Doctor Luke of the Labrador Part 33

And 'twas thus it came about that we were rescued: for, being old and wise, they chose to foot it to Wolf Cove--over the 'longsh.o.r.e hills--fearing to chance the punt at sea, because of the shifting ice.

Midway between our harbour and Wolf Cove, they found the doctor sitting blind in the snow, but still l.u.s.tily entreating the surrounding desolation for help--raising a shout at intervals, in the manner of a faithful fog-horn. Searching in haste and great distress, they soon came upon my sister and me, exhausted, to be sure, and that most pitiably, but not beyond the point of being heartily glad of their arrival. Then they made a tiny fire with birch rind and billets from Tom Tot's pack--and the fire crackled and blazed in a fashion the most heartening--and the s.m.u.tty tin kettle bubbled as busily as in the most immaculate of kitchens: and presently the tea and hard-bread were doing such service as rarely, indeed, save in our land, it is their good fortune to achieve. And having been refreshed and roundly scolded, we were led to the cove beyond, where we lay the night at the cottage of Tiltworthy Cutch: whence, in the morning, being by that time sufficiently restored, we set out for our harbour, under the guidance of Skipper Tommy Lovejoy, whose continued separation from the woman at Wolf Cove I made sure of by commanding his presence with us.

"You may beat me, Skipper Tommy," said I, "when you gets me home, an' I wish you joy of it. But home you goes!"

"But, Davy, lad," he protested, "there's that poor Tom Tot goin' on alone----"

"Home you goes!"

"An' there's that kind-hearted doctor-woman. Sure, now, Davy," he began, sweetly, "I'd like t' tell she----"

"That's just," said I, "what I'm afeared of."

Home the skipper came; and when the twins and I subsequently presented ourselves for chastis.e.m.e.nt, with solemn ceremony, gravely removing whatever was deemed in our harbour superfluous under the circ.u.mstances, he was so affected by the spectacle that (though I wish I might write it differently) he declared himself of opinion, fixed and unprejudiced, that of all the works of the Lord, which were many and infinitely blessed, none so favoured the gracious world as the three contrite urchins there present: and in this ecstasy of tenderness (to our shame) quite forgot the object of our appearance.

When Tom Tot brought Mary home from Wolf Cove, my sister and the doctor and I went that night by my sister's wish to distinguish the welcome, so that, in all our harbour, there might be no quibble or continuing suspicion; and we found the maid cutting her father's hair in the kitchen (for she was a clever hand with the scissors and comb), as though nothing had occurred--Skipper Tommy Lovejoy meanwhile with spirit engaging the old man in a discussion of the unfailing topic; this being the att.i.tude of the Lord G.o.d Almighty towards the wretched sons of men, whether feeling or not.

In the confusion of our entrance Mary whispered in my ear. "Davy lad,"

she said, with an air of mystery, "I got home."

"I'm glad, Mary," I answered, "that you got home."

"An', hist!" said she, "I got something t' tell you," said she, her eyes flashing, "along about h.e.l.l."

"Is you?" I asked, in fear, wishing she had not.

She nodded.

"Is you _got_ t' tell me, Mary?"

"Davy," she whispered, pursing her lips, in the pause regarding me with a glance so significant of darkest mystery that against my very will I itched to share the fearful secret, "I got t'."

"Oh, why?" I still protested.

"I been there!" said she.

'Twas quite enough to entice me beyond my power: after that, I kept watch, all in a shiver of dread, for some signal; and when she had swept her father's shorn hair from the floor, and when my sister had gone with Tom Tot's wife to put the swarm of little Tots to bed, and when Tom Tot had entered upon a minute description of the sin at Wayfarer's Tickle, from which his daughter, fearing sudden death and d.a.m.nation, had fled, Mary beckoned me to follow: which I did. Without, in the breathless, moonlit night, I found her waiting in a shadow; and she caught me by the wrist, clutching it cruelly, and led me to the deeper shadow and seclusion of a great rock, rising from the path to the flake. 'Twas very still and awesome, there in the dark of that black rock, with the light of the moon lying ghostly white on all the barren world, and the long, low howl of some forsaken dog from time to time disturbing the solemn silence.

I was afraid.

"Davy, lad," she whispered, bending close, so that she could look into my eyes, which wavered, "is you listenin'?"

"Ay," I answered, breathless.

Her voice was then triumphant. "I been t' h.e.l.l," said she, "an' back!"

"What's it like, Mary?"

She shuddered.

"What's it like," I pleaded, l.u.s.ting for the unholy knowledge, "in h.e.l.l?"

For a moment she stared at the moonlit hills. Her grasp on my wrist relaxed. I saw that her lips were working.

"What's it like," I urged, "in h.e.l.l?" for I devoutly wished to have the disclosure over with.

"'Tis h.e.l.l," she answered, low, "at Wayfarer's Tickle. The gate t' h.e.l.l!

Rum an' love, Davy, dear," she added, laying a fond hand upon my head, "leads t' h.e.l.l."

"Not love!" I cried, in sudden fear: for I had thought of the driving snow, of my dear sister lying in the doctor's arms, of his kiss upon her lips. "Oh, love leads t' heaven!"

"T' h.e.l.l," said she.

"No, no!"

"T' h.e.l.l."

I suffered much in the silence--while, together, Mary and I stared at the silent world, lying asleep in the pale light.

"'Twas rum," she resumed, "that sent the crew o' the _Right an' Tight_ t' h.e.l.l. An' 'twas a merry time they had at the gate. Ay, a merry time, with Jagger fillin' the cups an' chalkin' it down agin the fish! But they went t' h.e.l.l. _They went t' h.e.l.l_! She was lost with all hands in the gale o' that week--lost on the Devil's Fingers--an' all hands drunk!

An' Jack Ruddy o' Helpful Harbour," she muttered, "went down along o'

she. He was a bonnie lad," she added, tenderly, "an' he kissed me by stealth in the kitchen." Very sorrowfully she dreamed of that boisterous kiss. "But," she concluded, "'twas love that put Eliza Hare in th'

etarnal fires."

"Not love!" I complained.

"Davy," she said, not deigning to answer me, "Davy," she repeated, her voice again rising splendidly triumphant, "I isn't goin' t' h.e.l.l! For I've looked in an' got away. The Lard'll never send me, now. Never!"

"I'm glad, Mary."

"I'm not a goat," she boasted. "'Twas all a mistake. I'm a sheep. That's what I is!"

"I'm wonderful glad."

"But you, Davy," she warned, putting an arm about my waist, in sincere affection, "you better look out."

"I isn't afeared."

"You better look out!"

"Oh, Mary," I faltered, "I--I--isn't _much_ afeared."

"You better look out!"

"Leave us go home!" I begged.

"The Lard'll ship you there an you don't look out. He've no mercy on little lads."