“Dirty weather the morrow, sir,” I ventured.
“The lights o’ the mail-boat!” he exclaimed. “She’ve left Fortune Harbor. Ecod, b’y!”
He withdrew at once and in haste, and I heard him stump off to my tutor’s quarters, where, for a long time after that, there occurred many and mysterious noises. I could not understand, but presently made the puzzle out: John Cather was packing up. ’Twas beyond doubt; the thump and creak, the reckless pulling of drawers, steps taken in careless hurry and confusion, the agitation of the pressing need of haste, all betrayed the business in hand. John Cather was packing up: he was rejected of Judith––he was going away! It hurt me sorely to think that the man would thus in impulsive haste depart, after these years of intimate companionship, with a regard so small for my wishes in the matter. Go to sleep like a babe? I could not go to sleep at all; I could but lie awake in trouble. John Cather was packing up; he was going away! My uncle helped him with his trunks down the stairs and to the stage-head, where, no doubt, my uncle’s punt was waiting to board the belated mail-boat––the mean little trunk John Cather had come with, and the great leather one I had 301 bought him in London. I was glad, at any rate, that my gifts––the books and clothes and what-not I had bought him abroad––were not to be left to haunt me. But that John Cather should not say good-bye! I could not forgive him that. I waited and waited, lying awake in the dark, for him to come. And come he did, when the trunks were carried away and the whistle of the mail-boat had awakened our harbor. He pushed my door open without knocking, knowing well enough that I was wide awake. ’Twas then dark in my room; he could not see me.
“Where are your matches?” says he.
I told him, but did not like the manner of his speech. ’Twas in a way to rouse the antagonism of any man, being most harsh and hateful.
“I can’t find them,” he complained.
“You’ll find them well enough, John Cather,” I chided, “an you looks with patience.”
He had no patience, it seemed, but continued to fumble about, and at last, with his back turned to me, got my lamp lighted. For a moment he stood staring at the wall, as though he lacked the resolution to turn. And when he wheeled I knew that I looked upon the countenance of a man who had been broken on the wheel; and I was very much afraid. John Cather was splashed and streaked with the mud of the hills. ’Twas not this evidence of passionate wandering that alarmed me; ’twas his pallor and white lips, his agonized brows, the gloomy depth to which his bloodshot eyes had withdrawn.
“Now,” says he, “I want to look at you.”