“No glory in the world!” says she.
“No light,” I sighed; “no light, at all, Judith, in this gloomy place.”
And we went home....
For twelve days after that, while the skirt of winter still trailed the world, the days being drear and gray, with ice at sea and cold rain falling upon the hills, John Cather kept watch on Judith and me. ’Twas a close and anxiously keen surveillance. ’Twas, indeed, unremitting and most daring, by night and day: ’twas a staring and peering and sly spying, ’twas a lurking, ’twas a shy, not unfriendly, eavesdropping, an observation without enmity or selfish purpose, ceasing not at all, however, upon either, and most poignant when the maid and I were left together, alone, as the wretched man must have known, in the field of sudden junctures of feeling. I remember his eyes––dark eyes, inquiring in a kindly way––staring from the alders of the Whisper Cove road, from the dripping hills, from the shadowy places of our house: forever in anxious question upon us. By this I was troubled, until, presently, I divined the cause: the man was disquieted, thinks I, to observe my happiness gone awry, but would not intrude even so much as a finger upon the tangle of the lives of the maid and me, because of the delicacy of his nature and breeding. ’Twas apparent, too, that he was ill: he 274 would go white and red without cause, and did mope or overflow with a feverish jollity, and would improperly overfeed at table or starve his emaciating body. But after a time, when he had watched us narrowly to his heart’s content, he recovered his health and amiability, and was the same as he had been. Judith and I were then cold and distant in behavior with each other, but unfailing in politeness: ’twas now a settled attitude, preserved by each towards the other, and betraying no feeling of any sort whatever.
“John Cather,” says I, “you’ve been ill.”
He laughed. “You are a dull fellow!” says he, in his light way. “’Tis the penalty of honesty, I suppose; and nature has fined you heavily. I have not been ill: I have been troubled.”
“By what, John Cather?”
“I fancied,” he answered, putting his hands on my shoulders, very gravely regarding me as he spoke, “that I must sacrifice my hope. ’Twas a hope I had long cherished, Dannie, and was become like life to me.” His voice was fallen deep and vibrant and soft; and the feeling with which it trembled, and the light in the man’s eyes, and the noble poise of his head, and the dramatic arrangement of his sentences, so affected me that I must look away. “Miserable necessity!” says he. “A drear prospect! And with no more than a sigh to ease the wretched fate! And yet,” says he, quite heartily, “the thing had a pretty look to it. Really, a beautiful look. There was a fine reward. A good deed carries it. Always remember that, Dannie––and 275 remember that I told you. There was a fine reward. No encouragement of applause, Dannie––just a long sigh in secret: then a grim age of self-command. By jove! but there was a splendid compensation. A compensation within myself, I mean––a recollection of at least one heroically unselfish act. There would have been pain, of course; but I should never have forgotten that I had played a man’s part––better than a man’s part: a hero’s part, a god’s part. And that might have been sufficiently comforting: I do not know––perhaps. I’ll tell you about it, Dannie: the thing was to have been done,” he explained, in sincere emotion, every false appearance gone from him, “for whom, do you think?”
I did not know.