Chapter 5

My welcome was of the gloomiest description. I observed that the twins, who lay feet to feet on the corner-seat, did not spring to meet me, but were cast down; and that Skipper Tommy, himself, sitting over the fire with a cup of tea on the table at his elbow, was glum as a deacon.

"Oh," said he, looking up with the ghost of a laugh, "I got in. You wasn't frettin' about _me_, was you, Davy? Oh, don't you ever go frettin' about me, lad, when--ah, well!--when they's nothin' but fog t' fear. Sure, 'twasn't no trouble for _me_ t' find North Tickle in the fog. Ah, me! If 'twas only that! Sure, I bumped her nose agin the point o' God's Warning, an' rattled her bones a bit, but, lad, me an' the punt is used t' little things like that. Oh, ay," he repeated, dismally, "I got _in_."

Evidently the worst had happened. "Did you?" said I, blankly. "An' was you--was you--_cotched_?"

"Is you thinkin' o' _she_, Davy?" he answered. "Well," in a melancholy drawl, smoothing his stubble of grey beard, his forehead deeply furrowed, "I'm not admittin' I is. But, Davy," he added, "she cast a hook, an'--well, I--I nibbled. Yes, I did, lad! I went an' nibbled!"

One of the twins started up in alarm. "Hark!" he whispered.

We listened--but heard nothing. A gust of wind rattled the window, and, crying hoarsely, swept under the house. There was nothing more than that.

"Hist!" said the twin.

We heard only the ominous mutter and sigh of the gust departing.

"Jacky," said the skipper, anxiously, "what was you thinkin' you heared, b'y?"

Jacky fidgetted in his seat. "'Twas like the mail-boat's whistle, zur," he answered, "but 'twas sort o' hoarser."

"Why, lad," said the skipper, "the mail-boat's not handy by two hundred miles! 'Twas but the wind."

But he scratched his head in a puzzled way.

"Ay, maybe, zur," Jacky replied, still alert for a sound from the sea, "but 'twas not _like_ the wind."

Skipper Tommy held up his hand. "Ay," said he, when we had listened a long time, "'twas but the wind."

"Ay," said we all, "'twas but the wind."

"Ah, well, Davy," the skipper resumed, "she cast a hook, as I was sayin', an' I nibbled."

The twins groaned in concert.

"But the good Lard, Davy," the skipper went on, "had sent a switch o' wind from the sou'west. So they was a bit o' lop on the sea, an' 'twas t' that I turned, when the case got desperate. An' desperate it soon got, lad. Ah, indeed! 'long about Herring Head it got fair desperate. 'Skipper Thomas,' says she, 'we're gettin' old, you an' me,' says she. 'Sure, mum,' says I, 'not _you_, mum! I'll never give in t' that,' says I."

Our faces fell.

"'Twas what I done," the skipper persisted, with an air of guilt and remorse. "I just, felt like doin' it, an' so I done it. 'I'll never give in to it, mum,' says I, 'that _you're_ gettin' old.'"

I groaned with the twins--and Skipper Tommy made a dismal quartette of it--and the wind, rising sharply at that moment, contributed a chorus of heartrending noises.

"Ay," the skipper continued, "'twas a sad mistake. 'Twas floutin' Providence t' say a word like that to a woman like she. But I just felt like it. Then, 'Oh, dear,' says she, ''tis barb'rous lonely t' Wolf Cove,' says she. ''Tis too bad, mum,' says I. An' I throwed the bow o' the punt plump into a wave, Davy, lad, an' shipped a bucket o' water. 'An',' says she, 'it must be lonely for you, Skipper Thomas,' says she, 'livin' there at the Rat Hole.'"

Skipper Tommy paused to sigh and tweak his nose; and he tweaked so often and sighed so long that I lost patience.

"An' what did you do then?" I demanded.

"Took in more water, Davy," he groaned, "for they wasn't nothin' else I could think of. 'An',' says she, 'is it not lonely, Skipper Thomas,' says she, 'at the Rat Hole?' 'No, mum,' says I, takin' aboard another bucket or two, 'for I've the twins,' says I. With that she put her kerchief to her eyes, Davy, an' begun t' sniffle. An' t' relieve me feelin's, lad, for I was drove desperate, I just _had_ t' let the top of a wave fall over the bow: which I done, Davy, an' may the Lard forgive me! An' I'm not denyin' that 'twas a sizable wave she took."

He stared despondently at the floor.

"She gathered up her skirts," he went on. "An', 'Ah, Skipper Thomas,' says she, 'twins,' says she, 'is nothin'. 'Sure,' says she, 'twins is no good on a cold winter's night.' I'm not denyin', Davy," said the skipper, solemnly, looking me straight in the eye, "that she scared me with that. I'm not denyin' that me hand slipped. I'm not denyin' that I put the tiller over a _wee bit_ too far--maybe a foot--maybe a foot an' a half, in the excitement o' the moment--I isn't quite sure. No, no! I'm far, lad, from denyin' that I near swamped the boat. ''Tis gettin' rough,' says she. 'Ay,' says I, 'an' we'll be gettin' along a deal better, mum,' says I, 'if you bail.' So I kep' her bailin', Davy," the skipper concluded, with a long sigh and a sad wag of the head, "from Herring Head t' Wolf Cove. An', well, lad, she didn't quite cotch me, for she hadn't no time t' waste, but, as I was sayin', she cast a hook."

"You're well rid o' she," said I.

Timmie rose to look out of the window. "Hear the wind!" said he, turning in awe, while the cottage trembled under the rush of a gust. "My! but 'twill blow, the night!"

"Ah, Timmie," sighed the skipper, "what's a gale o' wind t' the snares o' women!"

"Women!" cried I. "Sure, she'll trouble you no more. You're well rid o' she."

"But I _isn't_ rid o' she, Davy," he groaned, "an' that's what's troublin' the twins an' me. I isn't rid o' she, for I've heared tell she've some l'arnin' an' can write a letter."

"Write!" cried I. "She won't write."

"Ah, Davy," sighed the skipper, his head falling over his breast, "you've no knowledge o' women. They never gives in, lad, that they're beat. They never _knows_ they're beat. An' that one, lad, wouldn't know it if she was told!"

"Leave her write so much as she wants," said I. "'Twill do you no harm."

"No harm?" said he, looking up. "No harm in writin'?"

"No," said I. "Sure, you can't read!"

The twins leaped from the corner-seat and emitted a shrill and joyful whoop. Skipper Tommy threw back his head, opened his great mouth in silent laughter, and slapped his thigh with such violence that the noise was like a pistol shot.

"No more I can," he roared, "an' I'm too old t' l'arn!"

Laughter--a fit of it--seized him. It exploded like a thunder-clap, and continued, uproariously, interrupted by gasps, when he lost his breath, and by groans, when a stitch made him wince. There was no resisting it. The twins doubled up in the corner-seat, miserably screaming, their heels waving in the air; and Davy Roth collapsed on the floor, gripping his sides, his eyes staring, his mouth wide open, venting his mirth, the while, in painful shrieks. Skipper Tommy was himself again--freed o' the nets o' women--restored to us and to his own good humour--once again boon comrade of the twins and me! He jumped from his chair; and with a "Tra-la-la!" and a merry "Hi-tum-ti-iddle-dee-um!" he fell into a fantastic dance, thumping the boards with his stockinged feet, advancing and retreating with a flourish, bowing and balancing to an imaginary partner, all in a fashion so excruciatingly exaggerated that the twins screamed, "Don't, father!" and Davy Roth moaned, "Oh, stop, zur, please, zur!" while the crimson, perspiring, light-footed, ridiculously bow-legged old fellow still went cavorting over the kitchen floor.

* * * * *

But I was a child--only a child--living in the shadow of some great sorrow, which, though I did not know it, had pressed close upon us. There flashed before me a vision of my mother lying wan and white on the pillows. And I turned on my face and began to cry.

"Davy, lad!" said the skipper, tenderly, seeking to lift my head. "Hush, lad! Don't cry!"

But I sobbed the harder.

"Ah, Davy," the twins pleaded, "stop cryin'! Do, now!"

Skipper Tommy took me on his knee; and I hid my face on his breast, and lay sobbing hopelessly, while he sought to sooth me with many a pat and "Hush!" and "Never mind!"

"I'm wantin' t' go home," I moaned.

He gathered me closer in his arms. "Do you stay your grief, Davy," he whispered, "afore you goes."

"I'm wantin' t' go home," I sobbed, "t' my mother!"

Timmie and Jacky came near, and the one patted my hand, and the other put an arm around me.

"Sure, the twins 'll take you home, Davy," said the skipper, softly, "when you stops cryin'. Hush, lad! Hush, now!"

They were tender with me, and I was comforted; my sobs soon ceased, but still I kept my head against the skipper's breast. And while there I lay, there came from the sea--from the southwest in a lull of the wind--breaking into the tender silence--the blast of a steam whistle, deep, full-throated, prolonged.

"Hist!" whispered Jacky. "Does you not hear?"

Skipper Tommy stood me on my feet, and himself slowly rose, listening intently.

"Lads," he asked, his voice shaking, "was it the mail-boat?"

"No, zur!" the twins gasped.

"Is you sure?"

"'Tis not the way she blows, zur!"

"'Tis surely not she," the skipper mused. "In the sou'west she'd be out of her course. Hark!"

Once more the long, hoarse roar broke the silence, but now rising again and again, agonized, like a cry for help.

"Dear Lard!" skipper Tommy cried, putting his hands to his face. "'Tis a big steamer on the Thirty Black Devils!"

"A wreck!" shouted Jacky, leaping for his jacket. "A wreck! A wreck!"

Distraction seized the skipper. "'Tis a wreck!" he roared. "My boots, lads! Wreck! Wreck!"

We lads went mad. No steamer had been wrecked on the coast in our time. There were deeds to do! There was salvage to win!

"Wreck!" we screamed. "Wreck! Wreck! Wreck!"

Then out we four ran. It was after dark. The vault was black. But the wind had turned the fog to thin mist. The surrounding hills stood disclosed--solid shadows in the night. Half a gale was blowing from the sea: it broke over the hills; it swooped from the inky sky; it swept past in long, clinging gusts. We breasted it heads down. The twins raised the alarm. Wreck! Wreck! Folk joined us as we ran. They were in anxious haste to save life. They were gleeful with the hope of salvage. What the sea casts up the Lord provides! Wreck! Wreck! Far-off cries answered us. The cottage windows were aglow. Lanterns danced over the flakes. Lights moved over the harbour water. Wreck! Wreck! On we stumbled. Our feet struck the road with thud and scrape. Our lanterns clattered and buzzed and fluttered. Wreck! Wreck! We plunged down the last hill and came gasping to my father's wharf.

Most of our folk were already vigorously underway towards South Tickle.

"Lives afore salvage, lads!" my father shouted from his punt.

My sister caught my arm.

"'Tis a big steamer, Bessie!" I cried, turning.

"Ay," she said, hurriedly. "But do you go stay with mother, Davy. She've sent me t' Tom Turr's by the path. They're t' fetch the wrecked folk there. Make haste, lad! She've been left alone."

I ran up the path to our house.

X

THE FLIGHT

It was late in the night. My mother and I sat alone in her dim-lit room. We were waiting--both waiting. And I was waiting for the lights of the returning punts.

"Davy!" my mother called. "You are still there?"

"Ay, mother," I answered. "I'm still sittin' by the window, lookin' out."

"I am glad, dear," she sighed, "that you are here--with me--to-night."

She craved love, my love; and my heart responded, as the knowing hearts of children will.

"Ah, mother," I said, "'tis lovely t' be sittin' here--all alone with you!"

"Don't, Davy!" she cried, catching her breath. "I'm not able to bear the joy of it. My heart----"

"'Tis so," I persisted, "'cause I loves you so!"

"But, oh, I'm glad, Davy!" she whispered. "I'm glad you love your mother. And I'm glad," she added, softly, "that you've told me so--to-night."

By and by I grew drowsy. My eyes would not stay open. And I fell asleep with my head on the window-sill. I do not know how long I slept.

"Davy!" my mother called.

"Ay?" I answered, waking. "Sure, I been asleep!"

"But you're not wanting to go to bed?" she asked, anxiously. "You'll not leave your mother all alone, will you?"

"No, no, mama!"

"No," she said. "Do not leave your mother, now."

Again I fell asleep. It may be that I wasted a long, long time in sleep.

"Davy!" she called.

I answered. And, "I cannot stay awake," I said. "Sure, 'tis quite past me t' do it, for I'm so wonderful sleepy."

"Come closer," she said. "Tired lad!" she went on, when she had my hand in hers. "Sleepy head! Lie down beside me, dear, and go to sleep. I'm not afraid--not afraid, at all--to be left alone. Oh, you're so tired, little lad! Lie down and sleep. For your mother is very brave--to-night. And tell your father, Davy--when he comes and wakes you--and tell your sister, too--that your mother was happy, oh, very happy and brave, when...."

"When you fell asleep?" I asked.

"Yes," she answered, in a voice so low I could but hear it. "That I was happy when--I fell asleep."

I pulled off my jacket.

"I'm wanting to hear you say your prayers, Davy," she said, "before you go to sleep. I'm wanting once again--just once again--to hear you say your prayers."

I knelt beside the bed.

"My little son!" my mother said. "My--little--son!"

"My mother!" I responded, looking up.

She lifted my right hand. "Dear Jesus, lover of children," she prayed, "take, oh, take this little hand!"

And I began to say my prayers, while my mother's fingers wandered tenderly through my curls, but I was a tired child, and fell asleep as I prayed. And when I awoke, my mother's hand lay still and strangely heavy on my head.

* * * * *

Then the child that was I knew that his mother was dead. He leaped from his knees with a broken cry, and stood expectant, but yet in awe, searching the dim, breathless room for a beatified figure, white-robed, winged, radiant, like the angel of the picture by his bed, for he believed that souls thus took their flight; but he saw only shadows.

"Mama," he whispered, "where is you?"

There was no answer to the child's question. The risen wind blew wildly in the black night without. But it was still dim and breathless in the room.

"Mama," said the child, "is your soul hidin' from me?"

Still the child was left unanswered. He waited, listening--but was not answered.

"Don't hide," he pleaded. "Oh, don't hide, for I'm not wantin' to play! Oh, mother, I'm wantin' you sore!"

And, now, he knew that she would come, for, "I'm wantin' you, mother!" he had been used to crying in the night, and she had never failed to answer, but had come swiftly and with comfort. He waited for a voice and for a vision, surely expecting them in answer to his cry; but he saw only shadows, heard only the scream of the wind, and a sudden, angry patter of rain on the roof. Then the child that was I fancied that his mother's soul had fled while yet he slept, and, being persuaded that its course was heavenward, ran out, seeking it. And he forgets what then he did, save that he climbed the broken cliff behind the house, crying, "Wait, oh, wait!" and that he came, at last, to the summit of the Watchman, where there was a tumult of wind and rain.

"Mama!" he screamed, lifting his hands in appeal to the wide, black sky. "You forgot t' kiss me good-bye! Oh, come back!"

He flung himself prone on the naked rock, for the soul of his mother did not come, though patiently he had watched for the glory of its returning flight.

"She've forgot me!" he moaned. "Oh, she've forgot me!"

* * * * *

When, trembling and bedraggled, I came again to the room where my mother's body lay, my sister was kneeling by the bed, and my father was in converse with a stranger, who was not like the men of our coast. "Not necessarily mortal," this man was saying. "An operation--just a simple operation--easily performed with what you have at hand--would have saved the woman."

"Saved her, Doctor?" said my father passionately. "Is you sayin' _that_?"

"I have said so. It would have saved her. Had we been wrecked five days ago she would have been alive."

A torrent of rain beat on the house.

"Alive?" my father muttered, staring at the floor. "She would have been alive!"

The stranger looked upon my father in pity. "I'm sorry for you, my man," he said.

"'Tis strange," my father muttered, still staring at the floor. "'Tis strange--how things--comes about. Five days--just five...."

He muttered on.

"Yes," the stranger broke in, stirring nervously. "Had I come but five days ago."

A sudden rising of the gale--the breaking of its fury--filled the room with a dreadful confusion.

"Indeed--I'm--sorry--very sorry," the stranger stammered; his lips were drawn; in his eyes was the flare of some tragedy of feeling.

My father did not move--but continued vacantly to stare at the floor.

"Really--you know--I am!"

"Is you?" then my father asked, looking up. "Is you sorry for me an' Davy an' the lass?" The stranger dared not meet my father's eyes. "An' you could have saved her," my father went on. "_You_ could have saved her! She didn't have t' go. She died--for want o' you! God Almighty," he cried, raising his clenched hand, "this man come too late God Almighty--does you hear me, God Almighty?--the man you sent come too late! An' you," he flashed, turning on the stranger, "could have saved her? Oh, my dear lass! An' she would have been here the night? Here like she used t' be? Here in her dear body? Here?" he cried, striking his breast. "She would have lain here the night had you come afore? Oh, why didn't you come?" he moaned. "You hold life an' death in your hands, zur, t' give or withhold. Why didn't you come--t' give the gift o' life t' she?"

The stranger shrank away. "Stop!" he cried, in agony. "How was I to know?"

"Hush, father!" my sister pleaded.

In a flash of passion my father advanced upon the man. "How was you t' know?" he burst out. "Where you been? What you been doin'? Does you hear me?" he demanded, his voice rising with the noise of wind and rain. "What you been doin'?"

"Stop it, man! You touch me to the quick! You don't know--you don't know--"

"What you been doin'? We're dyin' here for want o' such as you. What you been doin'?"

There was no answer. The stranger had covered his face with his hands.

"O God," my father cried, again appealing to Heaven, "judge this man!"

"Stop!"

It was a bitter cry--the agony sounding clear and poignant above the manifold voices of the storm--but it won no heed.

"O God, judge this man!"

"Will no one stop him?" the stranger moaned. "For God's sake--stop him--some one!"

"O God, judge this man!"

The stranger fled....

* * * * *

"Oh, my dear wife!" my father sobbed, at last, sinking into the great armchair, wherein the mail-boat doctor had not sat. "Oh, my dear wife!"

"Father!" my dear sister whispered, flinging her soft arms about his neck and pressing her cheek against his brow. "Dear father!"

And while the great gale raged, she sought to comfort my father and me, but could not.

XI

The WOMEN at The GATE

By and by my sister put me in dry clothes, and bidding me be a good lad, sat me in the best room below, where the maids had laid a fire. And Skipper Tommy Lovejoy, finding me there disconsolate, took me to the seaward hills to watch the break of day: for the rain had ceased, the wind fallen away; and the gray light of dawn was in the eastern sky.

"I'm wantin' t' tell you, Davy," he said, in a confidential way, as we trudged along, "about the gate o' heaven."

I took his hand.

"An' I _been_ wantin' t' tell you," he added, giving his nose a little tweak, "for a long, long time."

"Is you?"

"Ay, lad; an' about the women at the gate."

"Women, Skipper Tommy?" said I, puzzled. "An', pray, who is they?"

"Mothers," he answered. "Just mothers."

"What they doin' at the gate? No, no! They're not _there_. Sure, they're playin' harps at the foot o' the throne."

"No," said he, positively; "they're at the gate."

"What they doin' there?"

"Waitin'."

We were now come to the crest of a hill; and the sea was spread before us--breaking angrily under the low, black sky.

"What's they waitin' for?" I asked.

"Davy, lad," he answered, impressively, "they're waitin' for them they bore. _That's_ what they're waitin' for."

"For their sons?"

"Ay; an' for their daughters, too."

While I watched the big seas break on the rocks below--and the clouds drift up from the edge of the world--I pondered upon this strange teaching. My mother had never told me of the women waiting at the gate.

"Ah, but," I said, at last, "I'm thinkin' God would never allow it t' go on. He'd want un all t' sing His praises. Sure, they'd just be wastin' His time--waitin' there at the gate."

Skipper Tommy shook his head--and smiled, and softly patted my shoulder.

"An' He'd gather un there, at the foot o' the throne," I went on, "an' tell un t' waste no more, but strike up their golden harps."

"No, no!"

"Why not?"

"They wouldn't go."

"But He'd _make_ un go."

"He couldn't."

"Not _make_ un!" I cried, amazed.

"Look you, lad," he explained, in a sage whisper, "they're all mothers, an' they'd be _wantin_' t' stay where they was, an', ecod! they'd find a way."

"Ah, well," I sighed, "'tis wearisome work--this waitin'."

"I'm thinkin' not," he answered, soberly, speaking rather to himself than to me. "'Tis not wearisome for such as know the good Lard's plan."

"'Tis wonderful hard," said I, "on the mothers o' wicked sons."

The old man smiled. "Who knows," he asked, "that 'tis wonderful hard on they?"

"But then," I mused, "the Lord would find a way t' comfort the mother o' such."

"Oh, ay!"

"I'm thinkin', maybe," I went on, "that He'd send an angel t' tell her they wasn't worth the waitin' for. 'Mind un not,' He'd say. 'They're nothin' but bad, wicked boys. Leave un go t' hell an' burn.'"

"An', now, what, lad," he inquired with deep interest, "is you thinkin' the mother would do?"

"She'd take the angel's hand," I sighed.

"Ay?"

"An' go up t' the throne--forgettin' them she'd left."

"An' then?"

"She'd praise the Lard," I sobbed.

"Never!" the skipper cried.

I looked hopefully in his face.

"Never!" he repeated. "'Lard,' she'd say, 'I loves un all the more for their sins. Leave me wait--oh, leave me wait--here at the gate. Maybe--sometime--they'll come!'"

"But some," said I, in awe, "would wait forever--an' ever--an' ever----"

"Not one!"

"Not one?"

"Not one! 'Twould break the dear Lard's heart t' see un waitin' there."

I looked away to the furthest clouds, fast changing, now, from gray to silver; and for a long time I watched them thin and brighten.

"Skipper Tommy," I asked, at last, "is _my_ mother at the gate?"

"Ay," said he confidently.

"Waitin'?"

"Ay."

"An' for me?"

He gave me an odd look--searching my very soul with his mild old eyes. "Doesn't you think she is?" he asked.

"I knows it!" I cried.

* * * * *

Far off, at the horizon, the sky broke--and the rift broadened--and the clouds lifted--and the east flamed with colour--and all at once the rosy, hopeful light of dawn flushed the frowning sea.

"Look!" the skipper whispered.

"Ay," said I, "the day is broke."

"A new day!" said he.

XII

DOCTOR AND I