CHAPTER XLV
SAVED AND LOST
Hester went out on the evening of the day after that on which theunknown owner of the half-crown had appointed to call for it againat William Darley's. She had schooled herself to believe that timeand patience would serve her best. Her plan was to obtain all theknowledge about Philip that she could in the first instance; andthen, if circumstances allowed it, as in all probability they would,to let drop by drop of healing, peacemaking words and thoughts fallon Sylvia's obdurate, unforgiving heart. So Hester put on herthings, and went out down towards the old quay-side on that eveningafter the shop was closed.
Poor little Sylvia! She was unforgiving, but not obdurate to the fullextent of what Hester believed. Many a time since Philip went awayhad she unconsciously missed his protecting love; when folks spokeshortly to her, when Alice scolded her as one of the non-elect, whenHester's gentle gravity had something of severity in it; when herown heart failed her as to whether her mother would have judged thatshe had done well, could that mother have known all, as possibly shedid by this time. Philip had never spoken otherwise than tenderly toher during the eighteen months of their married life, except on thetwo occasions before recorded: once when she referred to her dreamof Kinraid's possible return, and once again on the evening of theday before her discovery of his concealment of the secret ofKinraid's involuntary disappearance.
After she had learnt that Kinraid was married, her heart had stillmore strongly turned to Philip; she thought that he had judgedrightly in what he had given as the excuse for his double dealing;she was even more indignant at Kinraid's fickleness than she had anyreason to be; and she began to learn the value of such enduring loveas Philip's had been--lasting ever since the days when she firstbegan to fancy what a man's love for a woman should be, when she hadfirst shrunk from the tone of tenderness he put into his especialterm for her, a girl of twelve--'Little lassie,' as he was wont tocall her.
But across all this relenting came the shadow of her vow--like thechill of a great cloud passing over a sunny plain. How should shedecide? what would be her duty, if he came again, and once morecalled her 'wife'? She shrank from such a possibility with all theweakness and superstition of her nature; and this it was which madeher strengthen herself with the re-utterance of unforgiving words;and shun all recurrence to the subject on the rare occasion whenHester had tried to bring it back, with a hope of softening theheart which to her appeared altogether hardened on this one point.
Now, on this bright summer evening, while Hester had gone down tothe quay-side, Sylvia stood with her out-of-door things on in theparlour, rather impatiently watching the sky, full of hurryingclouds, and flushing with the warm tints of the approaching sunset.She could not leave Alice: the old woman had grown so infirm thatshe was never left by her daughter and Sylvia at the same time; yetSylvia had to fetch her little girl from the New Town, where she hadbeen to her supper at Jeremiah Foster's. Hester had said that sheshould not be away more than a quarter of an hour; and Hester wasgenerally so punctual that any failure of hers, in this respect,appeared almost in the light of an injury on those who had learnt torely upon her. Sylvia wanted to go and see widow Dobson, and learnwhen Kester might be expected home. His two months were long past;and Sylvia had heard through the Fosters of some suitable andprofitable employment for him, of which she thought he would be gladto know as soon as possible. It was now some time since she had beenable to get so far as across the bridge; and, for aught she knew,Kester might already be come back from his expedition to theCheviots. Kester was come back. Scarce five minutes had elapsedafter these thoughts had passed through her mind before his hastyhand lifted the latch of the kitchen-door, his hurried steps broughthim face to face with her. The smile of greeting was arrested on herlips by one look at him: his eyes staring wide, the expression onhis face wild, and yet pitiful.
'That's reet,' said he, seeing that her things were already on.'Thou're wanted sore. Come along.'
'Oh! dear God! my child!' cried Sylvia, clutching at the chair nearher; but recovering her eddying senses with the strong fact beforeher that whatever the terror was, she was needed to combat it.
'Ay; thy child!' said Kester, taking her almost roughly by the arm,and drawing her away with him out through the open doors on to thequay-side.
'Tell me!' said Sylvia, faintly, 'is she dead?'
'She's safe now,' said Kester. 'It's not her--it's him as saved heras needs yo', if iver husband needed a wife.'
'He?--who? O Philip! Philip! is it yo' at last?'
Unheeding what spectators might see her movements, she threw up herarms and staggered against the parapet of the bridge they were thencrossing.
'He!--Philip!--saved Bella? Bella, our little Bella, as got herdinner by my side, and went out wi' Jeremiah, as well as could be. Icannot take it in; tell me, Kester.' She kept trembling so much invoice and in body, that he saw she could not stir without danger offalling until she was calmed; as it was, her eyes became filmy fromtime to time, and she drew her breath in great heavy pants, leaningall the while against the wall of the bridge.
'It were no illness,' Kester began. 'T' little un had gone for awalk wi' Jeremiah Foster, an' he were drawn for to go round t' edgeo' t' cliff, wheere they's makin' t' new walk reet o'er t' sea. Butit's but a bit on a pathway now; an' t' one was too oud, an' t'other too young for t' see t' water comin' along wi' great leaps;it's allays for comin' high up again' t' cliff, an' this spring-tideit's comin' in i' terrible big waves. Some one said as they passedt' man a-sittin' on a bit on a rock up above--a dunnot know, a onlyknow as a heared a great fearful screech i' t' air. A were justa-restin' me at after a'd comed in, not half an hour i' t' place.A've walked better nor a dozen mile to-day; an' a ran out, an' alooked, an' just on t' walk, at t' turn, was t' swish of a waverunnin' back as quick as t' mischief int' t' sea, an' oud Jeremiahstandin' like one crazy, lookin' o'er int' t' watter; an' like astroke o' leeghtnin' comes a man, an' int' t' very midst o' t' greatwaves like a shot; an' then a knowed summut were in t' watter aswere nearer death than life; an' a seemed to misdoubt me that itwere our Bella; an' a shouts an' a cries for help, an' a goes mysel'to t' very edge o' t' cliff, an' a bids oud Jeremiah, as was likeone beside hissel', houd tight on me, for he were good for noughtelse; an' a bides my time, an' when a sees two arms houdin' out alittle drippin' streamin' child, a clutches her by her waist-band,an' hauls her to land. She's noane t' worse for her bath, a'll bebound.'
'I mun go--let me,' said Sylvia, struggling with his detaining hand,which he had laid upon her in the fear that she would slip down tothe ground in a faint, so ashen-gray was her face. 'Let me,--Bella,I mun go see her.'
He let go, and she stood still, suddenly feeling herself too weak tostir.
'Now, if you'll try a bit to be quiet, a'll lead yo' along; but yo'mun be a steady and brave lass.'
'I'll be aught if yo' only let me see Bella,' said Sylvia, humbly.
'An' yo' niver ax at after him as saved her,' said Kester,reproachfully.
'I know it's Philip,' she whispered, 'and yo' said he wanted me; soI know he's safe; and, Kester, I think I'm 'feared on him, and I'dlike to gather courage afore seeing him, and a look at Bella wouldgive me courage. It were a terrible time when I saw him last, and Idid say--'
'Niver think on what thou did say; think on what thou will say tohim now, for he lies a-dyin'! He were dashed again t' cliff an'bruised sore in his innards afore t' men as come wi' a boat couldpick him up.'
She did not speak; she did not even tremble now; she set her teethtogether, and, holding tight by Kester, she urged him on; but whenthey came to the end of the bridge, she seemed uncertain which wayto turn.
'This way,' said Kester. 'He's been lodgin' wi' Sally this nineweek, an' niver a one about t' place as knowed him; he's been i' t'wars an' getten his face brunt.'
'And he was short o' food,' moaned Sylvia, 'and we had plenty, and Itried to make yo'r sister turn him out, and send him away. Oh! willGod iver forgive me?'
Muttering to herself, breaking her mutterings with sharp cries ofpain, Sylvia, with Kester's help, reached widow Dobson's house. Itwas no longer a quiet, lonely dwelling. Several sailors stood aboutthe door, awaiting, in silent anxiety, for the verdict of thedoctor, who was even now examining Philip's injuries. Two or threewomen stood talking eagerly, in low voices, in the doorway.
But when Sylvia drew near the men fell back; and the women movedaside as though to allow her to pass, all looking upon her with acertain amount of sympathy, but perhaps with rather more ofantagonistic wonder as to how she was taking it--she who had beenliving in ease and comfort while her husband's shelter was littlebetter than a hovel, her husband's daily life a struggle withstarvation; for so much of the lodger at widow Dobson's waspopularly known; and any distrust of him as a stranger and a trampwas quite forgotten now.
Sylvia felt the hardness of their looks, the hardness of theirsilence; but it was as nothing to her. If such things could havetouched her at this moment, she would not have stood still right inthe midst of their averted hearts, and murmured something to Kester.He could not hear the words uttered by that hoarse choked voice,until he had stooped down and brought his ear to the level of hermouth.
'We'd better wait for t' doctors to come out,' she said again. Shestood by the door, shivering all over, almost facing the people inthe road, but with her face turned a little to the right, so thatthey thought she was looking at the pathway on the cliff-side, ahundred yards or so distant, below which the hungry waves stilllashed themselves into high ascending spray; while nearer to thecottage, where their force was broken by the bar at the entrance tothe river, they came softly lapping up the shelving shore.
Sylvia saw nothing of all this, though it was straight before hereyes. She only saw a blurred mist; she heard no sound of waters,though it filled the ears of those around. Instead she heard lowwhispers pronouncing Philip's earthly doom.
For the doctors were both agreed; his internal injury was of amortal kind, although, as the spine was severely injured above theseat of the fatal bruise, he had no pain in the lower half of hisbody.
They had spoken in so low a tone that John Foster, standing only afoot or so away, had not been able to hear their words. But Sylviaheard each syllable there where she stood outside, shivering allover in the sultry summer evening. She turned round to Kester.
'I mun go to him, Kester; thou'll see that noane come in to us, whent' doctors come out.'
She spoke in a soft, calm voice; and he, not knowing what she hadheard, made some easy conditional promise. Then those opposite tothe cottage door fell back, for they could see the grave doctorscoming out, and John Foster, graver, sadder still, following them.Without a word to them,--without a word even of inquiry--which manyoutside thought and spoke of as strange--white-faced, dry-eyedSylvia slipped into the house out of their sight.
And the waves kept lapping on the shelving shore.
The room inside was dark, all except the little halo or circle oflight made by a dip candle. Widow Dobson had her back to thebed--her bed--on to which Philip had been borne in the hurry ofterror as to whether he was alive or whether he was dead. She wascrying--crying quietly, but the tears down-falling fast, as, withher back to the lowly bed, she was gathering up the dripping clothescut off from the poor maimed body by the doctors' orders. She onlyshook her head as she saw Sylvia, spirit-like, steal in--white,noiseless, and upborne from earth.
But noiseless as her step might be, he heard, he recognized, andwith a sigh he turned his poor disfigured face to the wall, hidingit in the shadow.
He knew that she was by him; that she had knelt down by his bed;that she was kissing his hand, over which the languor of approachingdeath was stealing. But no one spoke.
At length he said, his face still averted, speaking with an effort.
'Little lassie, forgive me now! I cannot live to see the morn!'
There was no answer, only a long miserable sigh, and he felt hersoft cheek laid upon his hand, and the quiver that ran through herwhole body.
'I did thee a cruel wrong,' he said, at length. 'I see it now. ButI'm a dying man. I think that God will forgive me--and I've sinnedagainst Him; try, lassie--try, my Sylvie--will not thou forgive me?'
He listened intently for a moment. He heard through the open windowthe waves lapping on the shelving shore. But there came no word fromher; only that same long shivering, miserable sigh broke from herlips at length.
'Child,' said he, once more. 'I ha' made thee my idol; and if Icould live my life o'er again I would love my God more, and theeless; and then I shouldn't ha' sinned this sin against thee. Butspeak one word of love to me--one little word, that I may know Ihave thy pardon.'
'Oh, Philip! Philip!' she moaned, thus adjured.
Then she lifted her head, and said,
'Them were wicked, wicked words, as I said; and a wicked vow as Ivowed; and Lord God Almighty has ta'en me at my word. I'm sorelypunished, Philip, I am indeed.'
He pressed her hand, he stroked her cheek. But he asked for yetanother word.
'I did thee a wrong. In my lying heart I forgot to do to thee as Iwould have had thee to do to me. And I judged Kinraid in my heart.'
'Thou thought as he was faithless and fickle,' she answered quickly;'and so he were. He were married to another woman not so many weeksat after thou went away. Oh, Philip, Philip! and now I have theeback, and--'
'Dying' was the word she would have said, but first the dread oftelling him what she believed he did not know, and next herpassionate sobs, choked her.
'I know,' said he, once more stroking her cheek, and soothing herwith gentle, caressing hand. 'Little lassie!' he said, after a whilewhen she was quiet from very exhaustion, 'I niver thought to be sohappy again. God is very merciful.'
She lifted up her head, and asked wildly, 'Will He iver forgive me,think yo'? I drove yo' out fra' yo'r home, and sent yo' away to t'wars, wheere yo' might ha' getten yo'r death; and when yo' comeback, poor and lone, and weary, I told her for t' turn yo' out, fora' I knew yo' must be starving in these famine times. I think Ishall go about among them as gnash their teeth for iver, while yo'are wheere all tears are wiped away.'
'No!' said Philip, turning round his face, forgetful of himself inhis desire to comfort her. 'God pities us as a father pities hispoor wandering children; the nearer I come to death the clearer Isee Him. But you and me have done wrong to each other; yet we cansee now how we were led to it; we can pity and forgive one another.I'm getting low and faint, lassie; but thou must remember this: Godknows more, and is more forgiving than either you to me, or me toyou. I think and do believe as we shall meet together before Hisface; but then I shall ha' learnt to love thee second to Him; notfirst, as I have done here upon the earth.'
Then he was silent--very still. Sylvia knew--widow Dobson hadbrought it in--that there was some kind of medicine, sent by thehopeless doctors, lying upon the table hard by, and she softly roseand poured it out and dropped it into the half-open mouth. Then sheknelt down again, holding the hand feebly stretched out to her, andwatching the faint light in the wistful loving eyes. And in thestillness she heard the ceaseless waves lapping against the shelvingshore.
Something like an hour before this time, which was the deepestmidnight of the summer's night, Hester Rose had come hurrying up theroad to where Kester and his sister sate outside the open door,keeping their watch under the star-lit sky, all others having goneaway, one by one, even John and Jeremiah Foster having returned totheir own house, where the little Bella lay, sleeping a sound andhealthy slumber after her perilous adventure.
Hester had heard but little from William Darley as to the owner ofthe watch and the half-crown; but he was chagrined at the failure ofall his skilful interrogations to elicit the truth, and promised herfurther information in a few days, with all the more vehemencebecause he was unaccustomed to be baffled. And Hester had againwhispered to herself 'Patience! Patience!' and had slowly returnedback to her home to find that Sylvia had left it, why she did
not atonce discover. But, growing uneasy as the advancing hours neitherbrought Sylvia nor little Bella to their home, she had set out forJeremiah Foster's as soon as she had seen her mother comfortablyasleep in her bed; and then she had learnt the whole story, bit bybit, as each person who spoke broke in upon the previous narrationwith some new particular. But from no one did she clearly learnwhether Sylvia was with her husband, or not; and so she camespeeding along the road, breathless, to where Kester sate inwakeful, mournful silence, his sister's sleeping head lying on hisshoulder, the cottage door open, both for air and that there mightbe help within call if needed; and the dim slanting oblong of theinterior light lying across the road.
Hester came panting up, too agitated and breathless to ask how muchwas truth of the fatal, hopeless tale which she had heard. Kesterlooked at her without a word. Through this solemn momentary silencethe lapping of the ceaseless waves was heard, as they came up closeon the shelving shore.
'He? Philip?' said she. Kester shook his head sadly.
'And his wife--Sylvia?' said Hester.
'In there with him, alone,' whispered Kester.
Hester turned away, and wrung her hands together.
'Oh, Lord God Almighty!' said she, 'was I not even worthy to bringthem together at last?' And she went away slowly and heavily back tothe side of her sleeping mother. But 'Thy will be done' was on herquivering lips before she lay down to her rest.
The soft gray dawn lightens the darkness of a midsummer night soonafter two o'clock. Philip watched it come, knowing that it was hislast sight of day,--as we reckon days on earth.
He had been often near death as a soldier; once or twice, as when herushed into fire to save Kinraid, his chances of life had been asone to a hundred; but yet he had had a chance. But now there was thenew feeling--the last new feeling which we shall any of usexperience in this world--that death was not only close at hand,but inevitable.
He felt its numbness stealing up him--stealing up him. But the headwas clear, the brain more than commonly active in producing vividimpressions.
It seemed but yesterday since he was a little boy at his mother'sknee, wishing with all the earnestness of his childish heart to belike Abraham, who was called the friend of God, or David, who wassaid to be the man after God's own heart, or St John, who was called'the Beloved.' As very present seemed the day on which he maderesolutions of trying to be like them; it was in the spring, andsome one had brought in cowslips; and the scent of those flowers wasin his nostrils now, as he lay a-dying--his life ended, his battlesfought, his time for 'being good' over and gone--the opportunity,once given in all eternity, past.
All the temptations that had beset him rose clearly before him; thescenes themselves stood up in their solid materialism--he could havetouched the places; the people, the thoughts, the arguments thatSatan had urged in behalf of sin, were reproduced with the vividnessof a present time. And he knew that the thoughts were illusions, thearguments false and hollow; for in that hour came the perfect visionof the perfect truth: he saw the 'way to escape' which had comealong with the temptation; now, the strong resolve of an ardentboyhood, with all a life before it to show the world 'what aChristian might be'; and then the swift, terrible now, when hisnaked, guilty soul shrank into the shadow of God's mercy-seat, outof the blaze of His anger against all those who act a lie.
His mind was wandering, and he plucked it back. Was this death invery deed? He tried to grasp at the present, the earthly present,fading quick away. He lay there on the bed--on Sally Dobson's bed inthe house-place, not on his accustomed pallet in the lean-to. Heknew that much. And the door was open into the still, dusk night;and through the open casement he could hear the lapping of the waveson the shelving shore, could see the soft gray dawn over the sea--heknew it was over the sea--he saw what lay unseen behind the poorwalls of the cottage. And it was Sylvia who held his hand tight inher warm, living grasp; it was his wife whose arm was thrown aroundhim, whose sobbing sighs shook his numbed frame from time to time.
'God bless and comfort my darling,' he said to himself. 'She knowsme now. All will be right in heaven--in the light of God's mercy.'
And then he tried to remember all that he had ever read about, God,and all that the blessed Christ--that bringeth glad tidings of greatjoy unto all people, had said of the Father, from whom He came.Those sayings dropped like balm down upon his troubled heart andbrain. He remembered his mother, and how she had loved him; and hewas going to a love wiser, tenderer, deeper than hers.
As he thought this, he moved his hands as if to pray; but Sylviaclenched her hold, and he lay still, praying all the same for her,for his child, and for himself. Then he saw the sky redden with thefirst flush of dawn; he heard Kester's long-drawn sigh of wearinessoutside the open door.
He had seen widow Dobson pass through long before to keep theremainder of her watch on the bed in the lean-to, which had been hisfor many and many a sleepless and tearful night. Those nights wereover--he should never see that poor chamber again, though it wasscarce two feet distant. He began to lose all sense of thecomparative duration of time: it seemed as long since kind SallyDobson had bent over him with soft, lingering look, before goinginto the humble sleeping-room--as long as it was since his boyhood,when he stood by his mother dreaming of the life that should be his,with the scent of the cowslips tempting him to be off to thewoodlands where they grew. Then there came a rush and an eddyingthrough his brain--his soul trying her wings for the long flight.Again he was in the present: he heard the waves lapping against theshelving shore once again.
And now his thoughts came back to Sylvia. Once more he spoke aloud,in a strange and terrible voice, which was not his. Every sound camewith efforts that were new to him.
'My wife! Sylvie! Once more--forgive me all.'
She sprang up, she kissed his poor burnt lips; she held him in herarms, she moaned, and said,
'Oh, wicked me! forgive me--me--Philip!'
Then he spoke, and said, 'Lord, forgive us our trespasses as weforgive each other!' And after that the power of speech wasconquered by the coming death. He lay very still, his consciousnessfast fading away, yet coming back in throbs, so that he knew it wasSylvia who touched his lips with cordial, and that it was Sylvia whomurmured words of love in his ear. He seemed to sleep at last, andso he did--a kind of sleep, but the light of the red morning sunfell on his eyes, and with one strong effort he rose up, and turnedso as once more to see his wife's pale face of misery.
'In heaven,' he cried, and a bright smile came on his face, as hefell back on his pillow.
Not long after Hester came, the little Bella scarce awake in herarms, with the purpose of bringing his child to see him ere yet hepassed away. Hester had watched and prayed through the livelongnight. And now she found him dead, and Sylvia, tearless and almostunconscious, lying by him, her hand holding his, her other thrownaround him.
Kester, poor old man, was sobbing bitterly; but she not at all.
Then Hester bore her child to her, and Sylvia opened wide hermiserable eyes, and only stared, as if all sense was gone from her.But Bella suddenly rousing up at the sight of the poor, scarred,peaceful face, cried out,--
'Poor man who was so hungry. Is he not hungry now?'
'No,' said Hester, softly. 'The former things are passed away--andhe is gone where there is no more sorrow, and no more pain.'
But then she broke down into weeping and crying. Sylvia sat up andlooked at her.
'Why do yo' cry, Hester?' she said. 'Yo' niver said that yo'wouldn't forgive him as long as yo' lived. Yo' niver broke the heartof him that loved yo', and let him almost starve at yo'r very door.Oh, Philip! my Philip, tender and true.'
Then Hester came round and closed the sad half-open eyes; kissingthe calm brow with a long farewell kiss. As she did so, her eye fellon a black ribbon round his neck. She partly lifted it out; to itwas hung a half-crown piece.
'This is the piece he left at William Darley's to be bored,' saidshe, 'not many days ago.'
Bella had
crept to her mother's arms as a known haven in thisstrange place; and the touch of his child loosened the fountains ofher tears. She stretched out her hand for the black ribbon, put itround her own neck; after a while she said,
'If I live very long, and try hard to be very good all that time, doyo' think, Hester, as God will let me to him where he is?'
* * * * *
Monkshaven is altered now into a rising bathing place. Yet, standingnear the site of widow Dobson's house on a summer's night, at theebb of a spring-tide, you may hear the waves come lapping up theshelving shore with the same ceaseless, ever-recurrent sound as thatwhich Philip listened to in the pauses between life and death.
And so it will be until 'there shall be no more sea'.
But the memory of man fades away. A few old people can still tellyou the tradition of the man who died in a cottage somewhere aboutthis spot,--died of starvation while his wife lived in hard-heartedplenty not two good stone-throws away. This is the form into whichpopular feeling, and ignorance of the real facts, have moulded thestory. Not long since a lady went to the 'Public Baths', a handsomestone building erected on the very site of widow Dobson's cottage,and finding all the rooms engaged she sat down and had some talkwith the bathing woman; and, as it chanced, the conversation fell onPhilip Hepburn and the legend of his fate.
'I knew an old man when I was a girl,' said the bathing woman, 'ascould niver abide to hear t' wife blamed. He would say nothingagain' th' husband; he used to say as it were not fit for men to bejudging; that she had had her sore trial, as well as Hepburnhisself.'
The lady asked, 'What became of the wife?'
'She was a pale, sad woman, allays dressed in black. I can justremember her when I was a little child, but she died before herdaughter was well grown up; and Miss Rose took t' lassie, as hadalways been like her own.'
'Miss Rose?'
'Hester Rose! have yo' niver heared of Hester Rose, she as foundedt' alms-houses for poor disabled sailors and soldiers on t'Horncastle road? There's a piece o' stone in front to say that "Thisbuilding is erected in memory of P. H."--and some folk will have itP. H. stands for t' name o' th' man as was starved to death.'
'And the daughter?'
'One o' th' Fosters, them as founded t' Old Bank, left her a vast o'money; and she were married to distant cousin of theirs, and wentoff to settle in America many and many a year ago.'
THE END.
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