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.