Frightful remorse crumpled Thady Shea, mentally and bodily. He owed all that he was, all that he might be, to Mrs. Crump; yet his action had literally ruined her. That cursed sniff of whiskey had done it! Shea wasted no recrimination upon himself for his lapse from rectitude. He had gone through all that before. It was the consequence of this lapse that horrified him, that lashed down upon his soul.
“What have I done!” he mumbled, groping for coherency. “What have I done!”
All the old memories of Mrs. Crump flooded into his mind. He recalled all her actions and words, he pictured mentally all the deep waters of human kindness that lay hidden below her mask of harshness, he visioned anew how she had picked him out of the very gutter and had set him upon his feet, a man. How had he repaid her?
In this hour Thady Shea was cast absolutely upon himself. There was none to whom he might go for advice or aid. He was alone with his consciousness of guilt, alone with the remorse that ate into his heart like acid. A month previously he would have mouthed a curse at the world and have gone shambling away in search of the nearest saloon, where he would have recited “The Face on the Barroom Floor” as the sure and certain price of liquor.
This thought recurred to him. He pictured himself as he was a month ago. From his lips was wrenched an inarticulate cry, the voice of a soul in anguish. Heedless of the burning ache in his head, he brought his long body erect and looked up at the sky.
“Oh, God!” he said, a dry sob in his throat. “Oh, God! I have scoffed and blasphemed because You let me stumble down into hell. It was my own fault, God. Now, for the sake of that woman who helped me to find myself, it’s up to You to give me a hand! I don’t know what to do. But I’ve got to make up for this thing that I’ve done, and there is no one to help me except You—and it’s for her sake——”
The words failed, for as he spoke out his heart the deepness of feeling that had laid hold upon him ebbed; just as the bitterness of grief ebbs with tears. A tremor shook him, and for a moment he stood motionless.
Close at hand was an acequia, an open ditch with running water. He went to it, kneeled, and plunged his head into the water; it cooled his brain and steadied him. He rose and saw his axe helve lying where he had lain that night. He picked it up and stood there, indecision eating into him.
What was to be done? He must do something. The constable was seeking him—why? No matter. The name of Ben Aimes explained everything. The morning was wearing along, and by this time all hope of warning Mrs. Crump was gone. Of course, there was the dust-white flivver. He could take that and sneak back to the mine. It would be deserted.
Deserted? But that was what Mackintavers wanted, according to this disreputable ancient! That was why Mrs. Crump was under arrest! That was the aim and purpose of the whole affair—to have the mine left deserted, so that the man Dorales could step in and seize upon it.