Doctor Luke of the Labrador Part 20

be up 't this hour!"

"Off to bed with you, you rascal!" roared the doctor.

"I'll not go," I protested.

"Off with you!"

"Not I."

"Catch un, doctor!" cried my sister.

"An you can, zur!" I taunted.

If he could? Ecod! He s.n.a.t.c.hed at me, quick as a cat; but I dodged his hand, laughed in his face and put the table between us. With an agility beyond compare--with a flow of spirits like a gale of wind--he vaulted the broad board. The great, grave fellow appeared of a sudden to my startled vision in midair--his arms and legs at sixes and sevens--his coat-tails flapping like a loose sail--his mouth wide open in a demoniacal whoop--and I dropped to the floor but in the bare nick of time to elude him. Uproarious pursuit ensued: it made my sister limp and pain-stricken and powerless with laughter; it brought our two maids from the kitchen and kept them hysterically screaming in the doorway, the lamp at a fearsome angle; it tumbled the furniture about with rollicking disregard, led the doctor a staggering, scrambling, leaping course in the midst of upturned tables and chairs, and, at last, ran the gasping quarry to earth under the sofa. I was taken out by the heels, shouldered, carried aloft and flung sprawling on my bed--while the whole house rang again with peal upon peal of hearty laughter.

"Oh, zur," I groaned, "I never knowed you was so jolly!"

"Not so?"

"On my word, zur!"

He sighed.

"I fancied you was never but sad."

"Ah, well," said he, "the Labrador, Davy, is evidently working a cure."

"G.o.d be thanked for that!" said I, devoutly.

He rumpled my hair and went out. And I bade him send my sister with the candle; and while I lay waiting in the dark a glow of content came upon me--because of this: that whereas I had before felt woefully inadequate to my sister's protection, however boastfully I had undertaken it, I was now sure that in our new partnership her welfare and peace of heart were to be accomplished. Then she came in and sat with me while I got ready for bed. She had me say my prayers at her knee, as a matter of course, but this night hinted that an additional pet.i.tion for the doctor's well-doing and happiness might not be out of place. She chided me, after that, for the temper I had shown against Jagger and for the oath I had flung at his head, as I knew she would--but did not chide me heartily, because, as she said, she was for the moment too gratefully happy to remember my short-comings against me. I thanked her, then, for this indulgence, and told her that she might go to bed, for I was safely and comfortably bestowed, as she could see, and ready for sleep; but she would not go, and there sat, with the candle in her hand, her face flushed and her great blue eyes soulfully glowing, while she continued to chatter in an incoherent and strangely irrelevant fashion: so that, astonished into broad wakefulness by this extraordinary behaviour, I sat bolt upright in bed, determined to discover the cause.

"Bessie Roth," said I, severely, "what's come upon you?"

"I'm not knowin', Davy," she answered, softly, looking away.

"'Tis somewhat awful, then," said I, in alarm, "for you're not lookin'

me in the eye."

She looked then in her lap--and did not raise her eyes, though I waited: which was very strange.

"You isn't sick, is you?"

"No-o," she answered, doubtfully.

"Oh, you _mustn't_ get sick," I protested. "'Twould _never_ do. I'd fair die--if _you_ got sick!"

"'Tisn't sickness; 'tis--I'm not knowin' what."

"Ah, come," I pleaded; "what is it, dear?"

"Davy, lad," she faltered, "I'm just--dreadful--happy."

"Happy?" cried I, scornfully. "'Tis not happiness! Why, sure, your lip is curlin' with grief!"

"But I _was_ happy."

"You isn't happy now, my girl."

"No," she sobbed, "I'm wonderful miserable--now."

I kicked off the covers. "You've the fever, that's what!" I exclaimed, jumping out of bed.

"'Tis not that, Davy."

"Then--oh, for pity's sake, Bessie, tell your brother what's gone wrong along o' you!"

"I'm thinkin', Davy," she whispered, despairingly, "that I'm nothin' but a sinful woman."

"A--what! Why, Bessie----"

"Nothin'," she repeated, positively, "but a sinful, wicked person."

"Who told you that?" said I, dancing about in a rage.

"My own heart."

"Your heart!" cried I, blind angry. "'Tis a liar an it says so."

"What words!" she exclaimed, changed in a twinkling. "An' to your sister! Do you get back in bed this instant, David Roth, an' tell her that you're sorry."

I was loath to do it, but did, to pacify her; and when she had carried away the candle I chuckled, for I had cured her of her indisposition for that night, at any rate: as I knew, for when she kissed me 'twas plain that she was more concerned for her wayward brother than for herself.

Past midnight I was awakened by the clang of the bell on my father's wharf. 'Twas an unpleasant sound. Half a gale--no less--could do it. I then knew that the wind had freshened and veered to the southeast; and I listened to determine how wild the night. Wild enough! The bell clanged frequently, sharply, jangling in the gusts--like an anxious warning. My window was black; there was no light in the sky--no star shining. Rain pattered on the roof. I heard the rush of wind. 'Twas inevitable that I should contrast the quiet of the room, the security of my place, the comfort of my couch and blankets, with a rain-swept, heaving deck and a tumultuous sea. A gusty night, I thought--thick, wet, with the wind rising. The sea would be in a turmoil on the grounds by dawn: there would be no fishing; and I was regretting this--between sleep and waking--when the bell again clanged dolefully. Roused, in a measure, I got ear of men stumbling up the path. I was into my breeches before they had trampled half the length of the platform--well on my way down the dark stair when they knocked on the door--standing scared in the light of their lantern, the door open, before they found time to hail.

I was addressed by a gray old man in ragged oilskins. "We heared tell,"

said he, mildly, wiping his dripping beard, "that you got a doctor here."

I said that we had.

"Well," he observed, in a dull, slow voice, "we got a sick man over there t' Wreck Cove."

"Ay?" said I.

"An' we was sort o' wonderin', wasn't we, Skipper Tom," another put in, "how much this doctor would be askin' t' go over an' cure un?"

"Well, ay," the skipper admitted, taking off his sou'wester to scratch his head, "we _did_ kind o' have that idea."