The fact is that Mr. Fogo was solving his problem, though the process was painful enough.  He was concerned, too, for Caleb, whose rest was often broken by his master’s restlessness.  In consequence he determined to fit up a room for his own use.  Caleb opposed the scheme at first; but, finding that the business of changing diverted Mr. Fogo’s melancholy, gave way at last, on a promise that “no May-games” should be indulged in—­a festival term which was found to include somnambulism, suicide, and smoking in bed.

The room chosen lay on the upper storey at the extreme east of the house, and looked out, between two tall elms, upon the creek and the lepers’ burial-ground.  It was chosen as being directly over the room occupied by Caleb, so that, by stamping his foot, Mr. Fogo could summon his servant at any time.  The floor was bare of carpet, and the chamber of decoration.  But Mr. Fogo hated decoration, and, after slinging his hammock and pushing the window open for air, gazed around on the blistered ceiling and tattered wall-paper, rubbed his hands, and announced that he should be very comfortable.

“Well, sir,” said Caleb, as he turned to leave him for the night, “arter all, comfort’s a matter o’ comparison, as St. La’rence said when he turned round ’pon the gridiron.  But the room’s clane as watter an’ scourin’ ’ll make et—­reminds me,” he continued, with a glance round, “o’ what the contented clerk said by hes office-stool:  ‘Chairs es good,’ said he, ’and sofies es better; but ’tes a great thing to harbour no dust.’  Any orders, sir?”

“No, I fancy—­stop!  Is my writing-case here?”

Caleb’s anxiety took alarm.

“You bain’t a-goin’ to do et in writin’ sir, surely!”

Mr. Fogo stared.

“Don’t ’ee, sir—­don’t ’ee!”

“Really, Caleb, your behaviour is most extraordinary.  What is it that I am not to do?”

“Why, put et in writin’, sir:  they don’t like et.  Go up an’ ax her like a man—­’Will ‘ee ha’ me?  Iss or no?’ That was ould Dick Jago’s way, an’ I reckon he knowed, havin’ married sax wifes, wan time an’ another.  But as for pen and ink—­”

“You mistake me,” interrupted Mr. Fogo, with a painful flush.  He paused irresolutely, and then added, in a softer tone, “Would you mind taking a seat in the window here, Caleb?  I have something to say to you.”

Caleb obeyed.  For a moment or two there was silence as Mr. Fogo stood up before his servant.  The light of the candle on the chest beside him but half revealed his face.  When at last he spoke it was in a heavy, mechanical tone.

“You guessed once,” he said, “and rightly, that a woman was the cause of my seclusion in this place.  In such companionship as ours, it would have been difficult—­even had I wished it—­to keep up the ordinary relations of master and man; and more than once you have had opportunities of satisfying whatever curiosity you may have felt about my—­my past.  Believe me, Caleb, I have noted your forbearance, and thank you for it.”