Part 15 (2/2)

Then I thought I must tell him what was in my heart to say. Why not? The wish was good, and his soft, melancholy voice irresistibly appealed to my raw and childish sympathies.

”I wisht, zur,” I whispered, looking down at my boots, through sheer embarra.s.sment, ”that you----”

My tongue failed me. I was left in a sad lurch. He was not like our folk--not like our folk, at all--and I could not freely speak my mind.

”Yes?” he said, to encourage me.

”That you wasn't so sad,” I blurted, with a rush, looking swift and deep into his gray eyes.

”Why not?” said he, taking my hand.

”I'm not wantin' you t' be.”

He put his arm over my shoulder. ”Why not?” he asked. ”Tell me why not, won't you?”

The corners of my mouth fell. It may have been in sympathetic response to the tremolo of feeling in his voice. I was in peril of unmanly tears (as often chanced in those days)--and only women, as I knew, should see lads weep. I hid my face against him.

”Because, zur,” I said, ”it makes me sad, too!”

He sat down and drew me to his knee. ”This is very strange,” he said, ”and very kind. You would not have me sad?” I shook my head. ”I do not understand,” he muttered. ”It is very strange.” (But it was not strange on our coast, where all men are neighbours, and each may without shame or offense seek to comfort the other.) Then he had me tell him tales of our folk, to which he listened with interest so eager that I quickly warmed to the diversion and chattered as fast as my tongue would wag. He laughed at me for saying ”nar” for not (and the like) and I at him for saying ”cawm” for calm; and soon we were very merry, and not only merry, but as intimate as friends of a lifetime. By and by I took him to see the Soldier's Ear, which is an odd rock near the Rat Hole, and, after that, to listen to the sea coughing and gurgling at the bottom of Satan's Well. And in all this he forgot that he was sad--and I that my mother was dead.

”Will you walk with me to-morrow, Davy?” he asked, when I said that I must be off home.

”That I will, zur,” said I.

”After breakfast.”

”Ay, zur; a quarter of five.”

”Well, no,” he drawled. ”Half after nine.”

”'Tis a sheer waste o' time,” I protested. ”But 'twill suit me, zur, an it pleases you. My sister will tell _me_ the hour.”

”Your sister?” he asked, quickly.

”Bessie,” said I.

”Ah,” he exclaimed, ”she was your sister. I saw her there--that night.

And she is your sister?”

”You got it right,” cried I, proudly. ”_That's_ my sister!”

He slapped me on the back (which shocked me, for our folk are not that playful); and, laughing heartily as he went, he took the road to Tom Tot's, where he had found food and housing for a time. I watched him from the turn in the road, as he went lightly down the slope towards South Tickle--his trim-clad, straight, graceful figure, broad-shouldered, clean-cut, lithe in action, as compared with our lumbering gait; inefficient, 'tis true, but potentially strong. As I walked home, I straightened my own shoulders, held my head high, lifted my feet from the ground, flung bold glances to right and left, as I had seen him do: for, even then, I loved him very much. All the while I was exultantly conscious that a new duty and a new delight had come to me: some great thing, given of G.o.d--a work to do, a happiness to cherish.

And that night he came and went in my dreams--but glorified: his smile not mirthless, his grave, gray eyes not overcast, his face not flabby and flushed, his voice not slow and sad, but vibrant with fine, live purpose. My waking thought was the wish that the man of the hills might be the man of my vision; and in my simple morning pet.i.tion it became a prayer.

<script>