“I’m going, now.”
“Is you?”
He drew me very close. “I’ve come to say good-bye,” he said. My head sank in great misgiving against him. I could not say one word. “And you know, lad,” he continued, “that I love your sister. Tell her, when I am gone, that I love her. Tell her——”
He paused. “An’ what, zur,” I asked, “shall I tell my sister for you?”
“Tell her—that I love her. No!” he cried. “’Tis not that. Tell her——”
“Ay?”
“That I loved her!”
“Hist!” I whispered, not myself disquieted by this significant change of form. “She’s stirrin’ in her room.”
It may be that the doctor loved my sister through me—that I found some strange place in his great love for her, to which I had no title, but was most glad to have. For, then, in the sheltering half-light, he lifted me from my bed—crushed me against his breast—held me there, whispering messages I could not hear—and gently laid me down again, and went in haste away. And I dressed in haste: but fumbled at all the buttons, nor could quickly lay hands on my clothes, which were scattered everywhere, by my sad habit; so that, at last, when I was clad for the weather, and had come to my father’s wharf, the sloop was cast off. Skipper Tommy sat in the stern, his face grimly set towards North Tickle and the hungry sea beyond: nor did he turn to look at me. But the doctor waved his hand—and laughed a new farewell.