“Well, you see, I am not dead yet, Tom, thanks be to God, and under God to you. ’Tis you, Tom, that have been nearer Jordan than I.”
“Jordan!” said Tom, musingly. “Jordan! I was right then. I knew there was a flood, somehow, but I thought it was Bilberry burst.” Then, as if the very words brought a flash of crowding memory and peopled his mind with vivid visions, he cried aloud:
“Dorothy! Dorothy! Where is Dorothy! Oh God, I’ve let her slip again,” and a look of anguish, of hopeless despair was on his face, and with trembling hands he covered his face, and burying his head in the pillow, sobbed as though his whole being would dissolve in tears.
Mr. Tinker beckoned to one who stood by the door. She had entered the room very quietly, fearing to wake the patient. It was Dorothy, looking frail and fragile, but not unhappy, for Hannah had told her that Tom was coming to his senses, and the long, weary waiting and fearing was at an end. As Dorothy with noiseless step approached the bed Mr. Tinker drew aside. Dorothy touched gently the hand bent upon the pillow, and stooped low, very low, so that her lips were very near, and her breath played upon his cheek.
“No, Tom!” she whispered. “Not lost—won.” And as Tom raised his face and gazed upon her as men upon the lineaments that are dearer to them than life, when life is sweetest, her eyes drooped beneath his ardent gaze, and the mantling colour suffused her cheek. She stole her hand into his, and for a while they were still. Jabez came and stood by his niece’s side.
“Leave us for a time, Dorothy,” he said. It was the voice of Jabez; but not the voice she had so long been used to hear. It was almost caressing in its gentleness. Dorothy smiled her assent.
“I’m to bring your arrowroot up, Tom, and I’ve made it myself. I know the port wine’s nice. I tasted it. Don’t let the food be spoiled, uncle, and, remember, Tom’s not to be bothered or upset. If he is, won’t Hannah give it you, that’s all,” and she tripped away with a glance at Tom that did him more good belike than arrowroot or wine.
Mr. Tinker waited until the door had closed upon her, then he drew a chair to the bedside.
“I mustn’t agitate you, Tom,” he spoke. “But, oh! If you could realise what my feelings have been since you have lain between life and death, my dread lest you might pass away and make no sign, the fears, the hopes alternate holding sway, the doubts, the prayers you would forgive much to an old and stricken man.” He opened the hand in which he still held the locket. Involuntarily Tom raised his to feel for the trinket he had so long cherished.
“Can you tell me the meaning of this locket? It was found upon your neck, they say, when you were picked up unconscious, scarce breathing, your heart but flickering, in the churchyard yonder, after the Flood had abated. You had saved Dorothy, how, she scarce seems to know. But she lay very near to you, her head upon your breast. They thought you both dead. But Dorothy was soon no worse. But this locket, speak, Tom, what does it mean?”