Doctor Luke of the Labrador Part 12

We were waiting--both waiting. And I was waiting for the lights of the returning punts.

"Davy!" my mother called. "You are still there?"

"Ay, mother," I answered. "I'm still sittin' by the window, lookin'

out."

"I am glad, dear," she sighed, "that you are here--with me--to-night."

She craved love, my love; and my heart responded, as the knowing hearts of children will.

"Ah, mother," I said, "'tis lovely t' be sittin' here--all alone with you!"

"Don't, Davy!" she cried, catching her breath. "I'm not able to bear the joy of it. My heart----"

"'Tis so," I persisted, "'cause I loves you so!"

"But, oh, I'm glad, Davy!" she whispered. "I'm glad you love your mother. And I'm glad," she added, softly, "that you've told me so--to-night."

By and by I grew drowsy. My eyes would not stay open. And I fell asleep with my head on the window-sill. I do not know how long I slept.

"Davy!" my mother called.

"Ay?" I answered, waking. "Sure, I been asleep!"

"But you're not wanting to go to bed?" she asked, anxiously. "You'll not leave your mother all alone, will you?"

"No, no, mama!"

"No," she said. "Do not leave your mother, now."

Again I fell asleep. It may be that I wasted a long, long time in sleep.

"Davy!" she called.

I answered. And, "I cannot stay awake," I said. "Sure, 'tis quite past me t' do it, for I'm so wonderful sleepy."

"Come closer," she said. "Tired lad!" she went on, when she had my hand in hers. "Sleepy head! Lie down beside me, dear, and go to sleep. I'm not afraid--not afraid, at all--to be left alone. Oh, you're so tired, little lad! Lie down and sleep. For your mother is very brave--to-night.

And tell your father, Davy--when he comes and wakes you--and tell your sister, too--that your mother was happy, oh, very happy and brave, when...."

"When you fell asleep?" I asked.

"Yes," she answered, in a voice so low I could but hear it. "That I was happy when--I fell asleep."

I pulled off my jacket.

"I'm wanting to hear you say your prayers, Davy," she said, "before you go to sleep. I'm wanting once again--just once again--to hear you say your prayers."

I knelt beside the bed.

"My little son!" my mother said. "My--little--son!"

"My mother!" I responded, looking up.

She lifted my right hand. "Dear Jesus, lover of children," she prayed, "take, oh, take this little hand!"

And I began to say my prayers, while my mother's fingers wandered tenderly through my curls, but I was a tired child, and fell asleep as I prayed. And when I awoke, my mother's hand lay still and strangely heavy on my head.

Then the child that was I knew that his mother was dead. He leaped from his knees with a broken cry, and stood expectant, but yet in awe, searching the dim, breathless room for a beatified figure, white-robed, winged, radiant, like the angel of the picture by his bed, for he believed that souls thus took their flight; but he saw only shadows.

"Mama," he whispered, "where is you?"

There was no answer to the child's question. The risen wind blew wildly in the black night without. But it was still dim and breathless in the room.

"Mama," said the child, "is your soul hidin' from me?"

Still the child was left unanswered. He waited, listening--but was not answered.

"Don't hide," he pleaded. "Oh, don't hide, for I'm not wantin' to play!

Oh, mother, I'm wantin' you sore!"

And, now, he knew that she would come, for, "I'm wantin' you, mother!"

he had been used to crying in the night, and she had never failed to answer, but had come swiftly and with comfort. He waited for a voice and for a vision, surely expecting them in answer to his cry; but he saw only shadows, heard only the scream of the wind, and a sudden, angry patter of rain on the roof. Then the child that was I fancied that his mother's soul had fled while yet he slept, and, being persuaded that its course was heavenward, ran out, seeking it. And he forgets what then he did, save that he climbed the broken cliff behind the house, crying, "Wait, oh, wait!" and that he came, at last, to the summit of the Watchman, where there was a tumult of wind and rain.

"Mama!" he screamed, lifting his hands in appeal to the wide, black sky. "You forgot t' kiss me good-bye! Oh, come back!"

He flung himself p.r.o.ne on the naked rock, for the soul of his mother did not come, though patiently he had watched for the glory of its returning flight.

"She've forgot me!" he moaned. "Oh, she've forgot me!"

When, trembling and bedraggled, I came again to the room where my mother's body lay, my sister was kneeling by the bed, and my father was in converse with a stranger, who was not like the men of our coast. "Not necessarily mortal," this man was saying. "An operation--just a simple operation--easily performed with what you have at hand--would have saved the woman."

"Saved her, Doctor?" said my father pa.s.sionately. "Is you sayin'

_that_?"

"I have said so. It would have saved her. Had we been wrecked five days ago she would have been alive."

A torrent of rain beat on the house.

"Alive?" my father muttered, staring at the floor. "She would have been alive!"

The stranger looked upon my father in pity. "I'm sorry for you, my man,"

he said.

"'Tis strange," my father muttered, still staring at the floor. "'Tis strange--how things--comes about. Five days--just five...."