Part 17 (2/2)
”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 s.h.i.+ning 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----”
”Hus.h.!.+” 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, G.o.d, 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.
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