Doctor Luke of the Labrador Part 45

"A word!" said I, amazed.

"Just," he answered, "one word."

'Twas mystifying. "An' what word," I asked, "might that word be?"

"'Expiation,'" he replied.

I did not know the meaning of that word--nor did I care. But I was glad that my dear sister--whose cleverness (and spirit of sacrifice) might ever be depended upon--had found it: since it had led to a consummation so happy.

"Skipper Tommy saved?" I enquired

"He's with the twins at the Rat Hole."

"Then," said I, rising, "as you're both busy," said I, in a saucy flash, "I'll be goin'----"

"You'll not!" roared the doctor. And he leaped from his seat--bore down upon me, indeed, like a mad hurricane: my sister laughing and clapping her little hands. So I knew I must escape or have my bones near crack under the pressure of his affection; and I was agile--and eluded him.

I found Skipper Tommy and the twins at the Rat Hole--the skipper established in comfort by the stove, a cup of tea at his hand, his stockinged feet put up to warm: the twins sitting close, both grinning broadly, each finely alert to antic.i.p.ate the old man's wants, who now had acquired a pampered air, which sat curiously upon him. "Seems t' me, Davy," he said, in a solemn whisper, at the end of the tale, new told for me, "that the dear Lard took pity. 'You done pretty well, Tommy,'

says He, 't' put out t' the help o' Jagger in that there gale. I'm thinkin' I'll have t' change my mind about you,' says He. 'The twins, Tommy,' says He, 'is well growed, an' able lads, both, as I knowed when I started out t' do this thing; but I'm thinkin',' says He, 'that I'll please you, Tommy,' says He, 'by lettin' you live a little longer with them dear lads.' Oh," the skipper concluded, finding goodness in all the acts of the Lord, the while stretching out his rough old hand to touch the boys, his face aglow, "'twas wonderful kind o' Him t' let me see my lads again!"

The twins heartily grinned.

XXVIII

IN HARBOUR

When the doctor was told of the tragic end of Jagger of Wayfarer's Tickle, he shuddered, and sighed, and said that Jagger had planned a n.o.ble death for him: but said no more; nor has he since spoken the name of that bad man. And we sent the master of the _Jessie Dodd_ to St.

Johns by the last mail-boat of that season--and did not seek to punish him: because he had lost all that he had, and was most penitent; and because Jagger was dead, and had died the death that he did.... The last of the doctor's small patrimony repaired the damage done our business by the wreck of the _Trap and Seine_: and brought true my old dream of an established trade, done with honour and profit to ourselves and the folk of our coast, and of seven schooners, of which, at last, the twins were made masters of two.... And that winter my sister was very happy--ay, as happy (though 'tis near sin to say it) as her dear self deserved. Sweet sister--star of my life!... The doctor, too, was happy; and not once (and many a cold night I shivered in my meagre nightgown at his door to discover it)--not once did he suffer the old agony I had known him to bear. And when, frankly, I asked him why this was----

"Love, Davy," he answered.

"Love?" said I.

"And labour."

"An' labour?"

"And the Gospel according to Tommy."

"Sure," I asked, puzzled, "what's that?"

"Faith," he answered.

"'Tis queer!" I mused.

"Just faith," he repeated. "Just faith in the loving-kindness of the dear G.o.d. Just faith--with small regard for creeds and forms."

This he said with a holy twinkle.

But that was long ago. Since then I have been to the colleges and hospitals of the South, and have come back, here, in great joy, to live my life, serving the brave, kind folk, who are mine own people, heartily loved by me: glad that I am Labrador born and bred--proud of the brave blood in my great body, of the stout purpose in my heart: of which (because of pity for all inlanders and the folk of the South) I may not with propriety boast. Doctor Davy, they call me, now. But I have not gone lacking. I am not without realization of my largest hope. The decks are often wet--wet and white. They heave underfoot--and are wet and white--while the winds come rushing from the gray horizon. Ah, I love the sea--the sweet, wild sea: loveliest in her adorable rage, like a woman!... And my father's house is now enlarged, and is an hospital; and the doctor's sloop is now grown to a schooner, in which he goes about, as always, doing good.... And my sister waits for me to come in from the sea, in pretty fear that I may not come back; and I am glad that she waits, sitting in my mother's place, as my mother used to do.

And Skipper Tommy Lovejoy this day lies dying....

I sit, a man grown, in my mother's room, which now is mine. It is springtime. To-day I found a flower on the Watchman. Beyond the broad window of her room, the hills of Skull Island and G.o.d's Warning stand yellow in the sunshine, rivulets dripping from the ragged patches of snow which yet linger in the hollows; and the harbour water ripples under balmy, fragrant winds from the wilderness; and workaday voices, strangely unchanged by the years that are pa.s.sed, come drifting up the hill from my father's wharves; and, ay, indeed, all the world of sea and land is warm and wakeful and light of heart, just as it used to be, when I was a lad, and my mother lay here dying. But there is no shadow in the house--no mystery. The separate sorrows have long since fled. My mother's gentle spirit here abides--just as it used to do: touching my poor life with holy feeling, with fine dreams, with tender joy. There is no shadow--no mystery. There is a glory--but neither shadow nor mystery.

And my hand is still in her dear hand--and she leads me: just as she used to do. And all my days are glorified--by her who said good-bye to me, but has not left me desolate.

Skipper Tommy died to-day. 'Twas at the break of dawn. The sea lay quiet; the sky was flushed with young, rosy colour--all the hues of hope. We lifted him on the pillows: that from the window he might watch--far off at sea--the light chase the shadows from the world.

"A new day!" he whispered.

'Twas ever a mystery to him. That there should come new days--that the deeds of yesterday should be forgot in the shadows of yesterday--that as the dawn new hope should come unfailing, clean, benignant.

"A new day!" he repeated, turning his mild old face from the placid sea, a wondering, untroubled question in his eyes.

"Ay, zur--a new day."

He watched the light grow--the hopeful tints spread rejoicing towards the higher heavens.

"The Lard," he said, "give me work. Blessed be the name o' the Lard!"

All the world was waking.

"The Lard give me pain. Blessed be the name o' the Lard!"

And a breeze came with the dawn--a rising breeze, rippling the purple sea.

"The Lard give me love," he continued, turning tenderly to the stalwart twins. "Blessed be the name o' the Lard!"

The wind swept calling by--blue winds, fair winds to the north: calling at the window, all the while.

"The Lard showed Himself t' me. Oh, ay, that He did," he added, with a return to his old manner. "'Skipper Tommy,' says the Lard," he whispered, "'Skipper Tommy,' says He, 'leave you an' Me,' says He, 'be friends. You'll never regret it, b'y,' says He, 'an you make friends with Me.' Blessed," he said, his last, low voice tremulous with deep grat.i.tude, "oh, blessed be the name o' the Lard!"

The wind called again--blithely called: crying at the window. In all the harbours of our coast, 'twas time to put to sea.

"I wisht," the skipper sighed, "that I'd been--a bit--wickeder. The wicked," he took pains to explain, "knows the dear Lard's love. An', somehow, I isn't _feelin'_ it as I should. An' I wisht--I'd sinned--a wee bit--more."

Still the wind called to him.