“My own heart.”
“Your heart!” cried I, blind angry. “’Tis a liar an it says so.”
“What words!” she exclaimed, changed in a twinkling. “An’ to your sister! Do you get back in bed this instant, David Roth, an’ tell her that you’re sorry.”
I was loath to do it, but did, to pacify her; and when she had carried away the candle I chuckled, for I had cured her of her indisposition for that night, at any rate: as I knew, for when she kissed me ’twas plain that she was more concerned for her wayward brother than for herself.
Past midnight I was awakened by the clang of the bell on my father’s wharf. ’Twas an unpleasant sound. Half a gale—no less—could do it. I then knew that the wind had freshened and veered to the southeast; and I listened to determine how wild the night. Wild enough! The bell clanged frequently, sharply, jangling in the gusts—like an anxious warning. My window was black; there was no light in the sky—no star shining. Rain pattered on the roof. I heard the rush of wind. ’Twas inevitable that I should contrast the quiet of the room, the security of my place, the comfort of my couch and blankets, with a rain-swept, heaving deck and a tumultuous sea. A gusty night, I thought—thick, wet, with the wind rising. The sea would be in a turmoil on the grounds by dawn: there would be no fishing; and I was regretting this—between sleep and waking—when the bell again clanged dolefully. Roused, in a measure, I got ear of men stumbling up the path. I was into my breeches before they had trampled half the length of the platform—well on my way down the dark stair when they knocked on the door—standing scared in the light of their lantern, the door open, before they found time to hail.
I was addressed by a gray old man in ragged oilskins. “We heared tell,” said he, mildly, wiping his dripping beard, “that you got a doctor here.”
I said that we had.
“Well,” he observed, in a dull, slow voice, “we got a sick man over there t’ Wreck Cove.”
“Ay?” said I.