Symptoms of my dear sister's previous disorder now again alarmingly
developed--sighs and downcast glances, quick flushes, infinite
tenderness to us all, flashes of high spirits, wet lashes, tumultuously
beating heart; and there were long dreams in the twilight, wherein, when
she thought herself alone, her sweet face was at times transfigured into
some holy semblance. And perceiving these unhappy evidences, I was once
more disquieted; and I said that I must seek the doctor's aid, that she
might be cured of the perplexing malady: though, to be sure, as then and
there I impatiently observed, the doctor seemed himself in some strange
way to have contracted it, and was doubtless quite incapable of
prescribing.
My sister would not brook this interference. "I'm not sayin'," she
added, "that the doctor couldn't cure me, an he had a mind to; for,
Davy, dear," with an earnest wag of her little head, "'twould not be the
truth. I'm only sayin' that I'll not have un try it."
"Sure, why, Bessie?"
Her glance fell. "I'll not tell you why," said she.
"But I'm wantin' t' know."
She pursed her lips.
"Is you forgettin'," I demanded, "that I'm your brother?"
"No," she faltered.
"Then," said I, roughly, "I'll have the doctor cure you whether you will
or not!"
She took my hand, and for a moment softly stroked it, looking away.
"You're much changed, dear," she said, "since our mother died."
"Oh, Bessie!"
"Ay," she sighed.
I hung my head. 'Twas a familiar bitterness. I was, indeed, not the same
as I had been. And it seems to me, now--even at this distant day--that
this great loss works sad changes in us every one. Whether we be child
or man, we are none of us the same, afterwards.
"Davy," my sister pleaded, "were your poor sister now t' ask you t' say
no word----"
"I would not say one word!" I broke in. "Oh, I would not!"
That was the end of it.
* * * * *
Next day the doctor bade me walk with him on the Watchman, so that, as
he said, he might without interruption speak a word with me: which I
was loath to do; for he had pulled a long face of late, and had sighed
and stared more than was good for our spirits, nor smiled at all, save
in a way of the wryest, and was now so grave--nay, sunk deep in
blear-eyed melancholy--that 'twas plain no happiness lay in prospect.
'Twas sad weather, too--cold fog in the air, the light drear, the land
all wet and black, the sea swishing petulantly in the mist. I had no
mind to climb the Watchman, but did, cheerily as I could, because he
wished it, as was my habit.
When we got to Beacon Rock, there was no flush of red in the doctor's
cheeks, as ever there had been, no life in his voice, which not long
since had been buoyant; and his hand, while for a moment it rested
affectionately on my shoulder, shook in a way that frightened me.
"Leave us go back!" I begged. "I'm not wantin' t' talk."
I wished I had not come: for there was in all this some foreboding of
wretchedness. I was very much afraid.
"I have brought you here, Davy," he began, with grim deliberation, "to
tell you something about myself. I do not find it," with a shrug and a
wry mouth, "a pleasant----"
"Come, zur," I broke in, this not at all to my liking, "leave us go t'
the Soldier's Ear!"
"Not an agreeable duty," he pursued, fixing me with dull eyes, "for me
to speak; nor will it be, I fancy, for you to hear. But----"
This exceeded even my utmost fears. "I dare you, zur," said I, desperate
for a way of escape, "t' dive from Nestin' Ledge this cold day!"
He smiled--but 'twas half a sad frown; for at once he puckered his
forehead.
"You're scared!" I taunted.
He shook his head.
"Oh, do come, zur!"
"No, Davy," said he.