He had kept his oath; he had done what he believed was right; but was it right? In his first awful struggle with himself he thought he heard a still, small voice saying, "Yes." In his agony and doubt and darkness he took it for the voice of God. "The more chance there is of struggle and sacrifice for an ideal," said Tom, "the more you'll persuade yourself it's your duty." Had he persuaded himself? Was that still, small voice from heaven the imagination of a racked and tortured soul? Now he seemed to hear the same voice, stern and relentless, in thunder tones demanding, "Was it right?" He saw Apsleigh as it was when first he cameeasy-going, gay, social, full of kindliness. Again he saw Apsleigh and Apsleighshire, divided into trained, disciplined, and hostile camps, full of hate, every man's hand against his neighbor, every man watching his neighbor's acts and writing down his neighbor's words; total abstinence from intoxicating drink (the one supreme private virtue) and compelling all others to abstain (the supreme public virtue), twin-sister virtues, linked hand in hand. And then he heard, as it seemed to him, a voice from the dead, saying: "Higher than any finite court or law or constitution is the primary, eternal, and inalienable right of man to eat and drink in moderation, with decent regard for the rights and feelings of others. A prohibitory law is such an outrageous and intolerable meddling with personal liberty that anything necessary to resist it is justifiable; and I want to tell you fair and plain that if this thing goes on, I sha'n't shrink from necessary war measures." The burden and intense strain of the long contest would have broken a weaker man, and, exhausted as he was, the terrible shock had unnerved him. He could not reason; he could only feel. Many hours wore away, night came, and still he sat alone in his misery, his elbows on his knees, his face buried in his hands, the voice thundering in his ears, "Was it right?" Visions of horror came to him. Again he saw the yawning gulf, the armies closing in battle, the shining one upon the farther side. All tenderness and reproach had gone from her eyes. They gleamed on him from an infinite distance, hard and cold and pitiless, like stars on a midwinter night. The vision changed. He saw a spacious chamber, a grandfather's clock by the wall, a great, four-posted bed, a dead man lying on it, a beautiful girl kneeling beside him, her arms around him, kissing his cold lips, bathing his white face with her tears, sobbing her life away. He had no thought, no hope for himself, but his whole heart went out to her in her agony of grief, and as he tried to speak she sprang to her feet and shrieked, "You killed him! You killed him!" As he shrank back, appalled and conscience-stricken, beside her rose a terrible, great mountain, clothed round about with smoke and flame and lightnings, and from their midst he heard an awful voice, like the voice of God from Sinai, inexorably demanding, "Was it right?" The sound of horses coming down the street at breakneck speed aroused him. A carriage dashed up to the door. A coatless, hatless man rushed in, stumbling in the darkness. "Quick!" he exclaimed, "quick! John Denman 's dying! He wants yer!" Instantly Craigin was in the carriage and was whirled away. The moment it stopped he was out and up the steps, three at a bound. "Craigin," said Denman, at once, "we've both done wrong. I want to be your friend-more than your friend. Isabel, Craigin, I shall die happy-happy if you promise me that nothing of all this shall stand between you two." Dropping on his knees beside the dying man, Craigin clasped his hand and Isabel's, and said, "I promise." "I promise too," said Isabel. The poor drawn face lighted up with the old loving smile, a smile so full of love and joy and peace, it seemed as if heaven were shining there. "Isabel, little gir-" While the pet name was on his lips the angel of death smote him, and his brave spirit passed from earth. |