The Hand of the Mighty, and Other Stories

by Vaughan Kester

A man appeared at the window. He seemed to speak her name, for she arose and went to him. At first I thought it might be Rearton, for his head was turned from me, but it was not. It was one whom I had never seen. I did not have to wonder much what brought him there. They were lovers. By gesture and the visible semblance of speech I knew that he entreated her to go with him. She half yielded, only to hesitate. Something held her—some memory—the thought of some duty—not love for her husband. That was dead,—long dead.

At my side the real Rearton sat with hands resting on the table, staring wildly into vacancy. Great drops of sweat stood on his forehead, and the muscles of his throat were knotted as from the mighty but unavailing effort he was making to speak. With merciless strength and cruelty he was chained down to the sight.

He saw the woman he adored, through his neglect and indifference, about to cast away her life. She had all but yielded, when she ran back into the room and paused beneath a picture that hung on the wall. It was of herself when she was a bride. She compared herself with it. They were the same in look and feature,—and yet she had lost so much! Standing on tiptoe, with her small white hand she struck the canvas until it was torn and marred. She would leave no record of the past to mock at her—to tell what she had been!

A few moments sufficed for the work of destruction, and she rejoined the man who had waited for her the while by the window. Together they were advancing toward it, when a figure glided from behind the curtains that closed an inner door. It was Rearton's future self. A polished bit of steel glittered in his hand. He came between them and the balcony.

Thus confronted, the woman sank into a chair, bowing her head in her hands; but more from shame than fright. The two men gazed sternly at each other. Slowly, steadily, Rearton raised the gleaming piece of metal, there was a puff of smoke—another—and another—

With the first one the woman had sprung to her feet and darted forward, throwing herself before the man she loved. With the last puff of smoke she slipped from his arms—for she had sought a refuge there,—falling swiftly to the floor with a little sob of mingled pain and relief that compassed all contentment, for it was distinctly audible, stealing through the silence of the unborn years. A spot of purple darkened the whiteness of her breast.

Seeing what he had done, Rearton fell on his knees beside her and took the heavy head on his shoulder, trying to call her back to life and love. When he saw that all hope was vain, he covered his face with his hands.

Once more the shadows came. Once more the faces filled the air, and the scene had shifted. The signs of unspeakable suffering were stamped upon Rearton's brow when I again saw distinctly. He stood on the deck of a ship, his son at his side. I divined that he had escaped punishment, and was seeking forgetfulness—the unfound—in wanderings to the far ends of the earth. Hiding in his cabin aboard the same ship, they unconscious of his presence, but he conscious of theirs, was the man who had loved Rearton's wife. By what chance they were brought so near was unknown to me. For an instant I observed the three and then they were gone. Space swallowed them up, and only the ocean lay climbing to the moon.

Then came wind and storm, and the waters throbbed against the night, beating its black bosom; but the first streaks of dawn showed both sea and shore,—the sea still vexed by memory of the gale,—and a mighty stretch of sand that rolled before the wind as did the waves. The sun rose red, and showed dark on its crimson rim the solitary figure of a man edging the desert. It was Rearton. He was alone. I saw that his dress was torn and discolored, stained and wet.

All day long, beginning with the dawn, he paced the shores of a little land-locked bay, never taking his eyes from its glassy surface save to search among the wreckage that littered the beach. All day he came and went. All day,—searching,—always searching. Day gave place to night, and the day was born again, and still he passed back and forth scanning the bay with intent glance that sought no relief from the hot reflection of sky and water.