John had risen early and left the house before anyone was astir. He could not sleep. Up and down the deserted streets he paced, gazing at the silent stars and baring his head to the cold, refreshing breeze of the April morning. Haunted—tormented—conscience not yet sufficiently seared to commit so mean an act without regret, would be heard. What if the girl should defy him—expose him! He cursed his own folly, her beauty, his own infatuation. Turn as he would, he could not shut out the beautiful, despairing face.
“And there rises ever a passionate cry
From underneath in the darkened land”—
There is something magical in the mystery of night and the shadows of early dawn. Then the mystery of creation and our own hidden nature seem to be revealed faintly to our dull sensibilities. The soul beholds itself all unadorned as it must stand before Almighty God. He raised his eyes to heaven and there beheld the beauty of myriad stars and undiscovered worlds bespangling the firmament. Never before had he noticed their sublimity. By the tremulous half-light of the early dawn his deed of the night before appeared despicable—devilish. For a time his head dropped in shame before the accusations of his soul. There came dimly to his beclouded faculties a realization of the possibilities of a life which might have been his under opposite conditions from those in which he was born. Events of his childhood in the South came to him through the mist of years. He saw himself a half-starved beggar in the city streets, a deserted child claiming kindred with none, allowed a shelter in a poor Negro cabin for charity’s sake, begging his bread from the generous passerby. Somehow he had learned his letters. Then he became ambitious to learn more. He heard talk of a country to the north which seemed to his childish imagination a fairyland. He determined to go there; so he started on his wearisome journey at an age when the loving mother trembles to have her darling exposed to the perils of the busy streets without a strong hand to guide him through its dangers. All his capital was in his nimble baby feet. He charmed coin from the people wherever he went by his expert dancing. He could do the breakdown and many intricate shuffles in a way that delighted his audiences. When he reached the North he managed to buy a bootblack’s outfit; then he worked his way into a hotel kitchen. He went on from one thing to another, always keeping the one end in view—to acquire an education.
He had prospered. He had accomplished the acquisition of knowledge at the expense of the nondevelopment of every moral faculty. He did not realize that he was a responsible being, or that morality was obligatory upon him. With him, might was right. This man was what he was through the faults of others. If there be truth in the assertion that we create ourselves in the life we live on earth, the sphere that makes our heaven or hell within the illimitable realms of futurity, then it may be that the pitying eye of Heaven sees the struggles of these irresponsible ones of earth who are monuments of man’s inhumanity to man, and sends a warning, pleading voice along the dim, resounding aisles of self-communion. It is a law of the All-wise that Nemesis shall walk beside us in every wrong that we commit. For joy we pay, for sorrow, too, and also for the ill we do. We call the recoil which comes from evildoing, retribution, which being the fruit of evil, is coexistent with it. John had given no thought to the needs of his soul in his pursuit of wealth and position. Tonight he had the feeling that he had given all for nothing; that in his blind, egotistical seeking for his own gratification he had overstepped the bounds, and that retribution would put a check upon his desires.
That night his better angel triumphed, and he resolved that he would apologize to Sappho, make up with Dora, and tell Will all his surmises about Mr. Withington. But when daylight flooded the city he had resolved to let matters remain as they were. Love, honors and a competency were his for the taking, but he had risked all—for what? He would soon know.
Ten o’clock found him sitting listlessly before his desk. It happened that he had no cases in court that morning. He pushed his work one side; he could not think; ever before his eyes was a vision in pale blue, with floating golden hair and appealing eyes. His hand shook as if with the palsy as he raised his pen to dip it in the inkwell. With an oath he dashed it from him. He did not indulge in liquor as a rule, but he made up his mind to have a glass of whiskey when he went to lunch. Presently he heard the door open. He looked up at the sound, and met the eyes of the friend he had betrayed—Will Smith stood before him! John sprang to his feet. His eyes dropped before the steady regard of the other. Thus they stood a moment. At last Will broke the painful silence.
“What have I ever done to you, John, that you should treat me as you have?”
“What do you mean?” stammered John.
“Do you ask me that?”
“I do,” came faintly from John’s lips.
“I will reply by asking you another question. Has your love for Dora turned to hate, that you can deliberately humiliate the girl you have wished to make your wife, as you have her?”
John’s courage seemed to have deserted him. He stood before Smith like the culprit that he was.
“Of what do you accuse me?” he cried at length, in desperation.
“Does not
