He would have scorned to do a
dishonourable thing in the face of the uplifting charm of the nature
around him, and, more especially, in the presence of his love; but what
had nature and this, her beautiful child, to do with the tending of
disease and death? Better let the man die; better remain himself in the
wholesome outside. He felt that he would put himself at variance with
the companions of the last glorious hour if he attended to the dictates
of this dolorous duty. Yet, because of a dull habit of duty he had, he
turned in a minute, and went into the house where he had been told he
would receive guidance for the rest of his journey.
He had no sooner knocked at the substantial door on the ground-floor of
the lighthouse than it was opened by a sallow-faced, kindly-looking old
woman. She admitted him, as if he were an expected comer, into a large
square room, in which a lamp and a fire were burning. The room was
exquisitely neat and clean, as if the inspector of lighthouses might be
looked for at any moment. The woman, who was French, spoke a little
English, and her French was of a sort which Caius could understand and
answer. She placed a chair for him by the heated stove, asked where Mr.
O'Shea and the cart had tarried, listened with great interest to a brief
account of the accident in the quicksand, and, without more delay,
poured out hot strong coffee, which Caius drank out of a large bowl.
Pages:
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141