XVIIHARD PRACTICE
I bore him no grudge—the chastisement had been fairly deserved: for then, being loosed from parental restraint, I was by half too fond of aping the ways and words of full-grown men; and I was not unaware of the failing. However, the prediction on the tip of my tongue—that he would live to do many another good deed—would have found rich fulfillment had it been spoken. It was soon noised the length of the coast that a doctor dwelt in our harbour—one of good heart and skill and courage: to whom the sick of every station might go for healing. In short space the inevitable came upon us: punts put in for the doctor at unseasonable hours, desperately reckless of weather; schooners beat up with men lying ill or injured in the forecastles; the folk of the neighbouring ports brought their afflicted to be miraculously restored, and ingenuously quartered their dying upon us. A wretched multitude emerged from the hovels—crying, “Heal us!” And to every varied demand the doctor freely responded, smiling heartily, God bless him! spite of wind and weather: ready, active,merry, untiring—sad but when the only gift he bore was that of tender consolation.
One night there came a maid from Punch Bowl Harbour. My sister sent her to the shop, where the doctor was occupied with the accounts of our business, myself to keep him company. ’Twas a raw, black night; and she entered with a gust of wind, which fluttered the doctor’s papers, set the lamp flaring, and, at last, escaped by way of the stove to the gale from which it had strayed.
“Is you the doctor?” she gasped.
She stood with her back against the door, one hand still on the knob and the other shading her eyes—a slender slip of a girl, her head covered with a shawl, now dripping. Whisps of wet black hair clung to her forehead, and rain-drops lay in the flushed hollows of her cheeks.
“I am,” the doctor answered, cheerily, rising from his work.
“Well, zur,” said she, “I’m Tim Hodd’s maid, zur, an’ I’m just come from the Punch Bowl in the bait-skiff, zur—for healin’.”
“And what, my child,” asked the doctor, sympathetically, “may be the matter with you?”
Looking back—with the added knowledge that I have—it seems to me that he had no need to ask thequestion. The flush and gasp told the story well enough, quite well enough: the maid was dying of consumption.
“Me lights is floatin’, zur,” she answered.
“Your lights?”
“Ay, zur,” laying a hand on her chest. “They’re floatin’ wonderful high. I been tryin’ t’ kape un down; but, zur, ’tis no use, at all.”
With raised eyebrows the doctor turned to me. “What does she mean, Davy,” he inquired, “by her ‘lights’?”
“I’m not well knowin’,” said I; “but if ’tis whatwecalls ‘lights,’ ’tis whatyoucalls ‘lungs.’”
The doctor turned sadly to the maid.
“I been takin’ shot, zur, t’ weight un down,” she went on; “but, zur, ’tis no use, at all. An’ Jim Butt’s my man,” she added, hurriedly, in a low voice. “I’m t’ be married to un when he comes up from the Narth. Does you think——”
She paused—in embarrassment, perhaps: for it may be that it was the great hope of this maid, as it is of all true women of our coast, to live to be the mother of sons.
“Go on,” the doctor quietly said.
“Oh, does you think, zur,” she said, clasping her hands, a sob in her voice, “that you can cure me—afore the fleet—gets home?”
“Davy,” said the doctor, hoarsely, “go to your sister. I must have a word with this maid—alone.” I went away.
We caught sight of theWord of the Lordbeating down from the south in light winds—and guessed her errand—long before that trim little schooner dropped anchor in the basin. The skipper came ashore for healing of an angry abscess in the palm of his hand. Could the doctor cure it? To be sure—the doctor could dothat! The man had suffered sleepless agony for five days; he was glad that the doctor could ease his pain—glad that he was soon again to be at the fishing. Thank God, he was to be cured!
“I have only to lance and dress it,” said the doctor. “You will have relief at once.”
“Not the knife,” the skipper groaned. “Praise God, I’ll not have the knife!”
It was the doctor’s first conflict with the strange doctrines of our coast. I still behold—as I lift my eyes from the page—his astonishment when he was sternly informed that the way of the Lord was not the way of a surgeon with a knife. Nor was the austere old fellow to be moved. The lance, said he, was an invention of the devil himself—its use plainly a defiance of the purposes of the Creator. ThankGod! he had been reared by a Christian father of the old school.
“No, no, doctor!” he declared, his face contorted by pain. “I’m thankin’ you kindly; but I’m not carin’ t’ interfere with the decrees o’ Providence.”
“But, man,” cried the doctor, “Imust——”
“No!” doggedly. “I’ll not stand in the Lard’s way. If ’tis His will for me t’ get better, I’ll get better, I s’pose. If ’tis His blessed will for me t’ die,” he added, reverently, “I’ll have t’ die.”
“I give you my word,” said the doctor, impatiently, “that if that hand is not lanced you’ll be dead in three days.”
The man looked off to his schooner.
“Three days,” the doctor repeated.
“I’m wonderful sorry,” sighed the skipper, “but I got t’ stand by the Lard.”
And hewasdead—within three days, as we afterwards learned: even as the doctor had said.
Once, when the doctor was off in haste to Cuddy Cove to save the life of a mother of seven—the Cuddy Cove men had without a moment’s respite pulled twelve miles against a switch of wind from the north and were streaming sweat when they landed—once, when the doctor was thus about his beneficent business,a woman from Bowsprit Head brought her child to be cured, incredulous of the physician’s power, but yet desperately seeking, as mothers will. She came timidly—her ailing child on her bosom, where, as it seemed to me, it had lain complaining since she gave it birth.
“I’m thinkin’ he’ll die,” she told my sister.
My sister cried out against this hopelessness. ’Twas not kind to the dear Lord, said she, thus to despair.
“They says t’ Bowsprit Head,” the woman persisted, “that he’ll die in a fit. I’m—I’m—not wantin’ him,” she faltered, “t’ die—like that.”
“No, no! He’ll not!”
She hushed the child in a mechanical way—being none the less tender and patient the while—as though her arms were long accustomed to the burden, her heart used to the pain.
“There haven’t ever been no child,” said she, looking up, after a moment, “like this—afore—t’ Bowsprit Head.”
My sister was silent.
“No,” the woman sighed; “not like this one.”
“Come, come, ma’m!” I put in, confidently. “Do you leave un t’ the doctor.He’llcure un.”
She looked at me quickly. “What say?” she said, as though she had not understood.
“I says,” I repeated, “that the doctor will cure that one.”
“Cure un?” she asked, blankly.
“That he will!”
She smiled—and looked up to the sky, smiling still, while she pressed the infant to her breast. “They isn’t nobody,” she whispered, “not nobody, ever said that—afore—about my baby!”
Next morning we sat her on the platform to wait for the doctor, who had now been gone three days. “He does better in the air,” said she. “He—he-needsair!” It was melancholy weather—thick fog, with a drizzle of rain: the wind in the east, fretful and cold. All morning long she rocked the child in her arms: now softly singing to him—now vainly seeking to win a smile—now staring vacantly into the mist, dreaming dull dreams, while he lay in her lap.
“He isn’t come through the tickle, have he?” she asked, when I came up from the shop at noon.
“He’ve not been sighted yet.”
“I’m thinkin’ he’ll be comin’ soon.”
“Ay; you’ll not have t’ wait much longer.”
“I’m not mindin’that,” said she, “for I’m used t’ waitin’.”
The doctor came in from the sea at evening—when the wind had freshened to a gale, blowing bittercold. He had been for three days and nights fighting without sleep for the life of that mother of seven—and had won! Ay, she had pulled through; she was now resting in the practiced care of the Cuddy Cove women, whose knowledge of such things had been generously increased. The ragged, sturdy seven still had a mother to love and counsel them. The Cuddy Cove men spoke reverently of the deed and the man who had done it. Tired? The doctor laughed. Not he! Why, he had been asleep under a tarpaulin all the way from Cuddy Cove! And Skipper Elisha Timbertight had handled the skiff in the high seas so cleverly, so tenderly, so watchfully—what a marvellous hand it was!—that the man under the tarpaulin had not been awakened until the nose of the boat touched the wharf piles. But the doctor was hollow-eyed and hoarse, staggering of weariness, but cheerfully smiling, as he went up the path to talk with the woman from Bowsprit Head.
“You are waiting for me?” he asked.
She was frightened—by his accent, his soft voice, his gentle manner, to which the women of our coast are not used. But she managed to stammer that her baby was sick.
“’Tis his throat,” she added.
The child was noisily fighting for breath. Hegasped, writhed in her lap, struggled desperately for air, and, at last, lay panting. She exposed him to the doctor’s gaze—a dull-eyed, scrawny, ugly babe: such as mothers wish to hide from sight.
“He’ve always been like that,” she said. “He’s wonderful sick. I’ve fetched un here t’ be cured.”
“A pretty child,” said the doctor.
’Twas a wondrous kind lie—told with such perfect dissimulation that it carried the conviction of truth.
“What say?” she asked, leaning forward.
“A pretty child,” the doctor repeated, very distinctly.
“They don’t say that t’ Bowsprit Head, zur.”
“Well—Isay it!”
“I’ll tell un so!” she exclaimed, joyfully. “I’ll tell un you said so, zur, when I gets back t’ Bowsprit Head. For nobody—nobody, zur—ever said that afore—about my baby!”
The child stirred and complained. She lifted him from her lap—rocked him—hushed him—drew him close, rocking him all the time.
“Have you another?”
“No, zur; ’tis me first.”
“And does he talk?” the doctor asked.
She looked up—in a glow of pride. And she flushed gloriously while she turned her eyes oncemore upon the gasping, ill-featured babe upon her breast.
“He said ‘mama’—once!” she answered.
In the fog—far, far away, in the distances beyond Skull Island, which were hidden—the doctor found at that moment some strange interest.
“Once?” he asked, his face still turned away.
“Ay, zur,” she solemnly declared. “I calls my God t’ witness! I’m not makin’ believe, zur,” she went on, with rising excitement. “They says t’ Bowsprit Head that I dreamed it, zur, but I knows I didn’t. ’Twas at the dawn. He lay here, zur—here, zur—on me breast. I was wide awake, zur—waitin’ for the day. Oh, he said it, zur,” she cried, crushing the child to her bosom. “I heared un say it! ‘Mama!’ says he.”
“When I have cured him,” said the doctor, gently, “he will say more than that.”
“What say?” she gasped.
“When I have taken—something—out of his throat—with my knife—he will be able to say much more than that. When he has grown a little older, he will say, ‘Mama, I loves you!’”
The woman began to cry.
There is virtue for the city-bred, I fancy, in the clean salt air and simple living of our coast—and,surely, for every one, everywhere, a tonic in the performance of good deeds. Hard practice in fair and foul weather worked a vast change in the doctor. Toil and fresh air are eminent physicians. The wonder of salty wind and the hand-to-hand conflict with a northern sea! They gave him health, a clear-eyed, brown, deep-breathed sort of health, and restored a strength, broad-shouldered and lithe and playful, that was his natural heritage. With this new power came joyous courage, indomitability of purpose, a restless activity of body and mind. He no longer carried the suggestion of a wrecked ship; however afflicted his soul may still have been, he was now, in manly qualities, the man the good God designed—strong and bonnie and tender-hearted: betraying no weakness in the duties of the day. His plans shot far beyond our narrow prospect, shaming our blindness and timidity, when he disclosed them; and his interests—searching, insatiable, reflective—comprehended all that touched our work and way of life: so that, as Tom Tot was moved to exclaim, by way of an explosion of amazement, ’twas not long before he had mastered the fish business, gill, fin and liver. And he went about with hearty words on the tip of his tongue and a laugh in his gray eyes—merry the day long, whatever the fortune of it. The children ran out of the cottages to greet him as he passed by, anda multitude of surly, ill-conditioned dogs, which yielded the road to no one else, accepted him as a distinguished intimate. But still, and often—late in the night—my sister and I lay awake listening to the disquieting fall of his feet as he paced his bedroom floor. And sometimes I crept to his door—and hearkened—and came away, sad that I had gone.
When—autumn being come with raw winds and darkened days—the doctor said that he must go an errand south to St. John’s and the Canadian cities before winter settled upon our coast, I was beset by melancholy fears that he would not return, but, enamoured anew of the glories of those storied harbours, would abandon us, though we had come to love him, with all our hearts. Skipper Tommy Lovejoy joined with my sister to persuade me out of these drear fancies: which (said they) were ill-conceived; for the doctor must depart a little while, else our plans for the new sloop and little hospital (and our defense against Jagger) would go all awry. Perceiving, then, that I would not be convinced, the doctor took me walking on the bald old Watchman, and there shamed me for mistrusting him: saying, afterwards, that though it might puzzle our harbour and utterly confound his greater world, which must now be informed, he had in truth cast hislot with us, for good and all, counting his fortune a happy one, thus to come at last to a little corner of the world where good impulses, elsewhere scrawny and disregarded, now flourished lustily in his heart. Then with delight I said that I would fly the big flag in welcome when the returning mail-boat came puffing through the Gate. And scampering down the Watchman went the doctor and I, hand in hand, mistrust fled, to the very threshold of my father’s house, where my sister waited, smiling to know that all went well again.
Past ten o’clock of a dismal night we sat waiting for the mail-boat—unstrung by anxious expectation: made wretched by the sadness of the parting.
“There she blows, zur!” cried Skipper Tommy, jumping up. “We’d best get aboard smartly, zur, for she’ll never come through the Gate this dirty night.”
The doctor rose, and looked, for a strained, silent moment, upon my dear sister, but with what emotion, though it sounded the deeps of passion, I could not then conjecture. He took her hand in both of his, and held it tight, without speaking. She tried, dear heart! to meet his ardent eyes—but could not.
“I’m wishin’ you a fine voyage, zur,” she said, her voice fallen to a tremulous whisper.
He kissed the hand he held.
“T’ the south,” she added, with a swift, wondering look into his eyes, “an’ back.”
“Child,” he began with feeling, “I——”
In some strange passion my sister stepped from him. “Call me that no more!” she cried, her voice broken, her eyes wide and moist, her little hands clinched. “Why, child!” the doctor exclaimed. “I——”
“I’mnota child!”
The doctor turned helplessly to me—and I in bewilderment to my sister—to whom, again, the doctor extended his hands, but now with a frank smile, as though understanding that which still puzzled me.
“Sister——” said he.
“No, no!”
’Twas my nature, it may be, then to have intervened; but I was mystified and afraid—and felt the play of some great force, unknown and dreadful, which had inevitably cut my sister off from me, her brother, keeping her alone and helpless in the midst of it—and I quailed and kept silent.
“Bessie!”
She took his hand. “Good-bye, zur,” she whispered, turning away, flushed.
“Good-bye!”
The doctor went out, with a new mark upon him; and I followed, still silent, thinking it a poor farewellmy sister had given him, but yet divining, serenely, that all this was beyond the knowledge of lads. I did not know, when I bade the doctor farewell and Godspeed, that his heart tasted such bitterness as, God grant! the hearts of men do seldom feel, and that, nobility asserting itself, he had determined never again to return: fearing to bring my sister the unhappiness of love, rather than the joy of it. When I had put him safe aboard, I went back to the house, where I found my sister sorely weeping—not for herself, she sobbed, but for him, whom she had wounded.
XVIIISKIPPER TOMMY GETS A LETTER
It came from the north, addressed, in pale, sprawling characters, to Skipper Tommy Lovejoy of our harbour—a crumpled, greasy, ill-odoured missive: little enough like a letter from a lady, bearing (as we supposed) a coy appeal to the tender passion. But———
“Ay, Davy,” my sister insisted. “’Tis fromshe. Smell it for yourself.”
I sniffed the letter.
“Eh, Davy?”
“Well, Bessie,” I answered, doubtfully, “I’m not able t’ call t’ mind this minute just how shedid. But I’m free t’ say,” regarding the streaks and thumb-marks with quick disfavour, “that itlooksa lot like her.”
My sister smiled upon me with an air of loftiest superiority. “Smell it again,” said she.
“Well,” I admitted, after sniffing long and carefully, “I does seem t’ have got wind o’——”
“There’s no deceivin’ a woman’s nose,” my sister declared, positively. “’Tis a letter from the woman t’ Wolf Cove.”
“Then,” said I, with a frown, “we’d best burn it.”
She mused a moment. “He never got a letter afore,” she said, looking up.
“Not many folk has,” I objected.
“He’d be wonderful proud,” she continued, “o’ just gettin’ a letter.”
“But she’s a wily woman,” I protested, in warning, “an’ he’s a most obligin’ man. I fair shiver t’ think o’ leadin’ un into temptation.”
“’Twould do no harm, Davy,” said she, “just t’showun the letter.”
“’Tis a fearful responsibility t’ take.”
“’Twould please un so!” she wheedled.
“Ah, well!” I sighed. “You’re a wonderful hand at gettin’ your own way, Bessie.”
When the punts of our folk came sweeping through the tickles and the Gate, in the twilight of that day, I went with the letter to the Rat Hole: knowing that Skipper Tommy would by that time be in from the Hook-an’-Line grounds; for the wind was blowing fair from that quarter. I found the twins pitching the catch into the stage, with great hilarity—a joyous, frolicsome pair: in happy ignorance of what impended. They gave me jolly greeting: whereupon, feeling woefully guilty, I sought the skipper in thehouse, where he had gone (they said) to get out of his sea-boots.
I was not disposed to dodge the issue. “Skipper Tommy,” said I, bluntly, “I got a letter for you.”
He stared.
“’Tis no joke,” said I, with a wag, “as you’ll find, when you gets t’ know where ’tis from; but ’tis nothin’ t’ be scared of.”
“Was you sayin’, Davy,” he began, at last, trailing off into the silence of utter amazement, “that you—been—gettin’—a——”
“I was sayin’,” I answered, “that the mail-boat left you a letter.”
He came close. “Was you sayin’,” he whispered in my ear, with a jerk of his head to the north, “that ’tis from——”
I nodded.
“She?”
“Ay.”
He put his tongue in his cheek—and gave me a slow, sly wink. “Ecod!” said he.
I was then mystified by his strange behaviour: this occurring while he made ready for the splitting-table. He chuckled, he tweaked his long nose until it flared, he scratched his head, he sighed, he scowled, he broke into vociferous laughter; and he muttered“Ecod!” an innumerable number of times, voicing, thereby, the gamut of human emotions and the degrees thereof, from lowest melancholy to a crafty sort of cynicism and thence to the height of smug elation. And, presently, when he had peered down the path to the stage, where the twins were forking the fish, he approached, stepping mysteriously, his gigantic forefinger raised in a caution to hush.
“Davy,” he whispered, “you isn’t got that letteraboardo’ you, is you?”
My heart misgave me; but—I nodded.
“Well, well!” cried he. “I’m thinkin’,” he added, his surprise somewhat mitigated by curiosity, “that you’ll be havin’ it in your jacket pocket.”
“Ay,” was my sharp reply; “but I’ll not read it.”
“No, no!” said he, severely, lifting a protesting hand, which he had now encased in a reeking splitting-mit. “I’d nothaveyou read it. Sure, I’d never ’lowthat! Was you thinkin’, David Roth,” now so reproachfully that my doubts seemed treasonable, “that I’dwantyou to? Me—that nibbled once? Not I, lad! But as youdoeshappen t’ have that letter in your jacket, you wouldn’t mind me just takin’ alookat it, would you?”
I produced the crumpled missive—with a sigh: for the skipper’s drift was apparent.
“My letter!” said he, gazing raptly. “Davy, lad,I’d kind o’—like t’—just t’—feelit. They wouldn’t be no hurt in meholdin’it, would they?”
I passed it over.
“Now, Davy,” he declared, his head on one side, the letter held gingerly before him, “I wouldn’t read that letter an I could. No, lad—not an I could! But I’ve heared tell she had a deal o’ l’arnin’; an’ I’d kind o’—like t’—take a peek inside. Just,” he added, hurriedly, “t’ see what power she had for writin’.”
This pretense to a purely artistic interest in the production was wondrously trying to the patience.
“Skipper Davy,” he went on, awkwardly, skippering me with a guile that was shameless, “it bein’ from a woman—bein’ from awoman, now, says I—’twould be no more ’n po-lite t’ open it. Come, now, Davy!” he challenged. “You wouldn’tsay’twould be more ’n po-lite, would you? It bein’ from a lone woman?”
I made no answer: for, at that moment, I caught sight of the twins, listening with open-mouthed interest from the threshold.
“I wonders, Davy,” the skipper confided, taking the leap, at last, “what she’ve gone an’ writ!”
“Jacky,” I burst out, in disgust, turning to the twins, “I justknowedhe’d get t’ wonderin’!”
Skipper Tommy started: he grew shamefaced, all in a moment; and he seemed now first conscious of guilty wishes.
“Timmie,” said Jacky, hoarsely, from the doorway, “she’ve writ.”
“Ay, Jacky,” Timmie echoed, “she’ve certain gone an’ done it.”
They entered.
“I been—sort o’—gettin’ a letter, lads,” the skipper stammered: a hint of pride in his manner. “It come ashore,” he added, with importance, “from the mail-boat.”
“Dad,” Timmie asked, sorrowfully, “is you been askin’ Davy t’ read that letter?”
“Well, no, Timmie,” the skipper drawled, tweaking his nose; “’tisn’t quite so bad. But I been wonderin’——”
“Oh, is you!” Jacky broke in. “Timmie,” said he, grinning, “dad’s been wonderin’!”
“Is he?” Timmie asked, assuming innocence. “Wonderin’?”
“Wasn’t you sayin’ so, dad?”
“Well,” the skipper admitted, “havin’saidso, I’ll not gainsay it. Iwaswonderin’——”
“An’ youknowin’,” sighed Timmie, “that you’re an obligin’ man!”
“Dad,” Jacky demanded, “didn’t the Lard kindly send a switch o’ wind from the sou’east t’ save you oncet?”
The skipper blushed uneasily.
“Does you think,” Timmie pursued, “that He’ll turn His handagaint’ save you?”
“Well——”
“Look you, dad,” said Jacky, “isn’t you got in trouble enough all along o’ wonderin’ too much?”
“Well,” the skipper exclaimed, badgered into self-assertion, “Iwaswonderin’; but since you two lads come in I beenthinkin’. Since them two twins o’ mine come in, Davy,” he repeated, turning to me, his eyes sparkling with fatherly affection, “I been thinkin’ ’twould be a fine plan t’ tack this letter t’ the wall for a warnin’ t’ the household agin the wiles o’ women!”
Timmie and Jacky silently embraced—containing their delight as best they could, though it pained them.
“Not,” the skipper continued, “that I’ll have a word said agin’ that woman: which I won’t,” said he, “nor no other. The Lard knowed what He was about. He made them with His own hands, an’ ifHewas willin’ t’ take the responsibility, us men can do no less than stand by an’ weather it out. ’Tis my own idea that He was more sot on fine lines than sailin’ qualities when He whittled His model. ‘I’ll make a craft,’ says He, ‘for looks, an’ I’ll pay no heed,’ says He, ‘t’ the cranks she may have, hopin’ for the best.’ An’ He done it! That He did! They’re tidy craft—oh, ay, they’re wonderful tidy craft—but ’tis Lard help un in a gale o’ wind! An’ the Lardmadeshe,” he continued, reverting to the woman from Wolf Cove, “after her kind, a woman, acquaint with the wiles o’ women, actin’ accordin’ t’ nature An’,” he declared, irrelevantly, “’tisgettin’ close t’ winter, an’’twouldbe comfortable t’ have a man t’ tend the fires. Shedobe of a designin’ turn o’ mind,” he proceeded, “which is accordin’ t’ the nature o’ women, puttin’ no blame on her, an’ she’s not a wonderful lot for looks an’ temper; but,” impressively lifting his hand, voice and manner awed, “she’ve l’arnin’, which is ek’al t’ looks, if not t’ temper. So,” said he, “we’ll say nothin’ agin’ her, but just tack this letter t’ the wall, an’ go split the fish. But,” when the letter had thus been disposed of, “I wonder what——”
“Come on, dad!”
He put an arm around each of the grinning twins, and Timmie put an arm around me; and thus we went pell-mell down to the stage, where we had an uproarious time splitting the day’s catch.
You must know, now, that all this time we had been busy with the fish, dawn to dark; that beyond our little lives, while, intent upon their small concerns, we lived them, a great and lovely work was wrought upon our barren coast: as every year, unfailingly, to the glory of God, who made such hearts as beat underthe brown, hairy breasts of our men. From the Strait to Chidley, our folk and their kin from Newfoundland with hook and net reaped the harvest from the sea—a vast, sullen sea, unwilling to yield: sourly striving to withhold the good Lord’s bounty from the stout and merry fellows who had with lively courage put out to gather it. ’Twas catch and split and stow away! In the dawn of stormy days and sunny ones—contemptuous of the gray wind and reaching seas—the skiffs came and went. From headland to headland—dodging the reefs, escaping the shifting peril of ice, outwitting the drifting mists—little schooners chased the fish. Wave and rock and wind and bergs—separate dangers, allied with night and fog and sleety rain—were blithely encountered. Sometimes, to be sure, they wreaked their purpose; but, notwithstanding, day by day the schooners sailed and the skiffs put out to the open, and fish were cheerily taken from the sea. Spite of all, the splitting-knives flashed, and torches flared on the decks and in the mud huts ashore. Barren hills—the bleak and uninhabited places of the northern coast—for a season reflected the lurid glow and echoed the song and shout. Thanks be to God, the fleet was loading!
In the drear autumn weather a cloud of sail went to the s‘uth’ard—doughty little schooners, decks awash: beating up to the home ports.
XIXThe FATE of The MAIL-BOAT DOCTOR
My flag flapped a welcome in the sunny wind as the mail-boat came creeping through the Gate and with a great rattle and splatter dropped anchor in the basin off my father’s wharf: for through my father’s long glass I had from the summit of the Watchman long before spied the doctor aboard. He landed in fine fettle—clear-eyed, smiling, quick to extend his strong, warm hand: having cheery words for the folk ashore, and eager, homesick glances for the bleak hills of our harbour. Ecod! but he was splendidly glad to be home. I had as lief fall into the arms of a black bear as ever again to be greeted in a way so careless of my breath and bones! But, at last, with a joyous little laugh, he left me to gasp myself to life again, and went bounding up the path. I managed to catch my wind in time to follow; ’twas in my mind to spy upon his meeting with my sister; nor would I be thwarted: for I had for many days been troubled by what happened when they parted, and now heartily wished the unhappy difference forgot. So from a corner ofthe hillside flake I watched lynx-eyed; but I could detect nothing amiss—no hint of ill-feeling or reserve: only frank gladness in smile and glance and handclasp. And being well content with this, I went back to the wharf to lend Tom Tot a hand with the landing of the winter supplies, the medical stores, the outfit for the projected sloop: all of which the doctor had brought with him from St. John’s.
“And not only that,” said the doctor, that night, concluding his narrative of busy days in the city, “but I have been appointed,” with a great affectation of pomposity, “the magistrate for this district!”
We were not impressed. “The magistrate?” I mused. “What’s that?”
“What’s a magistrate!” cried he.
“Ay,” said I. “I never seed one.”
“The man who enforces the law, to be sure!”
“The law?” said I. “What’s that?”
“The law of the land, Davy,” he began, near dumbfounded, “is for the——”
My sister got suddenly much excited. “I’ve heard tell about magistrates,” she interrupted, speaking eagerly, the light dancing merrily in her eyes. “Come, tell me! is they able t’——”
She stuttered to a full stop, blushing. “Out with it, my dear,” said I.
“Marry folk?” she asked.
“They may,” said the doctor.
“Oh, Davy!”
“Whoop!” screamed I, leaping up. “You’re never tellin’ me that! Quick, Bessie! Come, doctor! They been waitin’ this twenty year.”
I caught his right hand, Bessie his left; and out we dragged him, paying no heed to his questions, which, by and by, he abandoned, because he laughed so hard. And down the path we sped—along the road—by the turn to Cut-Throat Cove—until, at last, we came to the cottage of Aunt Amanda and Uncle Joe Bow, whom we threw into a fluster with our news. When the doctor was informed of the exigency of the situation, he married them on the spot, improvising a ceremony, without a moment’s hesitation, as though he had been used to it all his life: a family of six meanwhile grinning with delight and embarrassment.
“You sees, zur,” Uncle Joe explained, when ’twas over, “we never had no chance afore. ‘Manda an’ me was down narth when the last parson come this way. An’ ’Manda she’ve been wantin’——”
“T’ have it done,” Aunt Amanda put in, patting the curly head of the smallest Bow, “afore——”
“Ay,” said Uncle Joe, “wantin’ t’ have it done, shipshape, afore she——”
“Died,” Aunt Amanda concluded.
By this time the amazing news had spread. Far and near the guns were popping a salute—which set the dogs a-howling: so that the noise was heartrending. Presently the neighbours began to gather: whereupon (for the cottage was small) we took our leave, giving the pair good wishes for the continuance of a happy married life. And when we got to our house we found waiting in the kitchen Mag Trawl, who had that day brought her fish from Swampy Arm—a dull girl, slatternly, shiftless: the mother of two young sons.
“I heared tell,” she drawled, addressing the doctor, but looking elsewhere, “that you’re just after marryin’ Aunt Amanda.”
The doctor nodded.
“I ’low,” she went on, after an empty pause, “that I wants t’ get married, too.”
“Where’s the man?”
“Jim he ’lowed two year ago,” she said, staring at the ceiling, “that we’d go south an’ have it done this season if no parson come.”
“Bring the man,” said the doctor, briskily.
“Well, zur,” said she, “Jim ain’t here. You couldn’t do it ’ithout Jim bein’ here, could you?”
“Oh, no!”
“I ’lowed you might be able,” she said, with a littlesigh, “if you tried. But you couldn’t, says you?”
“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 harbour 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’vecome 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 faircouldn’tcome 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 heraway. 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’llnotgo!” 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—andwhile 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’llbeglad,” 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 anywhereto 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.