Driftwood Spars Part 23

The terrible accident roused wide sympathy with the unfortunate man, the local reporter used all his adjectives, and a military funeral was given to the soldier who had died in the execution of his duty.

On reaching home, after satisfying myself at the Station Hospital that the man was dead, I said to my poor, pale and red-eyed wife:--

"Dolores, Sergeant Burker met with an accident this morning on parade.

He is dead. Let us never refer to him again."

She fainted.

I spent that night also in meditation, questioning myself and examining my soul--with every honest endeavour to be not a self-deceiver.

I came to the conclusion that I had acted rightly and in the only way in which a gentleman could act. I had s.n.a.t.c.hed Dolores from his foul clutches, I had punished him without depriving Dolores of my protection, and I had avenged the stain on my honour.

"You have committed a treacherous cowardly murder," whispered the Fiend in my ear.

"You are a liar," I replied. "I did not fear the man and I took this course solely on account of Dolores. I was strong enough to accept this position--and to risk the accusation of murder, from my conscience, from the Devil, or from man."

Any doubt I might otherwise have had was forestalled and inhibited by the obvious Fate that placed Burker in the one spot favourable to my scheme of punishment.

G.o.d had willed it?

G.o.d had not prevented it.

Surely G.o.d was consenting unto it....

And Dolores? I would forgive her and offer her the choice of remaining with me or leaving me and receiving a half of my income and possessions--both alternatives being contingent upon good conduct.

At dawn I prepared tea for her, and entered our bedroom. Dolores had wound a towel round her neck, twisted the ends tightly--and suffocated herself.

She had been dead for hours....

At the police inquiry, held the same day, I duly lied as to the virtues of the "deceased," and the utter impossibility of a.s.signing any reason for the rash and deplorable act. The usual smug stereotyped verdict was p.r.o.nounced, and, in addition to expressing their belief that the suicide was committed "while of unsound mind," the officials expressed much sympathy with the bereaved husband.

Dolores was buried that evening and I returned to an empty house.

I believe opinion had been divided as to whether I was callous or "stunned"--but the sight of her little shoes caused pains in my throat and eyes. Had Burker been then alive I would have killed him with my hands--and teeth. Yes, teeth.

I spent that night in packing every possession and trace of Dolores into her boxes, and then in trying to persuade myself that I should have acted differently.

I could not do so. I had acted for the best--so let G.o.d who gave me free-will, intelligence, conscience and opportunity, approve the deed or take the blame.

And let G.o.d remember how that opportunity came so convincingly--so impellingly--and if He would judge me and ask for my defence I would ask him who sent Burker here, and who placed him on that fatal spot?

Does G.o.d sit only in judgment?

Does G.o.d calmly watch His creatures walking blindfold to the Pit--struggling to tear away the bandage as they walk? Can He only judge, and can He never help?

"_Pray_?"

Is G.o.d a petty-minded "jealous" G.o.d to be propitiated like the G.o.ds of the heathen?

Must we continually ask, or, not asking, not receive?

And if we know not to ask aright and to demand the best and highest?

Cannot the well-fed, well-read, well-paid Chaplain give advice?

"_G.o.d knoweth best. Ask unceasingly. Pray always_."

_Why_?--if. He knows best, is All Merciful, All Powerful?

"_Praise_?"

Is G.o.d a child, a savage, a woman? Shall I offer adulation that would sicken _me_.

"_G.o.d is our Father which art in heaven_."

Would I have my son praise me to my face continually--or at all. Would I compel him to pester me with demands for what he desired,--good, bad and indifferent?

And would I give him what he asked regardless of what was best for him--or say, "If you ask not, you receive not?" Give me a G.o.d finer and greater and juster and n.o.bler than myself--something higher than the Chaplain's jealous, capricious, inconsequent and illogical G.o.d.

Anthropomorphism!

Is there a G.o.d at all?

I shall soon know.

If so--

Oh Thou, who man of baser earth didst make And ev'n with Paradise devised the Snake, For all the Sin the face of wretched man Is black with--Man's forgiveness give--and take!

At dawn I said aloud:--

"This Chapter is closed. The story of Burker and Dolores is written. I may now strive to forget."

I was wrong.

Major Jackson of the R.A.M.C. came to see me soon after daylight. He gave me an opiate and I slept all that day and night. I went on parade next morning, fresh, calm, and cool--and saw _Burker riding toward the group of gentlemen who were awaiting the signal to "fall in"_.

I say I was fresh, calm, and cool.

I was.

And there was Burker--looking exactly as in life, save for a slight nebulosity, a very faint vagueness of outline, and a hint of transparency.

I had been instructed by the Adjutant to a.s.sume the post of Instructor (as the end of the Mounted Infantry drill season was near)--and I blew the "rally" on my whistle as many of the gentlemen were riding about, and shouted the command: "Fall in".

Twenty living men and one dead faced me, twenty dismounted and one mounted. I called the corporal in charge of the armoury.

"How many on parade?" I asked.