I was awakened at dawn. 'Twas by a gentle touch of the doctor's hand.
"Is it you, zur?" I asked, starting from sad dreams.
"Hush!" he whispered. "'Tis I, Davy."
I listened to the roar of the gale--my sleepy senses immediately aroused
by the noise of wind and sleet. The gathered rage was loosed, at last.
"'Tis a bitter night," I said.
"The day is breaking."
He sat down beside me, gravely silent; and he put his arm around me.
"You isn't goin'?" I pleaded.
"Yes."
I had grown to know his duty. 'Twas all plain to me. I would not have
held him from it, lest I come to love him less.
"Ay," I moaned, gripping his hand, "you're goin'!"
"Yes," he said.
We sat for a moment without speaking. The gale went whipping
past--driving madly through the breaking day: a great rush of black,
angry weather. 'Twas dim in the room. I could not see his face--but felt
his arm warm about me: and wished it might continue there, and that I
might fall asleep, serene in all that clamour, sure that I might find it
there on waking, or seek it once again, when sore need came. And I
thought, even then, that the Lord had been kind to us: in that this man
had come sweetly into our poor lives, if but for a time.
"You isn't goin' alone, is you?"
"No. Skipper Tommy is coming to sail the sloop."
Again--and fearsomely--the gale intruded upon us. There was a swish of
wind, rising to a long, mad shriek--the roar of rain on the roof--the
rattle of windows--the creaking of the timbers of our house. I trembled
to hear it.
"Oh, doctor!" I moaned.
"Hush!" he said.
The squall subsided. Rain fell in a monotonous patter. Light crept into
the room.
"Davy!"
"Ay, zur?"
"I'm going, now."
"Is you?"
He drew me very close. "I've come to say good-bye," he said. My head
sank in great misgiving against him. I could not say one word. "And you
know, lad," he continued, "that I love your sister. Tell her, when I am
gone, that I love her. Tell her----"