Doctor Luke of the Labrador

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"Dear mama," I prayed, "there's something wrong along o' the man who
come the night you died. He've managed somehow t' get wonderful sick.
I'm not knowin' what ails un, or where he cotched it; but I sees it
plain in his face: an' 'tis a woeful sickness. Do you make haste t' the
throne o' God, please, mum, an' tell Un I been askin' you t' have un
cured. You'd want un well, too, an you was here; an' the Lard 'll surely
listen t' you, an' take your word for 't. Oh, do you pray the Lard,
with all your might an' main, dear mama, t' heal that man!"

* * * * *

In our land the works of the Lord are not obscured by what the hands of
men have made. The twofold vision ranges free and far. Here are no brick
walls, no unnatural need or circumstance, no confusing inventions, no
gasping haste, no specious distractions, no clamour of wheel and
heartless voices, to blind the soul, to pervert its pure desires, to
deaden its fears, to deafen its ears to the sweeter calls--to shut it
in, to shrivel it: to sicken it in every part. Rock and waste of sea and
the high sweep of the sky--winds and rain and sunlight and flying
clouds--great hills, mysterious distances, flaming sunsets, the still,
vast darkness of night! These are the mighty works of the Lord, and of
none other--unspoiled and unobscured. In them He proclaims Himself. They
who have not known before that the heavens and the earth are the
handiwork of God, here discover it: and perceive the Presence and the
Power, and are ashamed and overawed. Thus our land works its marvel in
the sensitive soul. I have sometimes thought that in the waste is
sounded the great keynote of life--with which true hearts ever seek to
vibrate in tune.

XIII

A SMILING FACE

"Doctor Luke, zur," I said, as we walked that day, "I dreamed o' you,
last night."

"Pleasantly, I hope?"

I sighed.

"What," said he, gravely, "did you dream of me?"

'Twas hard to frame a reply. "I been thinkin', since," I faltered,
floundering in search of a simile, "that you're like a--like a----"

"Like what?" he demanded.

I did not know. My eye sought everywhere, but found no happy suggestion.
Then, through an opening in the hills, I caught sight of the melancholy
wreck on the Reef of the Thirty Black Devils.

"I fear t' tell," said I.

He stopped. "But I wish to know," he persisted. "You'll tell me, Davy,
will you not? It means so much."

"Like a wrecked ship," said I.

"Good God!" he exclaimed, starting from me.

At once he sent me home; nor would he have me walk with him that
afternoon, because, as he said, my sister would not allow me to bear him
company, did she know as much as I had in some strange way divined.

* * * * *

Next day, armed with my sister's express permission, I overcame his
scruples; and off we went to Red Indian Cave. Everywhere, indeed, we
went together, while the wrecked folk waited the mail-boat to
come--Doctor Luke and I--hand in hand--happy (for the agony of my loss
came most in the night, when I lay wakeful and alone in my little bed)
as the long, blue days. We roamed the hills, climbed the cliffs,
clambered along shore; and once, to my unbounded astonishment and alarm,
he stripped to the skin and went head first into the sea from the base
of the Good Promise cliffs. Then nothing would content him but that I,
too, should strip and plunge in: which I did (though you may think it
extraordinary), lest he think me afraid to trust his power to save me.
Thus the invigourating air, the yellow sunlight, the smiling sea beyond
the rocks, the blue sky overhead, were separate delights in which our
friendship ripened: so that at times I wondered what loneliness would
overtake me when he had gone. I told him I wished he would not go away
on the mail-boat, but would stay and live with us, that, being a
doctor, as he had said, he might heal our folk when they fell sick, and
no one would die, any more. He laughed at that--but not because of
merriment--and gripped my hand tighter, and I began to hope that,
perhaps, he would not go away; but he did not tell me whether he would
or not.

* * * * *

When the mail-boat was near due, my sister said that I must have the
doctor to tea; for it would never do, said she, to accept his kindnesses
and show no hospitality in return. In reply to this Doctor Luke said
that I must present his compliments to my sister (which I thought a
curious way of putting it), and say that he accepted the invitation with
great pleasure; and, as though it were a matter of grave moment, he had
me repeat the form until I knew it perfectly. That evening my sister
wore a long skirt, fashioned in haste from one of my mother's gowns, and
this, with my mother's keys, which she kept hanging from her girdle, as
my mother used to do, made her very sweetly staid. The doctor came
speckless, wearing his only shirt, which (as Tom Tot's wife made known
to all the harbour) he had paid one dollar to have washed and ironed in
three hours for the occasion, spending the interval (it was averred) in
his room. While we waited for the maids to lay the table, my sister
moved in and out, directing them; and the doctor gazed at her in a way
so marked that I made sure she had forgotten a hook or a button, and
followed her to the kitchen to discover the omission.

"Sure, Bessie, dear," I began, very gingerly, "I'm fair dreadin' that
you're--you're----"

She was humming, in happy unconsciousness of her state; and I was
chagrined by the necessity of disclosing it: but resolutely continued,
for it must be done.

"Loose," I concluded.

She gave a little jump--a full inch, it may be--from the floor.

"Davy!" she cried, in mixed horror and distress. "Oh, dear!
Whereabouts?"

"Do you turn around," said I, "an' I'll soon find out."

She whirled like a top. But I could find nothing awry. She was shipshape
from head to toe.

"'Tis very queer," said I. "Sure, I thought you'd missed a button, for
the doctor is lookin' at you all the time."

"At _me_!" she cried.

"Ay, at you."

She was then convinced with me that there was something amiss, and
called the maids to our help, for, as she said, I was only a boy
(though a dear one), and ill schooled in such matters. But it turned out
that their eyes were no sharper than mine. They pronounced her hooked
and buttoned and pinned to the Queen's taste.

"'Tis queer, then," I persisted, when the maids had gone, "that he looks
at you so hard."

"Is you sure he does?" she asked, much puzzled, "for," she added, with a
little frown, "I'm not knowin' why he should."

"Nor I," said I.

At table we were very quiet, but none the less happy for that; for it
seemed to me that my mother's gentle spirit hovered near, content with
what we did. And after tea my father sat with the doctor on our
platform, talking of disease and healing, until, in obedience to my
sister's glance, I took our guest away to the harbour, to see (as I
said) the greatest glories of the sunset: for, as I knew, my sister
wished to take my father within, and change the current of his thought.
Then I rowed the doctor to North Tickle, and let the punt lie in the
swell of the open sea, where it was very solemn and quiet. The sky was
heavy with drifting masses of cloud, aflare with red and gold and all
the sunset colours, from the black line of coast, lying in the west, far
into the east, where sea and sky were turning gray. Indeed, it was very
still, very solemn, lying in the long, crimson swell of the great deep,
while the dusk came creeping over the sea.

"I do not wonder," the doctor muttered, with a shudder, "that the people
who dwell here fear God."

There was something familiar to me in that feeling; but for the moment I
could not make it out.

"Zur?" I said.

His eyes ranged timidly over the sombre waste--the vasty, splendid
heavens, the coast, dark and unfeeling, the infinite, sullen sea, which
ominously darkened as he looked--and he covered his face with his hands.

"No," he whispered, looking up, "I do not wonder that you believe in
God--and fear Him!"

Then I knew that roundabout he felt the presence of an offended God.

"And fear Him!" he repeated.

I levelled my finger at him. "You been wicked!" I said, knowing that my
accusation was true.

"Yes," he answered, "I have been wicked."

"Is you goin' t' be good?"

"I am going to try to be good--now."

"You isn't goin' away, is you?" I wailed.

"I am going to stay here," he said, gravely, "and treat the people, who
need me, and try, in that way, to be good."

"I'd die t' see it!" cried I.

He laughed--and the tension vanished--and we went happily back to
harbour. I had no thought that the resolution to which he had come was
in any way extraordinary.

* * * * *

I ran to the Rat Hole, that night, to give the great news to Skipper
Tommy Lovejoy and the twins. "Ecod!" the old man cried, vastly
astounded. "Is he t' stay, now? Well, well! Then they's no need goin' on
with the book. Ecod! now think o' that! An' 'tis all because your mother
died, says you, when he might have saved her! Ah, Davy, the ways o' God
is strange. He manages somehow t' work a blessin' with death an' wreck.
'I'm awful sorry for they poor children,' says He, 'an' for the owners
o' that there fine ship; but I got t' have My way,' says He, 'or the
world would never come t' much; so down goes the ship,' says He, 'an' up
comes that dear mother t' my bosom. 'Tis no use tellin' them why,' says
He, 'for they wouldn't understand. An', ecod!' says He, 'while I'm about
it I'll just put it in the mind o' that doctor-man t' stay right there
an' do a day's work or two for Me.' I'm sure He meant it--I'm sure He
meant t' do just that--I'm sure 'twas all done o' purpose. We thinks
He's hard an' a bit free an' careless. Ecod! they's times when we
thinks He fair bungles His job. He kills us, an' He cripples us, an' He
starves us, an' He hurts our hearts; an' then, Davy, we says He's a
dunderhead at runnin' a world, which, says we, we could run a sight
better, if we was able t' make one. But the Lard, Davy, does His day's
work in a seamanlike way, usin' no more crooked backs an' empty stomachs
an' children's tears an' broken hearts than He can help. 'Tis little we
knows about what _He's_ up to. An' 'tis wise, I'm thinkin', not t'
bother about tryin' t' find out. 'Tis better t' let Him steer His own
course an' ask no questions. I just _knowed_ He was up t' something
grand. I said so, Davy! 'Tis just like the hymn, lad, about His hidin' a
smilin' face behind a frownin' providence. Ah, Davy, _He'll_ take care
o' _we_!"

All of which, as you know, was quite characteristic of Skipper Tommy
Lovejoy.

XIV

In The WATCHES of The NIGHT

At once we established the doctor in our house, that he might be more
comfortably disposed; and this was by my sister's wish, who hoped to be
his helper in the sweet labour of healing. And soon a strange thing
happened: once in the night--'twas late of a clear, still night--I
awoke, of no reason; nor could I fall asleep again, but lay high on the
pillow, watching the stars, which peeped in at my window, companionably
winking. Then I heard the fall of feet in the house--a restless pacing:
which brought me out of bed, in a twinkling, and took me tiptoeing to
the doctor's room, whence the unusual sound. But first I listened at the
door; and when I had done that, I dared not enter, because of what I
heard, but, crouching in the darkness, must continue to listen ... and
listen....

* * * * *

By and by I crept away to my sister's room, unable longer to bear the
awe and sorrow in my heart.

"Bessie!" I called, in a low whisper.

"Ay, Davy?"

"Is you awake?"

"Ay, I'm wakeful."

I closed the door after me--then went swiftly to her bedside, treading
with great caution.

"Listenin'?" I asked.

"T' the doctor," she answered, "walkin' the floor."

"Is you afraid?" I whispered.

"No."

"I is."

She sat up in bed--and drew me closer. "An' why, dear?" she asked,
stroking my cheek.

"Along o' what I heared in the dark, Bessie--at his door."

"You've not been eavesdroppin', Davy?" she chided.

"Oh, I wisht I hadn't!"

"'Twas not well done."

The moon was up, broadly shining behind the Watchman: my sister's white
little room--kept sweet and dainty in the way she had--was full of soft
gray light; and I saw that her eyes were wide and moist.

"He's wonderful restless, the night," she mused.

"He've a great grief."

"A grief? Oh, Davy!"

"Ay, a great, great grief! He've been talkin' to hisself, Bessie. But
'tis not words; 'tis mostly only sounds."

"Naught else?"

"Oh, ay! He've said----"

"Hush!" she interrupted. "'Tis not right for me t' know. I would not
have you tell----"

I would not be stopped. "He've said, Bessie," I continued, catching
something, it may be, of his agony, "he've said, 'I pay! Oh, God, I
pay!' he've said. 'Merciful Christ, hear me--oh, I pay!'"

She trembled.

"'Tis some great grief," said I.

"Do you haste to his comfort, Davy," she whispered, quickly. "'Twould be
a kind thing t' do."

"Is you sure he's wantin' me?"

"Were it me I would."

When I had got to the doctor's door again, I hesitated, as before,
fearing to go in; and once more I withdrew to my sister's room.

"I'm not able t' go in," I faltered. "'Tis awful, Bessie, t' hear men
goin' on--like that."

"Like what?"

"Cryin'."

A little while longer I sat silent with my sister--until, indeed, the
restless footfalls ceased, and the blessed quiet of night fell once
again.

"An', Bessie," said I, "he said a queer thing."

She glanced a question.

"He said your name!"

She was much interested--but hopelessly puzzled. For a moment she gazed
intently at the stars. Then she sighed.

"He've a great grief," I repeated, sighing, "an' he've been wicked."

"Oh, no--not wicked!"

"Ay," I persisted, gently, "wicked; for he've told me so with his own
tongue."

"Not wicked!"

"But he've _said_ so," I insisted, nettled, on the instant, by my
sister's perversity.

"I'm thinkin' he couldn't be," she said.

"Sure, why not?" I demanded.

She looked away for a moment--through the window, into the far, starlit
sky, which the light of the moon was fast paling; and I thought my
question forgot.

"Why not, sister?"

"I--don't know--why not!" she whispered.

* * * * *

I kissed my sister good-night, while yet she puzzled over this, and
slipped off to my own room, lifting my night-dress, as I tiptoed along,
lest I trip and by some clumsy commotion awake my friend to his
bitterness. Once back in my bed--once again lying alone in the tranquil
night--I found the stars still peeping in at my window, still twinkling
companionably, as I had left them. And I thought, as my mother had
taught me, of these little watchmen, serene, constant, wise in their
great remoteness--and of him who lay in unquiet sleep near by--and,
then, understanding nothing of the mystery, nor caring to know, but now
secure in the unquestioning faith of childhood, I closed my eyes to
sleep: for the stars still shone on, flashing each its little message of
serenity to the troubled world.

XV

THE WOLF

In course of time, the mail-boat cleared our harbour of wrecked folk;
and within three weeks of that day my father was cast away on Ill Wind
Head: being alone on the way to Preaching Cove with the skiff, at the
moment, for fish to fill out the bulk of our first shipment to the
market at St. John's, our own catch having disappointed the expectation
of us every one. My sister and I were then left to manage my father's
business as best we could: which we must determine to do, come weal or
woe, for we knew no other way. My sister said, moreover, that, whether
we grew rich or poor, 'twas wise and kind to do our best, lest our
father's folk, who had ever been loyal to his trade, come upon evil
times at the hands of traders less careful of their welfare. Large
problems of management we did not perceive, but only the simple,
immediate labour, to which we turned with naively willing heads and
hands, sure that, because of the love abroad in all the world, no evil
would befall us.

"'Twill be fortune," my sister said, in her sweet and hopeful way; "for
the big world is good, Davy," said she, "to such as are bereft."

"I'm not so sure o' that."

"Ay," she repeated, unshaken, "the world is kind."

"You is but a girl, Bessie," said I, "an' not well acquaint with the way
o' the world. Still an' all," I mused, "Skipper Tommy says 'tis kind,
an' he've growed wonderful used t' livin'."

"We'll not fear the world."

"No, no! We'll not fear it. I'll be a man, sister, for your sake."

"An' I a true woman," said she, "for yours."

To Tom Tot we gave the handling of the fish and stores, resolving, also,
to stand upon his judgment in the matter of dealing supplies to the
thriftless and the unfortunate, whether generously or with a sparing
hand, for the men of our harbour were known to him, every one, in
strength and conscience and will for toil. As for the shop, said we, we
would mind it ourselves, for 'twas but play to do it; and thus, indeed,
it turned out: so hearty was the sport it provided that my sister and I
would hilariously race for the big key (which hung on a high nail in the
dining-room) whenever a customer came. I would not have you think us
unfeeling. God knows, we were not that! 'Twas this way with us: each hid
the pain, and thus thought to deceive the other into a happier mood. We
did well enough in the shop; but we could make neither head nor tail of
the books in my father's safe; and when our bewilderment and heartache
came to ears of the doctor he said that he would himself manage the
letters and keep the books in the intervals of healing the sick: which,
with a medicine chest they had brought ashore from the wreck, he had
already begun to practice.

It seemed, then, to my sister and me, that the current of our life once
more ran smooth.

* * * * *

And Jagger of Wayfarer's Tickle--the same who sat at cards with the
mail-boat doctor and beat his dog with the butt of a whip--having got
news of my father's death, came presently to our harbour, with that in
mind which jumped ill with our plans. We had dispiriting weather: a raw
wind bowled in from the northeast, whipping the fog apace; and the sea,
as though worried out of patience, broke in a short, white-capped lop,
running at cross purposes with the ground swell. 'Twas evil sailing for
small craft: so whence came this man's courage for the passage 'tis past
me even now to fathom; for he had no liking to be at sea, but, rather,
cursed the need of putting out, without fail, and lay prone below at
such unhappy times as the sloop chanced to toss in rough waters,
praying all the time with amazing ferocity. Howbeit, across the bay he
came, his lee rail smothered; and when he had landed, he shook his
gigantic fist at the sea and burst into a triumphant bellow of
blasphemy, most thrilling (as we were told) to hear: whereafter, with a
large air (as of prospective ownership), he inspected the flakes and
storehouses, heartily condemned them, wished our gaping crew to
perdition, and, out of breath at last, moved up the path to our house,
his great dog hanging like a shadow at his heels--having come and gone
on the wharves, as Tom Tot said, like a gale o' wind.

My sister and I sat dreaming in the evening light--wherein, of soft
shadows and western glory, fine futures may by any one be fashioned.

"'Tis rich," said I, "that _I'm_ wantin' t' be."

"Not I," said she.

"Not you?"

"Not rich," she answered, "but helpful t' such as do the work o' the
world."

"T' me, Bessie?"

"Ay," with a smile and half a sigh, "t' you."

"An' only me? I'd not be selfish with you. Is you wishin' t' be
helpful--only t' me?"

"No."

"T' him?"

"An it please you," she softly answered.

"An' we t' you, Bessie!" I cried, in a rapture, kissing her plump little
hand, which lay over my shoulder, convenient to my lips. "Ay, for your
loving-kindness, my sister!"

"'Tis t' you, first of all, Davy," she protested, quickly, "that I'm
wishin' t' be helpful; an' then t' him, an' then t'----"

"T' who?" I demanded, frowning.

"All the world," said she.

"Very well," said I, much relieved to find that the interloper was no
more to be dreaded. "I'll not mind _that_. 'Tis as you like. You'll help
whomso you please--an' as many. For I'm t' be rich. Rich--look you! I'll
have seven schooners t' sail the northern Labrador, as the doctor says.
I'll never be content with less. Seven I'll have, my dear, t' fish from
the Straits t' Chidley. I'll have the twins t' be masters o' two; but
I'll sail the big one--the swift one--the hundred-tonner--ay, lass, I'll
sail she, with me own hands. An', ecod! Bessie, _I'll_ crack it on!"

"You'll not be rash, dear?" said she, anxiously.

"Rash!" laughed I. "I'll cut off the reef points! Rash? There won't be a
skipper can carry sail with me! I'll get the fish--an' I'll see to it
that my masters does. Then I'll push our trade north an' south. Ay, I
will! Oh, I knows what I'll do, Bessie, for I been talkin' with the
doctor, an' we got it split an' dried. Hard work an' fair dealing, mum;
that's what's t' do it. Our father's way, mum: honest scales on the
wharf an' full weight at the counter. 'Twill be that or bust----"

"Why, Davy," she exclaimed, her eyes flashing, "you're talkin' like a
growed man!"

"Ay, ecod!" I boasted, flattered by the inference, "'twill not be many
years afore we does more trade in our harbour than they does at the big
stores o' Wayfarer's Tickle."

A low growl, coming from the shadows in the hall, brought me to a full
stop; and upon the heels of that a fantastic ejaculation:

"Scuttle me!"

So sudden and savage the outburst, so raucous the voice, so charged with
angry chagrin--the whole so incongruous with soft dreams and evening
light--that 'twas in a shiver of terror my sister and I turned to
discover whose presence had disturbed us.

* * * * *

The intruder stood in the door--a stubby, grossly stout man,
thin-legged, thick-necked, all body and beard: clad below in tight
trousers, falling loose, however, over the boots; swathed above in an
absurdly inadequate pea-jacket, short in the sleeves and buttoned tight
over a monstrous paunch, which laboured (and that right sturdily) to
burst the bonds of its confinement, but succeeded only in creating a
vast confusion of wrinkles. His attitude was that of a man for the
moment amazed beyond utterance: his head was thrown back, so that of his
face nothing was to be seen but a short, ragged growth of iron-gray
beard and a ridge of bushy eyebrow; his hands were plunged deep in his
trousers pockets, which the fists distended; his legs, the left deformed
(being bent inward at the knee), were spread wide. In the shadows beyond
lurked a huge dog--a mighty, sullen beast, which came stepping up, with
lowered head, to peer at us from between his master's legs.

"I'll be scuttled," said the man, bringing his head forward with a jerk,
"if the little cock wouldn't cut into the trade o' Wayfarer's Tickle!"

Having thus in a measure mastered his amazement (and not waiting to be
bidden), he emerged from the obscurity of the doorway, advanced, limping
heavily, and sat himself in my father's chair, from which, his bandy
legs comfortably hanging from the table, where he had disposed his feet,
he regarded me in a way so sinister--with a glance so fixed and
ill-intentioned--that his great, hairy face, malformed and mottled, is
clear to me to this day, to its last pimple and wrinkle, its bulbous,
flaming nose and bloodshot eyes, as though 'twere yesterday I saw it.
And there he sat, puffing angrily, blowing his nose like a whale,
scowling, ejaculating, until (as I've no doubt) he conceived us to have
been reduced to a condition of trepidation wherein he might most easily
overmaster us.

"Scuttled!" he repeated, fetching his paunch a resounding thwack.
"Bored!"

Thereupon he drew from the depths of his trousers pocket a disreputable
clay pipe, filled it, got it alight, noisily puffed it, darting little
glances at my sister and me the while, in the way of one outraged--now
of reproach, now of righteous indignation, now betraying uttermost
disappointment--for all the world as though he had been pained to
surprise us in the thick of a conspiracy to wrong him, but, being of a
meek and most forgiving disposition, would overlook the offense, though
'twas beyond his power, however willing the spirit, to hide the wound
our guilt had dealt him. Whatever the object of this display, it gave me
a great itching to retreat behind my sister's skirts, for fear and
shame. And, as it appeared, he was quick to conjecture my feeling: for
at once he dropped the fantastic manner and proceeded to a quiet and
appallingly lucid statement of his business.

"I'm Jagger o' Wayfarer's Tickle," said he, "an' I'm come t' take over
this trade."

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