“How d’you mean—afraid?”
She gave a little laugh that was more dreary than any sob,—the laugh of the naturally brave person who for the first time in life comes under the domination of fear.
“Afraid of near everything, it seems to me!... Afraid I’ll get hankering after things, this side, when it’s too late to come back. Afraid of breaking my heart Over There, as I’ve broken it over here.... Afraid of all the new folks and new sights. Afraid of the sea——”
She shuddered as she said the last word, seeing, even as she spoke, the first wave of her vision come rolling back upon her. Kirkby looked surprised.
“What’s put that into your head?” he asked, puzzled. “You’ve never let on before you minded the sea?”
“I’ve always minded it,” Mattie said. “First time I set eyes on it,—ay, and long before that. But I wouldn’t let on about it even to myself. I made out it wouldn’t matter, just as I made out other things wouldn’t matter. But I was only cheating myself all the time. They do matter, and I do mind; and now I’m old I haven’t the courage to face ’em.”
“You’ll face ’em right enough to-morrow,—see if you won’t! You’re over-tired to-night. I’ll be bound you weren’t bothering about the sea when you woke this morning!”
He spoke purposely in a light, bantering tone, hoping to stir her out of her trouble; but she shook her head.
“There’ll be another night to-morrow.... It’s the nights you’ve got to think of, when you’re getting old. And it isn’t only the sea. There’s other things as well.”
“Tell me the other things, Mattie.”