Doctor Luke of the Labrador

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I was afraid.

"Davy, lad," she whispered, bending close, so that she could look into
my eyes, which wavered, "is you listenin'?"

"Ay," I answered, breathless.

Her voice was then triumphant. "I been t' hell," said she, "an' back!"

"What's it like, Mary?"

She shuddered.

"What's it like," I pleaded, lusting for the unholy knowledge, "in
hell?"

For a moment she stared at the moonlit hills. Her grasp on my wrist
relaxed. I saw that her lips were working.

"What's it like," I urged, "in hell?" for I devoutly wished to have the
disclosure over with.

"'Tis hell," she answered, low, "at Wayfarer's Tickle. The gate t' hell!
Rum an' love, Davy, dear," she added, laying a fond hand upon my head,
"leads t' hell."

"Not love!" I cried, in sudden fear: for I had thought of the driving
snow, of my dear sister lying in the doctor's arms, of his kiss upon her
lips. "Oh, love leads t' heaven!"

"T' hell," said she.

"No, no!"

"T' hell."

I suffered much in the silence--while, together, Mary and I stared at
the silent world, lying asleep in the pale light.

"'Twas rum," she resumed, "that sent the crew o' the _Right an' Tight_
t' hell. An' 'twas a merry time they had at the gate. Ay, a merry time,
with Jagger fillin' the cups an' chalkin' it down agin the fish! But
they went t' hell. _They went t' hell_! She was lost with all hands in
the gale o' that week--lost on the Devil's Fingers--an' all hands drunk!
An' Jack Ruddy o' Helpful Harbour," she muttered, "went down along o'
she. He was a bonnie lad," she added, tenderly, "an' he kissed me by
stealth in the kitchen." Very sorrowfully she dreamed of that boisterous
kiss. "But," she concluded, "'twas love that put Eliza Hare in th'
etarnal fires."

"Not love!" I complained.

"Davy," she said, not deigning to answer me, "Davy," she repeated, her
voice again rising splendidly triumphant, "I isn't goin' t' hell! For
I've looked in an' got away. The Lard'll never send me, now. Never!"

"I'm glad, Mary."

"I'm not a goat," she boasted. "'Twas all a mistake. I'm a sheep. That's
what I is!"

"I'm wonderful glad."

"But you, Davy," she warned, putting an arm about my waist, in sincere
affection, "you better look out."

"I isn't afeared."

"You better look out!"

"Oh, Mary," I faltered, "I--I--isn't _much_ afeared."

"You better look out!"

"Leave us go home!" I begged.

"The Lard'll ship you there an you don't look out. He've no mercy on
little lads."

"Oh, leave us go home!"

"He'll be cotchin' you!"

I could bear it no longer: nor wished to know any more about hell. I
took her hand, and dragged her from the black shadow of the rock: crying
out that we must now go home. Then we went back to Tom Tot's cheerful
kitchen; and there I no longer feared hell, but could not forget, try as
I would, what Mary Tot had told me about love.

* * * * *

Skipper Tommy Lovejoy was preaching what the doctor called in his genial
way "The Gospel According to Tommy."

"Sure, now, Tom Tot," said he, "the Lard is a Skipper o' wonderful civil
disposition. 'Skipper Tommy,' says He t' me, 'an you only does the
best----'"

"You're too free with the name o' the Lard."

Skipper Tommy looked up in unfeigned surprise. "Oh, no, Tom," said he,
mildly, "I isn't. The Lard an' me is----"

"You're too free," Tom Tot persisted. "Leave Un be or you'll rue it."

"Oh, no, Tom," said the skipper. "The Lard an' me gets along wonderful
well together. We're _wonderful_ good friends. I isn't scared o' _He_!"

As we walked home, that night, the doctor told my sister and me that,
whatever the greater world might think of the sin at Wayfarer's Tickle,
whether innocuous or virulent, Jagger was beyond cavil flagrantly
corrupting our poor folk, who were simple-hearted and easy to persuade:
that he was, indeed, a nuisance which must be abated, come what would.

XXIII

The COURSE of TRUE LOVE

Symptoms of my dear sister's previous disorder now again alarmingly
developed--sighs and downcast glances, quick flushes, infinite
tenderness to us all, flashes of high spirits, wet lashes, tumultuously
beating heart; and there were long dreams in the twilight, wherein, when
she thought herself alone, her sweet face was at times transfigured into
some holy semblance. And perceiving these unhappy evidences, I was once
more disquieted; and I said that I must seek the doctor's aid, that she
might be cured of the perplexing malady: though, to be sure, as then and
there I impatiently observed, the doctor seemed himself in some strange
way to have contracted it, and was doubtless quite incapable of
prescribing.

My sister would not brook this interference. "I'm not sayin'," she
added, "that the doctor couldn't cure me, an he had a mind to; for,
Davy, dear," with an earnest wag of her little head, "'twould not be the
truth. I'm only sayin' that I'll not have un try it."

"Sure, why, Bessie?"

Her glance fell. "I'll not tell you why," said she.

"But I'm wantin' t' know."

She pursed her lips.

"Is you forgettin'," I demanded, "that I'm your brother?"

"No," she faltered.

"Then," said I, roughly, "I'll have the doctor cure you whether you will
or not!"

She took my hand, and for a moment softly stroked it, looking away.
"You're much changed, dear," she said, "since our mother died."

"Oh, Bessie!"

"Ay," she sighed.

I hung my head. 'Twas a familiar bitterness. I was, indeed, not the same
as I had been. And it seems to me, now--even at this distant day--that
this great loss works sad changes in us every one. Whether we be child
or man, we are none of us the same, afterwards.

"Davy," my sister pleaded, "were your poor sister now t' ask you t' say
no word----"

"I would not say one word!" I broke in. "Oh, I would not!"

That was the end of it.

* * * * *

Next day the doctor bade me walk with him on the Watchman, so that, as
he said, he might without interruption speak a word with me: which I
was loath to do; for he had pulled a long face of late, and had sighed
and stared more than was good for our spirits, nor smiled at all, save
in a way of the wryest, and was now so grave--nay, sunk deep in
blear-eyed melancholy--that 'twas plain no happiness lay in prospect.
'Twas sad weather, too--cold fog in the air, the light drear, the land
all wet and black, the sea swishing petulantly in the mist. I had no
mind to climb the Watchman, but did, cheerily as I could, because he
wished it, as was my habit.

When we got to Beacon Rock, there was no flush of red in the doctor's
cheeks, as ever there had been, no life in his voice, which not long
since had been buoyant; and his hand, while for a moment it rested
affectionately on my shoulder, shook in a way that frightened me.

"Leave us go back!" I begged. "I'm not wantin' t' talk."

I wished I had not come: for there was in all this some foreboding of
wretchedness. I was very much afraid.

"I have brought you here, Davy," he began, with grim deliberation, "to
tell you something about myself. I do not find it," with a shrug and a
wry mouth, "a pleasant----"

"Come, zur," I broke in, this not at all to my liking, "leave us go t'
the Soldier's Ear!"

"Not an agreeable duty," he pursued, fixing me with dull eyes, "for me
to speak; nor will it be, I fancy, for you to hear. But----"

This exceeded even my utmost fears. "I dare you, zur," said I, desperate
for a way of escape, "t' dive from Nestin' Ledge this cold day!"

He smiled--but 'twas half a sad frown; for at once he puckered his
forehead.

"You're scared!" I taunted.

He shook his head.

"Oh, do come, zur!"

"No, Davy," said he.

I sighed.

"For," he added, sighing, too, "I have something to tell you, which must
now be told."

Whatever it was--however much he wished it said and over with--he was in
no haste to begin. While, for a long time, I kicked at the rock, in
anxious expectation, he sat with his hands clasped over his knee,
staring deep into the drear mist at sea--beyond the breakers, past the
stretch of black and restless water, far, far into the gray spaces,
which held God knows what changing visions for him! I stole glances at
him--not many, for then I dared not, lest I cry; and I fancied that his
disconsolate musings must be of London, a great city, which, as he had
told me many times, lay infinitely far away in that direction.

"Well, Davy, old man," he said, at last, with a quick little laugh, "hit
or miss, here goes!"

"You been thinkin' o' London," I ventured, hoping, if might be, for a
moment longer to distract him.

"But not with longing," he answered, quickly. "I left no one to wish me
back. Not one heart to want me--not one to wait for me! And I do not
wish myself back. I was a dissipated fellow there, and when I turned my
back on that old life, when I set out to find a place where I might
atone for those old sins, 'twas without regret, and 'twas for good and
all. This," he said, rising, "is my land. This," he repeated, glancing
north and south over the dripping coast, the while stretching wide his
arms, "is now my land! I love it for the opportunity it gave me. I love
it for the new man it has made me. I have forgotten the city. I love
_this_ life! And I love you, Davy," he cried, clapping his arm around
me, "and I love----"

He stopped.

"I knows, zur," said I, in an awed whisper, "whom you love."

"Bessie," said he.

"Ay, Bessie."

There was now no turning away. My recent fears had been realized. I must
tell him what was in my heart.

"Mary Tot says, zur," I gasped, "that love leads t' hell."

He started from me.

"I would not have my sister," I continued, "go t' hell. For, zur," said
I, "she'd be wonderful lonesome there."

"To hell?" he asked, hoarsely.

"Oh, ay!" I groaned. "T' the flames o' hell!"

"'Tis not true!" he burst out, with a radiant smile. "I know it!
Love--my love for her--has led me nearer heaven than ever I hoped to
be!"

I troubled no more. Here was a holy passion. Child that I was--ignorant
of love and knowing little enough of evil--I still perceived that this
love was surely of the good God Himself. I feared no more for my dear
sister. She would be safe with him.

"You may love my sister," said I, "an you want to. You may have her."

He frowned in a troubled way.

"Ay," I repeated, convinced, "you may have my dear sister. I'm not
afraid."

"Davy," he said, now so grave that my heart jumped, "you give her to the
man I am."

"I'm not carin'," I replied, "what you was."

"You do not know."

Apprehension grappled with me. "I'm not wantin' t' know," I protested.
"Come, zur," I pleaded, "leave us go home."

"Once, Davy," he said, "I told you that I had been wicked."

"You're not wicked now."

"I was."

"I'm not carin' what you was. Oh, zur," I cried, tugging at his hand,
"leave us go home!"

"And," said he, "a moment ago I told you that I had been a dissipated
fellow. Do you know what that means?"

"I'm not _wantin_' t' know!"

"You must know."

I saw the peril of it all. "Oh, tell me not!" I begged. "Leave us go
home!"

"But I _must_ tell you, Davy," said he, beginning, now in an agony of
distress, to pace the hilltop. "It is not a matter of to-day. You are
only a lad, now; but you will grow up--and learn--and know. Oh, God," he
whispered, looking up to the frowning sky, laying, the while, his hand
upon my head, "if only we could continue like this child! If only we
_need_ not know! I want you, Davy," he continued, once more addressing
me, "when you grow up, to know, to recall, whatever happens, that I was
fair, fair to you and fair to her, whom you love. You are not like other
lads. It is your _place_, I think, in this little community, that makes
you different. _You_ can understand. I _must_ tell you."

"I'm scared t' know," I gasped. "Take my sister, zur, an' say no more."

"Scared to know? And I to tell. But for your sister's sake--for the sake
of her happiness--I'll tell you, Davy--let me put my arm around you--ay,
I'll tell you, lad, God help me! what it means to be a dissipated
fellow. O Christ," he sighed, "I pay for all I did! Merciful God, at
this moment I pay the utmost price! Davy, lad," drawing me closer, "you
will not judge me harshly?"

"I'll hearken," I answered, hardening.

Then, frankly, he told me as much, I fancy, as a man may tell a lad of
such things....

* * * * *

In horror--in shame--ay, in shame so deep I flushed and dared not look
at him--I flung off his arms. And I sprang away--desperately fingering
my collar: for it seemed I must choke, so was my throat filled with
indignation. "You wicked man!" I cried. "You kissed my sister.
You--_you_--kissed my sister!"

"Davy!"

"You wicked, wicked man!"

"Don't, Davy!"

"Go 'way!" I screamed.

Rather, he came towards me, opening his arms, beseeching me. But I was
hot-headed and willful, being only a lad, without knowledge of sin
gained by sinning, and, therefore, having no compassion; and, still, I
fell away from him, but he followed, continuing to beseech me, until, at
last, I struck him on the breast: whereupon, he winced, and turned away.
Then, in a flash--in the still, illuminating instant that follows a blow
struck in blind rage--I was appalled by what I had done; and I stood
stiff, my hands yet clinched, a storm of sobs on the point of breaking:
hating him and myself and all the world, because of the wrong he had
done us, and the wrong I had done him, and the wrong that life had
worked us all.

I took to my heels.

"Davy!" he called.

The more he cried after me, the more beseechingly his voice rang in my
ears, the more my heart urged me to return--the harder I ran.

* * * * *

I wish I had not struck him ... I wish, I say, I had not struck him ...
I wish that when he came towards me, with his arms wide open, his
grave, gray eyes pleading--wretched soul that he was--I wish that then I
had let him enfold me. What poor cleverness, what a poor sacrifice, it
would have been! 'Twas I--strange it may have been--but still 'twas I,
Davy Roth, a child, Labrador born and bred, to whom he stretched out his
hand. I should have blessed God that to this remote place a needful man
had come. 'Twas my great moment of opportunity. I might--I might--have
helped him. How rare the chance! And to a child! I might have taken his
hand. I might have led him immediately into placid waters. But I was
I--unfeeling, like all lads: blind, too, reprehensible, deserving of
blame. In all my life--and, as it happens (of no merit of my own, but of
his), it has thus far been spent seeking to give help and comfort to
such as need it--never, never, in the diligent course of it, has an
opportunity so momentous occurred. I wish--oh, I wish--he might once
again need me! To lads--and to men--and to frivolous maids--and to
beggars and babies and cripples and evil persons--and to all sorts and
conditions of human kind! Who knows to whom the stricken soul--downcast
whether of sin or sorrow--may appeal? Herein is justification--the very
key to heaven, with which one may unlock the door and enter, claiming
bliss by right, defiant of God Himself, if need were: "I have sinned, in
common with all men, O God, but I have sought to help such as were in
sorrow, whether of sin or the misfortunes incident to life in the pit
below, which is the world. You dare not cast me out!" Oh, men and women,
lads and maids, I speak because of the wretchedness of my dear folk, out
of their sorrow, which is common to us all, but here, in this barren
place, is unrelieved, not hidden. Take the hand stretched out! And
watch: lest in the great confusion this hand appear--and disappear. If
there be sin, here it is: that the hand wavered, beseeching, within
reach of such as were on solid ground, and was not grasped.

* * * * *

Ah, well! to my sister I ran; and I found her placidly sewing in the
broad window of our house, which now looked out upon a melancholy
prospect of fog and black water and vague gray hills. Perceiving my
distress, she took me in her lap, big boy though I was, and rocked me,
hushing me, the while, until I should command my grief and disclose the
cause of it.

"He's a sinful man," I sobbed, at last. "Oh, dear Bessie, care no more
for him!"

She stopped rocking--and pressed me closer to her soft, sweet bosom--so
close that she hurt me, as my loving mother used to do. And when I
looked up--when, taking courage, I looked into her face--I found it
fearsomely white and hopeless; and when, overcome by this, I took her
hand, I found it very cold.

"Not sinful," she whispered, drawing my cheek close to hers. "Oh, not
that!"

"A sinful, wicked person," I repeated, "not fit t' speak t' such as
you."

"What have he done, Davy?"

"I'd shame t' tell you."

"Oh, what?"

"I may not tell. Hug me closer, Bessie, dear. I'm in woeful want o'
love."

She rocked me, then--smoothing my cheek--kissing me--hoping thus to
still my grief. A long, long time she coddled me, as my mother might
have done.

"Not sinful," she said.

"Ay, a wicked fellow. We must turn un out o' here, Bessie. He've no
place here, no more. He've sinned."

She kissed me on the lips. Her arms tightened about me. And there we
sat--I in my sister's arms--hopeless in the drear light of that day.

"I love him," she said.

"Love him no more! Bessie, dear, he've sinned past all forgiving."

Again--and now abruptly--she stopped rocking. She sat me back in her
lap. I could not evade her glance--sweet-souled, confident, content,
reflecting the bright light of heaven itself.

"There's no sin, Davy," she solemnly said, "that a woman can't forgive."

* * * * *

I passed that afternoon alone on the hills--the fog thickening, the wind
blowing wet and cold, the whole world cast down--myself seeking, all the
while, some reasonable way of return to the doctor's dear friendship. I
did not know--but now I know--that reason, sour and implacable, is sadly
inadequate to our need when the case is sore, and, indeed, a wretched
staff, at best: but that fine impulse, the sure, inner feeling, which is
faith, is ever the more trustworthy, if good is to be achieved, for it
is forever sanguine, nor, in all the course of life, relentless. But,
happily, Skipper Tommy Lovejoy, who, in my childhood, came often
opportunely to guide me with his wiser, strangely accurate philosophy,
now sought me on the hill, being informed, as it appeared, of my
distress--and because, God be thanked! he loved me.

"Go 'way!" I complained.

"Go 'way?" cried he, indignantly. "I'll not go 'way. For shame! To send
me from you!"

"I'm wantin' t' be alone."

"Ay; but 'tis unhealthy for you."

"I'm thrivin' well enough."

"Hut!" said he. "What's this atween the doctor an' you? You'd cast un
off because he've sinned? Ecod! I've seldom heard the like. Who is you?
Even the Lard God A'mighty wouldn't do that. Sure, _He_ loves only such
as have sinned. Lad," he went on, now, with a smile, with a touch of his
rough old hand, compelling my confidence and affection, "what's past is
done with. Isn't you l'arned that yet? Old sins are as if they never had
been. Else what hope is there for us poor sons of men? The weight o' sin
would sink us. 'Tis not the dear Lard's way t' deal so with men. To-day
is not yesterday. What was, has been; it is not. A man is not what he
was--he is what he is. But yet, lad--an' 'tis wonderful queer--to-day
_is_ yesterday. 'Tis _made_ by yesterday. The mistake--the sin--o'
yesterday is the straight course--the righteous deed--o' to-day. 'Tis
only out o' sin that sweetness is born. That's just what sin is for! The
righteous, Davy, dear," he said, in all sincerity, "are not lovable, not
trustworthy. The devil nets un by the hundred quintal, for _'tis_ such
easy fishin'; but sinners--such as sin agin their will--the Lard loves
an' gathers in. They who sin must suffer, Davy, an' only such as suffer
can _know_ the dear Lard's love. God be thanked for sin," he said,
looking up, inspired. "Let the righteous be damned--they deserve it.
Give _me_ the company o' sinners!"

"Is you sure?" I asked, confounded by this strange doctrine.

"I thank God," he answered, composedly, "that _I_ have sinned--and
suffered."

"Sure," said I, "_you_ ought t' know, for you've lived so awful long."

"They's nothin' like sin," said he, with a sure smack of the lips, "t'
make good men. I knows it."

"An' Bessie?"

"Oh, Davy, lad, _she'll_ be safe with him!"

Then I, too, knew it--knew that sin had been beneficently decreed by
God, whose wisdom seems so all-wise, once our perverse hearts are opened
to perceive--knew that my dear sister would, indeed, be safe with this
sinner, who sorrowed, also. And I was ashamed that I had ever doubted
it.

"Look!" Skipper Tommy whispered.

Far off--across the harbour--near lost in the mist--I saw my sister and
the doctor walking together.

* * * * *

My sister was waiting for me. "Davy," she asked, anxiously, "where have
you been?"

"On the hills," I answered.

For a moment she was silent, fingering her apron; and then, looking
fearlessly into my eyes--"I love him," she said.

"I'm glad."

"I cannot help it," she continued, clasping her hands, her breast
heaving. "I love him--so _hard_--I cannot tell it."

"I'm glad."

"An' he loves me. He loves me! I'm not doubtin' that. He _loves_ me,"
she whispered, that holy light once more breaking about her, in which
she seemed transfigured. "Oh," she sighed, beyond expression, "he loves
me!"

"I'm glad."

"An' I'm content t' know it--just t' know that he loves me--just t' know
that I love him. His hands and eyes and arms! I ask no more--but just t'
know it. Just once to have--to have had him--kiss me. Just once to have
lain in his arms, where, forever, I would lie. Oh, I'm glad," she cried,
joyously, "that the good Lord made me! I'm glad--just for that. Just
because he kissed me--just because I love him, who loves me. I'm glad I
was made for him to love. 'Tis quite enough for me. I want--only this I
want--that he may have me--that, body and soul, I may satisfy his
love--so much I love him. Davy," she faltered, putting her hands to her
eyes, "I love--I _love_--I love him!"

Ecod! 'Twas too much for me. Half scandalized, I ran away, leaving her
weeping in my dear mother's rocking-chair.

* * * * *

My sister and I were alone at table that evening. The doctor was gone in
the punt to Jolly Harbour, the maids said; but why, they did not know,
for he had not told them--nor could we guess: for 'twas a vexatious
distance, wind and tide what they were, nor would a wise man undertake
it, save in case of dire need, which did not then exist, the folk of
Jolly Harbour, as everybody knows, being incorruptibly healthy. But I
would not go to sleep that night until my peace was made; and though, to
deceive my sister, I went to bed, I kept my eyes wide open, waiting for
the doctor's step on the walk and on the stair: a slow, hopeless
footfall, when, late in the night, I heard it.

I followed him to his room--with much contrite pleading on the tip of my
tongue. And I knocked timidly on the door.

"Come in, Davy," said he.

My heart was swelling so--my tongue so sadly unmanageable--that I could
do nothing but whimper. But----

"I'm wonderful sad, zur," I began, after a time, "t' think that I----"

"Hush!" said he.

'Twas all I said--not for lack of will or words, but for lack of breath
and opportunity; because all at once (and 'twas amazingly sudden) I
found myself caught off my feet, and so closely, so carelessly,
embraced, that I thought I should then and there be smothered: a death
which, as I had been led to believe, my dear sister might have envied
me, but was not at all to my liking. And when I got my breath 'twas but
to waste it in bawling. But never had I bawled to such good purpose: for
every muffled howl and gasp brought me nearer to that state of serenity
from which I had that day cast myself by harsh and willful conduct.

Then--and 'twas not hard to do--I offered my supreme propitiation: which
was now no more a sacrifice, but, rather, a high delight.

"You may have my sister, zur," I sobbed.

He laughed a little--laughed an odd little laugh, the like of which I
had never heard.

"You may have her," I repeated, somewhat impatiently. "Isn't you hearin'
me? I _give_ her to you."

"This is very kind," he said. "But----"

"You're _wantin'_ her, isn't you?" I demanded, fearing for the moment
that he had meantime changed his mind.

"Yes," he drawled; "but----"

"But what?"

"She'll not have me."

"Not have you!" I cried.

"No," said he.

At that moment I learned much wisdom concerning the mysterious ways of
women.

XXIV

The BEGINNING of The END

From this sad tangle we were next morning extricated by news from the
south ports of our coast--news so ill that sentimental tears and wishes
were of a sudden forgot; being this: that the smallpox had come to Poor
Luck Harbour and was there virulently raging. By noon of that day the
doctor's sloop was underway with a fair wind, bound south in desperate
haste: a man's heart beating glad aboard, that there might come a tragic
solution of his life's entanglement. My sister and I, sitting together
on the heads of Good Promise, high in the sunlight, with the sea spread
blue and rippling below--we two, alone, with hands clasped--watched the
little patch of sail flutter on its way--silently watched until it
vanished in the mist.

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