"Yes, I'm going now," she added. "I'm dying of curiosity, but I'll change my dress first. And do you make André comfortable. I'll be back in a minute," she cried.
Rachel's welcome of her childhood's friend was all the more eager because she looked to him to save her from the difficulties of her situation and from herself. While she dressed, she thought only of André and as she drew on a pair of dry shoes and tightened the crossed lacings with excited jerks, she said his name over and over like a child bubbling with joy.
"Now for the news?" she cried, entering the front room; and seating herself beside André, she took his hand. "Something special brought you, I know it. Now tell me."
The story at any other time would have held her spellbound, but in her present mood she had difficulty in grasping it. Constantly her thoughts wandered, now to Emil, now to André. She drew such profound comfort from the touch of André's strong young fingers.
The facts as he related them were as follows: A man in the last stage of consumption and calling himself, "John Smith" had made his appearance in Old Harbour a few days before. Desiring news of Lavina Beckett's daughter, he had asked to be directed to André. When he learned from André that Rachel was living in New York city, he had burst into tears. He had declared he must see her before he died. He had persuaded André to accompany him to the city as he feared to travel farther alone. But before leaving Old Harbour he had deposited a sum of money in the bank and had written a long letter which he addressed to Rachel. On the journey he had read and reread this epistle. He was very weak and when they reached their destination, collapsed in the great bustling station. After much parley over the telephone, a station attendant had arranged for his reception at a hospital. Thither he had been taken. The physician who attended him assured him he would be much stronger after a few hours' rest, and on hearing this, John Smith had begged André to find Rachel and bring her to the hospital the following day. "Afternoon's always my best time, bring her then," he had implored.
"I understand; it's poor Father's friend," Rachel whispered dreamily, when André concluded; "he didn't send all the money Father gave him that time, and now he wants to give me the rest. That's the whole sad story. But André, I can't seem to think about it," she murmured after a moment. "I'll go to the hospital without fail, but now let's talk about you. Do you know, I think you managed splendidly to ferret me out in this way. You went to the house, first, of course, and Theresa told you where I was."
While André's voice ran on detailing the news: how his mother and he now performed every duty about the lighthouse as the Captain was in his cups most of the time (Oh, but the Captain, he was a clever one at concealing the state of things!) how Nora Gage had gone into the shop with Katherine Fry, how Zarah Patch had increased the size of his vegetable garden, and Lottie Loveburg had taken up with Jim Wright after all—Rachel scarcely listened to him. A danger confronted her, and, try as she would, she could think of nothing but the decisive interview of the morrow,—that battle that must be waged in spite of her own deadly weakness and overwhelming love.
She asked herself a question. Why at this time, rather than any other, were the facts relating to her father's life to be revealed to her? And, as she sat by André's side, she was conscious of a mysterious influence, like a warning, reaching her from the insistent past.