Part 37 (1/2)

I followed him to his room--with much contrite pleading on the tip of my tongue. And I knocked timidly on the door.

”Come in, Davy,” said he.

My heart was swelling so--my tongue so sadly unmanageable--that I could do nothing but whimper. But----

”I'm wonderful sad, zur,” I began, after a time, ”t' think that I----”

”Hus.h.!.+” said he.

'Twas all I said--not for lack of will or words, but for lack of breath and opportunity; because all at once (and 'twas amazingly sudden) I found myself caught off my feet, and so closely, so carelessly, embraced, that I thought I should then and there be smothered: a death which, as I had been led to believe, my dear sister might have envied me, but was not at all to my liking. And when I got my breath 'twas but to waste it in bawling. But never had I bawled to such good purpose: for every m.u.f.fled howl and gasp brought me nearer to that state of serenity from which I had that day cast myself by harsh and willful conduct.

Then--and 'twas not hard to do--I offered my supreme propitiation: which was now no more a sacrifice, but, rather, a high delight.

”You may have my sister, zur,” I sobbed.

He laughed a little--laughed an odd little laugh, the like of which I had never heard.

”You may have her,” I repeated, somewhat impatiently. ”Isn't you hearin'

me? I _give_ her to you.”

”This is very kind,” he said. ”But----”

”You're _wantin'_ her, isn't you?” I demanded, fearing for the moment that he had meantime changed his mind.

”Yes,” he drawled; ”but----”

”But what?”

”She'll not have me.”

”Not have you!” I cried.

”No,” said he.

At that moment I learned much wisdom concerning the mysterious ways of women.

XXIV

The BEGINNING of The END

From this sad tangle we were next morning extricated by news from the south ports of our coast--news so ill that sentimental tears and wishes were of a sudden forgot; being this: that the smallpox had come to Poor Luck Harbour and was there virulently raging. By noon of that day the doctor's sloop was underway with a fair wind, bound south in desperate haste: a man's heart beating glad aboard, that there might come a tragic solution of his life's entanglement. My sister and I, sitting together on the heads of Good Promise, high in the sunlight, with the sea spread blue and rippling below--we two, alone, with hands clasped--watched the little patch of sail flutter on its way--silently watched until it vanished in the mist.

”I'm not knowin',” my sister sighed, still staring out to sea, ”what's beyond the mist.”

”Nor I.”

'Twas like a curtain, veiling some dread mystery, as an ancient tragedy--but new to us, who sat waiting: and far past our guessing.

”I wonder what we'll see, dear,” she whispered, ”when the mist lifts.”