—the doctor-woman?”
“Theydoeswork cures,” my father pursued. “I’mnot knowin’howthey does; but they does, an’ that’s all I’m sayin’. Tim Budderly o’ the Arm told me—an’ ’twas but an hour ago—that she charmed un free o’ fits.”
“I have heard,” my mother mused, “that they work cures. And if——”
“They’s no knowin’ what she can do,” my father broke in, my mother now listening eagerly. “An’ I just wish you’d leave me go fetch her. Won’t you, lass? Come, now!”
“’Tis no use, David,” said my mother. “She couldn’t do anything—for me.”
“Ay, but,” my father persisted, “you’re forgettin’ that she’ve worked cures afore this. I’m fair believin’,” he added with conviction, “that they’s virtue in some o’ they charms. Not in many, maybe, but in some. An’ she might work a cure on you. I’m not sayin’ she will. I’m only sayin’ she might.”
My mother stared long at the white washed rafters overhead. “Oh,” she sighed, plucking at the coverlet, “if only she could!”
“She might,” said my father. “They’s no tellin’ till you’ve tried.”
“’Tis true, David,” my mother whispered, still fingering the coverlet. “God works in strange ways—and we’ve no one else in this land to help us—and, perhaps, He might——”
My father was quick to press his advantage. “Ay,” he cried, “’tis verylikelyshe’ll cure you.”
“David,” said my mother, tearing at the coverlet, “let us have her over to see me. She might do me good,” she ran on, eagerly. “She might at least tell me what I’m ailing of. She might stop the pain. She might even——”
“Hush!” my father interrupted, softly. “Don’t build on it, dear,” said he, who had himself, but a moment gone, been so eager and confident. “But we’ll try what she can do.”
“Ay, dear,” my mother whispered, in a voice grown very weak, “we’ll try.”
Skipper Tommy Lovejoy would have my father leavehimfetch the woman from Wolf Cove, nor, to my father’s impatient surprise, would hear of any other; and he tipped me a happy wink—which had also a glint of mystery in it—when my father said that he might: whereby I knew that the old fellow was about the business of the book. And three days later, being on the lookout at the window of my mother’s room, I beheld the punt come back by way of North Tickle, Skipper Tommy labouring heavily at the oars, and the woman, squatted in the stern, serenely managing the sail to make the best of a capful of wind. I marvelled that the punt shouldmake headway so poor in the quiet water—and that she should be so much by the stern—and that Skipper Tommy should be bent near double—until, by and by, the doctor-woman came waddling up the path, the skipper at her heels: whereupon I marvelled no more, for the reason was quite plain.
“Ecod! lad,” the skipper whispered, taking me aside, the while wiping the sweat from his red face with his hand; “but she’ll weigh five quintal if a pound! She’s e-nar-mous! ’Twould break your heart t’ pullthatcargo from Wolf Cove. But I managed it, lad,” with a solemn wink, “for the good o’ the cause. Hist! now; but I found out a wonderful lot—about cures!”
Indeed, she was of a bulk most extraordinary; and she was rolling in fat, above and below, though it was springtime! ’Twas a wonder to me, with our folk not yet fattened by the more generous diet of the season, that she had managed to preserve her great double chin through the winter. It may be that this unfathomable circumstance first put me in awe of her; but I am inclined to think, after all, that it was her eyes, which were not like the eyes of our folk, but were brown—dog’s eyes, we call them on our coast, for we are a blue-eyed race—and upon occasion flashed like lightning. So much weight did she carry forward, too, that I fancied (and stillbelieve) she would have toppled over had she not long ago learned to outwit nature in the matter of maintaining a balance. And an odd figure she cut, as you may be sure! For she was dressed somewhat in the fashion of men, with a cloth cap, rusty pea-jacket and sea-boots (the last, for some mysterious reason, being slit up the sides, as a brief skirt disclosed); and her grizzled hair was cut short, in the manner of men, but yet with some of the coquetry of women. In truth, as we soon found it was her boast that she was the equal of men, her complaint that the foolish way of the world (which she said had gone all askew) would not let her skipper a schooner, which, as she maintained in a deep bass voice, she was more capable of doing than most men.
“I make no doubt o’ that, mum,” said Skipper Tommy Lovejoy, to whom, in the kitchen, that night, she propounded her strange philosophy; “but you see, mum, ’tisthe way o’ the world, an’ folks justwillstick t’ their idees, an’, mum,” he went on, with a propitiating smile, “as you is only a woman, why——”
“Onlya woman!” she roared, sitting up with a jerk. “Does you say——”
“Why, ay, mum!” Skipper Tommy put in, mildly. “Youisn’ta man, is you?”
She sat dumb and transfixed.
“Well, then,” said Skipper Tommy, in a mildly argumentative way, “’tis as I says. You must do as the women does, an’ not as a man might want to——”
“Mm-a-an!” she mocked, in a way that withered the poor skipper. “No, I isn’t a man! Was you hearin’ mesayI was? Oh, youwasn’t, wasn’t you? An’ is you thinkin’ I’dbea man an I could? What!” she roared. “You isn’tsureabout that, isn’t you? Oh, my! Isn’t you! Well, well! He isn’tsure,” appealing to me, with a shaking under lip. “Oh, my! There’s a man—he’sa man for you—there’s aman—puttin’ a poor woman t’ scorn! Oh, my!” she wailed, bursting into tears, as all women will, when put to the need of it. “Oh, dear!”
Skipper Tommy was vastly concerned for her. “My poor woman,” he began, “don’t you be cryin’, now. Come, now——”
“Oh, hispoorwoman,” she interrupted, bitingly. “Hispoor woman! Oh, my! An’ I s’pose you thinks ’tis the poor woman’s place t’ work in the splittin’ stage an’ not on the deck of a fore-an’-after. You does, does you? Ay, ’tis what Is’posed!” she said, with scorn. “An’ ifyoumarriedme,” she continued, transfixing the terrified skipper with a fat forefinger, “I s’pose you’d be wantin’ me t’ split the fishyou cotched. Oh, you would, would you? Oh, my! But I’ll have you t’ know, Skipper Thomas Lovejoy,” with a sudden and alarming change of voice, “that I’ve the makin’s of a better ship’s-master thanyou. An’ by the Lord Harry! I’m a betterman,” saying which, she leaped from her chair with surprising agility, and began to roll up her sleeves, “an’ I’ll prove it on your wisage! Come on with you!” she cried, striking a belligerent attitude, her fists waving in a fashion most terrifying. “Come on an you dare!”
Skipper Tommy dodged behind the table in great haste and horror.
“Oh, dear!” cried she. “He won’t! Oh, my!There’sa man for you. An’ I’m but a woman, is I. His poor woman. Oh,hiswoman! Look you here, Skipper Thomas Lovejoy, you been stickin’ wonderful close alongside o’ me since you come t’ Wolf Cove, an’ I’m not quite knowin’ what tricks you’ve in mind. But I’m thinkin’ you’re like all the men, an’ I’ll have you t’ know this, that if ’tis marriage with me you’re thinkin’ on——”
But Skipper Tommy gasped and wildly fled.
“Ha!” she snorted, triumphantly. “I wasthinkin’ I was a better man than he!”
“’Tis a shame,” said I, “t’ scare un so!”
Whereat, without uttering a sound, she laugheduntil the china clinked and rattled on the shelves, and I thought the pots and pans would come clattering from their places. And then she strutted the floor for all the world like a rooster once I saw in the South.
VIIITHE BLIND and The BLIND
Ah, well! at once she set about the cure of my mother. And she went tripping about the house—and tripping she went, believe me, stout as she was, as lightsome as one of Skipper Tommy’s fairies—with a manner so large and confident, a glance so compelling, that ’twas beyond us to doubt her power or slight her commands. First of all she told my mother, repeating it with patience and persuasive insistence, that she would be well in six days, and must believe the words true, else she would never be well, at all. And when my mother had brightened with this new hope, the woman, muttering words without meaning, hung a curious brown object about her neck, which she said had come from a holy place and possessed a strange and powerful virtue for healing. My mother fondled it, with glistening eyes and very tenderly, and, when the doctor-woman had gone out, whispered to me that it was a horse-chestnut, and put her in mind of the days when she dwelt in Boston, a little maid.
“But ’tis not healin’ you,” I protested, touching atear which had settled in the deep hollow of her cheek. “’Tis makin’ you sad.”
“Oh, no!” said she. “’Tis making me very happy.”
“But you is cryin’,” said I. “An’ I’m thinkin’ ’tis because you wisht you was in Boston.”
“No, no!” she cried, her lip trembling. “I’m not wishing that. I’veneverwishedthat! I’m glad your father found me and took me where he wished. Oh, I’m glad of that—glad he found and loved me—glad I gave myself to his dear care! Why, were I in Boston, to-day, I would not have my dear, big David, your father, lad, and I would not have your sister, and I would not have——”
“Me?” I put in, archly.
“Ay,” she said, with infinite tenderness, “you,Davy, dear!”
For many days, thereafter, the doctor-woman possessed our house, and I’ve no doubt she was happy in her new estate—at table, at any rate, for there she was garrulent and active, and astoundingly active, with less of garrulence, on feast days, when my father had pork provided. And she had a way with the maids in the kitchen that kept the young men from the door (which my sister never could manage); and I have since been led to think ’twas because she sought to work her will on Skipper Tommy Lovejoy,undisturbed by the clatter and quick eyes of young folk. For Skipper Tommy, to my increasing alarm and to the panic of the twins, who wished for no second mother, still frequented the kitchen, when the day’s work was done, and was all the while in a mood so downcast, of a manner so furtive, that it made me sad to talk with him. But by day our kitchen was intolerable with smells—intolerable to him and to us all (save to my sister, who is, and ever has been, brave)—while the doctor-woman hung over the stove, working with things the sight of which my stomach would not brook, but which my mother took in ignorance, hoping they would cure her. God knows what medicines were mixed! I would not name the things I saw. And the doctor-woman would not even have us ask what use she made of them: nor have I since sought to know; ’tis best, I think, forgotten.
But my mother got no better.
“Skipper David,” said the doctor-woman, at last, “I’m wantin’ four lump-fish.”
“Four lump-fish!” my father wondered. “Is you?”
“Oh, my!” she answered, tartly. “Is I? Yes, I is. An’ I’ll thank you t’ get un an’ ask no questions. ForI’mmindin’mybusiness, an’ I’ll thankyout’ mindyours. An’ ifyouthinksyoucan do the doctorin’——”
“I’m not seekin’ t’ hinder you,” said my father, flushing. “You go on with your work. I’ll pay; but——”
“Oh, will you?” she cried, shrilly. “He’ll pay, says he. Oh, my! He’llpay! Oh, dear!”
“Come, now, woman!” said my father, indignantly. “I’ve had you come, an’ I’ll stand by what you does. I’ll get the lump-fish; but ’tis the last cure you’ll try. If it fails, back you go t’ Wolf Cove.”
“Oh, my!” said she, taken aback. “Back I goes, does I! An’ t’ Wolf Cove? Oh, dear!”
My father sent word to the masters of the cod-traps, which were then set off the heads, that such sculpin as got in the nets by chance must be saved for him. He was overwrought, as I have said, by sorrow, overcome, it may be, by the way this woman had. And soon he had for her four green, prickly-skinned, jelly-like, big-bellied lump-fish, which were not appetizing to look upon, though I’ve heard tell that starving folk, being driven to it, have eaten them. My sister would not be driven from the kitchen, though the woman was vehement in anger, but held to it that she must know the character of the dose my mother was to take. So they worked together—the doctor-woman scowling darkly—until the medicine was ready: which was in the late evening of that day. Then they went to my mother’s room to administer the first of it.
“’Tis a new medicine,” my mother said, with a smile, when she held the glass in her hand.
“Ay,” crooned the doctor-woman, “drink it, now, my dear.”
My mother raised the glass to her lips. “And what is it?” she asked, withdrawing the glass with a shudder.
“Tut, tut!” the doctor-woman exclaimed. “’Tis but a soup. ’Twill do you good.”
“I’m sure it will,” my mother gently said. “But I wonder what it is.”
Again she raised the glass with a wry face. But my sister stayed her hand.
“I’ll not have you take it,” said she, firmly, “without knowin’ what it is.”
The doctor-woman struck her arm away. “Leave the woman drink it!” she screamed, now in a gust of passion.
“What’s—this you’re—giving me?” my mother stammered, looking upon the glass in alarm and new disgust.
“’Tis the eyes o’ four lump-fish,” said my sister.
My mother dropped the glass, so that the contents were spilled over the coverlet, and fell back on the pillows, where she lay white and 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. “Shewon’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, ’tisoutwith me, is it? Out o’ thehousewith me! Oh, dear! Out o’ the house withme! 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’mnot 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 onewho 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. “’Tisshe!”
“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 onme!” 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,whatis 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 chanceyougot—if she begins t’ cry.”
He was dispirited. “I wisht,” he said, sadly, “that the Lard hadn’t made mequiteso 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 thatI’ll never give in—no, lad, their father’ll never give in t’ that woman—till he’s justgotto.”
“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 Iiswantin’ 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’hercures 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 nothavethem there. But does you think I can’ttryun all onmeselfafore I has unputin 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.