Slowly the weary windy night wore away, the old woman, deaf to their appeals, still keeping her door fast. The dawn was not yet, though the oft-consulted watches announced it near at hand. It was very close now, and the watchers collected by the door. It was undeniable that things were seen a little more distinctly. One could see better the grey, eager faces of his neighbours.
They knocked upon the door, and the old woman’s eyes filled as she opened it and saw those faces. Unasked and unchid they invaded the cottage and crowded round the door.
“I will go up and fetch him,” said the old woman.
If each could have heard the beating of the others’ hearts, the noise would have been deafening, but as it was there was complete silence, except for some overwrought woman’s sob.
The old woman opened the door leading to the room above, and with the slow, deliberate steps of age ascended the stairs, and those below heard her calling softly to her son.
Two or three minutes passed and she was heard descending the stairs again—alone. The smile, the pity, had left her face, and she seemed dazed and strange.
“I cannot wake him,” she said piteously. “He sleeps so sound. He is fatigued. I have shaken him, but he still sleeps.”
As she stopped, and looked appealingly round, the other old woman took her hand, and pressing it led her to a chair. Two of the men sprang quickly up the stairs. They were absent but a short while, and then they came down like men bewildered and distraught. No need to speak. A low wail of utter misery rose from the women, and was caught up and repeated by the crowd outside, for the only man who could have set their hearts at rest had escaped the perils of the deep, and died quietly in his bed.
THE END.
January 1899.