Cass rose, his thin legs seeming hopelessly inadequate to the task of carrying his body, and said, “Will you take my hand, sir?”
“Of course I will. Just do right from this on, and forget-no, better not forget; remember that there is no crime like weakness; all crime comes from weakness. Be strong, and listen to no more voices. But I needn't tell you. I know from this out I can trust you further than a man who has never been tried.”
At the door Cass turned and looked back at the man who had reached down into the abyss, pulled him up, and stood him on his feet. The man was sitting quite still, his back to the light, his head drooped, and Cass could not see his face. He strove futilely for some adequate expression of gratitude, but his senses were numb from the shock of what he had escaped; he simply nodded twice toward the sitting figure, turned, and passed out into the street, where the sunlight baptized him with warmth as though he had been born again.
“Poor, weak devil!” muttered Crane; then he shivered. Had the imbecile's talk of voices got on to his nerves? Surely a voice had whispered derisively in his ear, “Which one is the poor, weak devil?” And in answer within his soul Crane knew that the margin was indeed of infinitesimal narrowness. Cass, hastened in his temptation, yielding to the first insane impulse, not knowing that the damnation of a friend hung on his act, had fallen. He, Crane, in full knowledge that two innocent lives might be wrecked by his doing, had been kept to the right only after hours of struggle, and by the supporting influence of a supreme love. To have gained Allis Porter by the strategy of a villain could not be the method of holy passion. To sacrifice his desire and give her back her lover was love, love worthy of the girl.
For an hour he waited; then there was turmoil on the stairway; horses were surely coming up. At the door a thick voice explained the diversion. The hostler had again arrived, with an hour of increased drunkenness pulling mercilessly at his erratic legs.
“John Porter's gal 'sh here, an'—an'—” the hostler wrestled with the mental exercise that had been entrusted to his muddled brain. He'd swear that she was there, for his eyes had seen her, two of her; and also he had a hazy idea that when he essayed the stairs she had entrusted to him some message. He groped fitfully among the wheels that buzzed in his skull for the elusive something connected with her advent. The heredity of habit came to his assistance.
“D'ye want a drink?” he asked, with a sudden brightening.
“Drink!” a voice cried. “I don't want any drink” A strong hand had him by the collar, and the house was rocking violently to and fro; he could scarcely keep his feet.
“Wake up, you're drunk. Is Miss Porter down stairs?”
“Porter, Porter, yesh, Portersh gal; thatsh what I said. Whatsh matter with you?—leg-go. Keep cool, don't get excited.”