Chapter XIV: In The WATCHES of The NIGHT

At once we established the doctor in our house, that he might be more comfortably disposed; and this was by my sister's wish, who hoped to be his helper in the sweet labour of healing. And soon a strange thing happened: once in the night--'twas late of a clear, still night--I awoke, of no reason; nor could I fall asleep again, but lay high on the pillow, watching the stars, which peeped in at my window, companionably winking. Then I heard the fall of feet in the house--a restless pacing: which brought me out of bed, in a twinkling, and took me tiptoeing to the doctor's room, whence the unusual sound. But first I listened at the door; and when I had done that, I dared not enter, because of what I heard, but, crouching in the darkness, must continue to listen ... and listen....

* * * * *

By and by I crept away to my sister's room, unable longer to bear the awe and sorrow in my heart.

"Bessie!" I called, in a low whisper.

"Ay, Davy?"

"Is you awake?"

"Ay, I'm wakeful."

I closed the door after me--then went swiftly to her bedside, treading with great caution.

"Listenin'?" I asked.

"T' the doctor," she answered, "walkin' the floor."

"Is you afraid?" I whispered.

"No."

"I is."

She sat up in bed--and drew me closer. "An' why, dear?" she asked, stroking my cheek.

"Along o' what I heared in the dark, Bessie--at his door."

"You've not been eavesdroppin', Davy?" she chided.

"Oh, I wisht I hadn't!"

"'Twas not well done."

The moon was up, broadly shining behind the Watchman: my sister's white little room--kept sweet and dainty in the way she had--was full of soft gray light; and I saw that her eyes were wide and moist.

"He's wonderful restless, the night," she mused.

"He've a great grief."

"A grief? Oh, Davy!"

"Ay, a great, great grief! He've been talkin' to hisself, Bessie. But 'tis not words; 'tis mostly only sounds."

"Naught else?"

"Oh, ay! He've said----"

"Hush!" she interrupted. "'Tis not right for me t' know. I would not have you tell----"

I would not be stopped. "He've said, Bessie," I continued, catching something, it may be, of his agony, "he've said, 'I pay! Oh, God, I pay!' he've said. 'Merciful Christ, hear me--oh, I pay!'"

She trembled.

"'Tis some great grief," said I.

"Do you haste to his comfort, Davy," she whispered, quickly. "'Twould be a kind thing t' do."

"Is you sure he's wantin' me?"

"Were it me I would."

When I had got to the doctor's door again, I hesitated, as before, fearing to go in; and once more I withdrew to my sister's room.

"I'm not able t' go in," I faltered. "'Tis awful, Bessie, t' hear men goin' on--like that."

"Like what?"

"Cryin'."

A little while longer I sat silent with my sister--until, indeed, the restless footfalls ceased, and the blessed quiet of night fell once again.

"An', Bessie," said I, "he said a queer thing."

She glanced a question.

"He said your name!"

She was much interested--but hopelessly puzzled. For a moment she gazed intently at the stars. Then she sighed.

"He've a great grief," I repeated, sighing, "an' he've been wicked."

"Oh, no--not wicked!"

"Ay," I persisted, gently, "wicked; for he've told me so with his own tongue."

"Not wicked!"

"But he've _said_ so," I insisted, nettled, on the instant, by my sister's perversity.

"I'm thinkin' he couldn't be," she said.

"Sure, why not?" I demanded.

She looked away for a moment--through the window, into the far, starlit sky, which the light of the moon was fast paling; and I thought my question forgot.

"Why not, sister?"

"I--don't know--why not!" she whispered.

* * * * *

I kissed my sister good-night, while yet she puzzled over this, and slipped off to my own room, lifting my night-dress, as I tiptoed along, lest I trip and by some clumsy commotion awake my friend to his bitterness. Once back in my bed--once again lying alone in the tranquil night--I found the stars still peeping in at my window, still twinkling companionably, as I had left them. And I thought, as my mother had taught me, of these little watchmen, serene, constant, wise in their great remoteness--and of him who lay in unquiet sleep near by--and, then, understanding nothing of the mystery, nor caring to know, but now secure in the unquestioning faith of childhood, I closed my eyes to sleep: for the stars still shone on, flashing each its little message of serenity to the troubled world.