“I’m glad.”
“I cannot help it,” she continued, clasping her hands, her breast heaving. “I love him—so hard—I cannot tell it.”
“I’m glad.”
“An’ he loves me. He loves me! I’m not doubtin’ that. He loves me,” she whispered, that holy light once more breaking about her, in which she seemed transfigured. “Oh,” she sighed, beyond expression, “he loves me!”
“I’m glad.”
“An’ I’m content t’ know it—just t’ know that he loves me—just t’ know that I love him. His hands and eyes and arms! I ask no more—but just t’ know it. Just once to have—to have had him—kiss me. Just once to have lain in his arms, where, forever, I would lie. Oh, I’m glad,” she cried, joyously, “that the good Lord made me! I’m glad—just for that. Just because he kissed me—just because I love him, who loves me. I’m glad I was made for him to love. ’Tis quite enough for me. I want—only this I want—that he may have me—that, body and soul, I may satisfy his love—so much I love him. Davy,” she faltered, putting her hands to her eyes, “I love—I love—I love him!”
Ecod! ’Twas too much for me. Half scandalized, I ran away, leaving her weeping in my dear mother’s rocking-chair.
My sister and I were alone at table that evening. The doctor was gone in the punt to Jolly Harbour, the maids said; but why, they did not know, for he had not told them—nor could we guess: for ’twas a vexatious distance, wind and tide what they were, nor would a wise man undertake it, save in case of dire need, which did not then exist, the folk of Jolly Harbour, as everybody knows, being incorruptibly healthy. But I would not go to sleep that night until my peace was made; and though, to deceive my sister, I went to bed, I kept my eyes wide open, waiting for the doctor’s step on the walk and on the stair: a slow, hopeless footfall, when, late in the night, I heard it.
I followed him to his room—with much contrite pleading on the tip of my tongue. And I knocked timidly on the door.