it was not immediate death that had alighted, but death’s forerunner, paralysis. i realized this in a moment. the mute and stricken figure; the closed eyes; the darkly flushed face wrenched to the right and the flapping breath issuing one-sided from the lips—i needed no experience to read the meaning of these.
i ran to the head of the stairs and shrieked to old peggy to come up. then i hurried to the dressing-table and lighted a candle that stood thereon. as i took it in my hand to approach the bed, a pane in the lattice behind me went with a splintering noise, and something whizzed past my head like a hornet, and a fragment of plaster spun from the wall near. at the same instant a little muffled sound, no louder in the tumult of hail than the smack of an elastic band on paper, came from the street outside.
instinctively i winced and dodged, not knowing for the moment what had happened, then in the midst of my distraction, fury seized me like a snake.
the blind was up; my figure plainly visible from the bridge as i crossed the room. the madman outside had shot at me, whether from pure deviltry or because he took me for jason i neither knew nor cared. coming on the head of my trouble, the deed seemed wantonly diabolical. had i been master of my actions i think i should then and there have rushed forth and grappled with the evil creature and crushed the life out of him. as it was i ran to the window and dashed it open and leaned forth.
he was there on the bridge still; standing up in the pelting storm; bare-headed, fantastic—a thing of nameless expression.
i shrieked to him and cursed him. i menaced him with my fists. for the moment i was near as much madman as he.
perhaps some words of my outcry reached him through the hurtling of the storm. perhaps he recognized me, for i saw him shrink down and cower behind the stones of the bridge. i rattled to the window, pulled down the blind and turned myself to the stricken figure on the bed. as i did so old peggy came breathing and shambling into the room.
“what’s to do?” she said, coughing feebly and glaring at me. “what’s to do, renalt?”
“look there! what’s happened—what’s the matter with him? it is death, perhaps!”
she shuffled to the bedside, holding in her groaning chest with one hand. for a minute she must have stood gazing down.
“ay,” she said at last, leering round at me. “the lord mistook the room, looking in at winder. ralph it was were wanted—not old peggy, praise to his goodness.”
“is he dying?”
“maybe—maybe not yet awhile. the dumbstroke have tuk him.”
“paralysis?”
“so they carls it. better ax the doctor.”
“look you to him, then, and look well, while i run out to seek for one. i leave him in your charge.”
i took her by the arm and stared in her face as i spoke. my expression must have been frowning and threatening, but indeed i mistrusted the old vagabond. she shrunk from me with a twitch of fear.
“he’ll come round wi’ his face to the judgment,” she said; and i left her standing by the bedside and hurried from the house.
leaving the yard, i turned sharply round upon the bridge. the storm had yielded, but the ground was yet thickly strewed with white. not a soul seemed to be abroad. only low down against the parapet of the bridge was a single living thing, and it crouched huddled as if the storm had claimed a victim before it passed.
my brain still burned with fury over the foul action that had so nearly sent me from my father in his utmost need. i could think of nothing at the moment but revenge, of nothing but that i must sweep this horror into the river before i could hope to deal collectedly with the fatality that had befallen me. i only feared that it would escape me, and leaped on it, mad with rage.
i tore him up to his feet and held him from me with a savage gaze, and he looked at me with a dark, amazed stare, but there was no terror in his eyes. and even as i held him i saw in the dim lamplight how worn and haggard he had grown, how sunken was his white face, how fearfully the monomania of revenge had rent him with its jagged teeth.
“you dog!” i said. “you end in the millrace here—do you understand? you are a murderer in will and would have been in deed if your aim had answered true to your devil’s heart! down with you!”
i closed with him, but he still struggled to hold me off.
“i thought it was he—the other. he’s left london. he must be here somewhere.”
there was no deprecation in his tone. he spoke in a small dry voice and with an air as if none could doubt that he was justified in his pursuit and must stand aside or suffer by it rather than that it should cease.
“where he is i neither know nor care,” i answered, set and stern. “you’ve raised your hand to me at last, dog that you are, and that’s my concern. i should have known at first—that it’s useless arguing mercy with a devil.”
i had my arms round him like steel bands. once he might have been my match, or better, but not now in his state of physical degeneration.
“yes, end it,” he whispered. “i always thought to die by water as she did. the chase here is exhausting me. i can finish my task more effectively from the other side the grave.”
i gave a mocking laugh.
“you shall purge your hate in fire, there,” i said. “ghostly revenge on the living is an old wives’ tale.”
he struggled to force an arm free and pointed down at the foaming mill-tail.
“there’s a voice there,” he cried, “that says otherwise. i read it, and so do you, for all your shaking heroics. fling me down! i escape the self-destruction that was to come. fling me down and end it!”
i tightened my arms about him. the first desperate fury of my mood was leading me and with it the impulse to murder. the wan, once-dear features were appealing to me against their will and mine.
suddenly, while i wavered, an appalling screech burst from him; he wrenched himself free of me with one mad superhuman effort, struck out at the empty air, and turned and fled across the bridge and up toward the hill beyond. in a moment he was lost to sight in the darkness.
in the shock of his escape i twisted about to see what had so moved him—and, not a yard behind me, was standing dr. crackenthorpe.
for many seconds we stared at one another speechless and motionless. his face was pale and set very grimly.
at last he spoke, and “murder!” was the word he muttered.
“he runs fast for a murdered man,” i said, with a sneer.
“who was it?” he said, gazing with a strange, fixed expression up the dark blown hill.
“a ghost,” i answered, with a reckless laugh. “the town is full of them to-night.”
he looked at me gloomily. i could have thought he shivered slightly.
“do you know him?”
“he was my friend once. stand out of my way. i’ve an errand on hand. my father’s had a seizure.”
“had a—come, i’ll go see him.”
“you won’t. i won’t have you near him. stand out of my way.”
“you’re a fool. promptness is everything in such cases.”
i hesitated. for what his professional opinion was worth, this man had always stood to us as adviser in such small ailments as we suffered. i had no notion where to seek another. my father would be unconscious of his presence. at least he could pronounce upon the nature of the stroke.
“very well,” i said, ungraciously. “you can see him and judge what’s the matter.”
the old man was lying as i had left him when we entered the bedroom. his eyes were still closed, and his breathing sounded hard and stertorious.
“he’s mortal bad, sir,” peggy said. “he’ll die hard, i do believe.”
dr. crackenthorpe waved her away and bent over the prostrate figure. as he did so its eyelids seemed to flicker, as if with dread consciousness of his approach.
“be quick!” i said. “what has happened?”
he felt the dying pulse; bent his yellow face and listened at the heart. he was some minutes occupied.
presently he rose and came to me, all formal and professional.
“you must prepare for the worst,” he said. “he may speak again by and by, but i doubt it. in my opinion it is a question of a few days only. no medical skill can avail.”
“is there nothing i can do?”
“nothing.”
he bowed to me stiffly.
“i am at your service,” he said, in a cold voice. “if i can be of any further use to you, you will let me know. you are not ignorant of where to find me, i believe.”
he was walking to the door, but turned and came toward me again.
“that one-time friend of yours,” he said. “is he stopping in the town?”
“i really don’t know, dr. crackenthorpe. i met him by chance, and you saw he ran from me. you seem interested in him.”
“he—yes; he struck me as bearing a likeness to a—to a patient i once attended. good-night.”
