"No glory in the world!" says she.
"No light," I sighed; "no light, at all, Judith, in this gloomy
place."
And we went home....
* * * * *
For twelve days after that, while the skirt of winter still trailed
the world, the days being drear and gray, with ice at sea and cold
rain falling upon the hills, John Cather kept watch on Judith and me.
'Twas a close and anxiously keen surveillance. 'Twas, indeed,
unremitting and most daring, by night and day: 'twas a staring and
peering and sly spying, 'twas a lurking, 'twas a shy, not unfriendly,
eavesdropping, an observation without enmity or selfish purpose,
ceasing not at all, however, upon either, and most poignant when the
maid and I were left together, alone, as the wretched man must have
known, in the field of sudden junctures of feeling. I remember his
eyes--dark eyes, inquiring in a kindly way--staring from the alders of
the Whisper Cove road, from the dripping hills, from the shadowy
places of our house: forever in anxious question upon us. By this I
was troubled, until, presently, I divined the cause: the man was
disquieted, thinks I, to observe my happiness gone awry, but would not
intrude even so much as a finger upon the tangle of the lives of the
maid and me, because of the delicacy of his nature and breeding. 'Twas
apparent, too, that he was ill: he would go white and red without
cause, and did mope or overflow with a feverish jollity, and would
improperly overfeed at table or starve his emaciating body. But after
a time, when he had watched us narrowly to his heart's content, he
recovered his health and amiability, and was the same as he had been.
Judith and I were then cold and distant in behavior with each other,
but unfailing in politeness: 'twas now a settled attitude, preserved
by each towards the other, and betraying no feeling of any sort
whatever.
"John Cather," says I, "you've been ill."
He laughed. "You are a dull fellow!" says he, in his light way. "'Tis
the penalty of honesty, I suppose; and nature has fined you heavily. I
have not been ill: I have been troubled."
"By what, John Cather?"
"I fancied," he answered, putting his hands on my shoulders, very
gravely regarding me as he spoke, "that I must sacrifice my hope.
'Twas a hope I had long cherished, Dannie, and was become like life to
me." His voice was fallen deep and vibrant and soft; and the feeling
with which it trembled, and the light in the man's eyes, and the noble
poise of his head, and the dramatic arrangement of his sentences, so
affected me that I must look away. "Miserable necessity!" says he. "A
drear prospect! And with no more than a sigh to ease the wretched
fate! And yet," says he, quite heartily, "the thing had a pretty look
to it. Really, a beautiful look. There was a fine reward. A good deed
carries it. Always remember that, Dannie--and remember that I told
you. There was a fine reward. No encouragement of applause,
Dannie--just a long sigh in secret: then a grim age of self-command.
By jove! but there was a splendid compensation. A compensation within
myself, I mean--a recollection of at least one heroically unselfish
act. There would have been pain, of course; but I should never have
forgotten that I had played a man's part--better than a man's part: a
hero's part, a god's part. And that might have been sufficiently
comforting: I do not know--perhaps. I'll tell you about it, Dannie:
the thing was to have been done," he explained, in sincere emotion,
every false appearance gone from him, "for whom, do you think?"