He muttered on.

"Yes," the stranger broke in, stirring nervously. "Had I come but five days ago."

A sudden rising of the gale--the breaking of its fury--filled the room with a dreadful confusion.

"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 la.s.s?" 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! G.o.d Almighty," he cried, raising his clenched hand, "this man come too late G.o.d Almighty--does you hear me, G.o.d Almighty?--the man you sent come too late! An' you," he flashed, turning on the stranger, "could have saved her? Oh, my dear la.s.s! 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 pa.s.sion 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.

"O G.o.d," my father cried, again appealing to Heaven, "judge this man!"

"Stop!"

It was a bitter cry--the agony sounding clear and poignant above the manifold voices of the storm--but it won no heed.

"O G.o.d, judge this man!"

"Will no one stop him?" the stranger moaned. "For G.o.d's sake--stop him--some one!"

"O G.o.d, judge this man!"

The stranger fled....

"Oh, my dear wife!" my father sobbed, at last, sinking into the great armchair, wherein the mail-boat doctor had not sat. "Oh, my dear wife!"

"Father!" my dear sister whispered, flinging her soft arms about his neck and pressing her cheek against his brow. "Dear father!"

And while the great gale raged, she sought to comfort my father and me, but could not.

XI

The WOMEN at The GATE

By and by my sister put me in dry clothes, and bidding me be a good lad, sat me in the best room below, where the maids had laid a fire. And Skipper Tommy Lovejoy, finding me there disconsolate, took me to the seaward hills to watch the break of day: for the rain had ceased, the wind fallen away; and the gray light of dawn was in the eastern sky.

"I'm wantin' t' tell you, Davy," he said, in a confidential way, as we trudged along, "about the gate o' heaven."

I took his hand.

"An' I _been_ wantin' t' tell you," he added, giving his nose a little tweak, "for a long, long time."

"Is you?"

"Ay, lad; an' about the women at the gate."

"Women, Skipper Tommy?" said I, puzzled. "An', pray, who is they?"

"Mothers," he answered. "Just mothers."

"What they doin' at the gate? No, no! They're not _there_. Sure, they're playin' harps at the foot o' the throne."

"No," said he, positively; "they're at the gate."

"What they doin' there?"

"Waitin'."

We were now come to the crest of a hill; and the sea was spread before us--breaking angrily under the low, black sky.

"What's they waitin' for?" I asked.

"Davy, lad," he answered, impressively, "they're waitin' for them they bore. _That's_ what they're waitin' for."

"For their sons?"

"Ay; an' for their daughters, too."

While I watched the big seas break on the rocks below--and the clouds drift up from the edge of the world--I pondered upon this strange teaching. My mother had never told me of the women waiting at the gate.

"Ah, but," I said, at last, "I'm thinkin' G.o.d would never allow it t' go on. He'd want un all t' sing His praises. Sure, they'd just be wastin'

His time--waitin' there at the gate."

Skipper Tommy shook his head--and smiled, and softly patted my shoulder.