Doctor Luke of the Labrador Part 36

Ah, well! to my sister I ran; and I found her placidly sewing in the broad window of our house, which now looked out upon a melancholy prospect of fog and black water and vague gray hills. Perceiving my distress, she took me in her lap, big boy though I was, and rocked me, hushing me, the while, until I should command my grief and disclose the cause of it.

"He's a sinful man," I sobbed, at last. "Oh, dear Bessie, care no more for him!"

She stopped rocking--and pressed me closer to her soft, sweet bosom--so close that she hurt me, as my loving mother used to do. And when I looked up--when, taking courage, I looked into her face--I found it fearsomely white and hopeless; and when, overcome by this, I took her hand, I found it very cold.

"Not sinful," she whispered, drawing my cheek close to hers. "Oh, not that!"

"A sinful, wicked person," I repeated, "not fit t' speak t' such as you."

"What have he done, Davy?"

"I'd shame t' tell you."

"Oh, what?"

"I may not tell. Hug me closer, Bessie, dear. I'm in woeful want o'

love."

She rocked me, then--smoothing my cheek--kissing me--hoping thus to still my grief. A long, long time she coddled me, as my mother might have done.

"Not sinful," she said.

"Ay, a wicked fellow. We must turn un out o' here, Bessie. He've no place here, no more. He've sinned."

She kissed me on the lips. Her arms tightened about me. And there we sat--I in my sister's arms--hopeless in the drear light of that day.

"I love him," she said.

"Love him no more! Bessie, dear, he've sinned past all forgiving."

Again--and now abruptly--she stopped rocking. She sat me back in her lap. I could not evade her glance--sweet-souled, confident, content, reflecting the bright light of heaven itself.

"There's no sin, Davy," she solemnly said, "that a woman can't forgive."

I pa.s.sed that afternoon alone on the hills--the fog thickening, the wind blowing wet and cold, the whole world cast down--myself seeking, all the while, some reasonable way of return to the doctor's dear friendship. I did not know--but now I know--that reason, sour and implacable, is sadly inadequate to our need when the case is sore, and, indeed, a wretched staff, at best: but that fine impulse, the sure, inner feeling, which is faith, is ever the more trustworthy, if good is to be achieved, for it is forever sanguine, nor, in all the course of life, relentless. But, happily, Skipper Tommy Lovejoy, who, in my childhood, came often opportunely to guide me with his wiser, strangely accurate philosophy, now sought me on the hill, being informed, as it appeared, of my distress--and because, G.o.d be thanked! he loved me.

"Go 'way!" I complained.

"Go 'way?" cried he, indignantly. "I'll not go 'way. For shame! To send me from you!"

"I'm wantin' t' be alone."

"Ay; but 'tis unhealthy for you."

"I'm thrivin' well enough."

"Hut!" said he. "What's this atween the doctor an' you? You'd cast un off because he've sinned? Ecod! I've seldom heard the like. Who is you?

Even the Lard G.o.d A'mighty wouldn't do that. Sure, _He_ loves only such as have sinned. Lad," he went on, now, with a smile, with a touch of his rough old hand, compelling my confidence and affection, "what's past is done with. Isn't you l'arned that yet? Old sins are as if they never had been. Else what hope is there for us poor sons of men? The weight o' sin would sink us. 'Tis not the dear Lard's way t' deal so with men. To-day is not yesterday. What was, has been; it is not. A man is not what he was--he is what he is. But yet, lad--an' 'tis wonderful queer--to-day _is_ yesterday. 'Tis _made_ by yesterday. The mistake--the sin--o'

yesterday is the straight course--the righteous deed--o' to-day. 'Tis only out o' sin that sweetness is born. That's just what sin is for! The righteous, Davy, dear," he said, in all sincerity, "are not lovable, not trustworthy. The devil nets un by the hundred quintal, for _'tis_ such easy fishin'; but sinners--such as sin agin their will--the Lard loves an' gathers in. They who sin must suffer, Davy, an' only such as suffer can _know_ the dear Lard's love. G.o.d be thanked for sin," he said, looking up, inspired. "Let the righteous be d.a.m.ned--they deserve it.

Give _me_ the company o' sinners!"

"Is you sure?" I asked, confounded by this strange doctrine.

"I thank G.o.d," he answered, composedly, "that _I_ have sinned--and suffered."

"Sure," said I, "_you_ ought t' know, for you've lived so awful long."

"They's nothin' like sin," said he, with a sure smack of the lips, "t'

make good men. I knows it."

"An' Bessie?"

"Oh, Davy, lad, _she'll_ be safe with him!"

Then I, too, knew it--knew that sin had been beneficently decreed by G.o.d, whose wisdom seems so all-wise, once our perverse hearts are opened to perceive--knew that my dear sister would, indeed, be safe with this sinner, who sorrowed, also. And I was ashamed that I had ever doubted it.

"Look!" Skipper Tommy whispered.

Far off--across the harbour--near lost in the mist--I saw my sister and the doctor walking together.

My sister was waiting for me. "Davy," she asked, anxiously, "where have you been?"

"On the hills," I answered.

For a moment she was silent, fingering her ap.r.o.n; and then, looking fearlessly into my eyes--"I love him," she said.

"I'm glad."

"I cannot help it," she continued, clasping her hands, her breast heaving. "I love him--so _hard_--I cannot tell it."

"I'm glad."

"An' he loves me. He loves me! I'm not doubtin' that. He _loves_ me,"

she whispered, that holy light once more breaking about her, in which she seemed transfigured. "Oh," she sighed, beyond expression, "he loves me!"

"I'm glad."

"An' I'm content t' know it--just t' know that he loves me--just t' know that I love him. His hands and eyes and arms! I ask no more--but just t'

know it. Just once to have--to have had him--kiss me. Just once to have lain in his arms, where, forever, I would lie. Oh, I'm glad," she cried, joyously, "that the good Lord made me! I'm glad--just for that. Just because he kissed me--just because I love him, who loves me. I'm glad I was made for him to love. 'Tis quite enough for me. I want--only this I want--that he may have me--that, body and soul, I may satisfy his love--so much I love him. Davy," she faltered, putting her hands to her eyes, "I love--I _love_--I love him!"

Ecod! 'Twas too much for me. Half scandalized, I ran away, leaving her weeping in my dear mother's rocking-chair.

My sister and I were alone at table that evening. The doctor was gone in the punt to Jolly Harbour, the maids said; but why, they did not know, for he had not told them--nor could we guess: for 'twas a vexatious distance, wind and tide what they were, nor would a wise man undertake it, save in case of dire need, which did not then exist, the folk of Jolly Harbour, as everybody knows, being incorruptibly healthy. But I would not go to sleep that night until my peace was made; and though, to deceive my sister, I went to bed, I kept my eyes wide open, waiting for the doctor's step on the walk and on the stair: a slow, hopeless footfall, when, late in the night, I heard it.