AS A TALE THAT IS TOLD
"First our pleasures die--and then
Our hopes and then our fears--and when
These are dead, the debt is due
Dust claims dust, and we die too."
--Shelley.
The next few weeks were passed by these two subdued and altered friends
in devoted efforts to make the blind man comfortable and happy. True to
his determination, David sought and found a place to work, and after
reserving enough of his wages to supply the few necessities of his daily
life, dedicated the rest to the purchase of comforts for the poor
invalid.
Mantel acted as his almoner, and by his delicate tact and gentle manners
persuaded the proud and revengeful old man to accept the mysterious
charity. The moment the strain of perpetual beggary was taken from him,
the physical ruin which the terrible blow of the stone, the subsequent
illness, and the ensuing poverty and wretchedness had wrought, became
manifest. He experienced a sudden relapse, and began to sink into an
ominous decline.
Even had he not known the secret of his sorrow, it would have soon
become plain to his acute and watchful nurse that some hidden trouble
was gnawing at his heart, for he was taciturn, abstracted and sometimes
morose. He manifested no curiosity as to the benefactor upon whose
charity he was living, but received the alms bestowed by that unknown
hand as children receive the gifts of God--unsolicited, uncomprehended
and unobserved.
His mind, aroused by the conversation of his untiring nurse to the
realities of the present existence, would sink back by a sort of
irresistible gravity into the realm of memory. There, in the
impenetrable privacy of his soul, he brooded over his wrongs and counted
his prospects of righting them, as a miser reckons his coins.
The spasmodic workings of his countenance, the convulsive gripping of
his hands, the grinding of his great white teeth, the scalding tears
which sometimes fell from his sightless eyes, revealed to the mind of
his patient and watchful observer the passions secretly and ceaselessly
working in his soul.
Mantel became fascinated by the study of this subjective drama. He used
to sit and watch the expressive curtain behind which these dark scenes
were being enacted, and fancy that he could follow the soul as, in the
spirit world, it tracked its foe, fell upon him and exacted its terrible
revenge. At times he imagined that he could actually see the enraged
thoughts issue from the body as if it were a den or cave, and they,
living beasts of prey ranging abroad by day and night, and returning
with their booty to devour it; or, if they had failed to take it, to
brood over the failure of their hunt.
In all this time he asked for nothing, he complained of nothing,
commented on nothing. Mantel would have concluded that his heart was
dead had it not been for his pathetic demonstrations of affection for
the little terrier who had so faithfully guided him from his lodging to
the places where he sat and begged.
The dog reciprocated these attentions with a devotion and a gratitude
which were human in their intensity and depth. It was as beautiful as it
was pathetic, to see these two friends bestowing upon each other their
few but expressive signs of love.
Not until many weeks had passed did Mantel succeed in really engaging
his patient in anything like a conversation, and even after he had begun
to thaw a little under those tactful ministrations of love, whenever the
past was even hinted at the old recluse relapsed instantly into silence.
Mantel might have been discouraged had he not determined at all hazards
to enter into the secrets of this life, and to pave the way for the
forgiveness of his friend. He therefore persisted in his efforts, and
one bright day when the invalid was feeling unusually strong ventured to
press home his inquiries.
"I cannot help thinking," he said, "that you could soon be reasonably
well again if you did not brood so much. I fear there is some trouble
gnawing at your heart."
"There is," he was answered, icily.
"Have you wronged some one, then, and are these thoughts which vex you
feelings of remorse and guilt?"
"Wronged some one!" the sick man fairly roared, gripping the arms of his
chair and gasping for breath in the excitement which the question
brought on. "Not I! I have been wronged! No one has ever b-b-been
wronged as I have. I have nourished vipers in my b-b-bosom and been
stung by them. I have sown love and reaped hate. I have been robbed,
deceived and betrayed! My wife is gone! My health is gone! My sight is
gone! He has skinned me like a sheep, c-c-curse him! My heart has turned
to a hammer which knocks at my ribs and cries revenge! It ch-ch-chokes
me!"
He gasped, grew purple in the face and clutched at his collar as if
about to strangle. After a little the paroxysm passed away, and Mantel
determined once more to try and assuage this implacable hatred.
To his own unbounded astonishment this young man who had long ago
abandoned his faith in Christianity, began to plead like an apostle for
the practice of its central and fundamental virtue.
"My friend," he said, with a new solemnity in his manner, "you are on
the threshold of another world; how dare you present yourself to the
Judge of all the earth with a passion like this in your heart?"
In the momentary rest the beggar had recovered strength enough to reply:
"It is t-t-true. I am on the threshold of another world! I didn't use to
b-b-believe there was one, but I do now. There must be! Would it b-b-be
right for such d-d-devils as the one that wrecked my life to g-g-go
unpunished? Not if I know anything! They get away from us here, but if
eternity is as long as they s-s-say it is, I'll find D-D-Dave Corson if
it t-t-takes the whole of it, and when I f-f-find him--" he paused
again, gasping and strangling.
Mantel's pity was deeply stirred, and he would gladly have spared him
had he dared; but he did not, and permitting him to regain his breath,
he said:
"And so you really mean to die without bestowing your pardon upon those
who have wronged you?"
"I swear it!"
"Have you ever heard the story of the crucifixion of Jesus Christ?"
asked Mantel, trembling at the name and at his own temerity in
pronouncing it.
It was a strange situation into which this young skeptic had been forced
by the logic of circumstances. As the old beggar felt the ethical
necessity of another life, the young gambler felt the ethical necessity
of the crucifixion. It seemed to him that if the redemption of this
hate-smitten man hung on the capacity of his own heart to empty itself
of its bitterness, there was about as much hope as of a serpent
expelling the poison from its fangs! He had never before seen a man
under the absolute and unresisted power of one of the basal passions,
and neither he nor any one else has ever understood life until he has
witnessed that fearful spectacle. A summer breeze conveys no more idea
of a tornado, nor a burning chimney of a volcano, than ordinary vices
convey of that fearful ruin which any elemental passion works when
permitted to devastate a soul, unrestrained. The sight filled Mantel
with terror, and he felt himself compelled by some invincible necessity
to plead with the man in the name of the Saviour of the world. Long and
earnestly he besought him to forgive as Christ forgave; but all in vain!
So long had he brooded over his wrongs that his mind had either become
hopelessly impotent or else irretrievably hardened. The conversation had
so angered and exhausted the invalid that he presently crawled over to
his bed, threw himself upon it and sank almost instantly into a deep
sleep.
With a heavy heart, Mantel left him and hurried home to report the
interview to David. He found him just returning from his work, and
conveyed his message by the gloom of his countenance.
"Has anything, gone wrong?" David inquired, anxiously, as they entered
their room.
Casting himself heavily into a seat and answering abstractedly, Mantel
replied, "Each new day of life renders it more inexplicable. A man no
sooner forms a theory than he is compelled to abandon it. I fear it is a
labyrinth from which we shall none of us escape."
"Do not speak in parables," David exclaimed, impatiently, "If anything
is the matter, tell me at once. Do not leave me in suspense. I cannot
endure it. Is he worse? Is he dying?"
"He is both, and more," Mantel answered, still unable to escape from the
gloom which enveloped him.
"More? What more? Speak out. I cannot bear these indirections."
"I have at last drawn from him a brief but terrible allusion to the
tragedy of your lives."
"What did he say? Quick, tell me!"
"He said that he had been wronged by those whom he had benefited."
"It is too true, God knows; but what else did he say?"
"That he would spend eternity in revenging his wrongs."
"Horrible!" cried David, sinking into a chair.
"Yes, more horrible than you know."
"Did he show no mercy? Was there no sign of pardon?"
"None! Granite is softer than his heart. Ice is warmer."
David rose and paced the floor. Pausing before Mantel, he said,
piteously, "Perhaps he will relent when Pepeeta comes!"
"Perhaps! Have you heard from her?"
"No, but her answer cannot be much longer delayed, for I have written
again and again."
"Something may have happened," said Mantel, who had lost all heart and
hope.
"Do not say it," David exclaimed, beseechingly.
"Well, but why does she not reply?"
"It is a long distance. She may have changed her residence. She may
never go to the postoffice. She may be sick."
"Or dead!" said Mantel, giving expression in two words to the fullness
of his despair.
"Impossible!" exclaimed David, his face blanching at this sudden
articulation of the dread he had been struggling so hard to repress.
"You do not know her!" he continued. "If you had ever seen her, you
could not speak of death. She was not made to die. I beg you to abandon
this mood. You will drive me to despair. I cannot live another moment
without the hope that I shall be forgiven by this old man whom I have so
terribly wronged, and I know that he will not forgive me unless I put
back into his hands the treasure of which I robbed him."
"Corson," said Mantel, rising and taking David by the hand, "you must
give up this dream of receiving the old man's pardon."
"I cannot!"
"You must! He will not grant it even if Pepeeta comes. The knife has
gone too deep! His heart is broken, and his mind, I think, is deranged.
And more than this, he will not live until Pepeeta comes unless she
hastens on the wings of the wind. He is dying, Corson, dying. You cannot
imagine how he has withered away since you saw him. It is like watching
a candle flicker in its socket. You must abandon this hope, I say."
"And I say that it is impossible."
"But you must. What difference can it possibly make whether he forgives
you or not? The wrong is done. It cannot be undone."
"What difference? What difference, did you say? Is it possible that you
do not know? Do you think a man could endure this life, hard enough at
the best, if he were haunted by a dead man's curse?"
"Thousands have had to do so--millions; but do not let us talk about it
any more. We are nervous and unstrung. You will never be persuaded until
you see for yourself. If you wish to make the effort, you must do it
soon; in fact you must do it now. I have come to tell you that his
physician says he will not live until morning."
"Then let us go!" cried David, seizing his hat and starting for the
door, white to the lips and trembling violently.
They passed out into the night together and hurried away to the beggar's
room. Each was too burdened for talk and they walked in silence.
Arriving at the house, they ascended the stairs on tiptoe and paused to
listen at the door. "I will leave it ajar, so you may hear what he says,
and then you can judge if I am right," said Mantel, entering quietly.
He approached the table and turned up the lamp which he had left burning
dimly. By its pale light David could see the great head lying on the
pillow, the chin elevated, the mouth partially open, the breast heaving
with the painful efforts to catch a few last fluttering inspirations.
Nestling close to the ashen face and licking the cheek now and then with
his little red tongue, was the terrier.
Mantel's footfall, quiet as it was, disturbed the sleeper, who moved,
turned his head toward the sound and asked in a husky and but
half-audible voice, "Who is there?"
"It is I. How are you now? A little better?" said Mantel, laying his
soft, cool hand upon the broad forehead, wet already with the
death-damp.
"I am getting weaker. It won't--last--long," he answered painfully.
"Do you think so?"
"I know it."
"Are you satisfied?"
"It can't--be--helped."
"No, it can't be helped. The doctor has told me you cannot live through
the night."
"The--sooner--the--better!"
"I do not want to bother you, but I cannot bear to have you die without
talking to you again about your future; I must try once more to persuade
you not to die without sending some kind word to the people who have
wronged you."
The expression of the white face underwent a hideous transformation.
"If you do not feel like talking to me about a matter so sacred and
personal, would you not like to have me send for some minister or
priest?"
The head moved slowly back and forth in a firm negation.
"In every age, and among all men, it has seemed fitting that those who
were about to die should make some preparation to meet their God. Have
you no desire to do this?"
A fierce light shone upon the emaciated countenance and the thin lips
slowly articulated these words: "I--myself--will--settle--with--God!
He--will--have--to--account--to--me--for--all--he--has--made--me--suffer!"
The listener at the door leaned against the wall for support.
"Is there absolutely no word of pardon or of kindness which you wish to
send to those who have injured you, as a sort of legacy from the grave?"
"None!" he whispered fiercely.
"Suppose that your enemy should come to see you. Suppose that a great
change had come over him; that he, too, had suffered deeply; that your
wife had discovered his treachery and left him; that he had bitterly
repented; that he had made such atonement as he could for his sin; that
it was he who has been caring for you in these last hours, could you not
pardon him?"
These words produced an extraordinary effect on the dying man. For the
first time he identified his enemy with his friend, and as the discovery
dawned upon his mind a convulsion seized and shook his frame. He slowly
and painfully struggled to a sitting posture, lifted his right hand
above his head and said in tones that rang with the raucous power of
by-gone days:
"Curse him! If I had known that I was eating his b-b-bread, it would
have choked me! Send him to me! Where is he?"
"I am here," said David, quietly entering the door. "I am here to throw
myself on your mercy and to beg you, for the love of God, to forgive
me."
As he heard the familiar voice, the beggar trembled. He made one last
supreme effort to look out of his darkened eyes. An expression of
despairing agony followed the attempt, and then, with both his great
bony hands, he clutched at the throat of his night robe as if choking
for breath, tore it open and reaching down into his bosom felt for some
concealed object. He found it at last, grasped it and drew it forth. It
was a shining blade of steel.
Mantel sprang to take it from his hand; but David pushed him back and
said calmly, "Let him alone."
"Yes, let me alone," cried the blind man, trembling in every limb, and
crawling slowly and painfully from the bed.
The movements of the dying man were too slow and weak to convey any
adequate expression of the tempest raging in his soul. It was incredible
that a tragedy was really being enacted, and that this poor trembling
creature was thirsting for the lifeblood of a mortal foe.
David did not seek to escape. He did not even shudder. There was a
singular expression of repose on his features, for in his desperation he
solaced himself by the reflection that he was about to render final
satisfaction for a sin whose atonement had become otherwise impossible.
He therefore folded his arms across his breast and stood waiting.
The contorted face of the furious beggar afforded a terrible contrast to
the tranquil countenance of the penitent and unresisting object of his
hatred. The opaque flesh seemed to have become transparent, and through
it glowed the baleful light of hatred and revenge. The lips were drawn
back from the white teeth, above which the great mustache bristled
savagely. The lids were lifted from the hollow and expressionless eyes.
Balancing himself for an instant he moved forward; but the emaciated
limbs tottered under the weight of the body. He reeled, caught himself,
then reeled once more, and lunged forward in the direction from which he
had heard the voice of his enemy.
Again Mantel strove to intercept him, and again David forced him back.
Uncertain as to the exact location of the object of his hatred, he
raised his knife and struck at random; but the blow spent itself in air.
The futility and helplessness of his efforts crazed him.
"Where are you? G-g-give me some sign!" he cried.
"I am here," said David in a voice whose preternatural calmness sent a
shudder to the heart of his friend.
With one supreme and final effort, the dying man lurched forward and
threw himself wildly toward the sound. His hand, brandishing the dagger,
was uplifted and seemed about to descend on his foe; but at that very
instant, with a frightful imprecation upon his lips, the gigantic form
collapsed, the knife dropped from the hand, and he plunged, a corpse,
into the arms of his intended victim.
David received the dead weight upon the bosom at which the dagger had
been aimed, and the first expression of his face indicated a certain
disappointment that a single blow had not been permitted to end his
troubles, as well as terror at an event so appalling. He stood
spellbound for a moment, supporting the awful burden, and then,
overpowered with the horror of the situation, cried out,
"Take him, Mantel! take him! Help me to lay him down! Quick, I cannot
stand it; quick!"
They laid the lifeless form on the bed, while the little dog, leaping up
beside his dead master, threw his head back and emitted a series of
prolonged and melancholy howls.