Part 45 (2/2)

”Just faith,” he repeated. ”Just faith in the loving-kindness of the dear G.o.d. Just faith--with small regard for creeds and forms.”

This he said with a holy twinkle.

But that was long ago. Since then I have been to the colleges and hospitals of the South, and have come back, here, in great joy, to live my life, serving the brave, kind folk, who are mine own people, heartily loved by me: glad that I am Labrador born and bred--proud of the brave blood in my great body, of the stout purpose in my heart: of which (because of pity for all inlanders and the folk of the South) I may not with propriety boast. Doctor Davy, they call me, now. But I have not gone lacking. I am not without realization of my largest hope. The decks are often wet--wet and white. They heave underfoot--and are wet and white--while the winds come rus.h.i.+ng from the gray horizon. Ah, I love the sea--the sweet, wild sea: loveliest in her adorable rage, like a woman!... And my father's house is now enlarged, and is an hospital; and the doctor's sloop is now grown to a schooner, in which he goes about, as always, doing good.... And my sister waits for me to come in from the sea, in pretty fear that I may not come back; and I am glad that she waits, sitting in my mother's place, as my mother used to do.

And Skipper Tommy Lovejoy this day lies dying....

I sit, a man grown, in my mother's room, which now is mine. It is springtime. To-day I found a flower on the Watchman. Beyond the broad window of her room, the hills of Skull Island and G.o.d's Warning stand yellow in the suns.h.i.+ne, rivulets dripping from the ragged patches of snow which yet linger in the hollows; and the harbour water ripples under balmy, fragrant winds from the wilderness; and workaday voices, strangely unchanged by the years that are pa.s.sed, come drifting up the hill from my father's wharves; and, ay, indeed, all the world of sea and land is warm and wakeful and light of heart, just as it used to be, when I was a lad, and my mother lay here dying. But there is no shadow in the house--no mystery. The separate sorrows have long since fled. My mother's gentle spirit here abides--just as it used to do: touching my poor life with holy feeling, with fine dreams, with tender joy. There is no shadow--no mystery. There is a glory--but neither shadow nor mystery.

And my hand is still in her dear hand--and she leads me: just as she used to do. And all my days are glorified--by her who said good-bye to me, but has not left me desolate.

Skipper Tommy died to-day. 'Twas at the break of dawn. The sea lay quiet; the sky was flushed with young, rosy colour--all the hues of hope. We lifted him on the pillows: that from the window he might watch--far off at sea--the light chase the shadows from the world.

”A new day!” he whispered.

'Twas ever a mystery to him. That there should come new days--that the deeds of yesterday should be forgot in the shadows of yesterday--that as the dawn new hope should come unfailing, clean, benignant.

”A new day!” he repeated, turning his mild old face from the placid sea, a wondering, untroubled question in his eyes.

”Ay, zur--a new day.”

He watched the light grow--the hopeful tints spread rejoicing towards the higher heavens.

”The Lard,” he said, ”give me work. Blessed be the name o' the Lard!”

All the world was waking.

”The Lard give me pain. Blessed be the name o' the Lard!”

And a breeze came with the dawn--a rising breeze, rippling the purple sea.

”The Lard give me love,” he continued, turning tenderly to the stalwart twins. ”Blessed be the name o' the Lard!”

The wind swept calling by--blue winds, fair winds to the north: calling at the window, all the while.

”The Lard showed Himself t' me. Oh, ay, that He did,” he added, with a return to his old manner. ”'Skipper Tommy,' says the Lard,” he whispered, ”'Skipper Tommy,' says He, 'leave you an' Me,' says He, 'be friends. You'll never regret it, b'y,' says He, 'an you make friends with Me.' Blessed,” he said, his last, low voice tremulous with deep grat.i.tude, ”oh, blessed be the name o' the Lard!”

The wind called again--blithely called: crying at the window. In all the harbours of our coast, 'twas time to put to sea.

”I wisht,” the skipper sighed, ”that I'd been--a bit--wickeder. The wicked,” he took pains to explain, ”knows the dear Lard's love. An', somehow, I isn't _feelin'_ it as I should. An' I wisht--I'd sinned--a wee bit--more.”

Still the wind called to him.

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