Doctor Luke of the Labrador | Page 8

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 mother.
Every morning, thereafter, she said that she was better--always
better--much, much better. 'Twas wonderful, she said, 'twas fair past
making out, indeed, that she should so soon grow into a fine, hearty
woman again; and 'twould be an easy matter, said she, for the mail-boat
doctor to cure her--when he came. And she was now more discreet with
her moods; not once did I catch her brooding alone, though more than
once I lay in wait in dark corners or peered through the crack in the
door; and she went smiling about the house, as of old--but yet not as of
old; and I puzzled over the difference, but could not discover it. More
often, now, at twilight, she lured me to her lap, where I was never loath
to go, great lad of nine years though I was; and she sat silent with me,
rocking, rocking, while the deeper night came down--and she kissed me
so often that I wondered she did not tire of it--and she stroked my brow
and cheeks, and touched my eyes, and ran her finger-tips over my
eyebrows and nose and lips, ay, and softly played with my lips--and at

times she strained me so hard to her breast that I near complained of the
embrace--and I was no more driven off to bed when my eyes grew
heavy, but let lie in her arms, while we sat silent, rocking, rocking, until
long, long after I had fallen asleep. And once, at the end of a sweet,
strange hour, making believe to play, she gently pried my eyes wide
open and looked far into their depths--so deep, so long, so searchingly,
so strangely, that I waxed uneasy under the glance.
"Wh-wh-what--what you----" I began, inarticulately.
"What am I looking for?" she interrupted, speaking quickly.
"Ay," I whimpered, for I was deeply agitated; "what you lookin' for?"
"For your heart," said she.
I did not know what she meant; and I wondered concerning the fancy
she had, but did not ask, for there was that in her voice and eyes that
made me very solemn.
"'Tis but a child's heart," she sighed, turning away. "'Tis but like the
hearts," she whispered, "of all children. I cannot tell--I cannot tell," she
sobbed, "and I want--oh, I want so much--to know!"
"Don't cry!" I pleaded, thrown into an agony by her tears, in the way of
all children.
She sat me back in her lap. "Look in your mother's eyes, lad," said she,
"and say after me this: 'My mother----'"
"'My mother----'" I repeated, very soberly.
"'Looked upon my heart----'"
"'Looked upon my heart----'" said I.
"'And found it brave----'"
"'An' found it brave----'"

"'And sweet----'"
"'An' sweet----'"
"'Willing for the day's work----'" said she.
"'Willing for the day's work----'" I repeated.
"'And harbouring no shameful hope.'"
"'An' harbouring--no shameful--hope.'"
Again and again she had me say it--until I knew it every word by heart.
"Ah," said she, at last, "but you'll forget!"
"No, no!" I cried. "I'll not forget. 'My mother looked upon my heart,'" I
rattled, "'an' found it brave an' sweet, willing for the day's work an'
harbouring no shameful hope.' I've not forgot! I've not forgot!"
"He'll forget," she whispered, but not to me, "like all children."
But I have not forgotten--I have not forgotten--I have never
forgotten--that when I was a child my mother looked upon my heart
and found it brave and sweet, willing for the day's work and harbouring
no shameful hope.
* * * * *
The winter fell early and with ominous severity. Our bleak coast was
soon too bitter with wind and frost and snow for the folk to continue in
their poor habitations. They were driven in haste to the snugger inland
tilts, which lay in a huddle at the Lodge, far up Twisted Arm, in the
blessed proximity of fire-wood--there to trap and sleep in