The Redemption of David Corson by Charles Frederic Goss

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He kept his story to himself; but made furtive inquiries of his
new-found friends and of the slaves and neighbors, none of which enabled
him to discover the slightest clue to the fugitives. So far as he could
learn, the earth might have opened and swallowed them, and so when he
had exhausted the sources of information in the region where the
accident occurred, he determined to go elsewhere.

Refusing the kind offers of a permanent refuge in the home of these
hospitable Kentuckians, he made his way back to Cincinnati, where he
hoped not only to find traces of the fugitives, but to recover the
jewels which Pepeeta had left behind her on the table, and which in his
frantic haste he had forgotten to take with him.

He learned the history of the jewels in a few short hours. Not long
after his own sudden disappearance and that of David and Pepeeta, the
judge had called at the hotel with an order for his property. The
unsuspecting landlord had honored it, and the judge not long afterward
left for parts unknown.

This discovery not only turned his rage to frenzy, but increased his
difficulties a hundred fold. Without friends and without money, he set
himself to attain revenge. Before a purpose so resolute, many obstacles
at once gave way, and although he could find no traces of David and
Pepeeta, he discovered that the judge had fled to New York City, and
thither he determined to go.

Procuring a little terrier, through the charity of strangers, he trained
him to be his guide, and started on his pilgrimage. Many weeks were
consumed in the journey and many more in hopeless efforts to discover
the thief. Through the aid of an old Cincinnati friend whom he
accidentally encountered he located the fugitive at last; but in a
cemetery! Ill-gotten wealth had precipitated the final disaster, for
having turned the diamonds into money the fugitive entered upon a
debauch which terminated in a horrible death. At the side of a grave in
the potter's field, the sexton one day saw a blind man leaning on a
cane. After a long silence, he stooped down, felt carefully over the low
ground as if to assure himself of something, then rose, lifted his cane
to heaven, waved it wildly, muttered what sounded like imprecations, and
soon after followed a little terrier to the gate of the cemetery and
disappeared.

It was the doctor. One of his enemies had escaped him forever, and the
trail of the others seemed hopelessly lost in the darkness which had
settled down upon him. There was nothing left for him but to beg his
living and impotently nourish his hate.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

A MAN CROSSED WITH ADVERSITY

"One sole desire, one passion now remains
To keep life's fever still within his veins,
Vengeance! dire vengeance on the wretch who cast
O'er him and all he loved that ruinous blast."

--Lalla Rookh.

It was late in the evening when David returned to his apartments,
excited, triumphant, eager.

"Well," he cried, rushing impetuously up to Mantel, who stood waiting
for him. "Is he still there? Is that place really his home?"

"Yes," his friend answered; "he has lived there for more than a year, in
solitude and poverty. His health is very poor and he is growing steadily
weaker. He has declined so much recently that now he does not venture
out until the afternoon."

"Feeble, is he? Poor old man!" exclaimed David. "But at least he is not
dead, and while there is life there is hope! I am not a murderer, and
there is a possibility of my making atonement! How I cling to that idea,
Mantel! In a single hour I have enjoyed more happiness than I thought a
whole lifetime could contain. But even in this indescribable happiness
there is a strange element of unrest, for it seems too good to last. Is
all great gladness haunted by this apprehension of evanescence? But at
any rate, I am happy now!"

"And I am almost happy in your happiness," responded his friend, his
face lighted up by an altogether new and beautiful smile.

"Sit down, then," said David, giving him a chair and standing opposite
to him, "and I will tell you my story."

Words cannot describe the emotion, nay the passion, with which he poured
that tragic narrative into the ears of his eager and sympathetic
listener.

Never was a story told to a more attentive and appreciative auditor.
There must have been some buried sorrow in that heart which had rendered
it sensitive to the griefs of others. Hours were consumed by this
narrative and by the questions which had to be asked and answered, and
it was long after midnight when David found time to say, "And now shall
I tell you my plans for the future?"

"Yes, if you will," said Mantel.

"Well, I have rented a sunny room in a lodging house in a quiet street,
and to-morrow, if you are willing, you shall go and lead him to it. I
must lean upon you, Mantel; I dare not make myself known to him. He
would never accept my aid if he knew by whom it was bestowed, for he is
proud and revengeful and would give himself no rest night or day until
he had my life, if he knew I was within reach. I do not fear him; but
what good could come of his wreaking vengeance on me, richly as I
deserve it? It would only make his destiny more dark and dreadful, and
defeat the one chance I have of making an atonement. You do not think I
ought to make myself known, do you?"

"I do not. I think with you that an atonement is the most perfect
satisfaction of justice."

"Thank you, thank you, my dear friend. You do not know how glad I am to
have you think I am doing right. You will go to him to-morrow, then, and
you will tell him that some one who has seen him on the streets has
taken compassion on him. You will do this, will you not?"

"Nothing could give me greater pleasure. I half feel as if I had
participated with you in the wrong done to the old man, and that I shall
be blessed with you in trying to make it right."

"That is good in you, Mantel. How much nobility lies buried in every
human heart! It may be that even such men as you and I are capable of
some sort of rescue and redemption. I am going to spend my best strength
in working for this poor old blind beggar whom I have wronged. I mean to
toil for him like a galley slave, and mark me, Mantel, it is going to be
honest toil!"

"Honest, did you say?" asked Mantel, lifting his eyebrows incredulously.

"Yes," David answered, "honest. This hope that has come to me has
wrought a great change in my heart. It has revived old feelings which I
thought long dead. If there is a God in heaven who has decided to give
me one more chance to set myself right, I am going to take it! And
listen; if this great hope can come to me, why not to you?"

Mantel leaned his head on his hand a moment, and then answered with a
sigh, "Perhaps--but," and paused.

There are moments when these two indefinite words contain the whole of
our philosophy of existence. "I am going to seek the great Perhaps!"
said Rabelais, as he breathed his last.

David looked at him sympathetically and said, "Well, it is not strange
that you cannot feel as I do. It is not by what befalls others, but by
what befalls ourselves, that we learn to hope and trust."

The silence that came between them was broken by Mantel, who looked up
at him with a trace of the old ironical smile on his face.

"Your plans are all right as far as they go, but it seems to me the
hardest part of the tangle still remains to be unraveled."

"What do you mean?" asked David.

"What are you going to do about this beautiful Pepeeta?"

"Oh, I have settled that, too! You do not know how clearly I see it all.
It is as if a fog had lifted from the ocean, and the sailor had found
himself inside the harbor. I shall write and tell her all."

"Do you mean that you will tell her that her husband is alive?"

"I do."

"And perhaps you will advise her to return to him!"

"You are right, I shall."

Mantel shook his head.

"You do not think it best?" said David.

"I do not know."

"But there is nothing else to do."

"It is natural that I should see only the difficulties."

"What difficulties can there be?"

"Will you do anything more than destroy her by binding her once more to
the man she loathes?"

"You do not know Pepeeta."

"It is true, I only know human nature."

"But she is more than human!"

"And are you?"

"Not I!"

"Then how will you endure to see her once more the wife of your enemy
and rival?"

"Mantel," said David, pausing in his restless walk across the room, "I
do not wonder that you ask this. It was the first question that I asked
myself. It struck my heart like the blow of a hammer. But I have settled
it. I have weighed the pains which I have suffered in a just and even
balance. I know I cannot escape suffering, whichever way I turn. I have
felt the pains of doing wrong, and I now deliberately choose the pains
of doing right, let them be what they will!"

"It is easy to scorn the bitterness of an untasted cup."

"No matter! I have settled it. It must be done."

Mantel shrugged his shoulders and said, "I am afraid that the great
Joker of whom we were talking yesterday is about to perpetrate another
of his jests."

"You think it absurd, then?"

"I regard it as impossible."

"But why?"

"Because you are making a plan to act as if you were a disembodied
conscience. You have forgotten that you still have the passions of a
man. I fear there will be another tragedy as dark as the first. But if
you are determined, I must obey you. I never know how to act for myself;
but if some one wishes me to act for him I can do so without fear, even
if I am compelled to do so without hope."

David resumed his walk for a moment, and then pausing again before his
friend, said, "Mantel, a few years ago my soul was so sensitive to truth
and duty that I was accustomed to regard its intuitions as the will of
God revealed to me in some sort of supernatural way. I acted on the
impulses of my heart without the slightest question or hesitation, and
during that entire period of my life I cannot remember that I was ever
for a single time seriously mistaken or misled. While I obeyed those
intuitions and followed that mysterious light, I was happy. When I
turned my back on that light it ceased to shine. It has been more than
two years since I have thought I heard the voice of God or felt any
assurance that I was in the path of duty. But now the departed vision
has returned! I have had as clear a perception of my duty as was ever
vouchsafed me in the old sweet days, and I shall obey it if it costs me
my life."

So deep was his earnestness that Mantel seemed to catch his enthusiasm
and be convinced. But in another instant the old mocking smile had
returned.

"Would you be so tractable and obedient if the old beggar were in better
health?" he said, opening and shutting the leaves of a book which was
lying on the table, and looking out from under half-lifted eyelids.

At this insinuation David winced, and for a moment seemed about to
resent it. But he restrained himself and replied gently, "The same
distrust of my motives has arisen in my own mind. I more than half
suspect that if, as you say, the old beggar were young and strong, my
heart would fail me. But the knowledge that I could not do my duty if
the doctor were going to live cannot be any reason for my not doing it
when I believe that he is likely to die! I am not called upon to do
wrong simply because I see that I am not wholly unselfish in doing
right. I am not asked to face a supposition, but a fact. I shall not
pride myself on any righteousness that I do not possess; but I must not
be kept from doing my duty because I am not a perfect man."

"You are right," said Mantel, but his assent seemed more like a
concession than a conviction. He had grown to regard the passing
panorama of life as a great spectacular exhibition. The actors seemed
swayed by powers external to themselves, their movements exhibiting
such gross inconsistencies as to make it impossible to predict, and
almost impossible to guess them. He looked on with more curiosity than
interest, as at the different combinations in a kaleidoscope. He could
not conceive that David, or any one, could so come under the dominant
influence of a conviction as to act coherently and consistently upon it
through any or all emergencies. But he was kind and sympathetic, and his
heart responded to the passionate earnestness of his friend with a new
interest and pleasure.

CHAPTER XXIX.

AS A TALE THAT IS TOLD

"First our pleasures die--and then
Our hopes and then our fears--and when
These are dead, the debt is due
Dust claims dust, and we die too."

--Shelley.

The next few weeks were passed by these two subdued and altered friends
in devoted efforts to make the blind man comfortable and happy. True to
his determination, David sought and found a place to work, and after
reserving enough of his wages to supply the few necessities of his daily
life, dedicated the rest to the purchase of comforts for the poor
invalid.

Mantel acted as his almoner, and by his delicate tact and gentle manners
persuaded the proud and revengeful old man to accept the mysterious
charity. The moment the strain of perpetual beggary was taken from him,
the physical ruin which the terrible blow of the stone, the subsequent
illness, and the ensuing poverty and wretchedness had wrought, became
manifest. He experienced a sudden relapse, and began to sink into an
ominous decline.

Even had he not known the secret of his sorrow, it would have soon
become plain to his acute and watchful nurse that some hidden trouble
was gnawing at his heart, for he was taciturn, abstracted and sometimes
morose. He manifested no curiosity as to the benefactor upon whose
charity he was living, but received the alms bestowed by that unknown
hand as children receive the gifts of God--unsolicited, uncomprehended
and unobserved.

His mind, aroused by the conversation of his untiring nurse to the
realities of the present existence, would sink back by a sort of
irresistible gravity into the realm of memory. There, in the
impenetrable privacy of his soul, he brooded over his wrongs and counted
his prospects of righting them, as a miser reckons his coins.

The spasmodic workings of his countenance, the convulsive gripping of
his hands, the grinding of his great white teeth, the scalding tears
which sometimes fell from his sightless eyes, revealed to the mind of
his patient and watchful observer the passions secretly and ceaselessly
working in his soul.

Mantel became fascinated by the study of this subjective drama. He used
to sit and watch the expressive curtain behind which these dark scenes
were being enacted, and fancy that he could follow the soul as, in the
spirit world, it tracked its foe, fell upon him and exacted its terrible
revenge. At times he imagined that he could actually see the enraged
thoughts issue from the body as if it were a den or cave, and they,
living beasts of prey ranging abroad by day and night, and returning
with their booty to devour it; or, if they had failed to take it, to
brood over the failure of their hunt.

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 gratitude
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 passed 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 passed away, and Mantel
determined once more to try and assuage 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 passion 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
pronouncing it.

It was a strange situation into which this young skeptic had been forced
by the logic of circumstances. 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 passions,
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 passion 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, God 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?"

"Thousands have had to do so--millions; but do not let us talk about it
any more. We are nervous and unstrung. You will never be persuaded until
you see for yourself. If you wish to make the effort, you must do it
soon; in fact you must do it now. I have come to tell you that his
physician says he will not live until morning."

"Then let us go!" cried David, seizing his hat and starting for the
door, white to the lips and trembling violently.

They passed out into the night together and hurried away to the beggar's
room. Each was too burdened for talk and they walked in silence.
Arriving at the house, they ascended the stairs on tiptoe and paused to
listen at the door. "I will leave it ajar, so you may hear what he says,
and then you can judge if I am right," said Mantel, entering quietly.

He approached the table and turned up the lamp which he had left burning
dimly. By its pale light David could see the great head lying on the
pillow, the chin elevated, the mouth partially open, the breast heaving
with the painful efforts to catch a few last fluttering inspirations.

Nestling close to the ashen face and licking the cheek now and then with
his little red tongue, was the terrier.

Mantel's footfall, quiet as it was, disturbed the sleeper, who moved,
turned his head toward the sound and asked in a husky and but
half-audible voice, "Who is there?"

"It is I. How are you now? A little better?" said Mantel, laying his
soft, cool hand upon the broad forehead, wet already with the
death-damp.

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