“It’s a hard end to a hard life,” said the old woman who had suggested hope; and being only human, they fell to discussing the event from the point at which it affected their own lives.
Malabar Cottage stood at the top end of the High Street--almost by itself--looking out over the little green plot of common land, where the coastguard flagpost stands towards the sea. It was a low-roofed, solidly built cottage--once a coastguard station, but superseded in the heyday of east coast smuggling by a larger station further up the hill. There was a little garden in front, which the captain kept himself, growing such old-fashioned flowers as were content with his ignorant handling. The white jasmine ran riot over the portico.
Eve had apparently received a letter of some importance, for she was standing at the gate waiting for him. She ran out hatless to see him on his quarter-deck, and to her surprise found him not. She soon saw him coming, however, and to beguile the time fell to reading her letter a second time, with a little frown, as if the caligraphy gave her trouble.
She did not look up until he was quite close.
“Uncle,” she cried, “what is the matter?”
He gave a smile, which was painfully out of place on his bluff features - it was wan and twisted.
“Nothing, my dearie; nothing.”
He fumbled at the gate, and she had to find the latch for him.
“Just come below--I mean indoors, my dear. I’ve had some news. I dare say it will be all right--but just at first, you understand, it is a little--keen.”
He bustled through the porch, and Eve followed him. She watched him hang up his old straw hat, standing on tiptoe with a grunt, as was his wont.