Part 7 (1/2)

There was the noise of rain on the panes and wind without, and the heavy tread of Skipper Tommy's feet, coming up the stair, but no other sound.

But Skipper Tommy, entering now, moved a chair to my mother's bedside, and laid a hand on hers, his old face illumined by his unfailing faith in the glory and wisdom of his G.o.d.

”Hus.h.!.+” he said. ”Don't you go gettin' scared la.s.s. Don't you go gettin'

scared at--the thing that's comin'--t' you. 'Tis nothin' t' fear,” he went on, gloriously confident. ”'Tis not hard, I'm sure--the Lard's too kind for that. He just lets us think it is, so He can give us a lovely surprise, when the time comes. Oh, no, 'tis not _hard_! 'Tis but like wakin' up from a troubled dream. 'Tis like wakin' t' the sunlight of a new, clear day. Ah, 'tis a pity us all can't wake with you t' the beauty o' the morning! But the dear Lard is kind. There comes an end t' all the dreamin'. He takes our hand. 'The day is broke,' says He. 'Dream no more, but rise, child o' Mine, an' come into the suns.h.i.+ne with Me.' 'Tis only that that's comin' t' you--only His gentle touch--an' the waking.

Hus.h.!.+ Don't you go gettin' scared. 'Tis a lovely thing--that's comin' t'

you!”

”I'm not afraid,” my mother whispered, turning. ”I'm not afraid, Skipper Tommy. But I'm sad--oh I'm sad--to have to leave----”

She looked tenderly upon me.

VII

The WOMAN from WOLF COVE

My mother lay thus abandoned for seven days. It was very still and solemn in the room--and there was a hush in all the house; and there was a mystery, which even the break of day could not dissolve, and a shadow, which the streaming sunlight could not drive away. Beyond the broad window of her room, the hills of Skull Island and G.o.d's Warning stood yellow in the spring suns.h.i.+ne, rivulets dripping from the ragged patches of snow which yet lingered in the hollows; and the harbour water rippled under balmy, fragrant winds from the wilderness; and workaday voices, strangely unchanged by the solemn change upon our days, came drifting up the hill from my father's wharves; and, ay, indeed, all the world of sea and land was warm and wakeful and light of heart, just as it used to be.

But within, where were the shadow and the mystery, we walked on tiptoe and spoke in whispers, lest we offend the spirit which had entered in.

By day my father was occupied with the men of the place, who were then anxiously fitting out for the fis.h.i.+ng season, which had come of a sudden with the news of a fine sign at Battle Harbour. But my mother did not mind, but, rather, smiled, and was content to know that he was about his business--as men must be, whatever may come to pa.s.s in the house--and that he was useful to the folk of our harbour, whom she loved. And my dear sister--whose heart and hands G.o.d fas.h.i.+oned with kind purpose--gave full measure of tenderness for both; and my mother was grateful for that, as she ever was for my sister's loving kindness to her and to me and to us all.

One night, being overwrought by sorrow, it may be, my father said that he would have the doctor-woman from Wolf Cove to help my mother.

”For,” said he, ”I been thinkin' a deal about she, o' late, an' they's no tellin' that she wouldn't do you good.”

My mother raised her eyebrows. ”The doctor-woman!” cried she. ”Why, David!”

”Ay,” said my father, looking away, ”I s'pose 'tis great folly in me t'

think it. But they isn't no one else t' turn to.”

And that was unanswerable.

”There seems to be no one else,” my mother admitted. ”But, David--the doctor-woman?”

”They _does_ work cures,” my father pursued. ”I'm not knowin' _how_ they does; but they does, an' that's all I'm sayin'. Tim Budderly o' the Arm told me--an' 'twas but an hour ago--that she charmed un free o'

fits.”

”I have heard,” my mother mused, ”that they work cures. And if----”

”They's no knowin' what she can do,” my father broke in, my mother now listening eagerly. ”An' I just wish you'd leave me go fetch her. Won't you, la.s.s? Come, now!”

”'Tis no use, David,” said my mother. ”She couldn't do anything--for me.”

”Ay, but,” my father persisted, ”you're forgettin' that she've worked cures afore this. I'm fair believin',” he added with conviction, ”that they's virtue in some o' they charms. Not in many, maybe, but in some.

An' she might work a cure on you. I'm not sayin' she will. I'm only sayin' she might.”

My mother stared long at the white washed rafters overhead. ”Oh,” she sighed, plucking at the coverlet, ”if only she could!”