“It is very flattering—to be remembered like that,” said Sister Soulsby, gently. The disposition to laugh was smothered by a pained perception of the suffering he was undergoing. His face had grown drawn and haggard under the burden of his memories as he rambled on.
“So I came straight to you,” he began again. “I had just money enough left to pay my fare. The rest is in my valise at the hotel—the Murray Hill Hotel. It belongs to the church. I stole it from the church. When I am dead they can get it back again!”
Sister Soulsby forced a smile to her lips. “What nonsense you talk—about dying!” she exclaimed. “Why, man alive, you’ll sleep this all off like a top, if you’ll only lie down and give yourself a chance. Come, now, you must do as you’re told.”
With a resolute hand, she made him lie down again, and once more covered him with the fur. He submitted, and did not even offer to put out his arm this time, but looked in piteous dumbness at her for a long time. While she sat thus in silence, the sound of Brother Soulsby moving about upstairs became audible.
Theron heard it, and the importance of hurrying on some further disclosure seemed to suggest itself. “I can see you think I’m just drunk,” he said, in low, sombre tones. “Of course that’s what he thought. The hackman thought so, and so did the conductor, and everybody. But I hoped you would know better. I was sure you would see that it was something worse than that. See here, I’ll tell you. Then you’ll understand. I’ve been drinking for two days and one whole night, on my feet all the while, wandering alone in that big strange New York, going through places where they murdered men for ten cents, mixing myself up with the worst people in low barrooms and dance-houses, and they saw I had money in my pocket, too, and yet nobody touched me, or offered to lay a finger on me. Do you know why? They understood that I wanted to get drunk, and couldn’t. The Indians won’t harm an idiot, or lunatic, you know. Well, it was the same with these vilest of the vile. They saw that I was a fool whom God had taken hold of, to break his heart first, and then to craze his brain, and then to fling him on a dunghill to die like a dog. They believe in God, those people. They’re the only ones who do, it seems to me. And they wouldn’t interfere when they saw what He was doing to me. But I tell you I wasn’t drunk. I haven’t been drunk. I’m only heartbroken, and crushed out of shape and life—that’s all. And I’ve crawled here just to have a friend by me when—when I come to the end.”
“You’re not talking very sensibly, or very bravely either, Theron Ware,” remarked his companion. “It’s cowardly to give way to notions like that.”
“Oh, I’m not afraid to die; don’t think that,” he remonstrated wearily. “If there is a Judgment, it has hit me as hard as it can already. There can’t be any hell worse than that I’ve gone through. Here I am talking about hell,” he continued, with a pained contraction of the muscles about his mouth—a stillborn, malformed smile—“as if I believed in one! I’ve got way through all my beliefs, you know. I tell you that frankly.”
“It’s none of my business,” she reassured him. “I’m not your Bishop, or your confessor. I’m just your friend, your pal, that’s all.”
“Look here!” he broke in, with some animation and a new intensity of glance and voice. “If I was going to live, I’d have some funny things to tell. Six months ago I was a good man. I not only seemed to be good, to others and to myself, but I was good. I had a soul; I had a conscience. I was going along doing my duty, and I was happy in it. We were poor, Alice and I, and people behaved rather hard toward us, and sometimes we were a little down in the mouth about it; but that was all. We really were happy; and I—I really was a good man. Here’s the kind of joke God plays! You see me here six months after. Look at me! I haven’t got an honest hair in my head. I’m a bad man through and through, that’s what I am. I look all around at myself, and there isn’t an atom left anywhere of the good man I used to be. And, mind you, I never lifted a finger to prevent the change. I didn’t resist once; I didn’t make any fight. I just walked deliberately downhill, with my eyes wide open. I told myself all the while that I was climbing uphill instead, but I knew in my heart that it was a lie. Everything about me was a lie. I wouldn’t be telling the truth, even now, if—if I hadn’t come to the end of my rope. Now, how do you explain that? How can it be explained? Was I really rotten to the core all the time, years ago, when I seemed to everybody, myself and the rest, to be good and straight and sincere? Was it all a sham, or does God take a good man and turn him into an out-and-out bad one, in just a few months—in the time that it takes an ear of corn to form and ripen and go off with the mildew? Or isn’t there any God at all—but only men who live and die like animals? And that would explain my case, wouldn’t it? I got bitten and went vicious and crazy, and they’ve had to chase me out and hunt me to my death like a mad dog! Yes, that makes it all very simple. It isn’t worth while to discuss
