Smith and the Pharaohs, and other Tales

  He stumbled on for a hundred yards or more, vacuously, almost drunkenly,for the hideous agony that he was enduring half paralysed his brain, andby its very excess was bringing him some temporary relief. He looked atthe raging sea to his right, and in a vague fashion wished that it hadswallowed him. He looked at the kind earth of the ploughed field to hisleft, and wished vividly, for the idea was more familiar, that six feetof it lay above him. Then he remembered that just beyond that sand-heaphe had found a plover's nest with two eggs in it fifty years ago whenhe was a boy, and had taken one egg and left the other, or rather hadrestored it because the old bird screamed so pitifully about him. Insome strange manner that little, long-forgotten act of righteousnessbrought a glow of comfort to his tormented spirit. Perhaps God woulddeal so by him.

  In its way the evening was very beautiful. The cold November day wasdying into night. Clear, clear was the sky save for some black and heavysnow clouds that floated on it driven before the easterly wind thatpiped through the sere grasses and blew the plovers over him as thoughthey were dead leaves. Where the sun had vanished long bars of purplelay above the horizon; to his excited fancy they looked like the gatewayof another and a better world, set, as the old Egyptians dreamed, abovethe uttermost pylons of the West. What lay there beyond the sun? Oh!what lay beyond the sun? Perhaps, even now, Barbara knew!

  A figure appeared standing upon a sand dune between the pathway and thesea. Septimus was short-sighted and could not tell who it was, but inthis place at this hour doubtless it must be a parishioner, perhapsone waiting to see him upon some important matter. He must forget hisprivate griefs. He must strive to steady his shaken mind and attend tohis duties. He drew himself together and walked on briskly.

  "I wish I had not been obliged to give away Jack," he said. "He was agreat companion, and somehow I always met people with more confidencewhen he was with me; he seemed to take away my shyness. But the licensewas seven-and-sixpence, and I haven't got seven-and-sixpence; also hehas an excellent home with that stuffy old woman, if a dull one, for hemust miss his walk. Oh! it's you, Anthony. What are you doing here atthis time of night? Your father told me you had a bad cold and there'sso much sickness about. You should be careful, Anthony, you knowyou're not too strong, none of you Arnotts are. Well, I suppose you areshooting, and most young men will risk a great deal in order to killGod's other creatures."

  The person addressed, a tall, broad-shouldered, rather pale young manof about twenty-one, remarkable for his large brown eyes and a certainsweet expression which contrasted somewhat oddly with the generalmanliness of his appearance, lifted his cap and answered:

  "No, Mr. Walrond, I am not shooting to-night. In fact, I was waitinghere to meet you."

  "What for, Anthony? Nothing wrong up at the Hall, I hope."

  "No, Mr. Walrond; why should there be anything wrong there?"

  "I don't know, I am sure, only as a rule people don't wait for theparson unless there is something amiss, and there seems to be so muchmisfortune in this parish just now. Well, what is it, my boy?"

  "I want to know about Barbara, Mr. Walrond. They tell me she is verybad, but I can't get anything definite from the others, I mean from hersisters. They don't seem to be sure, and the doctor wouldn't say when Iasked him."

  The Reverend Septimus looked at Anthony and Anthony looked at theReverend Septimus, and in that look they learned to understand eachother. The agony that was eating out this poor father's heart was notpeculiar to him; another shared it. In what he would have called his"wicked selfishness" the Reverend Septimus felt almost grateful for thissudden revelation. If it is a comfort to share our joys, it is a stillgreater comfort to share our torments.

  "Walk on with me, Anthony," he said. "I must hurry, I have every reasonto hurry. Had it not been a matter of duty I would not have left thehouse, but, so to speak, a clergyman has many children; he cannot preferone before the other."

  "Yes, yes," said Anthony, "but what about Barbara? Oh! please tell me atonce."

  "I can't tell you, Anthony, because I don't know. From here to the crestof Gunter's Hill," and he pointed to an eminence in front of them, "is amile and a quarter. When we get to the crest of Gunter's Hill perhapswe shall know. I left home two hours ago, and then Barbara lay almost atthe point of death; insensible."

  "Insensible," muttered Anthony. "Oh! my God, insensible."

  "Yes," went on the clergyman in a voice of patient resignation. "I don'tunderstand much about such things, but the inflammation appears to haveculminated that way. Now either she will never wake again, or if shewakes she may live. At least that is what they tell me, but they may bewrong. I have so often known doctors to be wrong."

  They walked on together in silence twenty yards or more. Then he addedas though speaking to himself:

  "When we reach the top of Gunter's Hill perhaps we shall learn. We cansee her window from there, and if she had passed away I bade them pullthe blind down; if she was about the same, to pull it half down, and ifshe were really better, to leave it quite up. I have done that for twonights now, so that I might have a little time to prepare myself. It isa good plan, though very trying to a father's heart. Yesterday I stoodfor quite a while with my eyes fixed upon the ground, not daring to lookand learn the truth."

  Anthony groaned, and once more the old man went on:

  "She is a very unselfish girl, Barbara, or perhaps I should saywas, perhaps I should say was. That is how she caught this horribleinflammation. Three weeks ago she and her sister Janey went for a longwalk to the Ness, to--to--oh! I forget why they went. Well, it came onto pour with rain; and just as they had started for home, fortunately,or rather unfortunately, old Stevens the farmer overtook them on hisway back from market and offered them a lift. They got into the cartand Barbara took off the mackintosh that her aunt gave her lastChristmas--it is the only one in the house, since such things are toocostly for me to buy--and put it over Janey, who had a cold. It wasquite unnecessary, for Janey was warmly wrapped up, while Barbara hadnothing under the mackintosh except a summer dress. That is how shecaught the chill."

  Anthony made no comment, and again they walked forward without speaking,perhaps for a quarter of a mile. Then the horror of the suspense becameintolerable to him. Without a word he dashed forward, sped down theslope and up that of the opposing Gunter's Hill, more swiftly perhapsthan he had ever run before, although he was a very quick runner.

  "He's gone," murmured Septimus. "I wonder why! I suppose that I walk tooslowly for him. I cannot walk so fast as I used to do, and he felt thewind cold."

  Then he dismissed the matter from his half-dazed mind and stumbled onwearily, muttering his disjointed prayers.

  Thus in due course he began to climb the little slope of Gunter's Hill.The sun had set, but there was still a red glow in the sky, and againstthis glow he perceived the tall figure of Anthony standing quite still.When he was about a hundred yards away the figure suddenly collapsed,as a man does if he is shot. The Reverend Septimus put his hand to hisheart and caught his breath.

  "I know what that means," he said. "He was watching the window, and theyhave just pulled down the blind. I suppose he must be fond of her andit--affects him. Oh! if I were younger I think this would kill me, but,thank God! as one draws near the end of the road the feet harden; onedoes not feel the thorns so much. 'The Lord gave and the Lord hath takenaway, bl--bl--yes, I _will_ say it--blessed be the Name of the Lord.' Ishould remember that she is so much better where she is; that this isa very hard world; indeed, sometimes I think it is not a world, but ahell. Oh! Barbara, my sweet Barbara!" and he struggled forward blindlybeating at the rough wind with his hands as though it were a visiblefoe, and so at last came to the crest of the hill where Anthony Arnottlay prone upon his face.

  So sure was Septimus of the cause of his collapse that he did not eventrouble to look at the Rectory windows in the hollow near the church twohundred yards or so away. He only looked at Anthony, saying:

  "Poor lad, poor lad! I wonder how I shall ge
t him home; I must fetchsome help."

  As he spoke, Anthony sat up and said, "You see, you see!"

  "See what?"

  "The blind; _it is quite up_. When I got here it was half down, thensomeone pulled it up. That's what finished me. I felt as though I hadbeen hit on the head with a stick."

  The Reverend Septimus stared, then suddenly sank to his knees andreturned thanks in his simple fashion.

  "Don't let us be too certain, Anthony," he exclaimed at length. "Theremay be a mistake, or perhaps this is only a respite which will prolongthe suspense. Often such things happen to torment us; I mean that theyare God's way of trying and purifying our poor sinful hearts."

  CHAPTER II

  THE NEW YEAR FEAST

  Barbara did not die. On the contrary, Barbara got quite well again, buther recovery was so slow that Anthony only saw her once before he wasobliged to return to college. This was on New Year's Day, when Mr.Walrond asked him to dinner to meet Barbara, who was coming down for thefirst time. Needless to say he went, taking with him a large bunchof violets which he had grown in a frame at the Hall especially forBarbara. Indeed, she had already received many of those violets throughthe agency of her numerous younger sisters.

  The Rectory dinner was at one o'clock, and the feast could not becalled sumptuous. It consisted of a piece of beef, that known as the"aitch-bone," which is perhaps the cheapest that the butcher supplieswhen the amount of eating is taken into consideration; one roast duck,a large Pekin, the Near Year offering of the farmer Stevens; and a plumpudding somewhat pallid in appearance. These dainties with late applesand plenty of cold water made up the best dinner that the Walrond familyhad eaten for many a day.

  The Rectory dining-room was a long, narrow chamber of dilapidatedappearance, since between meals it served as a schoolroom also. A dealbookcase in the corner held some tattered educational works and thewalls that once had been painted blue, but now were faded in patchesto a sickly green, were adorned only with four texts illuminated byBarbara. These texts had evidently served as targets for moistened paperpellets, some of which still stuck upon their surface.

  Anthony arrived a little late, since the picking of the violets hadtaken longer than he anticipated, and as there was no one to open thefront door, walked straight into the dining-room. In the doorwayhe collided with the little maid-of-all-work, a red-elbowed girl ofsingularly plain appearance, who having deposited the beef upon thetable, was rushing back for the duck, accompanied by two of the youngWalronds who were assisting with the vegetables. The maid, recoiling,sat down with a bump on one of the wooden chairs, and the Walrond girls,a merry, good-looking, unkempt crew (no boy had put in an appearancein all that family), burst into screams of laughter. Anthony apologisedprofusely; the maid, ejaculating that she didn't mind, not she, jumpedup and ran for the duck; and the Reverend Septimus, a very differentSeptimus to him whom we met a month or so before, seizing his hand,shook it warmly, calling out:

  "Julia, my dear, never mind that beef. I haven't said grace yet. Here'sAnthony."

  "Glad to see him, I am sure," said Mrs. Walrond, her eyes still fixedupon the beef, which was obviously burnt at one corner. Then with ashrug, for she was accustomed to such accidents, she rose to greet him.

  Mrs. Walrond was a tall and extremely good-looking lady of aboutfifty-five, dark-eyed and bright complexioned, whose chestnut hairwas scarcely touched with grey. Notwithstanding all the troubles andhardships that she had endured, her countenance was serene and evenhappy, for she was blessed with a good heart, a lively faith inProvidence, and a well-regulated mind. Looking at her, it was easy tosee whence Barbara and her other daughters inherited their beauty andair of breeding.

  "How are you, Anthony?" she went on, one eye still fixed upon the burntbeef. "It is good of you to come, though you are late, which I supposeis why the girl has burnt the meat."

  "Not a bit," called out one of the children, it was Janey, "it is verygood of us to have him when there's only one duck. Anthony, you mustn'teat duck, as we don't often get one and you have hundreds."

  "Not I, dear, I hate ducks," he relied automatically, for his eyes wereseeking the face of Barbara.

  Barbara was seated in the wooden armchair with a cushion on it, near thefire of driftwood, advantages that were accorded to her in honour ofher still being an invalid. Even to a stranger she would have lookedextraordinarily sweet with her large and rather plaintive violet eyesover which the long black lashes curved, her waving chestnut hair partedin the middle and growing somewhat low upon her forehead, her tallfigure, very thin just now, and her lovely shell-like complexionheightened by a blush.

  To Anthony she seemed a very angel, an angel returned from the shoresof death for his adoration and delight. Oh! if things had gone the otherway--if there had been no sweet Barbara seated in that wooden chair!The thought gripped his heart with a hand of ice; he felt as he had feltwhen he looked at the window-place from the crest of Gunter's Hill. Butshe _had_ come back, and he was sure that they were each other's forlife. And yet, and yet, life must end one day and then, what? Once morethat hand of ice dragged at his heart strings.

  In a moment it was all over and Mr. Walrond was speaking.

  "Why don't you bid Barbara good-day, Anthony?" he asked. "Don't youthink she looks well, considering? We do, better than you, in fact," headded, glancing at his face, which had suddenly grown pale, almost grey.

  "He's going to give Barbara the violets and doesn't know how to do it,"piped the irrepressible Janey. "Anthony, why don't you ever bring _us_violets, even when we have the whooping cough?"

  "Because the smell of them is bad for delicate throats," he answered,and without a word handed the sweet-scented flowers to Barbara.

  She took them, also without a word, but not without a look, pinned a fewto her dress, and reaching a cracked vase from the mantelpiece, disposedof the rest of them there till she could remove them to her own room.Then Mr. Walrond began to say grace and the difficulties of that meetingwere over.

  Anthony sat by Barbara. His chair was rickety, one of the legs beingmuch in need of repair; the driftwood fire that burned brightly abouttwo feet away grilled his spine, for no screen was available, and henearly choked himself with a piece of very hot and hard potato. Yet totell the truth never before did he share in such a delightful meal. Forsoon, when the clamour of "the girls" swelled loud and long, and theattention of Mr. and Mrs. Walrond was entirely occupied with the burntbeef and the large duck that absolutely refused to part with its limbs,he found himself almost as much alone with Barbara as though they hadbeen together on the wide seashore.

  "You are really getting quite well?" he asked.

  "Yes, I think so." Then, after a pause and with a glance from the violeteyes, "Are you glad?"

  "You know I am glad. You know that if you had--died, I should have diedtoo."

  "Nonsense," said the curved lips, but they trembled and the violet eyeswere a-swim with tears. Then a little catch of the throat, and, almostin a whisper, "Anthony, father told me about you and the window-blindand--oh! I don't know how to thank you. But I want to say something,if you won't laugh. Just at that time I seemed to come up out of someblackness and began to dream of you. I dreamed that I was sinking backinto the blackness, but you caught me by the hand and lifted me quiteout of it. Then we floated away together for ever and for ever and forever, for though sometimes I lost you we always met again. Then I wokeup and knew that I wasn't going to die, that's all."

  "What a beautiful dream," began Anthony, but at that moment, pausingfrom her labours at the beef, Mrs. Walrond said:

  "Barbara, eat your duck before it grows cold. You know the doctor saidyou must take plenty of nourishment."

  "I am going to, mother," answered Barbara, "I feel dreadfully hungry,"and really she did; her gentle heart having fed full, of a sudden herbody seemed to need no nourishment.

  "Dear me!" said Mr. Walrond, pausing from his labours and viewing theremains of the duck disconsolately, for he did not see what port
ion ofits gaunt skeleton was going to furnish him with dinner, and duck wasone of his weaknesses, "dear me, there's a dreadful smell of burning inthis room. Do you think it can be the beef, my love?"

  "Of course it is not the beef," replied Mrs. Walrond rather sharply."The beef is beautifully done."

  "Oh!" ejaculated one of the girls who had got the calcined bit, "why,mother, you said it was burnt yourself."

  "Never mind what I said," replied Mrs. Walrond severely, "especially asI was mistaken. It is very rude of your father to make remarks about themeat."

  "Well, something _is_ burning, my love."

  Janey, who was sitting next to Anthony, paused from her meal to sniff,then exclaimed in a voice of delight: