Doctor Luke of the Labrador Part 31

"Of the man at Runner's Woe?" the doctor asked.

"No, zur. He on'y done murder. 'Twas not o' he. 'Twas o' something sadder than that."

"Then 'tis too sad to tell," he said.

"No," I insisted. "'Twould do well-fed folk good t' hear it."

"What was it?" my sister asked.

"I was thinkin'----"

Ah, but '_twas_ too sad!

"O' what?"

"O' the child at Comfort Harbour, Bessie, that starved in his mother's arms."

Timmie Lovejoy threw more billets on the fire. They flamed and spluttered and filled the room with cheerful light.

"Davy," said the doctor, "we can never cure the wretchedness of this coast."

"No, zur?"

"But we can try to mitigate it."

"We'll try," said I. "You an' me."

"You and I."

"And I," my sister said.

Lying between the st.u.r.dy little twins, that night--where by right of caste I lay, for it was the warmest place in the bed--I abandoned, once and for all, my old hope of sailing a schooner, with the decks awash.

"Timmie!" I whispered.

He was sound asleep. I gave him an impatient nudge in the ribs.

"Ay, Davy?" he asked.

"You may have my hundred-tonner," said I.

"What hundred-tonner?"

"The big fore-an'-after, Timmie, I'm t' have when I'm growed. You may skipper she. You'll not wreck her, Timmie, will you?"

He was asleep.

"Hut!" I thought, angrily. "I'll have Jacky skipper that craft, if Timmie don't look out."

At any rate, she was not to be for me.

XXII

The WAY From HEART'S DELIGHT

It chanced in the spring of that year that my sister and the doctor and I came unfortuitously into a situation of grave peril: wherein (as you shall know) the doctor was precipitate in declaring a sentiment, which, it may be, he should still have kept close within his heart, withholding it until a happier day. But for this there is some excuse: for not one of us hoped ever again to behold the rocks and placid water of our harbour, to continue the day's work to the timely close of the day, to sit in quiet places, to dream a fruitful future, to aspire untroubled in security and ease: and surely a man, whatever his disposition and strength of mind, being all at once thus confronted, may without blame do that which, as a reward for n.o.ble endeavour, he had hoped in all honour to do in some far-off time.

Being bound across the bay from Heart's Delight of an ominously dull afternoon--this on a straight-away course over the ice which still clung to the coast rocks--we were caught in a change of wind and swept to sea with the floe: a rising wind, blowing with unseasonable snow from the northwest, which was presently black as night. Far off sh.o.r.e, the pack was broken in pieces by the sea, scattered broadcast by the gale; so that by the time of deep night--while the snow still whipped past in clouds that stung and stifled us--our pan rode breaking water: which hissed and flashed on every hand, the while ravenously eating at our narrow raft of ice. Death waited at our feet.... We stood with our backs to the wind, my sister and I cowering, numb and silent, in the lee of the doctor.... Through the long night 'twas he that sheltered us.... By and by he drew my sister close. She sank against his breast, and trembled, and snuggled closer, and lay very still in his arms.... I heard his voice: but was careless of the words, which the wind swept overhead--far into the writhing night beyond.

"No, zur," my sister answered. "I'm not afraid--with you."

A long time after that, when the first light of dawn was abroad--sullen and cheerless--he spoke again.

"Zur?" my sister asked, trembling.

He whispered in her ear.

"Ay, zur," she answered.

Then he kissed her lips....

Late in the day the snow-clouds pa.s.sed. Ice and black water mercilessly encompa.s.sed us to the round horizon of gray sky. There was no hope anywhere to be descried.... In the dead of night a change of wind herded the scattered fragments of the pack. The ice closed in upon us--great pans, cras.h.i.+ng together: threatening to crush our frailer one.... We were driven in a new direction.... Far off to leeward--somewhere deep in the black night ahead--the floe struck the coast. We heard the evil commotion of raftering ice. It swept towards us. Our pan stopped dead with a jolt. The pack behind came rus.h.i.+ng upon us. We were tilted out of the water--lifted clear of it all--dropped headlong with the wreck of the pan....

I crawled out of a shallow pool of water. "Bessie!" I screamed. "Oh, Bessie, where is you?"

The noise of the pack pa.s.sed into distance--dwindling to deepest silence.

"Davy," my sister called, "is you hurt?"

"Where is you, Bessie?"

"Here, dear," she answered, softly. "The doctor has me safe."

Guided by her sweet voice, I crept to them; and then we sat close together, silent all in the silent night, waiting for the dawn....

We traversed a mile or more of rugged, blinding ice--the sky blue in every part, the sun s.h.i.+ning warm, the wind blowing light and balmy from the south. What with the heat, the glare, the uneven, treacherous path--with many a pitfall to engulf us--'twas a toilsome way we travelled. The coast lay white and forsaken beyond--desolate, inhospitable, unfamiliar: an unkindly refuge for such castaways as we.

But we came gratefully to the rocks, at last, and fell exhausted in the snow, there to die, as we thought, of hunger and sheer weariness. And presently the doctor rose, and, bidding us lie where we were, set out to discover our whereabouts, that he might by chance yet succour us: which seemed to me a hopeless venture, for the man was then near snow-blind, as I knew....