"Tell her--that I love her. No!" he cried. "'Tis not that. Tell her----"
"Ay?"
"That I loved her!"
"Hist!" I whispered, not myself disquieted by this significant change of
form. "She's stirrin' in her room."
It may be that the doctor loved my sister through me--that I found some
strange place in his great love for her, to which I had no title, but
was most glad to have. For, then, in the sheltering half-light, he
lifted me from my bed--crushed me against his breast--held me there,
whispering messages I could not hear--and gently laid me down again, and
went in haste away. And I dressed in haste: but fumbled at all the
buttons, nor could quickly lay hands on my clothes, which were scattered
everywhere, by my sad habit; so that, at last, when I was clad for the
weather, and had come to my father's wharf, the sloop was cast off.
Skipper Tommy sat in the stern, his face grimly set towards North
Tickle and the hungry sea beyond: nor did he turn to look at me. But the
doctor waved his hand--and laughed a new farewell.
* * * * *
I did not go to the hills--because I had no heart for that (and had no
wish to tell my sister what might be seen from there): but sat grieving
on a big box, in the lee of the shop, drumming a melancholy refrain with
my heels. And there I sat while the sad light of day spread over the
rocky world; and, by and by, the men came out of the cottages--and
_they_ went to the hills of God's Warning, as I knew they would--and
came back to the wharf to gossip: but in my presence were silent
concerning what they had seen at sea, so that, when I went up to our
house, I did not know what the sloop was making of the gale. And when I
crossed the threshold, 'twas to a vast surprise: for my breakfast was
set on a narrow corner of the kitchen table (and had turned cold); and
the whole house was in an amazing state of dust and litter and
unseasonable confusion--the rugs lifted, the tables and chairs awry, the
maids wielding brooms with utmost vigour: a comfortless prospect,
indeed, but not foreign to my sister's way at troublous times, as I
knew. So I ate my breakfast, and that heartily (being a boy); and then
sought my sister, whom I found tenderly dusting in my mother's room.
"'Tis queer weather, Bessie," said I, in gentle reproof, "for cleanin'
house."
She puckered her brow--a sad little frown: but sweet, as well, for,
downcast or gay, my sister could be naught else, did she try it.
"Is you thinkin' so, Davy?" she asked, pulling idly at her dust-rag.
"Ah, well!" she sighed.
"Why," I exclaimed, "'tis the queerest I ever knowed!"
"I been thinkin'," she mused, "that I'd get the house tidied up--while
the doctor's away."
"Oh, _was_ you?"
"Ay," she said, looking up; "for he've such a wonderful distaste for
dust an' confusion. An' I'll have the house all in order," she added,
with a wan smile, "when he gets back."
'Tis the way of women to hope; but that my clever sister should thus
count sure that which lay in grave doubt--admitting no uncertainty--was
beyond my understanding.
"Does you think," she asked, looking away, "that he will be back"--she
hesitated--"the morrow?"