The Lighthouse, Part VII

The sensation I underwent in that moment, forbade me to question, or even to speak. After a few moments, however, I was master enough of myself to ask, “Was it after this that Robert—” I hesitated to finish the sentence, so close as I felt my own state to the old man’s.

She nodded. “I tried to tell myself he was just an old fool, but lately—I’ve felt differently.”

Here she gave me a look of meaning, and when I would not repulse her look by word or otherwise, she leaned forward.

“Listen—there’s a dock by the boathouse, about half a mile North. It’s kept in good repair. It looks like a clear night; I could get a boat down there, say, midnight?”
Even in the midst of my wretchedness, this invitation struck a chord in my mind, which called up ghosts of childhood’s forgotten things—and it was with a childish thrill that I agreed.

Now, that I am really waiting for her, I am prey to far different feelings—but I must try to recall some of that boyish bravery, for there is a long night ahead.