The Redemption of David Corson Part 38

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 grat.i.tude 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed away, and Mantel determined once more to try and a.s.suage 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 pa.s.sion 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 p.r.o.nouncing it.

It was a strange situation into which this young skeptic had been forced by the logic of circ.u.mstances. 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 pa.s.sions, 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 pa.s.sion 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, G.o.d 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?"