Doctor Luke of the Labrador Part 17

"I am going to try to be good--now."

"You isn't goin' away, is you?" I wailed.

"I am going to stay here," he said, gravely, "and treat the people, who need me, and try, in that way, to be good."

"I'd die t' see it!" cried I.

He laughed--and the tension vanished--and we went happily back to harbour. I had no thought that the resolution to which he had come was in any way extraordinary.

I ran to the Rat Hole, that night, to give the great news to Skipper Tommy Lovejoy and the twins. "Ecod!" the old man cried, vastly astounded. "Is he t' stay, now? Well, well! Then they's no need goin' on with the book. Ecod! now think o' that! An' 'tis all because your mother died, says you, when he might have saved her! Ah, Davy, the ways o' G.o.d is strange. He manages somehow t' work a blessin' with death an' wreck.

'I'm awful sorry for they poor children,' says He, 'an' for the owners o' that there fine s.h.i.+p; but I got t' have My way,' says He, 'or the world would never come t' much; so down goes the s.h.i.+p,' says He, 'an' up comes that dear mother t' my bosom. 'Tis no use tellin' them why,' says He, 'for they wouldn't understand. An', ecod!' says He, 'while I'm about it I'll just put it in the mind o' that doctor-man t' stay right there an' do a day's work or two for Me.' I'm sure He meant it--I'm sure He meant t' do just that--I'm sure 'twas all done o' purpose. We thinks He's hard an' a bit free an' careless. Ecod! they's times when we thinks He fair bungles His job. He kills us, an' He cripples us, an' He starves us, an' He hurts our hearts; an' then, Davy, we says He's a dunderhead at runnin' a world, which, says we, we could run a sight better, if we was able t' make one. But the Lard, Davy, does His day's work in a seamanlike way, usin' no more crooked backs an' empty stomachs an' children's tears an' broken hearts than He can help. 'Tis little we knows about what _He's_ up to. An' 'tis wise, I'm thinkin', not t'

bother about tryin' t' find out. 'Tis better t' let Him steer His own course an' ask no questions. I just _knowed_ He was up t' something grand. I said so, Davy! 'Tis just like the hymn, lad, about His hidin' a smilin' face behind a frownin' providence. Ah, Davy, _He'll_ take care o' _we_!"

All of which, as you know, was quite characteristic of Skipper Tommy Lovejoy.

XIV

In The WATCHES of The NIGHT

At once we established the doctor in our house, that he might be more comfortably disposed; and this was by my sister's wish, who hoped to be his helper in the sweet labour of healing. And soon a strange thing happened: once in the night--'twas late of a clear, still night--I awoke, of no reason; nor could I fall asleep again, but lay high on the pillow, watching the stars, which peeped in at my window, companionably winking. Then I heard the fall of feet in the house--a restless pacing: which brought me out of bed, in a twinkling, and took me tiptoeing to the doctor's room, whence the unusual sound. But first I listened at the door; and when I had done that, I dared not enter, because of what I heard, but, crouching in the darkness, must continue to listen ... and listen....

By and by I crept away to my sister's room, unable longer to bear the awe and sorrow in my heart.

"Bessie!" I called, in a low whisper.

"Ay, Davy?"

"Is you awake?"

"Ay, I'm wakeful."

I closed the door after me--then went swiftly to her bedside, treading with great caution.

"Listenin'?" I asked.

"T' the doctor," she answered, "walkin' the floor."

"Is you afraid?" I whispered.

"No."

"I is."

She sat up in bed--and drew me closer. "An' why, dear?" she asked, stroking my cheek.

"Along o' what I heared in the dark, Bessie--at his door."

"You've not been eavesdroppin', Davy?" she chided.

"Oh, I wisht I hadn't!"

"'Twas not well done."

The moon was up, broadly s.h.i.+ning behind the Watchman: my sister's white little room--kept sweet and dainty in the way she had--was full of soft gray light; and I saw that her eyes were wide and moist.

"He's wonderful restless, the night," she mused.

"He've a great grief."

"A grief? Oh, Davy!"

"Ay, a great, great grief! He've been talkin' to hisself, Bessie. But 'tis not words; 'tis mostly only sounds."

"Naught else?"

"Oh, ay! He've said----"

"Hus.h.!.+" she interrupted. "'Tis not right for me t' know. I would not have you tell----"

I would not be stopped. "He've said, Bessie," I continued, catching something, it may be, of his agony, "he've said, 'I pay! Oh, G.o.d, I pay!' he've said. 'Merciful Christ, hear me--oh, I pay!'"

She trembled.

"'Tis some great grief," said I.

"Do you haste to his comfort, Davy," she whispered, quickly. "'Twould be a kind thing t' do."

"Is you sure he's wantin' me?"

"Were it me I would."

When I had got to the doctor's door again, I hesitated, as before, fearing to go in; and once more I withdrew to my sister's room.

"I'm not able t' go in," I faltered. "'Tis awful, Bessie, t' hear men goin' on--like that."

"Like what?"

"Cryin'."

A little while longer I sat silent with my sister--until, indeed, the restless footfalls ceased, and the blessed quiet of night fell once again.