Doctor Luke of the Labrador Part 2

"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 a.s.surance my heart wanted: we are a G.o.d-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 compa.s.s 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 G.o.d 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 ash.o.r.e 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 ash.o.r.e in a hurry, mark my words, when the anchor's down. That I will!"

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