Home > Authors Index > Norman Duncan > Doctor Luke of the Labrador > This page
Doctor Luke of the Labrador, a novel by Norman Duncan |
||
Chapter 14. In The Watches Of The Night |
||
| < Previous |
Table of content |
Next > |
|
________________________________________________
_ 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. _ |
||