Doctor Luke of the Labrador

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"You'll be singin' for me, mum, will you not?" I whispered.

"And what shall I sing, lad?" said she.

"You knows, mum."

"I'm not so sure," said she. "Come, tell me!"

What should she sing? I knew well, at that moment, the assurance my
heart wanted: we are a God-fearing people, and I was a child of that
coast; and I had then first come in from a stormy sea. There is a
song----

"'Tis, 'Jesus Saviour Pilot Me,'" I answered.

"I knew it all the time," said she; and,

"'Jesus, Saviour, pilot me,
Over life's tempestuous sea,'"

she sang, very softly--and for me alone--like a sweet whisper in my ear.

"'Unknown waves before me roll,
Hiding rock and treacherous shoal;
Chart and compass came from Thee:
Jesus, Saviour, pilot me!'"

"I was thinkin' o' that, mum, when we come through the Gate," said I.
"Sure, I thought Skipper Tommy might miss the Way, an' get t'other side
o' the Tooth, an' get in the Trap, an' go t' wreck on the Murderers,
an'----"

"Hush, dear!" she whispered. "Sure, you've no cause to fear when the
pilot knows the way."

The feeling of harbour--of escape and of shelter and brooding peace--was
strong upon me while we sat rocking in the failing light. I have never
since made harbour--never since come of a sudden from the toil and the
frothy rage of the sea by night or day, but my heart has felt again the
peace of that quiet hour--never once but blessed memory has given me
once again the vision of myself, a little child, lying on my mother's
dear breast, gathered close in her arms, while she rocked and softly
sang of the tempestuous sea and a Pilot for the sons of men, still
rocking, rocking, in the broad window of my father's house. I protest
that I love my land, and have from that hour, barren as it is and as
bitter the sea that breaks upon it; for I then learned--and still
know--that it is as though the dear God Himself made harbours with wise,
kind hands for such as have business in the wild waters of that coast.
And I love my life--and go glad to the day's work--for I have learned,
in the course of it and by the life of the man who came to us, that
whatever the stress and fear of the work to be done there is yet for us
all a refuge, which, by way of the heart, they find who seek.

* * * * *

And I fell asleep in my mother's arms, and by and by my big father came
in and laughed tenderly to find me lying there; and then, as I have been
told, laughing softly still they carried me up and flung me on my bed,
flushed and wet and limp with sound slumber, where I lay like a small
sack of flour, while together they pulled off my shoes and stockings and
jacket and trousers and little shirt, and bundled me into my
night-dress, and rolled me under the blanket, and tucked me in, and
kissed me good-night.

When my mother's lips touched my cheek I awoke. "Is it you, mama?" I
asked.

"Ay," said she; "'tis your mother, lad."

Her hand went swiftly to my brow, and smoothed back the tousled, wet
hair.

"Is you kissed me yet?"

"Oh, ay!" said she.

"Kiss me again, please, mum," said I, "for I wants--t' make sure--you
done it."

She kissed me again, very tenderly; and I sighed and fell asleep,
content.

IV

THE SHADOW

When the mail-boat left our coast to the long isolation of that winter
my mother was even more tender with the scrawny plants in the five red
pots on the window-shelf. On gray days, when our house and all the world
lay in the soggy shadow of the fog, she fretted sadly for their health;
and she kept feverish watch for a rift in the low, sad sky, and sighed
and wished for sunlight. It mystified me to perceive the wistful regard
she bestowed upon the stalks and leaves that thrived the illest--the
soft touches for the yellowing leaves, and, at last, the tear that fell,
when, withered beyond hope, they were plucked and cast away--and I asked
her why she loved the sick leaves so; and she answered that she knew but
would not tell me why. Many a time, too, at twilight, I surprised her
sitting downcast by the window, staring out--and far--not upon the rock
and sea of our harbour, but as though through the thickening shadows
into some other place.

"What you lookin' at, mum?" I asked her, once.

"A glory," she answered.

"Glory!" said I. "They's no glory out there. The night falls. 'Tis all
black an' cold on the hills. Sure, _I_ sees no glory."

"'Tis not a glory, but a shadow," she whispered, "for you!"

Nor was I now ever permitted to see her in disarray, but always, as it
seemed to me, fresh from my sister's clever hands, her hair laid smooth
and shining, her simple gown starched crisp and sweetly smelling of the
ironing board; and when I asked her why she was never but thus lovely,
she answered, with a smile, that surely it pleased her son to find her
always so: which, indeed, it did. I felt, hence, in some puzzled way,
that this display was a design upon me, but to what end I could not
tell. And there was an air of sad unquiet in the house: it occurred to
my childish fancy that my mother was like one bound alone upon a long
journey; and once, deep in the night, when I had long lain ill at ease
in the shadow of this fear, I crept to her door to listen, lest she be
already fled, and I heard her sigh and faintly complain; and then I went
back to bed, very sad that my mother should be ailing, but now sure that
she would not leave me.

Next morning my father leaned over our breakfast table and laid his
broad hand upon my mother's shoulder; whereupon she looked up smiling,
as ever she did when that big man caressed her.

"I'll be havin' the doctor for you," he said.

She gave him a swift glance of warning--then turned her wide eyes upon
me.

"Oh," said my father, "the lad knows you is sick. 'Tis no use tryin' t'
keep it from un any more."

"Ay," I sobbed, pushing my plate away, for I was of a sudden no longer
hungry, "I heared you cryin' las' night."

My sister came quickly to my side, and wound a soft arm about my neck,
and drew my head close to her heart, and kissed me many times; and when
she had soothed me I looked up and found my mother gloriously glad that
I had cried.

"'Tis nothing," then she said, with a rush of tenderness for my grief.
"'Tis not hard to bear. 'Tis----"

"Ay, but," said my father, "I'll be havin' the doctor t' see you."

My mother pooh-poohed it all. The doctor? For her? Not she! She was not
sick enough for _that_!

"I'm bent," said my father, doggedly, "on havin' that man."

"David," cried my mother, "I'll not have you do it!"

"I'll have my way of it," said my father. "I'm bent on it, an' I'll be
put off no longer. 'Tis no use, m'am--nar a bit! The doctor's comin' t'
see you."

"Ah, well!" sighed my mother.

"Ay," said my father, "I'll have that man ashore when the mail-boat
comes in the spring. 'Tis well on t' December now," he went on, "an' it
may be we'll have an early break-up. Sure, if they's westerly winds in
the spring, an' the ice clears away in good season, we'll be havin' the
mail-boat north in May. Come, now! 'twill not be later than June, I
'low. An' I'll have that doctor ashore in a hurry, mark my words, when
the anchor's down. That I will!"

"'Tis a long time," said my mother.

Every morning, thereafter, she said that she was better--always
better--much, much better. 'Twas wonderful, she said, 'twas fair past
making out, indeed, that she should so soon grow into a fine, hearty
woman again; and 'twould be an easy matter, said she, for the mail-boat
doctor to cure _her_--when he came. And she was now more discreet with
her moods; not once did I catch her brooding alone, though more than
once I lay in wait in dark corners or peered through the crack in the
door; and she went smiling about the house, as of old--but yet not as of
old; and I puzzled over the difference, but could not discover it. More
often, now, at twilight, she lured me to her lap, where I was never
loath to go, great lad of nine years though I was; and she sat silent
with me, rocking, rocking, while the deeper night came down--and she
kissed me so often that I wondered she did not tire of it--and she
stroked my brow and cheeks, and touched my eyes, and ran her finger-tips
over my eyebrows and nose and lips, ay, and softly played with my
lips--and at times she strained me so hard to her breast that I near
complained of the embrace--and I was no more driven off to bed when my
eyes grew heavy, but let lie in her arms, while we sat silent, rocking,
rocking, until long, long after I had fallen asleep. And once, at the
end of a sweet, strange hour, making believe to play, she gently pried
my eyes wide open and looked far into their depths--so deep, so long, so
searchingly, so strangely, that I waxed uneasy under the glance.

"Wh-wh-what--what you----" I began, inarticulately.

"What am I looking for?" she interrupted, speaking quickly.

"Ay," I whimpered, for I was deeply agitated; "what you lookin' for?"

"For your heart," said she.

I did not know what she meant; and I wondered concerning the fancy she
had, but did not ask, for there was that in her voice and eyes that made
me very solemn.

"'Tis but a child's heart," she sighed, turning away. "'Tis but like the
hearts," she whispered, "of all children. I cannot tell--I cannot tell,"
she sobbed, "and I want--oh, I want so much--to know!"

"Don't cry!" I pleaded, thrown into an agony by her tears, in the way of
all children.

She sat me back in her lap. "Look in your mother's eyes, lad," said she,
"and say after me this: 'My mother----'"

"'My mother----'" I repeated, very soberly.

"'Looked upon my heart----'"

"'Looked upon my heart----'" said I.

"'And found it brave----'"

"'An' found it brave----'"

"'And sweet----'"

"'An' sweet----'"

"'Willing for the day's work----'" said she.

"'Willing for the day's work----'" I repeated.

"'And harbouring no shameful hope.'"

"'An' harbouring--no shameful--hope.'"

Again and again she had me say it--until I knew it every word by heart.

"Ah," said she, at last, "but you'll forget!"

"No, no!" I cried. "I'll not forget. 'My mother looked upon my heart,'"
I rattled, "'an' found it brave an' sweet, willing for the day's work
an' harbouring no shameful hope.' I've not forgot! I've _not_ forgot!"

"He'll forget," she whispered, but not to me, "like all children."

But I have not forgotten--I have not forgotten--I have never
forgotten--that when I was a child my mother looked upon my heart and
found it brave and sweet, willing for the day's work and harbouring no
shameful hope.

* * * * *

The winter fell early and with ominous severity. Our bleak coast was
soon too bitter with wind and frost and snow for the folk to continue in
their poor habitations. They were driven in haste to the snugger inland
tilts, which lay in a huddle at the Lodge, far up Twisted Arm, in the
blessed proximity of fire-wood--there to trap and sleep in hardly
mitigated misery until the kindlier spring days should once again invite
them to the coast. My father, the only trader on forty miles of our
coast, as always dealt them salt beef and flour and tea with a free
hand, until, at last, the storehouses were swept clean of food, save
sufficient for our own wants: his great heart hopeful that the catch of
next season, and the honest hearts of the folk, and the mysterious favor
of the Lord, would all conspire to repay him. And so they departed, bag
and baggage, youngsters and dogs; and the waste of our harbour and of
the infinite roundabout was left white and silent, as of death itself.
But we dwelt on in our house under the sheltering Watchman; for my
father, being a small trader, was better off than they--though I would
not have you think him of consequence elsewhere--and had builded a stout
house, double-windowed, lined with felt and wainscotted with canvas, so
that but little frost formed on the walls of the living rooms, and that
only in the coldest weather.

"'Tis cozy enough," said my father, chucking my mother under the chin,
"even for a maid a man might cotch up Boston way!"

Presently came Skipper Tommy Lovejoy by rollicking dog-team from the
Lodge to inquire after my mother's health--to cheer us, it may be, I'm
thinking, with his hearty way, his vast hope, his odd fancies, his
ruddy, twinkling face. Most we laughed when he described his plan (how
seriously conceived there was no knowing) for training whales to serve
as tugboats in calms and adverse winds. It appeared, too, that a similar
recital had been trying to the composure of old Tom Tot, of our harbour,
who had searched the Bible for seven years to discover therein a good
man of whom it was said that he laughed, and, failing utterly, had
thereupon vowed never again to commit the sin of levity.

"Sure, I near fetched un," said Skipper Tommy, gleefully, "with me
whales. I come near makin' Tom Tot break that scandalous vow, zur,
indeed I did! He got wonderful purple in the face, an' choked in a
fearsome way, when I showed un my steerin' gear for the beast's tail,
but, as I'm sad t' say, zur, he managed t' keep it in without bustin'.
But I'll get un yet, zur--oh, ay, zur--just leave un t' me! Ecod! zur,
I'm thinkin' he'll capsize with all hands when I tells un I'm t' have a
wheel-house on the forward deck o' that wha-a-ale!"

But the old man soon forgot all about his whales, as he had forgotten to
make out the strange way the Lord had discovered to fasten His stars to
the sky; moved by a long contemplation of my mother's frailty, he had a
nobler inspiration.

"'Tis sad, lass," he said, his face aquiver with sympathy, "t' think
that we've but one doctor t' cure the sick, an' him on the mail-boat.
'Tis _wonderful_ sad t' think o' that! 'Tis a hard case," he went on,
"but if a man only thunk hard enough he'd find a way t' mend it. Sure,
what _ought_ t' be mended _can_ be mended. 'Tis the way o' the world. If
a man only thinks hard an' thinks sensible, he'll find a way, zur, every
time. 'Tis easy t' think hard, but 'tis sometimes hard," he added, "t'
think t' the point."

We were silent while he continued lost in deep and puzzled thought.

"Ecod!" he burst out. "I got it!"

"Have you, now?" cried my father, half amused, half amazed.

"Just this minute, zur," said the skipper, in a glow of delighted
astonishment. "It come t' me all t' oncet."

"An' what is it?"

"'Tis a sort o' book, zur!"

"A book?"

"Ay, 'tis just a book. Find out all the cures in the world an' put un in
a book. Get the doctor-women's, an' the healers', an' the real doctor's,
an' put un right in a book. Has you got the dip-theria? Ask the book
what t' do. 'Dip-theria?' says the book t' you. 'Well, that's sad. Tie a
split herring round your neck.' S'pose you got the salt-water sores.
What do you do, then? Why, turn t' the book. 'Oh, 'tis nothin' t' cure
_that_,' says the book. 'Wear a brass chain on your wrist, lad, an'
you'll be troubled no more.' Take it, now, when you got blood-poison in
the hand. What is you t' do, you wants t' know? 'Blood-poison in the
hand?' says the book. 'Good gracious, that's awful! Cut off your hand.'
'Twould be a wonderful good work," the skipper concluded, "t' make a
book like that!" It appeared to me that it would.

"I wonder," the skipper went on, staring at the fire, a little smile
playing upon his face, "if _I_ couldn't do that! 'Twould surely be a
thing worth doin'. I wonder--I wonder--if I couldn't manage--somehow--t'
do it!"

We said nothing; for he was not thinking of us, any more, as we
knew--but only dreaming of the new and beneficent work which had of a
sudden appeared to him.

"But I isn't able t' write," he muttered, at last. "I--I--_wisht I
could_!"

"'Twould be a wonderful fine work for a man t' do," said my father.

"'Tis a wonder, now," said Skipper Tommy, looking up with a bright face,
"that no one ever thought o' doin' that afore. T' my mind," he added,
much puzzled, "'tis very queer, indeed, that they's nar a man in all the
world t' think o' that--but _me_!"

My mother smiled.

"I'm thinkin' I'll just _have_ t' try," Skipper Tommy went on, frowning
anxiously. "But, ecod!" he cried, "maybe the Lard wouldn't like it. Now,
maybe, He wants us men t' mind our business. Maybe, He'd say, 'You keep
your finger out o' My pie. Don't you go makin' no books about cures.'
But, oh, no!" with the overflow of fine feeling which so often came
upon him. "Why, _He_ wouldn't mind a little thing like that. Sure, I
wouldn't mind it, meself! 'You go right ahead, lad,' He'd say, 'an' try
t' work your cures. Don't you be afeared o' Me. _I'll_ not mind. But,
lad,' He'd say, 'when I wants my way I just got t' _have_ it. Don't you
forget that. Don't you go thinkin' you can have _your_ way afore I has
_Mine_. You just trust Me t' do what's right. I know My business. I'm
_used_ t' running worlds. I'm wonderful sorry,' He'd say, 't' have t'
make you feel bad; but they's times, b'y,' He'd say, 'when I really
_got_ t' have My way.' Oh, no," Skipper Tommy concluded, "the Lard
wouldn't mind a poor man's tryin' t' make a book like that! An' I thinks
I'll just _have_ t' try."

"Sure, Skipper Tommy," said I, "I'll help you."

Skipper Tommy stared at me in great amaze.

"Ay," said my mother, "Davy has learned to write."

"That I have," I boasted; "an' I'll help you make that book."

"'Tis the same," cried Skipper Tommy, slapping his thigh "as if 'twas
writ already!"

* * * * *

After a long time, my mother spoke. "You're always wanting to do some
good thing, Skipper Tommy, are you not?" said she.

"Well," he admitted, his face falling, "I thinks and wonders a deal,
'tis true, but somehow I don't seem t'----"

"Ay?" my father asked.

"Get--nowhere--much!"

Very true: but, even then, there was a man on the way to help him.

V

MARY

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 as we 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 (what
was 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--and not 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 left _me_ with
the goats."

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