“Indeed—I’m—sorry—very sorry,” the stranger stammered; his lips were drawn; in his eyes was the flare of some tragedy of feeling.
My father did not move—but continued vacantly to stare at the floor.
“Really—you know—I am!”
“Is you?” then my father asked, looking up. “Is you sorry for me an’ Davy an’ the lass?” The stranger dared not meet my father’s eyes. “An’ you could have saved her,” my father went on. “You could have saved her! She didn’t have t’ go. She died—for want o’ you! God Almighty,” he cried, raising his clenched hand, “this man come too late God Almighty—does you hear me, God Almighty?—the man you sent come too late! An’ you,” he flashed, turning on the stranger, “could have saved her? Oh, my dear lass! An’ she would have been here the night? Here like she used t’ be? Here in her dear body? Here?” he cried, striking his breast. “She would have lain here the night had you come afore? Oh, why didn’t you come?” he moaned. “You hold life an’ death in your hands, zur, t’ give or withhold. Why didn’t you come—t’ give the gift o’ life t’ she?”
The stranger shrank away. “Stop!” he cried, in agony. “How was I to know?”
“Hush, father!” my sister pleaded.
In a flash of passion my father advanced upon the man. “How was you t’ know?” he burst out. “Where you been? What you been doin’? Does you hear me?” he demanded, his voice rising with the noise of wind and rain. “What you been doin’?”
“Stop it, man! You touch me to the quick! You don’t know—you don’t know—”
“What you been doin’? We’re dyin’ here for want o’ such as you. What you been doin’?”
There was no answer. The stranger had covered his face with his hands.