He was back in the silent house, upon which, in the fading light of
the summer evening, a great stillness seemed to have descended. The
atmosphere of horror had gone and left only a sense of abiding peace.
All fear had left him, and pain and remorse had gone with it. Serene
and tranquil he went into the fatal room, and, opening the window, sat
by it, watching the succession of shadowy tableaux that had been his
life. Some of it good and some of it bad, but most of it neither good
nor bad. A very ordinary life until fate had linked it for all time
with that of Martle’s. He was a living man bound to a corpse with bonds
that could never be severed.
It grew dark and he lit the gas and took a volume of poems from the
shelves. Never before had he read with such insight and appreciation.
In some odd fashion all his senses seemed to have been sharpened and
refined.
He read for an hour, and then, replacing the book, went slowly
upstairs. For a long time he lay in bed thinking and trying to analyse
the calm and indifference which had overtaken him and, with the problem
still unsolved, fell asleep.
For a time he dreamt, but of pleasant, happy things. He seemed to be
filled with a greater content than he had ever known before, a content
which did not leave him even when these dreams faded and he found
himself back in the old one.
This time, however, it was different. He was still digging, but not in
a state of frenzy and horror. He dug because something told him it was
his duty to dig, and only by digging could he make reparation. And it
was a matter of no surprise to him that Martle stood close by looking
on. Not that Martle he had known, nor a bloody and decaying Martle, but
one of grave and noble aspect. And there was a look of understanding
on his face that nearly made Keller weep.
He went on digging with a sense of companionship such as he had never
known before. Then suddenly, without warning, the sun blazed out of the
darkness and struck him full in the face. The light was unbearable, and
with a wild cry he dropped his spade and clapped his hands over his
eyes. The light went, and a voice spoke to him out of the darkness.
He opened his eyes on a dim figure standing a yard or two away.
“Hope I didn’t frighten you, sir,” said the voice. “I called to you
once or twice and then I guessed you were doing this in your sleep.”
“In my sleep,” repeated Keller. “Yes.”
“And a pretty mess you’ve made of it,” said the constable, with a
genial chuckle. “Lord! to think of you working at it every day and then
pulling it down every night. Shouted at you I did, but you wouldn’t
wake.”
He turned on the flashlight that had dazzled Keller, and surveyed the
ruins. Keller stood by, motionless--and waiting.
“Looks like an earthquake,” muttered the constable. He paused, and kept
the light directed upon one spot. Then he stooped down and scratched
away the earth with his fingers, and tugged. He stood up suddenly and
turned the light on Keller, while with the other he fumbled in his
pocket. He spoke in a voice cold and official.
“Are you coming quietly?” he asked.
Keller stepped towards him with both hands outstretched.
“I am coming quietly,” he said, in a low voice. “Thank God!”