‘Good-night, if you are sure you can get on. Here, take this stick—it is no use to me.’ Saying which, Pierston put his walking-stick into the young man’s hand.
‘Thank you again. I shall be quite recovered when I have rested a minute or two. Don’t let me detain you, please.’
The stranger as he spoke turned his face towards the south, where the Beal light had just come into view, and stood regarding it with an obstinate fixity. As he evidently wished to be left to himself Jocelyn went on, and troubled no more about him, though the desire of the young man to be rid of his company, after accepting his walking-stick and his arm, had come with a suddenness that was almost emotional; and impressionable as Jocelyn was, no less now than in youth, he was saddened for a minute by the sense that there were people in the world who did not like even his sympathy.
However, a pleasure which obliterated all this arose when Pierston drew near to the house that was likely to be his dear home on all future visits to the isle, perhaps even his permanent home as he grew older and the associations of his youth re-asserted themselves. It had been, too, his father’s house, the house in which he was born, and he amused his fancy with plans for its enlargement under the supervision of Avice and himself. It was a still greater pleasure to behold a tall and shapely figure standing against the light of the open door and presumably awaiting him.
Avice, who it was, gave a little jump when she recognized him, but dutifully allowed him to kiss her when he reached her side; though her nervousness was only too apparent, and was like a child’s towards a parent who may prove stern.
‘How dear of you to guess that I might come on at once instead of later!’ said Jocelyn. ‘Well, if I had stayed in the town to go to the shops and so on, I could not have got here till the last train. How is mother?—our mother, as I shall call her soon.’
Avice said that her mother had not been so well—she feared not nearly so well since her return from London, so that she was obliged to keep her room. The visit had perhaps been too much for her. ‘But she will not acknowledge that she is much weaker, because she will not disturb my happiness.’
Jocelyn was in a mood to let trifles of manner pass, and he took no notice of the effort which had accompanied the last word. They went upstairs to Mrs. Pierston, whose obvious relief and thankfulness at sight of him was grateful to her visitor.
‘I am so, O so glad you are come!’ she said huskily, as she held out her thin hand and stifled a sob. ‘I have been so—’
She could get no further for a moment, and Avice turned away weeping, and abruptly left the room.