my escape from that strong net of fatality that had enmeshed so many years of my still young life, had been, it seemed, only a merciful respite. now the toils, regathering about me again, woke a spirit of hopeless resignation in me that had been foreign to my earlier mood of resistance. man has made of himself so plodding an animal as to almost resent the unreality of his brief vacations. he eats his way, like a wood-boring larva, through a monotonous tunnel of routine, satisfied with the thought that some day he may emerge into the light on the other side, ready-winged for flight to the garden of paradise. perhaps lazarus was humanly far-seeing in refusing the rich man a drop of water. it would have made the poor wretch’s after lot tenfold more unendurable.
now a feeling came over me that i could struggle no more, but would lie in the web and suffer unresisting the onsets of fate. my father’s seizure; duke’s reappearance and his hint as to the visit i was to expect from jason; the sudden flight of the cripple before the vision of dr. crackenthorpe—all these were strands about my soul with which i would concern myself no longer. i would do my duty, so far as i could, and set my face in one direction and glance aside no more.
that night i ordered peggy to bed—for since jason’s going she slept in the house—and myself passed the dreary vigil of the hours by my father’s side. indeed, for the three days following i scarcely lay down at all, but took my food in snatches and slept by fits and starts in chairs or window-corners as occasion offered.
during the whole of this time the condition of the patient never altered. he lay on his back, breathing crookedly from his twisted mouth; his eyes closed; the whole of the right side of his body stricken motionless. his left hand he would occasionally move and that was the single sign of animate life he showed.
and day and night the wind blew and the hail and rain came down in a cold and ceaseless deluge. the whole country was flooded, i heard, and the streams risen, but still the rending storm flew and added devastation to misery.
it was on the afternoon of the third day that, chancing to look at the old man as i sat by his bedside, i saw, with a certain shock of pleasure, that his eyes were open and fixed upon my face. i jumped to my feet and leaned over him, and at that some shadow of emotion passed across his features, as if the angel of death stood between him and the window.
presently his left hand, that lay on the coverlet, began moving. the fingers twitched with a beckoning motion and he raised his arm several times and let it fall again listlessly. i fancied i was conscious of some dumb appeal addressed to me, toward which my own soul yearned in sympathy. yet, strive as i would, i could not interpret it. an inexpressible trouble seemed lost and wandering in the fathomless depths of the eyes; passionate utterance seemed ever hovering on the lips, ever escaping the grasp of will and sliding back into blackness.
“dad,” i said, “what is it? try to express by a sign and i will try to understand.”
the hand rose again, weakly fluttered in the air and dropped upon the coverlet. thrice the effort was made and thrice i failed to interpret its significance. then a little quivering sigh came from the mouth and the eyes closed in exhaustion.
i racked my brains for the meaning of the sign. some trouble, it was evident, sought expression, but what—what—what? my mind was all dulled and confused by the incidents of the last few days.
while i was vainly struggling for a solution old peggy entered the room with tea and bread and butter for my afternoon meal. she paused with the tray in her hands, watching the blind groping of the fingers on the bed.
“ay,” she said, “but i doubt me ye cudn’t hold a pen, master.”
i turned sharply to her.
“is that what he wants?”
“pen or pencil—’tis arl one. when speech goes, we talk wi’ the fingers.”
what a fool i had been! the sign i had struggled in vain for hours to read, this uncanny old beldame had understood at a glance.
i hurried out of the room and returned with paper and pencil. i thrust the latter between the wandering fingers and they closed over it with a quick, weak snap. but they could not retain it, and it slipped from them again upon the coverlet. a moan broke from the lips and the arm beat the clothes feebly.
“heave en up,” said the old woman. “he’s axing ye to.”
i put my arm under my father’s shoulders and with a strong effort got him into a sitting posture, propped among the pillows. i placed the pencil in his hand again and held the paper in such a position that he could write upon it. he succeeded in making a few hieroglyphic scratches on the white surface and that was all.
“it’s no manner o’ use, renalt,” said peggy. “better lat en alone and drink up your tea.”
“put it down there and leave us to ourselves.”
the old creature did as she was bidden and shuffled from the room grumbling.
i placed the paper where my father’s hand could rest upon it, and sat down to my silent meal.
presently, watching, as i ate, the weak restless movements of the hand upon the quilt, a thought occurred to me, which then and there i resolved to put into practice. it was evident that, unless through an unexpected renewal of strength, those dying fingers would never succeed in forming a legible word with the pencil they could barely hold. but they could make a sign of themselves and that little power i must seek to direct.
i hurried down to the kitchen and seized from the wall an ancient bone tablet that peggy used for domestic memoranda. scraping a little soot from the chimney i mixed it with water into a thick paste and spread a thin layer of the latter over the surface of the tablet. it dried almost immediately, and writing on it with the tip of my finger, i found that the soot came readily away, leaving the mark i had made stenciled white and clear under the upper coating.
returning to my father, with this extemporized first principle and the saucer of black paste, i held the tablet before his dim, wandering eyes, and wrote on it with my finger, demonstrating the method. at first he hardly seemed to comprehend my meaning, but, after a repetition or two his glance concentrated and his forehead seemed to ripple into little wrinkles of intelligence. at that i smeared the surface of the bone afresh, waited a minute for it to dry, and placed it under his hand upon the bed, leaving him to evolve the method from his poor crippled inner consciousness.
but a few moments had elapsed when a small, low sound from the bed brought me to my father’s side.
he looked from me to the tablet, where it lay, and there was a strained imploring line between his eyes. gently i took up the little black square and i saw that something was formed on it. with infinite toil, for it was only his left hand he could use, he had scratched on it a single, straggling word, and in the fading light i read it:
“forgive.”
“father!” i cried; “is that what you have been striving to say?”
he dragged up his unstricken arm slowly into an attitude as if the hand sought its fellow to join it in a prayer to me.
“before god,” i said, “you wrong me to think i could say that word! what have i to forgive you for? my sins have been my own, and they have met with their just reward. am i to forgive you for loving me? dad—dad! i have known so little love that i can’t afford to wrong yours by a thought. look! i will blot this out, that you may know my heart has nothing but tenderness in it for you!”
i snatched up the tablet and smeared out the cruel word and placed the blank surface under his hand again. he was looking at me all the time with the same dim anguished expression, and now his head sunk back on the pillow and a tear rolled down his face.
night came upon me sitting there, and presently, overcome by emotion and weariness, i fell over upon the foot of the bed and sunk into a profound sleep. for hours i lay unconscious and it was broad day in the room when i awoke with a sudden start.
realizing in a moment how i had betrayed my vigil, i leaped to my feet with a curse at my selfishness and looked down upon my father. he was lying back, sunk in a wan exhausted sleep, and under its influence his features seemed to have somewhat resumed their normal expression.
but it appeared he had again been scrawling on the tablets, with the first of the dawn, probably; and these were the broken words thereon that stared whitely up at me:
“i murd mored.”
