Doctor Luke of the Labrador

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"But 'tis sad 'tis too late t' get word to un," said Martha, the smile
gone from her face.

"Sad, is it?" cried the doctor. "Sad! What's the word you want to send?"

"'Tis something for Sammy, zur."

Sammy gave Martha a quick dig in the ribs. "'N' mama," he lisped,
reproachfully.

"Ay, zur; we're wantin' it bad. An' does you think us could get word to
un? For Sammy, zur?"

"'N' mama," Sammy insisted.

"We can try, at any rate," the doctor answered, doubtfully. "Maybe we
can catch him on the way down. Where's that pen? Here we are. Now!"

He scribbled rapidly, folded the letter in great haste, and dispatched
it to Santa Claus's clerk by the simple process of throwing it in the
fire. As before, he went to his pack in the shed, taking the candle with
him--the errand appeared to be really most trivial--and stayed so long
that the little Jutts, who now loved him very much (as I could see),
wished that the need would not arise again. But, all in good time, he
returned, and sat to watch for the reply, intent as any of them; and,
presently, he snatched the stove door open, creating great confusion in
the act, as before; and before the little Jutts could recover from the
sudden surprise, he held up a smoking letter. Then he read aloud:

"Try Hamilton Inlet. Touches there 10:48. Time of arrival at Topmast
Tickle uncertain. No use waiting up. SNOW, Clerk."

"By Jove!" exclaimed the doctor. "That's jolly! Touches Hamilton Inlet
at 10:48." He consulted his watch. "It's now 10:43 and a half. We've
just four and a half minutes. I'll get a message off at once. Where's
that confounded pen? Ha! Here we are. Now--what is it you want for Sammy
and mama?"

The three little Jutts were suddenly thrown into a fearful state of
excitement. They tried to talk all at once; but not one of them could
frame a coherent sentence. It was most distressful to see.

"The Exterminator!" Martha managed to jerk out, at last.

"Oh, ay!" cried Jimmie Jutt. "Quick, zur! Write un down. Pine's Prompt
Pain Exterminator. Warranted to cure. Please, zur, make haste."

The doctor stared at Jimmie.

"Oh, zur," groaned Martha, "don't be starin' like that! Write, zur!
'Twas all in the paper the prospector left last summer. Pine's Prompt
Pain Exterminator. Cures boils, rheumatism, pains in the back an' chest,
sore throat, an' all they things, an' warts on the hands by a simple
application with brown paper. We wants it for the rheumatiz, zur. Oh,
zur----"

"None genuine without the label," Jimmie put in, in an excited rattle.
"Money refunded if no cure. Get a bottle with the label."

The doctor laughed--laughed aloud, and laughed again. "By Jove!" he
roared, "you'll get it. It's odd, but--ha, ha!--by Jove, he has it in
stock!"

The laughter and repeated assurance seemed vastly to encourage Jimmie
and Martha--the doctor wrote like mad while he talked--but not little
Sammy. All that he lisped, all that he shouted, all that he screamed,
had gone unheeded. As though unable to put up with the neglect any
longer, he limped over the floor to Martha, and tugged her sleeve, and
pulled at Jimmie's coat-tail, and jogged the doctor's arm, until, at
last, he attracted a measure of attention. Notwithstanding his mother's
protests--notwithstanding her giggles and waving hands--notwithstanding
that she blushed as red as ink (until, as I perceived, her freckles were
all lost to sight)--notwithstanding that she threw her apron over her
head and rushed headlong from the room, to the imminent danger of the
door-posts--little Sammy insisted that his mother's gift should be named
in the letter of request.

"Quick!" cried the doctor. "What is it? We've but half a minute left."

Sammy began to stutter.

"Make haste, b'y!" cried Jimmie.

"One--bottle--of--the--Magic--Egyptian--Beautifier," said Sammy, quite
distinctly for the first time in his life.

The doctor looked blank; but he doggedly nodded his head, nevertheless,
and wrote it down; and off went the letter at precisely 10:47.45, as the
doctor said.

* * * * *

Later--when the excitement had all subsided and we sat dreaming in the
warmth and glow--the doctor took little Sammy in his lap, and told him
he was a very good boy, and looked deep in his eyes, and stroked his
hair, and, at last, very tenderly bared his knee. Sammy flinched at
that; and he said "Ouch!" once, and screwed up his face, when the
doctor--his gruffness all gone, his eyes gentle and sad, his hand as
light as a mother's--worked the joint, and felt the knee-cap and socket
with the tips of his fingers.

"And is this the rheumatiz the Prompt Exterminator is to cure, Sammy?"
he asked.

"Ith, zur."

"Ah, is _that_ where it hurts you? Right on the point of the bone,
there?"

"Ith, zur."

"And was there no fall on the rock, at all? Oh, there _was_ a fall? And
the bruise was just there--where it hurts so much? And it's very hard to
bear, isn't it?"

Sammy shook his head.

"No? But it hurts a good deal, sometimes, does it not? That's too bad.
That's very sad, indeed. But, perhaps--perhaps, Sammy--I can cure it for
you, if you are brave. And are you brave? No? Oh, I think you are. And
you'll try to be, at any rate, won't you? Of course! That's a good boy."

And so, with his sharp little knives, the doctor cured Sammy Jutt's
knee, while the lad lay white and still on the kitchen table. And 'twas
not hard to do; but had not the doctor chanced that way, Sammy Jutt
would have been a cripple all his life.

* * * * *

"Doctor, zur," said Matilda Jutt, when the children were put to bed,
with Martha to watch by Sammy, who was still very sick, "is you really
got a bottle o' Pine's Prompt?"

The doctor laughed. "An empty bottle," said he. "I picked it up at
Poverty Cove. Thought it might come useful. I'll put Sammy's medicine in
that. They'll not know the difference. And you'll treat the knee with it
as I've told you. That's all. We must turn in at once; for we must be
gone before the children wake in the morning."

"Oh, ay, zur; an'----" she began: but hesitated, much embarrassed.

"Well?" the doctor asked, with a smile.

"Would you mind puttin' some queer lookin' stuff in one o' they bottles
o' yours?"

"Not in the least," in surprise.

"An' writin' something on a bit o' paper," she went on, pulling at her
apron, and looking down, "an' gluin' it t' the bottle?"

"Not at all. But what shall I write?"

She flushed. "'Magic Egyptian Beautifier,' zur," she answered; "for I'm
thinkin' 'twould please little Sammy t' think that Sandy Claws left
something--for me--too."

* * * * *

If you think that the three little Jutts found nothing but bottles of
medicine in their stockings, when they got down-stairs on Christmas
morning, you are very much mistaken. Indeed, there was much more than
that--a great deal more than that. I will not tell you what it was; for
you might sniff, and say, "Huh! That's little enough!" But there _was_
more than medicine. No man--rich man, poor man, beggarman nor thief,
doctor, lawyer nor merchant chief--ever yet left a Hudson's Bay
Company's post, stared in the face by the chance of having to seek
hospitality of a Christmas Eve--no right-feeling man, I say, ever yet
left a Hudson's Bay Company's post, under such circumstances, without
putting something more than medicine in his pack. I chance to know, at
any rate, that upon this occasion Doctor Luke did not. And I know,
too--you may be interested to learn it--that as we floundered through
the deep snow, homeward bound, soon after dawn, the next day, he was
glad enough that he hadn't. No merry shouts came over the white miles
from the cottage of Jonas Jutt, though I am sure that they rang there
most heartily; but the doctor did not care: he shouted merrily enough
for himself, for he was very happy. And that's the way _you'd_ feel,
too, if you spent _your_ days hunting good deeds to do.

XXI

DOWN NORTH

When, in my father's house, that night, the Christmas revel was
over--when, last of all, in noisy glee, we had cleared the broad kitchen
floor for Sir Roger De Coverly, which we danced with the help of the
maids' two swains and Skipper Tommy Lovejoy and Jacky, who had come out
from the Lodge for the occasion (all being done to the tune of "Money
Musk," mercilessly wrung from an ancient accordion by Timmie
Lovejoy)--when, after that, we had all gathered before the great blaze
in the best room, we told no tales, such as we had planned to tell, but
soon fell to staring at the fire, each dreaming his own dreams.

* * * * *

It may be that my thoughts changed with the dying blaze--passing from
merry fancies to gray visions, trooping out of the recent weeks, of cold
and hunger and squalid death in the places from which we had returned.

"Davy!" said my sister.

I started.

"What in the world," she asked, "is you thinkin' so dolefully of?"

"I been thinkin'," I answered, sighing, "o' the folk down narth."

"Of the man at Runner's Woe?" the doctor asked.

"No, zur. He on'y done murder. 'Twas not o' he. 'Twas o' something
sadder than that."

"Then 'tis too sad to tell," he said.

"No," I insisted. "'Twould do well-fed folk good t' hear it."

"What was it?" my sister asked.

"I was thinkin'----"

Ah, but '_twas_ too sad!

"O' what?"

"O' the child at Comfort Harbour, Bessie, that starved in his mother's
arms."

Timmie Lovejoy threw more billets on the fire. They flamed and
spluttered and filled the room with cheerful light.

"Davy," said the doctor, "we can never cure the wretchedness of this
coast."

"No, zur?"

"But we can try to mitigate it."

"We'll try," said I. "You an' me."

"You and I."

"And I," my sister said.

Lying between the sturdy little twins, that night--where by right of
caste I lay, for it was the warmest place in the bed--I abandoned, once
and for all, my old hope of sailing a schooner, with the decks awash.

"Timmie!" I whispered.

He was sound asleep. I gave him an impatient nudge in the ribs.

"Ay, Davy?" he asked.

"You may have my hundred-tonner," said I.

"What hundred-tonner?"

"The big fore-an'-after, Timmie, I'm t' have when I'm growed. You may
skipper she. You'll not wreck her, Timmie, will you?"

He was asleep.

"Hut!" I thought, angrily. "I'll have Jacky skipper that craft, if
Timmie don't look out."

At any rate, she was not to be for me.

XXII

The WAY From HEART'S DELIGHT

It chanced in the spring of that year that my sister and the doctor and
I came unfortuitously into a situation of grave peril: wherein (as you
shall know) the doctor was precipitate in declaring a sentiment, which,
it may be, he should still have kept close within his heart, withholding
it until a happier day. But for this there is some excuse: for not one
of us hoped ever again to behold the rocks and placid water of our
harbour, to continue the day's work to the timely close of the day, to
sit in quiet places, to dream a fruitful future, to aspire untroubled in
security and ease: and surely a man, whatever his disposition and
strength of mind, being all at once thus confronted, may without blame
do that which, as a reward for noble endeavour, he had hoped in all
honour to do in some far-off time.

* * * * *

Being bound across the bay from Heart's Delight of an ominously dull
afternoon--this on a straight-away course over the ice which still clung
to the coast rocks--we were caught in a change of wind and swept to sea
with the floe: a rising wind, blowing with unseasonable snow from the
northwest, which was presently black as night. Far off shore, the pack
was broken in pieces by the sea, scattered broadcast by the gale; so
that by the time of deep night--while the snow still whipped past in
clouds that stung and stifled us--our pan rode breaking water: which
hissed and flashed on every hand, the while ravenously eating at our
narrow raft of ice. Death waited at our feet.... We stood with our backs
to the wind, my sister and I cowering, numb and silent, in the lee of
the doctor.... Through the long night 'twas he that sheltered us.... By
and by he drew my sister close. She sank against his breast, and
trembled, and snuggled closer, and lay very still in his arms.... I
heard his voice: but was careless of the words, which the wind swept
overhead--far into the writhing night beyond.

"No, zur," my sister answered. "I'm not afraid--with you."

A long time after that, when the first light of dawn was abroad--sullen
and cheerless--he spoke again.

"Zur?" my sister asked, trembling.

He whispered in her ear.

"Ay, zur," she answered.

Then he kissed her lips....

* * * * *

Late in the day the snow-clouds passed. Ice and black water mercilessly
encompassed us to the round horizon of gray sky. There was no hope
anywhere to be descried.... In the dead of night a change of wind herded
the scattered fragments of the pack. The ice closed in upon us--great
pans, crashing together: threatening to crush our frailer one.... We
were driven in a new direction.... Far off to leeward--somewhere deep in
the black night ahead--the floe struck the coast. We heard the evil
commotion of raftering ice. It swept towards us. Our pan stopped dead
with a jolt. The pack behind came rushing upon us. We were tilted out of
the water--lifted clear of it all--dropped headlong with the wreck of
the pan....

I crawled out of a shallow pool of water. "Bessie!" I screamed. "Oh,
Bessie, where is you?"

The noise of the pack passed into distance--dwindling to deepest
silence.

"Davy," my sister called, "is you hurt?"

"Where is you, Bessie?"

"Here, dear," she answered, softly. "The doctor has me safe."

Guided by her sweet voice, I crept to them; and then we sat close
together, silent all in the silent night, waiting for the dawn....

* * * * *

We traversed a mile or more of rugged, blinding ice--the sky blue in
every part, the sun shining warm, the wind blowing light and balmy from
the south. What with the heat, the glare, the uneven, treacherous
path--with many a pitfall to engulf us--'twas a toilsome way we
travelled. The coast lay white and forsaken beyond--desolate,
inhospitable, unfamiliar: an unkindly refuge for such castaways as we.
But we came gratefully to the rocks, at last, and fell exhausted in the
snow, there to die, as we thought, of hunger and sheer weariness. And
presently the doctor rose, and, bidding us lie where we were, set out to
discover our whereabouts, that he might by chance yet succour us: which
seemed to me a hopeless venture, for the man was then near snow-blind,
as I knew....

* * * * *

Meantime, at our harbour, where the world went very well, the eye of
Skipper Tommy Lovejoy chanced in aimless roving to alight upon the
letter from Wolf Cove, still securely fastened to the wall, ever visible
warning to that happy household against the wiles o' women. I fancy that
(the twins being gone to Trader's Cove to enquire for us) the mild blue
eye wickedly twinkled--that it found the tender missive for the moment
irresistible in fascination--that the old man approached, stepping in
awe, and gazed with gnawing curiosity at the pale, sprawling
superscription, his very name--that he touched the envelope with his
thick forefinger, just to make sure that 'twas tight in its place,
beyond all peradventure of catastrophe--that, merely to provide against
its defilement by dust, he removed and fondled it--that then he wondered
concerning its contents, until, despite his crying qualms of conscience
(the twins being gone to Trader's Cove and Davy Roth off to Heart's
Delight to help the doctor heal the young son of Agatha Rundle), this
fateful dreaming altogether got the better of him. At any rate, off he
hied through the wind and snow to Tom Tot's cottage: where, as fortune
had it, Tom Tot was mending a caplin seine.

"Tom Tot," said he, quite shamelessly, "I'm fair achin' t' know what's
in this letter."

The harbour was cognizant of Skipper Tommy's state and standing
temptation: much concerned, as well, as to the outcome.

"Skipper Tommy," Tom Tot asked, and that most properly, "is you got
leave o' the boss's son?"

"Davy?"

"Ay, Davy."

"I is not," the skipper admitted, with becoming candour.

"Is you spoke t' the twins?"

"I is not."

"Then," Tom Tot concluded, "shame on you!"

Skipper Tommy tweaked his nose. "Tom Tot," said he, "you got a wonderful
power for readin'. Don't you go tellin' _me_ you hasn't! I _knows_ you
has."

"Well," Tom Tot admitted, "as you're makin' a p'int of it, I'm fair on
print, but poor on writin'."

"Tom Tot," Skipper Tommy went on, with a wave (I fancy) of uttermost
admiration, "I'll stand by it that you is as good at writin' as print.
That I will," he added, recklessly, "agin the world."

Tom Tot yielded somewhat to this blandishment. He took the proffered
letter. "I isn't denyin', Skipper Tommy," he said, "that I'm able t'
make out your name on this here letter."

"Ecod!" cried Skipper Tommy, throwing up his hands. "I knowed it!"

"I isn't denyin'," Tom Tot repeated, gravely, "that I'm _fair_ on
writin'. Fair, mark you! No more."

"Ay," said the skipper, "but I'm wantin' you t' know that this here
letter was writ by a woman with a wonderful sight o' l'arnin'. I'll
warrant you can read _it_. O' course," in a large, conclusive way, "an
you _can't_----"

"Skipper Tommy," Tom interrupted, quickly, "I isn't _sayin'_ I can't."

"Isn't you?" innocently. "Why, Tom Tot, I was thinkin'----"

"No, zur!" Tom answered with heat. "I isn't!"

"Well, you wouldn't----"

"I will!"

"So be," said the skipper, with a sigh of infinite satisfaction. "I'm
thinkin', somehow," he added, his sweet faith now beautifully radiant (I
am sure), as was his way, "that the Lard is mixed up in this letter.
He's mixed up in 'most all that goes on, an' I'd not be s'prised if He
had a finger in this. 'Now,' says the Lard, 'Skipper Tommy,' says He,
'the mail-boat went t' the trouble o' leavin' you a letter,' says He,
'an'----'"

"Leave the Lard out o' this," Tom Tot broke in.

"Sure, an' why?" Skipper Tom mildly asked.

"You've no call t' drag Un in here," was the sour reply. "You leave Un
alone. You're gettin' too wonderful free an' easy with the Lard God
A'mighty, Thomas Lovejoy. He'll be strikin' you dead in your tracks an
you don't look out."

"Tom Tot," the skipper began, "the Lard an' me is wonderful----"

"Leave the Lard alone," Tom Tot snapped. "Come, now! Is you wantin' this
here letter read?"

"I is."

Without more ado, Tom Tot opened the letter from Wolf Cove. I have no
doubt that sensitive blood flushed the bronzed, wrinkled cheeks of
Skipper Tommy Lovejoy, and that, in a burst of grinning modesty, he
tweaked his nose with small regard for that sorely tried and patient
member. And I am informed that, while my old friend thus waited in
ecstasy, Tom Tot puzzled over the letter, for a time, to make sure that
his learning would not be discomfited in the presence of Skipper Tommy
Lovejoy, before whom he had boasted. Then----

"Skipper Tommy," he implored, in agony, "how long--oh, how long--is you
had this letter?"

Skipper Tommy stared.

"How long, oh, how long?" Tom Tot repeated.

"What's gone amiss?" Skipper Tommy entreated, touching Tom Tot's shaking
hand. "It come in the fall o' the year, Tom, lad. But what's gone amiss
along o' you?"

"She've been waitin'--since then? Oh, a wretched father, I!"

"Tom, lad, tell me what 'tis all about."

"'Tis from she--Mary! 'Tis from my lass," Tom Tot cried. "'Twas writ
by that doctor-woman--an' sent t' you, Skipper Tommy--t' tell me--t'
break it easy--that she'd run off from Wayfarer's Tickle--because o'
the sin she'd found there. I misdoubt--oh, I misdoubt--that she've
been afeared I'd--that I'd mistook her, poor wee thing--an' turn her
off. I call the Lard God A'mighty t' witness," he cried, passionately,
"that I'd take her home, whatever come t' pass! I calls God t' witness
that I loves my lass! She've done no wrong," he continued. "She've but
run away from the sin t' Wayfarer's Tickle. She've taken shelter t' Wolf
Cove--because--she've been afeared that--I'd mistook--an' cast her off!"

"An' she's waitin' there for you?"

"Ay--for me--t' bring her home."

"For her father t' come?"

"Her father."

There was a moment of silence. "Tom Tot," Skipper Tommy declared,
fetching his thigh a resounding slap, "that letter's been tacked t' my
wall the winter long. Is you hearin' me, Tom Tot? It's been lyin' idle
agin my wall. While she've been waitin', Tom! While she've been
waitin'!"

"Oh, ay!"

"I'm fair glad you're hearin' me," said the skipper. "For I calls you t'
witness this: that when I cotches them twins o' mine I'll thwack un
till they're red, Tom Tot--till they're red and blistered below decks.
An' when I cotches that young Davy Roth--when I cotches un alone,
'ithout the doctor--I'll give un double watches."

"We'll get underway for Wolf Cove, Skipper Tommy," said Tom Tot, "when
the weather lightens. An' we'll fetch that lass o' mine," he added,
softly, "home."

"That we will, Tom Tot," said Skipper Tommy Lovejoy.

And 'twas thus it came about that we were rescued: for, being old and
wise, they chose to foot it to Wolf Cove--over the 'longshore
hills--fearing to chance the punt at sea, because of the shifting ice.
Midway between our harbour and Wolf Cove, they found the doctor sitting
blind in the snow, but still lustily entreating the surrounding
desolation for help--raising a shout at intervals, in the manner of a
faithful fog-horn. Searching in haste and great distress, they soon came
upon my sister and me, exhausted, to be sure, and that most pitiably,
but not beyond the point of being heartily glad of their arrival. Then
they made a tiny fire with birch rind and billets from Tom Tot's
pack--and the fire crackled and blazed in a fashion the most
heartening--and the smutty tin kettle bubbled as busily as in the most
immaculate of kitchens: and presently the tea and hard-bread were doing
such service as rarely, indeed, save in our land, it is their good
fortune to achieve. And having been refreshed and roundly scolded, we
were led to the cove beyond, where we lay the night at the cottage of
Tiltworthy Cutch: whence, in the morning, being by that time
sufficiently restored, we set out for our harbour, under the guidance of
Skipper Tommy Lovejoy, whose continued separation from the woman at Wolf
Cove I made sure of by commanding his presence with us.

"You may beat me, Skipper Tommy," said I, "when you gets me home, an' I
wish you joy of it. But home you goes!"

"But, Davy, lad," he protested, "there's that poor Tom Tot goin' on
alone----"

"Home you goes!"

"An' there's that kind-hearted doctor-woman. Sure, now, Davy," he began,
sweetly, "I'd like t' tell she----"

"That's just," said I, "what I'm afeared of."

Home the skipper came; and when the twins and I subsequently presented
ourselves for chastisement, with solemn ceremony, gravely removing
whatever was deemed in our harbour superfluous under the circumstances,
he was so affected by the spectacle that (though I wish I might write
it differently) he declared himself of opinion, fixed and unprejudiced,
that of all the works of the Lord, which were many and infinitely
blessed, none so favoured the gracious world as the three contrite
urchins there present: and in this ecstasy of tenderness (to our shame)
quite forgot the object of our appearance.

* * * * *

When Tom Tot brought Mary home from Wolf Cove, my sister and the doctor
and I went that night by my sister's wish to distinguish the welcome, so
that, in all our harbour, there might be no quibble or continuing
suspicion; and we found the maid cutting her father's hair in the
kitchen (for she was a clever hand with the scissors and comb), as
though nothing had occurred--Skipper Tommy Lovejoy meanwhile with spirit
engaging the old man in a discussion of the unfailing topic; this being
the attitude of the Lord God Almighty towards the wretched sons of men,
whether feeling or not.

In the confusion of our entrance Mary whispered in my ear. "Davy lad,"
she said, with an air of mystery, "I got home."

"I'm glad, Mary," I answered, "that you got home."

"An', hist!" said she, "I got something t' tell you," said she, her eyes
flashing, "along about hell."

"Is you?" I asked, in fear, wishing she had not.

She nodded.

"Is you _got_ t' tell me, Mary?"

"Davy," she whispered, pursing her lips, in the pause regarding me with
a glance so significant of darkest mystery that against my very will I
itched to share the fearful secret, "I got t'."

"Oh, why?" I still protested.

"I been there!" said she.

'Twas quite enough to entice me beyond my power: after that, I kept
watch, all in a shiver of dread, for some signal; and when she had swept
her father's shorn hair from the floor, and when my sister had gone with
Tom Tot's wife to put the swarm of little Tots to bed, and when Tom Tot
had entered upon a minute description of the sin at Wayfarer's Tickle,
from which his daughter, fearing sudden death and damnation, had fled,
Mary beckoned me to follow: which I did. Without, in the breathless,
moonlit night, I found her waiting in a shadow; and she caught me by the
wrist, clutching it cruelly, and led me to the deeper shadow and
seclusion of a great rock, rising from the path to the flake. 'Twas very
still and awesome, there in the dark of that black rock, with the light
of the moon lying ghostly white on all the barren world, and the long,
low howl of some forsaken dog from time to time disturbing the solemn
silence.

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