Greater Love Hath No Man
CHAPTER I
THE DARKEST HOUR OF NIGHT
UTTER stillness. Utter blackness. And then a faint, indeterminate, far-away sound. The sleeper's eyes opened, and, as calmly, as naturally as he had lain asleep, he lay now alert. There was neither alarm nor shock in the transition. There had been a sound foreign to the serene silence of the peaceful, sleeping household; a sound too low to rouse a slumberer from repose by its mere volume, too low almost to be heard; a sound so low as to obtrude itself only upon the most super-sensitive sub-consciousness—Varge lay awake.
And now it came again. Then a long pause—then again—and again. It came from the east end of the house, at the rear—from the back stairs. Some one was mounting them with extreme caution—a prolonged wait between each step, one foot following the other only after the body's weight had been gradually, very gradually, thrown upon the first, lest the bare wood stairs should creak—creak out the secret confided to them in this small, silent hour of morning.
It was black—dense black. Once the step stumbled slightly and there was a soft rubbing sound, barely audible, as of a hand thrown out to feel the way against the wall.
The minutes passed, perhaps three of them. The footsteps now had reached the landing and had begun to come along the hall—nearer and nearer, with the same ominous stealth, to the door of the room in which Varge lay.
Still relaxed, still in repose, not a muscle of Varge's body had flexed by so much as a ripple as he listened; the beat of his pulse was the same calm, strong, even beat as in sleep. And yet every faculty was atune, stimulated to its highest efficiency. What brought Harold Merton, the son of the house, at two o'clock in the morning to the little chamber over the kitchen, that was apart, shut off, from the rest of the dwelling; and brought him stealing there, where none could hear or mark his movements, like some guilty, evil prowler with cautious, frightened tread?
A hand fumbled for the doorknob outside with a curious sound, as though the knuckles were beating a tremulous, involuntary tattoo upon the door as they came into contact with it. The knob turned, the door was pushed slowly inwards, slowly closed again, there was a faint click from the released catch—and against the door, without form or outline in the darkness, was an added opaqueness.
"I am awake"—there was an almost imperceptible pause between Varge's words as he spoke, comparable somewhat to one building the phrase of a strange language one word upon the other, but comparable only in that regard—the pronunciation held no trace of foreign accent. "I am awake"—his tones were quiet, composed. "Why have you come to me in my room in this way, Harold?"
A low gasp, the sharp-drawn intake of a breath, came from the door.
"You—you know that it is I,"—the words were a hoarse, shaken whisper.
"I heard your first step on the stairs," Varge answered simply. "I heard you come up each stair. I heard you stumble once and feel along the wall. I heard you come down the hall on tiptoe. I know your step. I heard your hand shake like a frightened man's against the door."
"Sometimes"—the other seemed to shiver as he spoke—"you seem more than human."
"Why have you come to me in my room at this hour?" asked Varge again, rising now to a sitting posture in the bed. "What has happened? I will light a candle and you will tell me."
"No! In God's name no light"—Merton's words, low-breathed, came with frenzied quickness, quavering, dominant with terror. "No light; and, for mercy's sake, speak low. Speak very low. Wait! I am coming close to you where I can whisper."
Varge made no answer. His eyes were on that darker spot that, once by the door, now was moving across the room toward him. And then a hand, thrust out, groping, touched his shoulder—it was wet with cold moisture and shook as with the ague.
"Varge, you must help me," Merton burst out hysterically. "I am in danger, Varge—in awful danger, do you hear? You can save me. You are the only man, the only man, who can. For God's sake say you will! It can't mean anything to you—-there's nothing you can lose—you don't even know who you are—you haven't even so much as a name, except what we've always called you—Varge. You'll help me, Varge—say you will! We've brought you up all these years and treated you like—like one of us, and all you've had and all you've got you owe to us. You'll—you'll repay it now, Varge, won't you?"
The blackness of the room was gone, transformed into quick, shifting scenes and pictures that staged themselves in the little chamber before Varge's mind—colourful, vivid, real—pictures of childhood, memory-dimmed; pictures of boyhood, standing out more sharply, in clearer focus; pictures of later years; pictures of yesterday. The years passed in lightning sequence before him. A foundling, nameless, a child of five, adopted from an orphan asylum, here he had been given a home; here he and this man beside him had been brought up together in the little country town, until the other had gone out to college and he, his own common school education finished, had begun to work for Doctor Merton, his benefactor; here he had grown to manhood, he was twenty-five now; here he had spent his life, knowing almost a father's consideration, almost a mother's care, which in turn had kindled a love and gratitude in his own heart that had grown almost to worship with the years, a gratitude and loyalty that had caused him to crush back longings for a wider sphere—contenting himself meanwhile by constant study, acquiring in a hard school the knowledge of medicine that one day, when these two should be gone, he meant to make his profession—for Harold Merton, ten years his senior, was little at home now, and they, growing old, had come to lean intimately upon him, to depend on him, to need him. And so he had lived on there—as Varge, the doctor's man.
"It is true," he said slowly. "You had no need to tell me so. It is true. I owe everything to your father, to your mother, and through them to you. I will do anything for your sakes."
"Yes, yes; I told myself you would," Merton babbled wildly. "I knew you would. You promise, Varge? Give me your promise. You've never broken one."
"I will do anything for your sakes," Varge repeated quietly. "I could not do anything else."
"Then, get up," urged Merton feverishly. "Get up quickly and dress. I have brought money enough to take you anywhere—you can get away where they will never find you. Hurry, Varge, hurry! Why don't you hurry? You have promised, Varge."
Varge's hands went out and rested in reassuring pressure on Merton's two shoulders.
"I have promised, Harold," he said gravely; "and I will do this thing whatever it may be, I will go anywhere if it is necessary—but you are talking wildly, you are not calm. You imagine something that is worse than the thing is. What is this danger that my going will save you from, and how could my leaving here save you from anything?"
"I have been seen," Merton muttered hoarsely. "I have been seen," he repeated, with a shudder. "They will know that I did it unless suspicion is directed somewhere else. Don't you see? Are you blind? If you fly in the night, if you disappear, they will think it was you. But they'll never catch you, you are too clever, and you've nothing to lose, no family, no name even—you see, I thought of that. I'll give you plenty of money. Hurry, Varge! Get up and get your clothes on! Don't make a noise, not a sound!"
"What is this thing that you have done that I must take upon myself?" Varge's hands tightened imperatively on the other's shoulders. "What is this thing that you are afraid of?"
"Father," Merton mumbled. "Father. Father—and he is dead."
"Your father—dead!" Varge pulled the shaking form toward him, as though to search and read the other's features even in the darkness. "When did he die?"
"A—a few minutes—great God, a year ago"—the words were a chattering, fearsome whisper. "In the library. We had a quarrel. I—I struck him with the fender bar. I have killed my father."