Doctor Luke of the Labrador | Page 7

touched my cheek I awoke. "Is it you, mama?" I asked.
"Ay," said she; "'tis your mother, lad."
Her hand went swiftly to my brow, and smoothed back the tousled, wet hair.
"Is you kissed me yet?"
"Oh, ay!" said she.
"Kiss me again, please, mum," said I, "for I wants--t' make sure--you done it."
She kissed me again, very tenderly; and I sighed and fell asleep, content.

IV
THE SHADOW
When the mail-boat left our coast to the long isolation of that winter my mother was even more tender with the scrawny plants in the five red pots on the window-shelf. On gray days, when our house and all the world lay in the soggy shadow of the fog, she fretted sadly for their health; and she kept feverish watch for a rift in the low, sad sky, and sighed and wished for sunlight. It mystified me to perceive the wistful regard she bestowed upon the stalks and leaves that thrived the illest--the soft touches for the yellowing leaves, and, at last, the tear that fell, when, withered beyond hope, they were plucked and cast away--and I asked her why she loved the sick leaves so; and she answered that she knew but would not tell me why. Many a time, too, at twilight, I surprised her sitting downcast by the window, staring out--and far--not upon the rock and sea of our harbour, but as though through the thickening shadows into some other place.
"What you lookin' at, mum?" I asked her, once.
"A glory," she answered.
"Glory!" said I. "They's no glory out there. The night falls. 'Tis all black an' cold on the hills. Sure, I sees no glory."
"'Tis not a glory, but a shadow," she whispered, "for you!"
Nor was I now ever permitted to see her in disarray, but always, as it seemed to me, fresh from my sister's clever hands, her hair laid smooth and shining, her simple gown starched crisp and sweetly smelling of the ironing board; and when I asked her why she was never but thus lovely, she answered, with a smile, that surely it pleased her son to find her always so: which, indeed, it did. I felt, hence, in some puzzled way, that this display was a design upon me, but to what end I could not tell. And there was an air of sad unquiet in the house: it occurred to my childish fancy that my mother was like one bound alone upon a long journey; and once, deep in the night, when I had long lain ill at ease in the shadow of this fear, I crept to her door to listen, lest she be already fled, and I heard her sigh and faintly complain; and then I went back to bed, very sad that my mother should be ailing, but now sure that she would not leave me.
Next morning my father leaned over our breakfast table and laid his broad hand upon my mother's shoulder; whereupon she looked up smiling, as ever she did when that big man caressed her.
"I'll be havin' the doctor for you," he said.
She gave him a swift glance of warning--then turned her wide eyes upon me.
"Oh," said my father, "the lad knows you is sick. 'Tis no use tryin' t' keep it from un any more."
"Ay," I sobbed, pushing my plate away, for I was of a sudden no longer hungry, "I heared you cryin' las' night."
My sister came quickly to my side, and wound a soft arm about my neck, and drew my head close to her heart, and kissed me many times; and when she had soothed me I looked up and found my mother gloriously glad that I had cried.
"'Tis nothing," then she said, with a rush of tenderness for my grief. "'Tis not hard to bear. 'Tis----"
"Ay, but," said my father, "I'll be havin' the doctor t' see you."
My mother pooh-poohed it all. The doctor? For her? Not she! She was not sick enough for that!
"I'm bent," said my father, doggedly, "on havin' that man."
"David," cried my mother, "I'll not have you do it!"
"I'll have my way of it," said my father. "I'm bent on it, an' I'll be put off no longer. 'Tis no use, m'am--nar a bit! The doctor's comin' t' see you."
"Ah, well!" sighed my mother.
"Ay," said my father, "I'll have that man ashore when the mail-boat comes in the spring. 'Tis well on t' December now," he went on, "an' it may be we'll have an early break-up. Sure, if they's westerly winds in the spring, an' the ice clears away in good season, we'll be havin' the mail-boat north in May. Come, now! 'twill not be later than June, I 'low. An' I'll have that doctor ashore in a hurry, mark my words, when the anchor's down. That I will!"
"'Tis a long time," said my