The Blind Mother and The Last Confession Part 13

Then came an awful revulsion of feeling. For a moment I stood looking down, overwhelmed with the horror of my act. In a sort of drunken stupor I gazed at the wide-open eyes, and the grimacing face fixed in its hideousness by the convulsion of death. O G.o.d! O G.o.d! what had I done!

what had I done!

But I did not cry out. In that awful moment an instinct of self-preservation saved me. The fatal weapon dropped from my hand, and I crept out of the place. My great strength was all gone now. I staggered along, and at every step my limbs grew more numb and stiff.

But in the alley I looked around. I knew no way back to my people except that way by which I came. Down the other alley and through the crowd of idlers I must go. Would they be there still? If so, would they see in my face what I had done?

I was no criminal to mask my crime. In a dull, stupid, drowsy, comatose state I tottered down the alley and through the crowd. They saw me; they recognized me; I knew that they were jeering at me, but I knew no more.

"Skari!" shouted one, and "Shari!" shouted another, and as I staggered away they all shouted "Skari!" together.

Father, they called me a drunkard. I was a drunkard indeed, but I was drunk with blood.

The sun had set by this time. Its last rays were rising off the gilded top of the highest minaret in a golden mist that looked like flame leaping out of a kiln. I saw that, as I saw everything, through a palpitating haze.

When at length I reached the place where I had left my people I found the horses saddled, the mules with their burdens packed on their panniers, the men waiting, and everything ready. Full well I knew that I ought to leap to my seat instantly and be gone without delay; but I seemed to have lost all power of prompt action. I was thinking of what I wanted to do, but I could not do it. The men spoke to me, and I know that I looked vacantly into their faces and did not answer. One said to another, "Sidi is growing deaf."

The other touched his forehead and grinned.

I was fumbling with the stirrup of my saddle when the English Consul came up and hailed me with cheerful spirits. By an effort that was like a spasm I replied.

"Allow me, doctor," he said, and he offered his knee that I might mount.

"Ah, no, no," I stammered, and I scrambled to my seat.

While I was fumbling with my double rein I saw that he was looking at my hand.

"You've cut your fingers, doctor," he said.

There was blood on them. The blood was not mine, but a sort of mechanical cunning came to my relief. I took out my handkerchief and made a pretense to bind it about my hand.

Alee, the guide, was at my right side settling my lumbering foot in my stirrup. I felt him touch the sheath of my knife, and then I remembered that it must be empty.

"Sidi has lost his dagger," he said. "Look!"

The Consul, who had been on my left, wheeled round by the horse's head, glanced at the useless sheath that was stuck in the belt of my jacket, and then looked back into my stupid face.

"Sidi is ill," he said quietly; "ride quickly, my men, lose no time, get him out of the country without delay!"

I heard Alee answer, "Right--all right!"

Then the Consul's servant rode up--he was a Berber--and took his place at the head of our caravan.

"All ready?" asked the Consul, in Arabic.

"Ready," the men answered.

"Then away, as if you were flying for your lives!"

The men put spurs to their mules, Alee gave the lash to my horse, and we started.

"Good-by, doctor," cried the Consul; "may you find your little son better when you reach home!"

I shouted some incoherent answers in a thick, loud voice, and in a few minutes more we were galloping across the plain outside the town.

The next two hours are a blank in my memory. In a kind of drunken stupor I rode on and on. The gray light deepened into the darkness of night, and the stars came out. Still we rode and rode. The moon appeared in the southern sky and rose into the broad whiteness of the stars overhead.

Then consciousness came back to me, and with it came the first pangs of remorse. Through the long hours of that night ride one awful sight stood up constantly before my eyes. It was the sight of that dead body, stark and cold, lying within that little sanctuary behind me, white now with the moonlight, and silent with the night.

_O Larby, Larby! You shamed me. You drove me from the world. You brought down your mother to the grave. And yet, and yet--must I absolve your murderer?_

Father, I reached my home at last. At Gibraltar I telegraphed that I was coming, and at Dover I received a telegram in reply. Four days had intervened between the despatch of my message and the receipt of my wife's. Anything might have happened in that time, and my anxiety was feverish. Stepping on to the Admiralty Pier, I saw a telegraph boy bustling about among the pa.s.sengers from the packet with a telegram in his hand.

"What name?" I asked.

He gave one that was not my own and yet sounded like it.

I looked at the envelope. Clearly the name was intended for mine. I s.n.a.t.c.hed the telegram out of the boy's hand. It ran: "Welcome home; boy very weak, but not beyond hope."

I think I read the words aloud, amid all the people, so tremendous was my relief, and so overwhelming my joy. The messenger got a gold coin for himself and I leaped into the train.

At Charing Cross I did not wait for my luggage, but gave a foolish tip to a porter and told him to send my things after me. Within half a minute of my arrival I was driving out of the station.

What I suffered during those last moments of waiting before I reached my house no tongue of man could tell. I read my wife's telegram again, and observed for the first time that it was now six hours old. Six hours!

They were like six days to my tortured mind.

From the moment when we turned out of Oxford Street until we drew up at my own door in Wimpole Street I did not once draw breath. And being here I dared hardly lift my eyes to the window lest the blinds should be down.

I had my latch-key with me, and I let myself in without ringing. A moment afterward I was in my darling's room. My beloved wife was with our boy, and he was unconscious. That did not trouble me at all, for I saw at a glance that I was not too late.

Throwing off my coat, I sent to the surgery for my case, dismissed my dear girl with scant embraces, drew my darling's cot up to the window, and tore down the curtains that kept out the light, for the spring day was far spent.

Then, being alone with my darling, I did my work. I had trembled like an aspen leaf until I entered his room, but when the time came my hand was as firm as a rock and my pulse beat like a child's.

I knew I could do it, and I did it. G.o.d had spared me to come home, and I had kept my vow. I had traveled ten days and nights to tackle the work, but it was a short task when once begun.

After I had finished I opened the door to call my wife back to the room.

The poor soul was crouching with the boy's nurse on the threshold, and they were doing their utmost to choke their sobs.

"There!" I cried, "there's your boy! He'll be all right now."

The mischief was removed, and I had never a doubt of the child's recovery.

My wife flung herself on my breast, and then I realized the price I had paid for so much nervous tension. All the nerves of organic life seemed to collapse in an instant.

"I'm dizzy; lead me to my room," I said.

My wife brought me brandy, but my hand could not lift the tumbler to my mouth, and when my dear girl's arms had raised my own, the gla.s.s rattled against my teeth. They put me to bed; I was done--done.

_G.o.d will forgive him. Why should not I?_