Agatha Webb

  XIX

  POOR PHILEMON

  The next day was the day of Agatha's funeral. She was to be buried inPortchester, by the side of her six children, and, as the day was fine,the whole town, as by common consent, assembled in the road along whichthe humble cortege was to make its way to the spot indicated.

  From the windows of farmhouses, from between the trees of the fewscattered thickets along the way, saddened and curious faces lookedforth till Sweetwater, who walked as near as he dared to the immediatefriends of the deceased, felt the impossibility of remembering them alland gave up the task in despair.

  Before one house, about a mile out of town, the procession paused, andat a gesture from the minister everyone within sight took off theirhats, amid a hush which made almost painfully apparent the twittering ofbirds and the other sounds of animate and inanimate nature, which areinseparable from a country road. They had reached widow Jones's cottagein which Philemon was then staying.

  The front door was closed, and so were the lower windows, but in one ofthe upper casements a movement was perceptible, and in another instantthere came into view a woman and man, supporting between them theimpassive form of Agatha's husband. Holding him up in plain sight of thealmost breathless throng below, the woman pointed to where his darlinglay and appeared to say something to him.

  Then there was to be seen a strange sight. The old man, with his thinwhite locks fluttering in the breeze, leaned forward with a smile, andholding out his arms, cried in a faint but joyful tone: "Agatha!" Then,as if realising for the first time that it was death he looked upon, andthat the crowd below was a funeral procession, his face altered and hefell back with a low heartbroken moan into the arms of those whosupported him.

  As his white head disappeared from sight, the procession moved on, andfrom only one pair of lips went up that groan of sorrow with which everyheart seemed surcharged. One groan. From whose lips did it come?Sweetwater endeavoured to ascertain, but was not able, nor could anyoneinform him, unless it was Mr. Sutherland, whom he dared not approach.

  This gentleman was on foot like the rest, with his arm fast linked inthat of his son Frederick. He had meant to ride, for the distance waslong for men past sixty; but finding the latter resolved to walk, he hadconsented to do the same rather than be separated from his son.

  He had fears for Frederick--he could hardly have told why; and as theceremony proceeded and Agatha was solemnly laid away in the placeprepared for her, his sympathies grew upon him to such an extent that hefound it difficult to quit the young man for a moment, or even to turnhis eyes away from the face he had never seemed to know till now. But asfriends and strangers were now leaving the yard, he controlled himself,and assuming a more natural demeanour, asked his son if he were nowready to ride back. But, to his astonishment, Frederick replied that hedid not intend to return to Sutherlandtown at present; that he hadbusiness in Portchester, and that he was doubtful as to when he would beready to return. As the old gentleman did not wish to raise acontroversy, he said nothing, but as soon as he saw Frederick disappearup the road, he sent back the carriage he had ordered, saying that hewould return in a Portchester gig as soon as he had settled some affairsof his own, which might and might not detain him there till evening.

  Then he proceeded to a little inn, where he hired a room with windowsthat looked out on the high-road. In one of these windows he sat allday, watching for Frederick, who had gone farther up the road.

  But no Frederick appeared, and with vague misgivings, for which as yethe had no name, he left the window and set out on foot for home.

  It was now dark, but a silvery gleam on the horizon gave promise of thespeedy rising of a full moon. Otherwise he would not have attempted towalk over a road proverbially dark and dismal.

  The churchyard in which they had just laid away Agatha lay in hiscourse. As he approached it he felt his heart fail, and stopping amoment at the stone wall that separated it from the high-road, he leanedagainst the trunk of a huge elm that guarded the gate of entrance. As hedid so he heard a sound of repressed sobbing from some spot not very faraway, and, moved by some undefinable impulse stronger than his will, hepushed open the gate and entered the sacred precincts.

  Instantly the weirdness and desolation of the spot struck him. Hewished, yet dreaded, to advance. Something in the grief of the mournerwhose sobs he had heard had seized upon his heart-strings, and yet, ashe hesitated, the sounds came again, and forgetting that his intrusionmight not prove altogether welcome, he pressed forward, till he camewithin a few feet of the spot from which the sobs issued.

  He had moved quietly, feeling the awesomeness of the place, and when hepaused it was with a sensation of dread, not to be entirely explained bythe sad and dismal surroundings. Dark as it was, he discerned theoutline of a form lying stretched in speechless misery across a grave;but when, impelled by an almost irresistible compassion, he strove tospeak, his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth and he only drew backfarther into the shadow.

  He had recognised the mourner and the grave. The mourner was Frederickand the grave that of Agatha Webb.

  A few minutes later Mr. Sutherland reappeared at the door of the inn,and asked for a gig and driver to take him back to Sutherlandtown. Hesaid, in excuse for his indecision, that he had undertaken to walk, buthad found his strength inadequate to the exertion. He was looking verypale, and trembled so that the landlord, who took his order, asked himif he were ill. But Mr. Sutherland insisted that he was quite well, onlyin a hurry, and showed the greatest impatience till he was again startedupon the road.

  For the first half-mile he sat perfectly silent. The moon was now up,and the road stretched before them, flooded with light. As long as noone was to be seen on this road, or on the path running beside it, Mr.Sutherland held himself erect, his eyes fixed before him, in an attitudeof anxious inquiry. But as soon as any sound came to break the silence,or there appeared in the distance ahead of them the least appearance ofa plodding wayfarer, he drew back, and hid himself in the recesses ofthe vehicle. This happened several times. Then his whole manner changed.They had just passed Frederick, walking, with bowed head, towardSutherlandtown.

  But he was not the only person on the road at this time. A few minutespreviously they had passed another man walking in the same direction. AsMr. Sutherland mused over this he found himself peering through thesmall window at the back of the buggy, striving to catch another glimpseof the two men plodding behind him. He could see them both, his son'sform throwing its long shadow over the moonlit road, followed only tooclosely by the man whose ungainly shape he feared to acknowledge tohimself was growing only too familiar in his eyes.

  Falling into a troubled reverie, he beheld the well-known houses, andthe great trees under whose shadow he had grown from youth to manhood,flit by him like phantoms in a dream. But suddenly one house and oneplace drew his attention with a force that startled him again into anerect attitude, and seizing with one hand the arm of the driver, hepointed with the other at the door of the cottage they were passing,saying in choked tones:

  "See! see! Something dreadful has happened since we passed by here thismorning. That is crape, Samuel, crape, hanging from the doorpostyonder!"

  "Yes, it is crape," answered the driver, jumping out and running up thepath to look. "Philemon must be dead; the good Philemon."

  Here was a fresh blow. Mr. Sutherland bowed before it for a moment, thenhe rose hurriedly and stepped down into the road beside the driver.

  "Get in again," said he, "and drive on. Ride a half-mile, then come backfor me. I must see the widow Jones."

  The driver, awed both by the occasion and the feeling it had called upin Mr. Sutherland, did as he was bid and drove away. Mr. Sutherland,with a glance back at the road he had just traversed, walked painfullyup the path to Mrs. Jones's door.

  A moment's conversation with the woman who answered his summons provedthe driver's supposition to be correct. Philemon had passed away. He hadnever rallied from the shock he had received. He ha
d joined his belovedAgatha on the day of her burial, and the long tragedy of their mutuallife was over.

  "It is a mercy that no inheritor of their misfortune remains," quoth thegood woman, as she saw the affliction her tidings caused in thismuch-revered friend.

  The assent Mr. Sutherland gave was mechanical. He was anxiously studyingthe road leading toward Portchester.

  Suddenly he stepped hastily into the house.

  "Will you be so good as to let me sit down in your parlour for a fewminutes?" he asked. "I should like to rest there for an instant alone.This final blow has upset me."

  The good woman bowed. Mr. Sutherland's word was law in that town. Shedid not even dare to protest against the ALONE which he had so pointedlyemphasised, but left him after making him, as she said, comfortable, andwent back to her duties in the room above.

  It was fortunate she was so amenable to his wishes, for no sooner hadher steps ceased to be heard than Mr. Sutherland rose from theeasy-chair in which he had been seated, and, putting out the lamp widowJones had insisted on lighting, passed directly to the window, throughwhich he began to peer with looks of the deepest anxiety.

  A man was coming up the road, a young man, Frederick. As Mr. Sutherlandrecognised him he leaned forward with increased anxiety, till at theappearance of his son in front his scrutiny grew so strained andpenetrating that it seemed to exercise a magnetic influence uponFrederick, causing him to look up.

  The glance he gave the house was but momentary, but in that glance thefather saw all that he had secretly dreaded. As his son's eye fell onthat fluttering bit of crape, testifying to another death in thisalready much-bereaved community, he staggered wildly, then in a pause ofdoubt drew nearer and nearer till his fingers grasped this symbol ofmourning and clung there. Next moment he was far down the road, plungingtoward home in a state of great mental disorder.

  A half-hour afterwards Mr. Sutherland reached home. He had not overtakenFrederick again, or even his accompanying shadow. Ascertaining at hisown door that his son had not yet come in, but had been seen goingfarther up the hill, he turned back again into the road and proceededafter him on foot.

  The next place to his own was occupied by Mr. Halliday. As he approachedit he caught sight of a man standing half in and half out of thehoneysuckle porch, whom he at first thought to be Frederick. But he soonsaw that it was the fellow who had been following his son all the wayfrom Portchester, and, controlling his first movement of dislike, hestepped up to him and quietly said:

  "Sweetwater, is this you?"

  The young man fell back and showed a most extraordinary agitation,quickly suppressed, however. "Yes, sir, it is no one else. Do you knowwhat I am doing here?"

  "I fear I do. You have been to Portchester. You have seen my son--"

  Sweetwater made a hurried, almost an entreating, gesture.

  "Never mind that, Mr. Sutherland. I had rather you wouldn't say anythingabout that. I am as much broken up by what I have seen as you are. Inever suspected him of having any direct connection with this murder;only the girl to whom he has so unfortunately attached himself. Butafter what I have seen, what am I to think? what am I to do? I honouryou; I would not grieve you; but--but--oh, sir, perhaps you can help meout of the maze into which I have stumbled. Perhaps you can assure methat Mr. Frederick did not leave the ball at the time she did. I missedhim from among the dancers. I did not see him between twelve and three,but perhaps you did; and--and--"

  His voice broke. He was almost as profoundly agitated as Mr. Sutherland.As for the latter, who found himself unable to reassure the other onthis very vital point, having no remembrance himself of having seenFrederick among his guests during those fatal hours, he stoodspeechless, lost in abysses, the depth and horror of which only a fathercan appreciate. Sweetwater respected his anguish and for a moment wassilent himself. Then he burst out:

  "I had rather never lived to see this day than be the cause of shame orsuffering to you. Tell me what to do. Shall I be deaf, dumb--"

  Here Mr. Sutherland found voice.

  "You make too much of what you saw," said he. "My boy has faults and haslived anything but a satisfactory life, but he is not as bad as youwould intimate. He can never have taken life. That would be incredible,monstrous, in one brought up as he has been. Besides, if he were so fargone in evil as to be willing to attempt crime, he had no motive to doso; Sweetwater, he had no motive. A few hundred dollars but these hecould have got from me, and did, but--"

  Why did the wretched father stop? Did he recall the circumstances underwhich Frederick had obtained these last hundreds from him? They were notordinary circumstances, and Frederick had been in no ordinary strait.Mr. Sutherland could not but acknowledge to himself that there wassomething in this whole matter which contradicted the very plea he wasmaking, and not being able to establish the conviction of his son'sinnocence in his own mind, he was too honourable to try to establish itin that of another. His next words betrayed the depth of his struggle:

  "It is that girl who has ruined him, Sweetwater. He loves but doubtsher, as who could help doing after the story she told us day beforeyesterday? Indeed, he has doubted her ever since that fatal night, andit is this which has broken his heart, and not--not--" Again the oldgentleman paused; again he recovered himself, this time with a touch ofhis usual dignity and self-command. "Leave me," he cried. "Nothing thatyou have seen has escaped me; but our interpretations of it may differ.I will watch over my son from this hour, and you may trust myvigilance."

  Sweetwater bowed.

  "You have a right to command me," said he. "You may have forgotten, butI have not, that I owe my life to you. Years ago--perhaps you can recallit--it was at the Black Pond--I was going down for the third time and mymother was screaming in terror on the bank, when you plunged inand--Well, sir, such things are never forgotten, and, as I said before,you have only to command me." He turned to go, but suddenly came back.There were signs of mental conflict in his face and voice. "Mr.Sutherland, I am not a talkative man. If I trust your vigilance you maytrust my discretion. Only I must have your word that you will convey nowarning to your son."

  Mr. Sutherland made an indefinable gesture, and Sweetwater againdisappeared, this time not to return. As for Mr. Sutherland, he remainedstanding before Mr. Halliday's door. What had the young man meant bythis emphatic repetition of his former suggestion? That he would bequiet, also, and not speak of what he had seen? Why, then--But to thehope thus given, this honest-hearted gentleman would yield no quarter,and seeing a duty before him, a duty he dare not shirk, he brought hisemotions, violent as they were, into complete and absolute subjection,and, opening Mr. Halliday's door, entered the house. They were oldneighbours, and ceremony was ignored between them.

  Finding the hall empty and the parlour door open he walked immediatelyinto the latter room. The sight that met his eyes never left his memory.Agnes, his little Agnes, whom he had always loved and whom he had vainlylonged to call by the endearing name of daughter, sat with her facetowards him, looking up at Frederick. That young gentleman had justspoken to her, or she had just received something from his hand for herown was held out and her expression was one of gratitude and acceptance.She was not a beautiful girl, but she had a beautiful look, and at thismoment it was exalted by a feeling the old gentleman had once longed,but now dreaded inexpressibly, to see there. What could it mean? Why didshe show at this unhappy crisis, interest, devotion, passion almost, forone she had regarded with open scorn when it was the dearest wish of hisheart to see them united? It was one of the contradictions of ourmysterious human nature, and at this crisis and in this moment of secretheart-break and miserable doubt it made the old gentleman shrink, withhis first feeling of actual despair.

  The next moment Agnes had risen and they were both facing him.

  "Good-evening, Agnes."

  Mr. Sutherland forced himself to speak lightly.

  "Ah, Frederick, do I find you here?" The latter question had moreconstraint in it.

  Frederick smiled. The
re was an air of relief about him, almost ofcheerfulness.

  "I was just leaving," said he. "I was the bearer of a message to MissHalliday." He had always called her Agnes before.

  Mr. Sutherland, who had found his faculties confused by the expressionhe had surprised on the young girl's face, answered with a dividedattention:

  "And I have a message to give you. Wait outside on the porch for me,Frederick, till I exchange a word with our little friend here."

  Agnes, who had thrust something she held into a box that lay beside heron a table, turned with a confused blush to listen.

  Mr. Sutherland waited till Frederick had stepped into the hall. Then hedrew Agnes to one side and remorselessly, persistently, raised her facetoward him till she was forced to meet his benevolent but searchingregard.

  "Do you know," he whispered, in what he endeavoured to make a banteringtone, "how very few days it is since that unhappy boy yonder confessedhis love for a young lady whose name I cannot bring myself to utter inyour presence?"

  The intent was kind, but the effect was unexpectedly cruel. With a droopof her head and a hurried gasp which conveyed a mixture of entreaty andreproach, Agnes drew back in a vague endeavour to hide her suddenuneasiness. He saw his mistake, and let his hands drop.

  "Don't, my dear," he whispered. "I had no idea it would hurt you to hearthis. You have always seemed indifferent, hard even, toward myscapegrace son. And this was right, for--for--" What could he say, howexpress one-tenth of that with which his breast was labouring! He couldnot, he dared not, so ended, as we have intimated, by a confusedstammering.

  Agnes, who had never before seen this object of her lifelong admirationunder any serious emotion, felt an impulse of remorse, as if she herselfhad been guilty of occasioning him embarrassment. Plucking up hercourage, she wistfully eyed him.

  "Did you imagine," she murmured, "that I needed any warning againstFrederick, who has never honoured me with his regard, as he has theyoung lady you cannot mention? I'm afraid you don't know me, Mr.Sutherland, notwithstanding I have sat on your knee and sometimesplucked at your beard in my infantile insistence upon attention."

  "I am afraid I don't know you," he answered. "I feel that I know nobodynow, not even my son."

  He had hoped she would look up at this, but she did not.

  "Will my little girl think me very curious and very impertinent if I askher what my son Frederick was saying when I came into the room?"

  She looked up now, and with visible candour answered him immediately andto the point:

  "Frederick is in trouble, Mr. Sutherland. He has felt the need of afriend who could appreciate this, and he has asked me to be that friend.Besides, he brought me a packet of letters which he entreated me to keepfor him. I took them, Mr. Sutherland, and I will keep them as he askedme to do, safe from everybody's inspection, even my own."

  Oh! why had he questioned her? He did not want to know of these letters;he did not want to know that Frederick possessed anything which he wasafraid to retain in his own possession.

  "My son did wrong," said he, "to confide anything to your care which hedid not desire to retain in his own home. I feel that I ought to seethese letters, for if my son is in trouble, as you say, I, his father,ought to know it."

  "I am not sure about that," she smiled. "His trouble may be of adifferent nature than you imagine. Frederick has led a life that heregrets. I think his chief source of suffering lies in the fact that itis so hard for him to make others believe that he means to dodifferently in the future."

  "Does he mean to do differently?"

  She flushed. "He says so, Mr. Sutherland. And I, for one, cannot helpbelieving him. Don't you see that he begins to look like another man?"

  Mr. Sutherland was taken aback. He had noticed this fact, and had foundit a hard one to understand. To ascertain what her explanation of itmight be, he replied at once:

  "There is a change in him--a very evident change. What is the occasionof it? To what do you ascribe it, Agnes?"

  How breathlessly he waited for her answer! Had she any suspicion of theawful doubts which were so deeply agitating himself that night? She didnot appear to have.

  "I hesitate," she faltered, "but not from any doubt of Frederick, totell you just what I think lies at the bottom of the sudden changeobservable in him. Miss Page (you see, I can name her, if you cannot)has proved herself so unworthy of his regard that the shock he hasreceived has opened his eyes to certain failings of his own which madehis weakness in her regard possible. I do not know of any otherexplanation. Do you?"

  At this direct question, breathed though it was by tender lips, andlaunched in ignorance of the barb which carried it to his heart, Mr.Sutherland recoiled and cast an anxious look upon the door. Then withforced composure he quietly said: "If you who are so much nearer hisage, and, let me hope, his sympathy, do not feel sure of his realfeelings, how should I, who am his father, but have never been hisconfidant?"

  "Oh," she cried, holding out her hands, "such a good father! Some day hewill appreciate that fact as well as others. Believe it, Mr. Sutherland,believe it." And then, ashamed of her glowing interest, which was alittle more pronounced than became her simple attitude of friend towarda man professedly in love with another woman, she faltered and cast theshyest of looks upward at the face she had never seen turned toward herwith anything but kindness. "I have confidence in Frederick's goodheart," she added, with something like dignity.

  "Would God that I could share it!" was the only answer she received.Before she could recover from the shock of these words, Mr. Sutherlandwas gone.

  Agnes was more or less disconcerted by this interview. There was alingering in her step that night, as she trod the little white-emboweredchamber sacred to her girlish dreams, which bespake an overchargedheart; a heart that, before she slept, found relief in these few wordswhispered by her into the night air, laden with the sweetness ofhoneysuckles:

  "Can it be that he is right? Did I need such a warning,--I, who havehated this man, and who thought that it was my hatred which made itimpossible for me to think of anything or anybody else since we partedfrom each other last night? O me, if it is so!"

  And from the great, wide world without, tremulous with moonlight, theecho seemed to come back:

  "Woe to thee, Agnes Halliday, if this be so!"