* * * * *
And I went to bed; but I did not go to sleep. In the first place, I
could not, and, for better reason, my tutor got astir the moment my
door was closed. I heard his cautious descent to the dining-room. The
man had been waiting to get me out of the way; but I heard him go
down, and that right easily, in the fall of his stockinged feet, and
in the click of his door-latch, and in the creak of the stair. I cast
my clothes off in haste, but lay wide awake in my bed--as who would
not?--listening to the ominous murmur of voices from below. My tutor,
it seemed, was placid and determined; my uncle was outraged. I heard
the old man's voice rise in a rage, fall to a subdued complaint,
patter along in beseeching. It seemed 'twas all to no purpose; my
tutor was obdurate, and my uncle yielded to his demands, however
unwillingly. There was the mutter of agreement, there was the click of
my uncle's strong-box, there was the clink of gold coin. I listened
for the pop of a new cork; but I did not hear it: I heard the jug of
spring water exchange hands--no more than that. 'Twas very queer. But
I was not concerned with it, after all. Let my uncle and John Cather
deal with each other as they would, in any way engaging the clink of
gold from my uncle's strong-box; 'twas for me, unconcerned, to look
out of my window, to discover the weather. And this I did; and I found
the weather threatening--very dark, with the moon hid by clouds, and
blowing up in a way promising a strength of wind not to be disregarded
by folk who would put to sea.
The end of this was that John Cather and my uncle came above. My tutor
went straightway to his room, with steps that hastened past my door;
but my uncle paused, pushed the door cautiously ajar, thrust in his
head.
"Is you asleep, Dannie?" says he.
"No, sir. I'm wonderful wide awake."
"Ah, well!" he whispered, in such a way that I perceived his
triumphant glee, though I could not see his face for the darkness of
my room; "you might as well turn over an' go t' sleep."
"An' why, sir?" I asked.
"Like a babe, Dannie," says he, addressing me with fondness, as though
I were a little child again--"jus' like a babe."
He walked to my window and looked out to sea.
"Dirty weather the morrow, sir," I ventured.
"The lights o' the mail-boat!" he exclaimed. "She've left Fortune
Harbor. Ecod, b'y!"
He withdrew at once and in haste, and I heard him stump off to my
tutor's quarters, where, for a long time after that, there occurred
many and mysterious noises. I could not understand, but presently made
the puzzle out: John Cather was packing up. 'Twas beyond doubt; the
thump and creak, the reckless pulling of drawers, steps taken in
careless hurry and confusion, the agitation of the pressing need of
haste, all betrayed the business in hand. John Cather was packing up:
he was rejected of Judith--he was going away! It hurt me sorely to
think that the man would thus in impulsive haste depart, after these
years of intimate companionship, with a regard so small for my wishes
in the matter. Go to sleep like a babe? I could not go to sleep at
all; I could but lie awake in trouble. John Cather was packing up; he
was going away! My uncle helped him with his trunks down the stairs
and to the stage-head, where, no doubt, my uncle's punt was waiting to
board the belated mail-boat--the mean little trunk John Cather had
come with, and the great leather one I had bought him in London. I
was glad, at any rate, that my gifts--the books and clothes and
what-not I had bought him abroad--were not to be left to haunt me. But
that John Cather should not say good-bye! I could not forgive him
that. I waited and waited, lying awake in the dark, for him to come.
And come he did, when the trunks were carried away and the whistle of
the mail-boat had awakened our harbor. He pushed my door open without
knocking, knowing well enough that I was wide awake. 'Twas then dark
in my room; he could not see me.
"Where are your matches?" says he.
I told him, but did not like the manner of his speech. 'Twas in a way
to rouse the antagonism of any man, being most harsh and hateful.
"I can't find them," he complained.
"You'll find them well enough, John Cather," I chided, "an you looks
with patience."
He had no patience, it seemed, but continued to fumble about, and at
last, with his back turned to me, got my lamp lighted. For a moment he
stood staring at the wall, as though he lacked the resolution to turn.
And when he wheeled I knew that I looked upon the countenance of a man
who had been broken on the wheel; and I was very much afraid. John
Cather was splashed and streaked with the mud of the hills. 'Twas not
this evidence of passionate wandering that alarmed me; 'twas his
pallor and white lips, his agonized brows, the gloomy depth to which
his bloodshot eyes had withdrawn.
"Now," says he, "I want to look at you."