Doctor Luke of the Labrador Part 9

"An' 'tis parlous work, lad," said the skipper, with an anxious shrug, while we waited on the wharf for the woman to come. "I'm very much afeared. Ay," he added, frowning, "I is that!"

"I'm not knowin' why," said I, "for the wind's blowin' fair from the sou'west, an' you'll have a fine time t' Wolf Cove."

"'Tis not that," said he, quietly. "Hist!" jerking his head towards our house, where the woman yet was. "'Tis _she_!"

"I'd not be afeared o' _she_," said I. "'Twas but last night," I added, proudly, "my sister gave her her tea in a mug."

"Oh, ay," said he, "I heared tell o' that. But 'tis not t' the point.

Davy, lad," in an undertone which betrayed great agitation, "she've her cap set for a man, an' she's desperate."

"Ay?" said I.

He bent close to my ear. "An' she've her eye on _me_!" he whispered.

"Skipper Tommy," I earnestly pleaded, "don't you go an' do it."

"Well, lad," he answered, pulling at his nose, "the good Lard made me what I is. I'm not complainin' o' the taste He showed. No, no! I would not think o' doin' that. But----"

"He made you kind," I broke in, hotly, "an' such as good folk love."

"I'm not knowin' much about that, Davy. The good Lard made me as He willed. But I'm an obligin' man. I've turned out, Davy, most wonderful obligin'. I'm always doin' what folks wants me to. Such men as me, lad,"

he went on, precisely indicating the weakness of his tender character, "is made that way. An' if she tells me she's a lone woman, and if she begins t' cry, what is I to do? An' if I has t' pa.s.s me word, Davy, t'

stop her tears! Eh, lad? Will you tell me, David Roth, _what_ is I t'

do?"

"Turn the punt over," said I, quickly. "They's wind enough for that, man! An' 'tis your only chance, Skipper Tommy--'tis the only chance _you_ got--if she begins t' cry."

He was dispirited. "I wisht," he said, sadly, "that the Lard hadn't made me _quite_ so obligin'!"

"'Tis too bad!"

"Ay," he sighed, "'tis too bad I can't trust meself in the company o'

folk that's givin' t' weepin'."

"I'll have the twins pray for you," I ventured.

"Do!" he cried, brightening. "'Tis a grand thought! An' do you tell them two dear lads that I'll never give in--no, lad, their father'll never give in t' that woman--till he's just _got_ to."

"But, Skipper Tommy," said I, now much alarmed, so hopeless was his tone, stout as his words were, "tell my father you're not wantin' t' go.

Sure, he can send Elisha Turr in your stead."

"Ay," said he, "but I _is_ wantin' t' go. That's it. I'm thinkin' all the time o' the book, lad. I'm wantin' t' make that book a good book.

I'm wantin' t' learn more about cures."

"I'm thinkin' _her_ cures isn't worth much," said I.

He patted me on the head. "You is but a lad," said he, indulgent with my youth, "an' your judgment isn't well growed yet. Some o' they cures is bad, no doubt," he added, "an' some is good. I wants no bad cures in my book. I'll not _have_ them there. But does you think I can't _try_ un all on _meself_ afore I has un _put_ in the book?"

When the punt was well through North Tickle, on a free, freshening wind, I sped to the Rat Hole to apprise the twins of their father's unhappy situation, and to beg of them to be constant and importunate in prayer that he might be saved from the perils of that voyage. Then, still running as fast as my legs would go, I returned to our house, where, again, I found the shadow and the mystery, and the hush in all the rooms.

"Davy!"

"Ay, Bessie," I answered. "'Tis I."

"Our mother's wantin' you, dear."

I tiptoed up the stair, and to the bed where my mother lay, and, very softly, I laid my cheek against her lips.

"My sister sent me, mum," I whispered.

"Yes," she sighed. "I'm--just wanting you."

Her arm, languid and light, stole round my waist.

IX

A WRECK on The THIRTY DEVILS

Fog--thick, stifling, clammy! A vast bank of it lay stranded on the rocks of our coast: m.u.f.fling voices, making men gasp. In a murky cloud it pressed against my mother's windows. Wharves, cottages, harbour water, great hills beyond--the whole world--had vanished. There was nothing left but a patch of smoking rock beneath. It had come--a grey cloud, drifting low and languidly--with a lazy draught of wind from the east, which had dragged it upon the coast, spread it broadcast and expired of the effort to carry it into the wilderness.

"Wonderful thick, b'y!" was the salutation for the day.

"'S mud," was the response.

Down went the barometer--down, down, slowly, uncompromisingly down!

'Twas shocking to the nerves to consult it.

"An' I'm tellin' you this, lads," said a man on my father's wharf, tugging uneasily at his sou'wester, "that afore midnight you'll be needin' t' glue your hair on!"

This feeling of apprehension was everywhere--on the roads, in the stages, in the very air. No man of our harbour put to sea. With the big wind coming, 'twas no place for punt, schooner or steamer. The waters off sh.o.r.e were set with traps for the unwary and the unknowing--the bluffs veiled by mist, the drift ice hidden, the reefs covered up. In a gale of wind from the east there would be no escape.

Through the dragging day my mother had been restless and in pain. In the evening she turned to us.

"I'm tired," she whispered.

Tired? Oh, ay! She was tired--very, very tired! It was near time for her to rest. She was sadly needing that.

"An' will you try t' sleep, now?" my sister asked.

"Ay," she answered, wanly, "I'll sleep a bit, now, if I can. Where's Davy?"