Part 6 (1/2)

”When they come in the morning early--very early--and find us here, my boy and me, don't let them take him away from me, Greta. We should go together--yes, both together; that's only right, with Ralphie at my bosom.”

The bandage lay at her feet. Her eyes were very red and heavy. Their dim light seemed to come from far away.

”Only that,” she said, and her voice softened, ”My Ralphie is in heaven.”

Then she hid her face in her hands, and cried out loud, ”But I prayed to G.o.d that I might see my child on earth. Oh, how I prayed! And G.o.d heard my prayer and answered it--but see! _I saw him die._”

END OF ”THE BLIND MOTHER”

THE LAST CONFESSION

COPYRIGHT, 1892, UNITED STATES BOOK COMPANY.

COPYRIGHT, 1900, BY STREET & SMITH.

[_All rights reserved._]

I

Father, do not leave me. Wait! only a little longer. You can not absolve me? I am not penitent? How _can_ I be penitent? I do not regret it? How _can_ I regret it? I would do it again? How could I help _but_ do it again?

Yes, yes, I know, I know! Who knows it so well as I? It is written in the tables of G.o.d's law: _Thou shalt do no murder!_ But was it murder?

Was it crime? Blood? Yes, it was the spilling of blood. Blood will have blood, you say. But is there no difference? Hear me out. Let me speak.

It is hard to remember all now--and here--lying here--but listen--only listen. Then tell me if I did wrong. No, tell me if G.o.d Himself will not justify me--ay, justify me--though I outraged His edict. Blasphemy? Ah, father, do not go! Father!--

_Speak, my son. I will listen. It is my duty. Speak._

It is less than a year since my health broke down, but the soul lives fast, and it seems to me like a lifetime. I had overworked myself miserably. My life as a physician in London had been a hard one, but it was not my practise that had wrecked me. How to perform that operation on the throat was the beginning of my trouble. You know what happened. I mastered my problem, and they called the operation by my name. It has brought me fame; it has made me rich; it has saved a thousand lives, and will save ten thousand more, and yet I--I--for taking one life--one--under conditions--

Father, bear with me. I will tell all. My nerves are burned out. Gloom, depression, sleeplessness, prostration, sometimes collapse, a consuming fire within, a paralyzing frost without--you know what it is--we call it neurasthenia.

I watched the progress of my disease and gave myself the customary treatment. Hygiene, diet, drugs, electricity, I tried them all. But neither dumbbells nor Indian clubs, neither walking nor riding, neither liberal food nor doses of egg and brandy, neither musk nor ergot nor antipyrin, neither faradization nor galvanization availed to lift the black shades that hung over me day and night, and made the gift of life a mockery. I knew why. My work possessed me like a fever. I could neither do it to my content nor leave it undone. I was drawing water in a sieve.

My wife sent for Gull. Full well I knew what he would advise. It was rest. I must take six months' absolute holiday, and, in order to cut myself off entirely from all temptations to mental activity, I must leave London and go abroad. Change of scene, of life, and of habit, new peoples, new customs, new faiths, and a new climate--these separately and together, with total cessation of my usual occupations, were to banish a long series of functional derangements which had for their basis the exhaustion of the sympathetic nervous system.

I was loth to go. Looking back upon my condition, I see that my reluctance was justified. To launch a creature who was all nerves into the perpetual, if trifling, vexations of travel was a mistake, a folly, a madness. But I did not perceive this; I was thinking only of my home and the dear souls from whom I must be separated. During the seven years of our married life my wife had grown to be more than the object of my love. That gentle soothing, that soft healing which the mere presence of an affectionate woman who is all strength and courage may bring to a man who is wasted by work or worry, my wife's presence had long brought to me, and I shrank from the thought of scenes where she could no longer move about me, meeting my wishes and antic.i.p.ating my wants.

This was weakness, and I knew it; but I had another weakness which I did not know. My boy, a little son of six years of age the day before I set sail, was all the world to me. Paternal love may eat up all the other pa.s.sions. It was so in my case. The tyranny of my affection for my only child was even more constant and unrelenting than the tyranny of my work. Nay, the two were one: for out of my instinct as a father came my strength as a doctor. The boy had suffered from a throat trouble from his birth. When he was a babe I delivered him from a fierce attack of it, and when he was four I brought him back from the jaws of death. Thus twice I had saved his life, and each time that life had become dearer to me. But too well I knew that the mischief was beaten down, and not conquered. Some day it would return with awful virulence. To meet that terror I wrought by day and night. No slave ever toiled so hard. I denied myself rest, curtailed my sleep, and stole from tranquil reflection and repose half-hours and quarter-hours spent in the carriage going from patient to patient. The attack might come suddenly, and I must be prepared. I was working against time.

You know what happened. The attack did not come; my boy continued well, but my name became known and my discovery established. The weakness of my own child had given the bent to my studies. If I had mastered my subject it was my absorbing love of my little one that gave me the impulse and direction.

But I had paid my penalty. My health was a wreck, and I must leave everything behind me. If it had been possible to take my wife and boy along with me, how different the end might have been! Should I be lying here now--here on this bed--with you, father, you?--

We spent our boy's birthday with what cheer we could command. For my wife it seemed to be a day of quiet happiness, hallowed by precious memories--the dearest and most delicious that a mother ever knew--of the babyhood of her boy--his pretty lisp, his foolish prattle, his funny little ways and sayings--and sweetened by the antic.i.p.ation of the health that was to return to me as the result of rest and change. The child himself was bright and gamesome, and I for my part gave way to some reckless and noisy jollity.