Part 8 (1/2)

”Oh, dear!” cried she. ”He won't! Oh, my! _There's_ a man for you. An'

I'm but a woman, is I. His poor woman. Oh, _his_ woman! Look you here, Skipper Thomas Lovejoy, you been stickin' wonderful close alongside o'

me since you come t' Wolf Cove, an' I'm not quite knowin' what tricks you've in mind. But I'm thinkin' you're like all the men, an' I'll have you t' know this, that if 'tis marriage with me you're thinkin' on----”

But Skipper Tommy gasped and wildly fled.

”Ha!” she snorted, triumphantly. ”I was _thinkin_' I was a better man than he!”

”'Tis a shame,” said I, ”t' scare un so!”

Whereat, without uttering a sound, she laughed until the china clinked and rattled on the shelves, and I thought the pots and pans would come clattering from their places. And then she strutted the floor for all the world like a rooster once I saw in the South.

VIII

THE BLIND and The BLIND

Ah, well! at once she set about the cure of my mother. And she went tripping about the house--and tripping she went, believe me, stout as she was, as lightsome as one of Skipper Tommy's fairies--with a manner so large and confident, a glance so compelling, that 'twas beyond us to doubt her power or slight her commands. First of all she told my mother, repeating it with patience and persuasive insistence, that she would be well in six days, and must believe the words true, else she would never be well, at all. And when my mother had brightened with this new hope, the woman, muttering words without meaning, hung a curious brown object about her neck, which she said had come from a holy place and possessed a strange and powerful virtue for healing. My mother fondled it, with glistening eyes and very tenderly, and, when the doctor-woman had gone out, whispered to me that it was a horse-chestnut, and put her in mind of the days when she dwelt in Boston, a little maid.

”But 'tis not healin' you,” I protested, touching a tear which had settled in the deep hollow of her cheek. ”'Tis makin' you sad.”

”Oh, no!” said she. ”'Tis making me very happy.”

”But you is cryin',” said I. ”An' I'm thinkin' 'tis because you wisht you was in Boston.”

”No, no!” she cried, her lip trembling. ”I'm not wis.h.i.+ng that. I've _never_ wished _that_! I'm glad your father found me and took me where he wished. Oh, I'm glad of that--glad he found and loved me--glad I gave myself to his dear care! Why, were I in Boston, to-day, I would not have my dear, big David, your father, lad, and I would not have your sister, and I would not have----”

”Me?” I put in, archly.

”Ay,” she said, with infinite tenderness, ”_you,_ Davy, dear!”

For many days, thereafter, the doctor-woman possessed our house, and I've no doubt she was happy in her new estate--at table, at any rate, for there she was garrulent and active, and astoundingly active, with less of garrulence, on feast days, when my father had pork provided. And she had a way with the maids in the kitchen that kept the young men from the door (which my sister never could manage); and I have since been led to think 'twas because she sought to work her will on Skipper Tommy Lovejoy, undisturbed by the clatter and quick eyes of young folk. For Skipper Tommy, to my increasing alarm and to the panic of the twins, who wished for no second mother, still frequented the kitchen, when the day's work was done, and was all the while in a mood so downcast, of a manner so furtive, that it made me sad to talk with him. But by day our kitchen was intolerable with smells--intolerable to him and to us all (save to my sister, who is, and ever has been, brave)--while the doctor-woman hung over the stove, working with things the sight of which my stomach would not brook, but which my mother took in ignorance, hoping they would cure her. G.o.d knows what medicines were mixed! I would not name the things I saw. And the doctor-woman would not even have us ask what use she made of them: nor have I since sought to know; 'tis best, I think, forgotten.

But my mother got no better.

”Skipper David,” said the doctor-woman, at last, ”I'm wantin' four lump-fish.”

”Four lump-fis.h.!.+” my father wondered. ”Is you?”

”Oh, my!” she answered, tartly. ”Is I? Yes, I is. An' I'll thank you t'

get un an' ask no questions. For _I'm_ mindin' _my_ business, an' I'll thank _you_ t' mind _yours_. An' if _you_ thinks _you_ can do the doctorin'----”

”I'm not seekin' t' hinder you,” said my father, flus.h.i.+ng. ”You go on with your work. I'll pay; but----”

”Oh, will you?” she cried, shrilly. ”He'll pay, says he. Oh, my! He'll _pay_! Oh, dear!”

”Come, now, woman!” said my father, indignantly. ”I've had you come, an'

I'll stand by what you does. I'll get the lump-fish; but 'tis the last cure you'll try. If it fails, back you go t' Wolf Cove.”