Part 27 (1/2)
By this time the amazing news had spread. Far and near the guns were popping a salute--which set the dogs a-howling: so that the noise was heartrending. Presently the neighbours began to gather: whereupon (for the cottage was small) we took our leave, giving the pair good wishes for the continuance of a happy married life. And when we got to our house we found waiting in the kitchen Mag Trawl, who had that day brought her fish from Swampy Arm--a dull girl, slatternly, s.h.i.+ftless: the mother of two young sons.
”I heared tell,” she drawled, addressing the doctor, but looking elsewhere, ”that you're just after marryin' Aunt Amanda.”
The doctor nodded.
”I 'low,” she went on, after an empty pause, ”that I wants t' get married, too.”
”Where's the man?”
”Jim he 'lowed two year ago,” she said, staring at the ceiling, ”that we'd go south an' have it done this season if no parson come.”
”Bring the man,” said the doctor, briskily.
”Well, zur,” said she, ”Jim ain't here. You couldn't do it 'ithout Jim bein' here, could you?”
”Oh, no!”
”I 'lowed you might be able,” she said, with a little sigh, ”if you tried. But you couldn't, says you?”
”No.”
”Jim he 'lowed two year ago it ought t' be done. You couldn't do it nohow?”
The doctor shook his head.
”Couldn't make a s.h.i.+ft at it?”
”No.”
”Anyhow,” she sighed, rising to go, ”I 'low Jim won't mind now. He's dead.”
Within three weeks the mail-boat touched our harbor for the last time that season: being then southbound into winter quarters at St. John's.
It chanced in the night--a clear time, starlit, but windy, with a high sea running beyond the harbour rocks. She came in by way of North Tickle, lay for a time in the quiet water off our wharf, and made the open through the Gate. From our platform we watched the shadowy bulk and warm lights slip behind Frothy Point and the shoulder of the Watchman--hearkened for the last blast of the whistle, which came back with the wind when the s.h.i.+p ran into the great swell of the sea.
Then--at once mustering all our cheerfulness--we turned to our own concerns: wherein we soon forgot that there was any world but ours, and were content with it.
Tom Tot came in.
”'Tis late for you, Tom,” said my sister, in surprise.
”Ay, Miss Bessie,” he replied, slowly. ”Wonderful late for me. But I been home talkin' with my woman,” he went on, ”an' we was thinkin' it over, an' she s'posed I'd best be havin' a little spell with the doctor.”
He was very grave--and sat twirling his cap: lost in anxious thought.
”You're not sick, Tom?”
”Sick!” he replied, indignantly. ”Sure, I'd not trouble the doctor for that! I'm troubled,” he added, quietly, looking at his cap, ”along--o'
Mary.”
It seemed hard for him to say.