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 wishing 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. God 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-fish!" 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, flushing. "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."
"Oh, my!" said she, taken aback. "Back I goes, does I! An' t' Wolf Cove?
Oh, dear!"
My father sent word to the masters of the cod-traps, which were then set
off the heads, that such sculpin as got in the nets by chance must be
saved for him. He was overwrought, as I have said, by sorrow, overcome,
it may be, by the way this woman had. And soon he had for her four
green, prickly-skinned, jelly-like, big-bellied lump-fish, which were
not appetizing to look upon, though I've heard tell that starving folk,
being driven to it, have eaten them. My sister would not be driven from
the kitchen, though the woman was vehement in anger, but held to it that
she must know the character of the dose my mother was to take. So they
worked together--the doctor-woman scowling darkly--until the medicine
was ready: which was in the late evening of that day. Then they went to
my mother's room to administer the first of it.
"'Tis a new medicine," my mother said, with a smile, when she held the
glass in her hand.
"Ay," crooned the doctor-woman, "drink it, now, my dear."
My mother raised the glass to her lips. "And what is it?" she asked,
withdrawing the glass with a shudder.
"Tut, tut!" the doctor-woman exclaimed. "'Tis but a soup. 'Twill do you
good."
"I'm sure it will," my mother gently said. "But I wonder what it is."
Again she raised the glass with a wry face. But my sister stayed her
hand.
"I'll not have you take it," said she, firmly, "without knowin' what it
is."
The doctor-woman struck her arm away. "Leave the woman drink it!" she
screamed, now in a gust of passion.
"What's--this you're--giving me?" my mother stammered, looking upon the
glass in alarm and new disgust.
"'Tis the eyes o' four lump-fish," said my sister.
My mother dropped the glass, so that the contents were spilled over the
coverlet, and fell back on the pillows, where she lay white and still.
"Out with you!" said my sister to the doctor-woman. "I'll have no more
o' your cures!"
"Oh, my!" shrilled the woman, dropping into her most biting manner.
"_She_ won't have no more o' my cures! Oh, dear, she----"
"Out with you!" cried my sister, as she smartly clapped her hands under
the woman's nose. "Out o' the house with you!"
"Oh, 'tis _out_ with me, is it? Out o' the _house_ with me! Oh, dear!
Out o' the house with _me_! I'll have you t' know----"
My sister ignored the ponderous fist raised against her. She stamped her
small foot, her eyes flashing, the blood flushing her cheeks and brow.
"Out you go!" she cried. "_I'm_ not afeared o' you!"
I stood aghast while the doctor-woman backed through the door. Never
before had I known my gentle sister to flash and flush with angry
passion. Nor have I since.
* * * * *
Next morning, my father paid the woman from Wolf Cove a barrel of flour,
with which she was ill content, and traded her two barrels more for the
horse-chestnut, which my mother wished to keep lying on her breast,
because it comforted her. To Skipper Tommy Lovejoy fell the lot of
taking the woman back in the punt; for, as my father said, 'twas he that
brought her safely, and, surely, the one who could manage that could be
trusted to get her back without accident.
"An' 'tis parlous work, lad," said the skipper, with an anxious shrug,
while we waited on the wharf for the woman to come. "I'm very much
afeared. Ay," he added, frowning, "I is that!"
"I'm not knowin' why," said I, "for the wind's blowin' fair from the
sou'west, an' you'll have a fine time t' Wolf Cove."
"'Tis not that," said he, quietly. "Hist!" jerking his head towards our
house, where the woman yet was. "'Tis _she_!"
"I'd not be afeared o' _she_," said I. "'Twas but last night," I added,
proudly, "my sister gave her her tea in a mug."
"Oh, ay," said he, "I heared tell o' that. But 'tis not t' the point.
Davy, lad," in an undertone which betrayed great agitation, "she've her
cap set for a man, an' she's desperate."
"Ay?" said I.
He bent close to my ear. "An' she've her eye on _me_!" he whispered.
"Skipper Tommy," I earnestly pleaded, "don't you go an' do it."
"Well, lad," he answered, pulling at his nose, "the good Lard made me
what I is. I'm not complainin' o' the taste He showed. No, no! I would
not think o' doin' that. But----"
"He made you kind," I broke in, hotly, "an' such as good folk love."
"I'm not knowin' much about that, Davy. The good Lard made me as He
willed. But I'm an obligin' man. I've turned out, Davy, most wonderful
obligin'. I'm always doin' what folks wants me to. Such men as me, lad,"
he went on, precisely indicating the weakness of his tender character,
"is made that way. An' if she tells me she's a lone woman, and if she
begins t' cry, what is I to do? An' if I has t' pass me word, Davy, t'
stop her tears! Eh, lad? Will you tell me, David Roth, _what_ is I t'
do?"
"Turn the punt over," said I, quickly. "They's wind enough for that,
man! An' 'tis your only chance, Skipper Tommy--'tis the only chance
_you_ got--if she begins t' cry."
He was dispirited. "I wisht," he said, sadly, "that the Lard hadn't made
me _quite_ so obligin'!"
"'Tis too bad!"
"Ay," he sighed, "'tis too bad I can't trust meself in the company o'
folk that's givin' t' weepin'."
"I'll have the twins pray for you," I ventured.
"Do!" he cried, brightening. "'Tis a grand thought! An' do you tell them
two dear lads that I'll never give in--no, lad, their father'll never
give in t' that woman--till he's just _got_ to."
"But, Skipper Tommy," said I, now much alarmed, so hopeless was his
tone, stout as his words were, "tell my father you're not wantin' t' go.
Sure, he can send Elisha Turr in your stead."
"Ay," said he, "but I _is_ wantin' t' go. That's it. I'm thinkin' all
the time o' the book, lad. I'm wantin' t' make that book a good book.
I'm wantin' t' learn more about cures."
"I'm thinkin' _her_ cures isn't worth much," said I.
He patted me on the head. "You is but a lad," said he, indulgent with my
youth, "an' your judgment isn't well growed yet. Some o' they cures is
bad, no doubt," he added, "an' some is good. I wants no bad cures in my
book. I'll not _have_ them there. But does you think I can't _try_ un
all on _meself_ afore I has un _put_ in the book?"
* * * * *
When the punt was well through North Tickle, on a free, freshening wind,
I sped to the Rat Hole to apprise the twins of their father's unhappy
situation, and to beg of them to be constant and importunate in prayer
that he might be saved from the perils of that voyage. Then, still
running as fast as my legs would go, I returned to our house, where,
again, I found the shadow and the mystery, and the hush in all the
rooms.
"Davy!"
"Ay, Bessie," I answered. "'Tis I."
"Our mother's wantin' you, dear."
I tiptoed up the stair, and to the bed where my mother lay, and, very
softly, I laid my cheek against her lips.
"My sister sent me, mum," I whispered.
"Yes," she sighed. "I'm--just wanting you."
Her arm, languid and light, stole round my waist.