Sons and Fathers

by Harry Stillwell Edwards

There had been a bunch of faded flowers upon the mound; he restored these and with a sigh of relief shouldered his spade and auger and took his departure, glad to leave the grewsome spot.

But a dramatic pantomime had been enacted near him which he never saw. While he was engaged in marking the head of the lifeless body, the slender form of a man appeared above him and shrank back in horror at the discovery. This man turned and picked up the heavy spade and swung it in air. If it had descended the negro would have been brained. But thought is a monarch! Slowly the arm descended, the spade was laid upon the ground, and the form a moment before animated with an overwhelming passion stood silent and motionless behind the cedar.

When the negro withdrew, this man followed, gliding from cover to cover, or following boldly in the open, but at all times with a tread as soft as a panther's. Down they went, the criminal and his shadow, down into the suburbs, then into the streets and then into the heart of the city. Near the office of Amos Royson the man in front uttered a peculiar whistle and passed on. At the next corner under the electric lamp he turned and found himself confronted by a slender man, whose face shone white under the ghastly light of the lamp, whose hair hung upon his shoulders, and whose eyes were distended with excitement. Uttering a cry of fright, the negro sprang from the sidewalk into the gutter, but the other passed on without turning except to cross the street, where in a friendly shadow he stopped. And as he stood there the negro retraced his steps and paused at the door of the lawyer's office. A dimly outlined form was at the window above. They had no more than time to exchange a word when the negro went on and the street was bare, except that a square away a heavy-footed policeman was approaching.

The man in the shadow leaned his head against a tree and thought. In his brain, standing out as distinct as if cut from black marble, was the face of the man he had followed.

Gerald possessed the reasoning faculty to an eminent degree, but it had been trained altogether upon abstract propositions. The small affairs of life were strange and remote to him, and the passions that animate the human breast were forces and agencies beyond his knowledge and calculations.

Annie Montjoy, with the facts in his possession, would have reached instantly a correct conclusion as to their meaning. He could not handle them. His mind was absolutely free of suspicion. He had wandered to the little graveyard, as he had before when sleepless and harassed, and discovered that some one was disfiguring the body of his lifelong friend. To seize the spade and wreak vengeance upon the intruder was his first impulse, but at the moment that it should have fallen he saw that the head of the woman was being carefully replaced in position and the clothing arranged. He paused in wonder. The habitual opium-eater develops generally a cunning that is incomprehensible to the normal mind, and curiosity now controlled Gerald. The moment for action had passed. He withdrew behind the tree to witness the conclusion of the drama.

His following the retreating figure was but the continuance of his new mood. He would see the affair out and behold the face of the man. Succeeding in this he went home, revolving in mind the strange experience he had gained.

But the excitement would not pass away from him, and in the solitude of his studio, with marvelous skill he drew in charcoal the scene as it shone in memory—the man in the grave, the sad, dead face of the woman, shrinking into dissolution, and then its every detail perfect, upon a separate sheet the face of the man under the lamp. The memories no longer haunted him. They were transferred to paper.

Then Gerald underwent the common struggle of his existence; he lay down and tossed upon his pillow; he arose and read and returned again. At last came the surrender, opium and—oblivion.

Standing by the easel next morning, Virdow said to Edward: "The brain cannot survive this many years. When dreams of memories such as these, vivid enough to be remembered and drawn, come upon it, when the waking mind holds them vivid, it is in a critical condition." He looked sadly upon the sleeper and felt the white wrist that overlay the counterpane. The flesh was cold, the pulse slow and feeble. "Vitality small," he said. "It will be sudden when it comes; sleep will simply extend into eternity."