AFTER DARK [112]
of summoning the priest to the bedside of the dying. I must call Perrine," he said, "to watch by you while I am away."
"Stop!" cried the old man. "Stop, Gabriel; I implore, I command you not to leave me!"
"The priest, grandfather--your confession--"
"It must be made to you. In this darkness and this hurricane no man can keep the path across the heath. Gabriel, I am dying--I should be dead before you got back. Gabriel, for the love of the Blessed Virgin, stop here with me till I die--my time is short--I have a terrible secret that I must tell to somebody before I draw my last breath! Your ear to my mouth--quick! quick! "
As he spoke the last words, a slight noise was audible on the other side of the partition, the door half opened, and Perrine appeared at it, looking affrightedly into the room. The vigilant eyes of the old man--suspicious even in death--caught sight of her directly.
"Go back!" he exclaimed faintly, before she could utter a word; "go back--push her back, Gabriel, and nail down the latch in the door, if she won't shut it of herself!"
"Dear Perrine! go in again," implored Gabriel. "Go in, and keep the children from disturbing us. You will only make him worse--you can be of no use here!"
She obeyed without speaking, and shut the door again.
While the old man clutched him by the arm, and repeated, "Quick! quick! your ear close to my mouth," Gabriel heard her say to the children (who were both awake), "Let us pray for grandfather." And as he knelt down by the bedside, there stole on his ear the sweet, childish tones of his little sisters, and the soft, subdued voice of the young girl who was teaching them the prayer, mingling divinely with the solemn wailing of wind and sea, rising in a still and awful purity over the hoarse, gasping whispers of the dying man.
"I took an oath not to tell it, Gabriel--lean down closer! I'm weak, and they mustn't hear a word in that room--I took an oath not to tell it; but death is a warrant to all men for breaking such an oath as that. Listen; don't lose a word I'm saying! Don't look away into the room: the stain of blood-guilt has defiled it forever! Hush! hush! hush! Let me speak. Now your father's dead, I can't carry the horrid secret with me into the grave. Just remember, Gabriel--try if you can't remember the time before I was bedridden, ten years ago and more--it was about six weeks, you know, before your mother's death; you can remember it by that. You and all the children were in that room with your mother; you were asleep, I think; it was night, not very late--only nine o'clock. Your father and I were standing at the door, looking out at the heath in the moonlight. He was so poor at that time, he had been obliged to sell his own boat, and none of the neighbors would take him out fishing with them--your father wasn't liked by any of the neighbors. Well; we saw a stranger coming toward us; a very young man, with a knapsack on his back. He looked like a gentleman, though he was but poorly dressed. He came up, and told us he was dead tired, and didn't think he could reach the town that night and asked if we would give him shelter till morning. And your father said yes, if he would make no noise, because the wife was ill, and the children were asleep. So he said all he wanted was to go to sleep himself before the fire. We had nothing to give him but black bread. He had better food with him than that, and undid his knapsack to get at it, and--and--Gabriel! I'm sinking--drink! something to drink--I'm parched with thirst."
Silent and deadly pale, Gabriel poured some of the cider from the pitcher on the table into a drinking-cup, and gave it to the old man. Slight as the stimulant was, its effect on him was almost instantaneous. His dull eyes brightened a little, and he went on in the same whispering tones as before:
"He pulled the food out of his knapsack rather in a hurry, so that some of the other small things in it fell on the floor. Among these was a pocketbook, which your father picked up and gave him back; and he put it in his coat-pocket--there
"Stop!" cried the old man. "Stop, Gabriel; I implore, I command you not to leave me!"
"The priest, grandfather--your confession--"
"It must be made to you. In this darkness and this hurricane no man can keep the path across the heath. Gabriel, I am dying--I should be dead before you got back. Gabriel, for the love of the Blessed Virgin, stop here with me till I die--my time is short--I have a terrible secret that I must tell to somebody before I draw my last breath! Your ear to my mouth--quick! quick! "
As he spoke the last words, a slight noise was audible on the other side of the partition, the door half opened, and Perrine appeared at it, looking affrightedly into the room. The vigilant eyes of the old man--suspicious even in death--caught sight of her directly.
"Go back!" he exclaimed faintly, before she could utter a word; "go back--push her back, Gabriel, and nail down the latch in the door, if she won't shut it of herself!"
"Dear Perrine! go in again," implored Gabriel. "Go in, and keep the children from disturbing us. You will only make him worse--you can be of no use here!"
She obeyed without speaking, and shut the door again.
While the old man clutched him by the arm, and repeated, "Quick! quick! your ear close to my mouth," Gabriel heard her say to the children (who were both awake), "Let us pray for grandfather." And as he knelt down by the bedside, there stole on his ear the sweet, childish tones of his little sisters, and the soft, subdued voice of the young girl who was teaching them the prayer, mingling divinely with the solemn wailing of wind and sea, rising in a still and awful purity over the hoarse, gasping whispers of the dying man.
"I took an oath not to tell it, Gabriel--lean down closer! I'm weak, and they mustn't hear a word in that room--I took an oath not to tell it; but death is a warrant to all men for breaking such an oath as that. Listen; don't lose a word I'm saying! Don't look away into the room: the stain of blood-guilt has defiled it forever! Hush! hush! hush! Let me speak. Now your father's dead, I can't carry the horrid secret with me into the grave. Just remember, Gabriel--try if you can't remember the time before I was bedridden, ten years ago and more--it was about six weeks, you know, before your mother's death; you can remember it by that. You and all the children were in that room with your mother; you were asleep, I think; it was night, not very late--only nine o'clock. Your father and I were standing at the door, looking out at the heath in the moonlight. He was so poor at that time, he had been obliged to sell his own boat, and none of the neighbors would take him out fishing with them--your father wasn't liked by any of the neighbors. Well; we saw a stranger coming toward us; a very young man, with a knapsack on his back. He looked like a gentleman, though he was but poorly dressed. He came up, and told us he was dead tired, and didn't think he could reach the town that night and asked if we would give him shelter till morning. And your father said yes, if he would make no noise, because the wife was ill, and the children were asleep. So he said all he wanted was to go to sleep himself before the fire. We had nothing to give him but black bread. He had better food with him than that, and undid his knapsack to get at it, and--and--Gabriel! I'm sinking--drink! something to drink--I'm parched with thirst."
Silent and deadly pale, Gabriel poured some of the cider from the pitcher on the table into a drinking-cup, and gave it to the old man. Slight as the stimulant was, its effect on him was almost instantaneous. His dull eyes brightened a little, and he went on in the same whispering tones as before:
"He pulled the food out of his knapsack rather in a hurry, so that some of the other small things in it fell on the floor. Among these was a pocketbook, which your father picked up and gave him back; and he put it in his coat-pocket--there