Doctor Luke of the Labrador Part 27

By this time the amazing news had spread. Far and near the guns were popping a salute--which set the dogs a-howling: so that the noise was heartrending. Presently the neighbours began to gather: whereupon (for the cottage was small) we took our leave, giving the pair good wishes for the continuance of a happy married life. And when we got to our house we found waiting in the kitchen Mag Trawl, who had that day brought her fish from Swampy Arm--a dull girl, slatternly, shiftless: the mother of two young sons.

"I heared tell," she drawled, addressing the doctor, but looking elsewhere, "that you're just after marryin' Aunt Amanda."

The doctor nodded.

"I 'low," she went on, after an empty pause, "that I wants t' get married, too."

"Where's the man?"

"Jim he 'lowed two year ago," she said, staring at the ceiling, "that we'd go south an' have it done this season if no parson come."

"Bring the man," said the doctor, briskily.

"Well, zur," said she, "Jim ain't here. You couldn't do it 'ithout Jim bein' here, could you?"

"Oh, no!"

"I 'lowed you might be able," she said, with a little sigh, "if you tried. But you couldn't, says you?"

"No."

"Jim he 'lowed two year ago it ought t' be done. You couldn't do it nohow?"

The doctor shook his head.

"Couldn't make a shift at it?"

"No."

"Anyhow," she sighed, rising to go, "I 'low Jim won't mind now. He's dead."

Within three weeks the mail-boat touched our harbor for the last time that season: being then southbound into winter quarters at St. John's.

It chanced in the night--a clear time, starlit, but windy, with a high sea running beyond the harbour rocks. She came in by way of North Tickle, lay for a time in the quiet water off our wharf, and made the open through the Gate. From our platform we watched the shadowy bulk and warm lights slip behind Frothy Point and the shoulder of the Watchman--hearkened for the last blast of the whistle, which came back with the wind when the ship ran into the great swell of the sea.

Then--at once mustering all our cheerfulness--we turned to our own concerns: wherein we soon forgot that there was any world but ours, and were content with it.

Tom Tot came in.

"'Tis late for you, Tom," said my sister, in surprise.

"Ay, Miss Bessie," he replied, slowly. "Wonderful late for me. But I been home talkin' with my woman," he went on, "an' we was thinkin' it over, an' she s'posed I'd best be havin' a little spell with the doctor."

He was very grave--and sat twirling his cap: lost in anxious thought.

"You're not sick, Tom?"

"Sick!" he replied, indignantly. "Sure, I'd not trouble the doctor for that! I'm troubled," he added, quietly, looking at his cap, "along--o'

Mary."

It seemed hard for him to say.

"She've been in service, zur," he went on, turning to the doctor, "at Wayfarer's Tickle. An' I'm fair troubled--along o' she."

"She've not come?" my sister asked.

For a moment Tom regarded the floor--his gaze fixed upon a protruding knot. "She weren't aboard, Miss Bessie," he answered, looking up, "an'

she haven't sent no word. I been thinkin' I'd as lief take the skiff an'

go fetch her home."

"Go the morrow, Tom," said I.

"I was thinkin' I would, Davy, by your leave. Not," he added, hastily, "that I'm afeared she've come t' harm. She's too scared o' h.e.l.l for that. But--I'm troubled. An' I'm thinkin' she might--want a chance--home."

He rose.

"Tom," said I, "do you take Timmie Lovejoy an' Will Watt with you.

You'll need un both t' sail the skiff."

"I'm thankin' you, Davy, lad," said he. "'Tis kind o' you t' spare them."

"An' I'm wishin' you well."

He picked at a thread in his cap. "No," he persisted, doggedly, "she were so wonderful scared o' h.e.l.l she fair _couldn't_ come t' harm. I brung her up too well for that. But," with a frown of anxious doubt, "the Jagger crew was aboard, bound home t' Newf'un'land. An'--well--I'm troubled. They was drunk--an' Jagger was drunk--an' I asked un about my maid--an'...."

"Would he tell you nothing?" the doctor asked.

"Well," said Tom, turning away, "he just laughed."

We were at that moment distracted by the footfall of men coming in haste up the path from my father's wharf. 'Twas not hard to surmise their errand. My sister sighed--I ran to the door--the doctor began at once to get into his boots and greatcoat. But, to our surprise, two deck-hands from the mail-boat pushed their way into the room. She had returned (said they) and was now waiting off the Gate. There was need of a doctor aboard. Need of a doctor! What of the mail-boat doctor? Ah, 'twas he who was in need. My heart bounded to hear it! And how had he come to that pa.s.s? He had essayed to turn in--but 'twas rough water outside--and he had caroused with Jagger's crew all the way from Wayfarer's Tickle--and 'twas very rough water--and he had fallen headlong down the companion--and they had picked him up and put him in his berth, where he lay unconscious.

'Twas sweet news to me. "You'll not go?" I whispered to the doctor.

He gave me a withering glance--and quietly continued to b.u.t.ton his greatcoat.

"Is you forgot what I told you?" I demanded, my voice rising.

He would not reply.

"Oh, don't go!" I pleaded.

He turned up the collar of his coat--picked up his little black case of medicines. Then I feared that he meant indeed to go.

"Leave un die where he lies, zur!" I wailed.

"Come along, men!" said he to the deck-hands.

I sprang ahead of them--flung the door shut--put my back against it: crying out against him all the while. My sister caught my wrist--I pushed her away. Tom Tot laid his hand on my shoulder--I threw it off with an oath. My heart was in a flame of rage and resentment. That this castaway should succour our enemy! I saw, again, a great, wet sweep of deck, glistening underfoot--heard the rush of wind, the swish of breaking seas, the throb and clank of engines, the rain on the panes--once again breathed the thick, gray air of a cabin where two men sat at cards--heard the curse and blow and outcry--saw my mother lying on the pillows, a red geranium in her thin, white hand--heard her sigh and whisper: felt anew her tender longing.