Tales and Sketches.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 1057, 2 June 1892, Page 9

Tales and Sketches.

[NOW FIRST PUBLISHED.]

Alone on a Wide, Wide Sea !

AN OCEAN MYSTE&Y. BY W. CLARK RUSSELL. Author of ‘ A Sea Queen,’ ‘ The Q-olden Hope,' ‘The Wreck of the Groa* Tenor,’ ‘The Death Ship,’ ‘ ily Danish Sweetheart,’ &c., &c. [ALT. BIGHTS RESERVED.] CHAPTER XXV. Mary. My sister took me by one arm and the nurse by the other, and assisted me to rise. I found myself a little stronger than I had imagined. I felt indeed fully equal to returning to the hotel if my sister sent for a cab, but my bedroom was ready ; I was now being helped upstairs, and, moreover, I had settled a plan which I did not intend to disturb. I looked neither to the right nor to the left as I ascended the stairs, supported by my sister and the nurse I feared the effect upon me of the familiar objects which my sight must encounter : the shield and stag’s head in the hall—the pictures on the staircase —the barometer, and other such details; in all which I had taken a young wife’s pride, choosing places for them, dusting them with my own hands.

We mounted the stairs in silence I was taken to a room ovsr the diningroom, an apartment at the back of the house. A cheerful fire burnt in the gi-ate, and on a chair near it were my jacket, hat, and veil. Lighted candles stood on the dressing-table; the curtains were drawn ; the bed, draped with a new eider-down quilt, was open ready for my reception ■ there was a smell of fioweis in the atmosphere, and the whole chamber was spotless and the picture of comfort. ‘ A long night’s rest will do you all the good in the world,’ said Mary, ‘ do not hurry to rise in the morning.’ I could not thank her; I could not feel grateful for hospitality shown to me in my own house ; 1 could not bring my tongue to utter to my sister words which my heart would pronounce ironical. But I could have thrown my arms round her neck, I could have wept upon her bi’east, I could have poured out the story of my life : and all this too my heart denied me. She sent Barclay the nurse for some hot spirits and water and for another plate of sandwiches, but I refused to eat or drink. I said I was weary and would get into bed and rest She asked me at what hour I wished to leave by train next day. ‘ If I can reach my destination by five or six o’clock in the evening I shall be satisfied,’ I answered. She looked around as though there was something forgotten by her that would add to my comfort, then softly said : * Good-night,’ and left the room olosing the door. I thanked God when she went out, for another few minutes must have betrayed me. No sooner indeed had she closed the door than my heart gave way and I cried with a terrible grief, burying my face upon the bed that the sound of my sobs might be unheard. My children I knew were sleeping on the same floor ; I say I knew because the disposition of the rooms would not admit of a day and night nursery upon the floor above. My bedroom, the room I had occupied, had been over the room in which I was : it was the best room in the house, with a bathroom and dressing-room adjoining it, and this apartment I might be sure my husband still used. Therefore, knowing that my children were within a few yards of me, my yearning to visit them, to behold and kiss my baby, my little baby girl, to kiss my darling boy, to view them even for a moment only, this yearning was anguish inexpressible. But I dared not leave my room. I could not think of any excuse to make should I be found looking at my children. Indeed, my being found in their room, bending over them, would infallibly lead to my husband and sister making conjectures, and putting one thing and another together—for my husband V7as a lawyer and my sister a clever woman of quick intellect. I partially unclothed, extinguished the lights, and got into bed ; not to sleep, but that I should be found in bed

if my sister visited me before she herself retired. I head a distant clock strike nine. A few moments later a child cried. I sat up straining my ear to catch the voice of my baby girl. It was the cry of a sleeping child and was not repeated ; but even if that cry of my child had found me drowsy it would have awakened me to the very full of all my senses and held me sleepless for the rest of the night. All was quiet below. I heard no sound of my husband and sister conversing, though I supposed that they continued to occupy the dining-room beneath me. The distant clock struck ten. The hall door was then bolted and the noise was followed by a slight tapping on my bedroom door. I made no answer. I knew by the character of the knocking that it was my sister, and wished her to think that I was asleep. I held my face to the wall and kept my eyes closed, and drew my breath regulai'ly as though I slumbered ; but though my eyes were closed I was sensible of the presence of my sister at the bedside. The light she held dimly flushed my sealed vision, and I knew by the radiance that she held the candle close to my face, whence I might conclude she was inspecting me. That- she had not recognised me I was sure, but I now dreaded this minute scrutiny. Some feature, some point of resemblance to our mother, or to herself, some expression which I could not control, she might witness, and by it know me.

I sighed and stirred without opening my eyes, on which the light vanished and when after . waiting a little I stealthily lifted my eyelids, I found myself alone and the room in darkness. I was able to follow the flight of the hours by hearing the distant church clock strike. Midnight rang out, and then one o’clock and then two o’clock. The wind had risen. It made a noise in the chimney and hissed about the windows; otherwise the house was buried in silence saving that at intervals 1 seemed to hear a sound of footsteps, a very soft movement as of naked or stockinged feet restlessly pacing. But listen as I might I could not imagine in what room the person, whoever it might be, was pacing : it was not overhead and it did not sound as though it were on the floor where the room I occupied was. I therefore supposed it to be a deception of the ear though it held me in check until after three o’clock had struck, at which hour it ceased. I waited until somewhat after four o'clock, then noiselessly rose; very softly lighted a candle and completely dressed myself, with the exception of my veil, which I folded and put into my pocket. The fire had long ago gone out. A small pair of scissors lay on the toilet table, and on the chest of drawers was an Old Testament with illustrations protected by sheets of tissue paper. The book had been my mother’s. I tore out several sheets of the tissue paper, picked up the scissors, and putting the candle in the grate where it would be safe—l dared not move without a light lest I should make a noise—l opened the door, crept forth on to the landing, apd stood listening. All was silent save the noise of the wind. At the extremity of the landing a door stood ajar, and a faint light shone through it. I knew that my children slept in that room, that the faint illumination proceeded from a night-light, and that the door was left ajar in pursuance of a custom established by myself, for I always required that my children should have air, but would not permit their bedroom window to be left open during the night. I put my boots on the landing carpet and crept on noiseless feet to the door where the light shone, and looking into the room saw the two little brass bedsteads side by side. I stood listening, and plainly heard the deep breathing of the nurse who slept in the room adjoining this bedroom. I crept to the side of one of the beds and in it lay my little girl, Mary. I stood looking down upon her sleeping face, then cut off a piece of her hair, and breathlessly pressed my lips to her cheek. Afterwards I stepped round to the bedside of my little boy, and when I had looked down upon him for awhile I cut off a little piece of his hair, and with trembling but noiseless hands placed tdie two curls in the tissue paper and slipped them info my pocket. I then kissed my boy, and going to the foot of the bedstead knelt so that my posture might embrace both little forms, and lifting up my eyes to God I asked Him to look down and bless my children and to give them to me soon, and to watch over them and preserve them whilst I continued absent from them.

I then rose, and with a weeping heart and one long lingering look at the two faces, I soundlessly descended the staircase, and being intimately acquainted with the house, as you will suppose, knowing exactly how the house door was bolted and locked, I opened it without more noise than would have scared a mouse, gently pulled it to after me, so that it would have been impossiblo upstairs to have heard the click of the latch, so gradually did I draw the latch to, then seating myself on the step I put on my boots, and rising again hurried away clown the hill.

It was snowing slightly, and the ground was thinly whitened. The wind blew piercingly cold. I had learnt that the railway station was c’osecl all night, and that the earliest train to London, which was the directest way to Newcastle from Bath, did not leave until eight o’clock or thereabouts. There was nothing for me to do but to walk about the cold windy streets until the hotel where I had left my bag was opened. This I did. I met nobody. Bath seemed as silent and deserted as though the old plague that had visited London two hundred years ago had attacked and desolated this city of the Abbey Church. At last at about a quarter to seven on passing the hotel for the tenth or twelfth time I saw the man sweeping in front of the door, which stood a little svay open. I entered and passed into the coffee room and found a large fire, newly lighted, burning in the grate, before which sat a man reading a paper by the gas light, for the sky was dark with clouds, and there was no daylight as yet. The man did not lift his head nor make room for me ; he was probably a commercial traveller. I rang the bell, ordered some breakfast, desired that my bag should be brought from my bedroom, ancl whilst I waited I'drew as close to the fire as the com mercial traveller would suffer me, and warmed mj^self.

I was very cold and very weary, but the rest I had taken at my husband’s house had given me strength enough to walk about the streets, and when T had warmed myself and breakfasted I found that my sense of exhaustion was considerably less than I had dreaded to find it. All the while that I had walked and all the while that I was warming myself and eating my breakfast I was thinking, what will my sister say, or what will my husband suppose, when they find that their visitor, whom they so hospitably received, has fled from their house in the darkness of the night ? Their first suspicion will be that my falling into a fit was a trick, and they will look over the house to see what I have stolen. Then on discovering that nothing whatever is missing they will conjecture that my fit was epileptic and that in an hour of madness I rose in the night and wandered from the house.

This notion made me hurry lest my husband should come to the hotel to enquire after me ; for though if he came he would know no more about me this morning than he did last night, yet he might agitate and confuse me with questions, perhaps cause me to be detained for enquiries, as it is called, and this apprehension as I have said made me hurry. As soon as I had breakfasted I paid the bill, took my bag, and told a porter who stood in the hall to call me a cab. An. hour later I was safe in a railway carriage gliding out of the Great Western Railway Station at Bath on my way to London. I reached Newcastle at eight o’clock in the evening and drove at once to Jesmond I had telegraphed to Mrs Lee from London, and Ifound her waiting me with a table cheerfully set forth and a great Newcastle coal fire roaring. She kissed me again and again ; had I been her own child she could not have given me a gladder, a more affectionate welcome. She saw exhaustion in my looks and the marks of much bitter weeping in my eyes, and asked no questions until I had eaten and drank and was resting upon the sofa before the fire with my feet in comfortable slippers, and the dress in whieh I had travelled replaced by a warm gown I then told her everything that had happened to me, but when I opened the travelling bag which I had kept at my side and took from it the two little locks of hair and showed them to her I broke down and could not speak again for a long time for weeping. ‘Well,’ said she when my sobs had ceased, ‘your adventure has certainly been an extraordinary one. To think of neither your husband nor your sister knowing you ! Surely that can only be accounted for by the conviction that you are dead ? X<?VU’ white hair, and

the structural change of the shape of your nose and the change in the shape of your right brow, coupled with other changes which they might be able to point out, have of course created a new face for you, a face such as friends, people whom you have known for a few years, but met at intervals only, would nob recoguise; but that the alteration should be so complete that your own sister and husband—no, it is because they believe you dead.’ ‘ The light was dim when my husband saw me,’ said T.

‘ Ah, but your sister 1 She saw you when you were brought in from the street in daylight. No, I am sure that nothing could have saved you from recognition but their belief that you are dead, a belief that is now a habit of mind with them, not to be disturbed by the apparatioa of a whitehaired woman, who to be sure looks some years older than the mere passage of three years only could have made her.’ She then asked me what I meant to do, and I replied that the sight of my sister had hardened my resolution to leave her in undisturbed possession of her home and her peace of mind. ‘But your children, dear!’ ‘lam in God’s hands,’ I cried. ‘I have left it to Him to bring them to me in His own good time.’ She looked at me, shook her head, and fell into a fit of musing. I was so exhausted, however, that I was unable to maintain a conversation even on tliis subject of my children—a subject which so wholly occupied my heart that I could think of nothing I went to bed and scarcely was my head upon the pillow when I fell asleep, and I slept without moving the whole night through, without the disturbance of the least dream that f can remember. In fact, nature could support the burden 1 bad imposed upon her no longer; I had in truth scarcely closed my eyes for above a few hours from the time of the restoration of my memory, and this night I lay as one that had died. Next morning when I awoke I found my limbs so stiff that I was unable to rise, and I kept my bed all that day. Mrs Lee came and sat by nay side, and vve talked long and gravely upon the subject of my future, what was best to be done, whether I had a right to divorce myself from my husband and remain as dead to him out of a sentimental tenderness for my sister whose claims were not those of a mother’s as mine were, whose claims were not those even of a wife’s ds mine were—because it would be all the same whether I was living or dead ; she could not be my husband’s wife, the law did not suffer a man to marry the sister of his dead wife. In this way Mrs Lee reasoned, and after asking me some questions about my sister as to her habits, tastes, appearances and so forth, she said :

‘ Why will you not let me write to her, gently break the news of your being alive, ask her to come and see us here, and bring your children with her ; then the three of us can talk the matter over 1 Her sensations on hearing the news of your being alive will soon pass ; you will find that she will agree in my views and consent to come and live with me, taking your place, often seeing you and the children, for of course, dear Agnes, you will be a regular visitor. 1 can imagine no other way of your regaining possession of your children. Whilst you have been away I have thought and thought and I cannot imagine that Mr (naming the clergyman) will be able to suggest anything beyond what we ourselves are quite capable of conceiving ; namely, that in order to obtain your children you must make your existence known to your husband and sister. Since therefore that is certain then the rest is inevitable: I mean that your sister on hearing that you are alive must at once quit your husband.’ I lay in my bed listening to her and often answering and agreeing with her in many points of her argument, but all the time perfectly resolved to remain dead to my husband that my sister’s peace should not be ruined, and her life wrecked. The problem of how I was to regain my children was indeed insoluble j but I bad seen them, I had kissed them in their sleep, they were alive and well. All this greatly comforted me, and though I was almost crazy with a mother’s yearning for them I felt better capable of waiting now that I bad seen them than before, better capable of exercising patience for my sweet sister’s sake, looking to God to reward me for my sacrifice by uniting me with my children without desolating my sister’s life.

When the night came I again slept well and was awakened next morning by a knock on the door. The servant entered and handed me a letter in deep mourning. I was startled by the deep black edge upon the envelope and told the maid to open the curtains. She did so, flooding the room with light, and withdrew. I looked at the envelope and instantly recognised the handwriting as that of my sister. It was addressed to Mrs John Campbell, care of Mrs Lee, in fact the address was precisely the same as that which I had written upon the cards I had taken to Bath with me one of which as you will remember Mrs Lee had stitched inside of the hack of my jacket, the only difference being that the envelope bore my name Mrs John Campbell. I trembled violently and for some few minutes felt so faint that the letter dropped in my hand on to the coverlet whilst I lay back for the support of the pillow. Then I looked at the letter again ; it was in Mary’s writing. I knew the writing as well as though I had seen her with a pen in her hand addressing the envelope. Eor a long time I could not summon courage to open the letter. It was not only the handwriting and the seeing my name plain upon the envelope, it was the mourning also that terrified me, so significant was it of the character of the enclosure. At last T opened the letter and read this:

‘ My own darling sister, ‘ When, after fainting at the sight of your boy, "you were brought into your house and your hat and veil were removed, I knew you. Beloved sister, I knew you instantly ! Your white hair, your changed appearance, could not disguise you from the eyes of ray love. They had told me that during the greater part of the day a woman in black, thickly veiled, had several times passed this house, and when your veil was removed and I saw that it was you, Agnes, then I knew all, I understood all, I knew that you had come to catch a sight of your children, that you knew J had become your husband’s wife, and I understood that your secret visit meant that when you returned to your home you would never come here again. And why? That your husband and I might think you dead, as we have long believed you dead, and that I might be left to live as I have lived since you were mourned as lost to us for ever.

‘My darling sister ! It was because I knew you that I insisted upon your remaining in the house all night, for then you could have rested, sleep would have given you should have been able to see you in the morning, have heard your story and have told you mine. Ob, what has kept you from us for threeyears ? What sufferings have you undergone to change you so ? I have loved and tended your little ones as though they had been my own. You will find them well, and very beautiful children. You saw but little of Johnny. You fell whilst he was looking at you. I have been wakeful all night pacing the floor of a room that was above the one in which, you slept, not thinking over what I should do ; no, what I was to do X knew very well, but thinking about you, your three years’ absence, the meeting of two sisters that knew each other and loved each other, and yet dared not speak to each other. ‘ And why did I not speak to you, Agnes 1 Because, my beloved, I desired the morning to come, when, after having sat and conversed with you in your bedroom, I should have been able to depart from your house, leaving it to you to tell your husband the story of your return and of my going, when he came back to his home in the evening. ‘ You know that I was married to him fourteen weeks ago ? Your secret visit convinced me that the news had reached you 1 Oh, had the gentle and all merciful God brought you home to us but four months earlier! I can write to you and say that I was married to John, but I could not look at you and say so. ‘Yet I believed you dead, my beloved, and your husband believed you dead. The body of the man who attended you in the boat was washed ashore, and the boat was afterwards found d lifting about upside down. How could we doubt that you had perished ? But I have not come between you and your husband’s heart. Your memory is sweet and sacred to him. Often does he talk of you. It is a subject that he never wearies of. One to take the place of you was needed for Johnny and little Mary, and wlxo fitter than I ? But, oh !— n

but, oil ! that you had returned hut

four months earlier ! ‘ And now, with the tears standing in my eyes, and my heart aching as though it would break, I am going to bid you farewell for ever. Do not fear for me. God’s love will stay my hand. I will do nothing that is rash or impious. I shall hear of you, and always in spirit be with you, and my prayers shall ever be for your bus band and your little ones. By the time this letter reaches your hands your husband will have known all, and will in all probability be on his way to IT e wcastle-on-Tyne.

As for me, I go where no enquiries can ever reach me. It will be useless to seek for me ; not the utmost strength of our love, Agnes, would ever be able to court me from my concealment. You may hear of me in my death, but in no wise else, and some day you will know I have chosen to hide myself until the grave closes over me.

* But I could wish to receive one last letter from you, telling me what has befallen you and where you have been during these three years, and sending me your blessing and your love and a kiss. Therefore, write to me at the Hotel, Leicester. Address me there by return of post, that I may receive the letter as I pass through that town. My beloved sister, farewell. Forgive me. Love me with the strength of your old sweet love. — Maby. ’

I read this letter twice over, realising its full import. There then followed such a tumult of feelings in my mind that I cannot recollect even a little of my thoughts. I was struck to the heart by the knowledge that Mary had known me from the beginning and had not spoken, and horror fell upon me when I reflected that she had left her home; that she had as good as vowed never to be heard of until her death should come ; that—despite her assurance—grief, misery, shame, homelessness, the remembrance of wliat she had lost, the fear of what was yet to befall her, might temptdier to end her life ! I hastily rose, dressed myself, and went downstairs. Mr 3 Lee had not yet left her bed. I took pen and paper and wrote to Mary. I wrote page alter page, for I had much to relate and also to implore, to persuade, and to command ! Un the top of the third or fourth sheet of paper I began to tell her that it was my unalterable resolu tion never to live with my husband, or speak of him, or think of him as my husband whilst she was living ; and I was going on to say that I asked for nothing but my children—when it flashed upon me that if I told her I would never have anything more to do with my husband while she was alive, her love for me, her determination to reinstate me might cause her to take her life 1 so that by making a widower of my husband so far as she was concerned there could be no longer any excuse remaining to keep me away from home. This fear I say flashed upon me, and I tore that part of the letter up and went on writing till I had said all that was in my heart; but even as I addressed the envelope I seemed to feel that this letter, full as it wa3 of love and piteous pleadings to her to return to her home would be no more than as a wreath laid upon a grave, and that my sister and 1 would never meet again in this world. I desired a servant to immediately post the letter, and then walked about the room, as was my habit when deeply agitated, waiting for the arrival of Mrs Lee. She entered at last, kissed me, and looking at me affectionately exolaimed : ‘ You have heard from your sister, I am sure. The letter was brought to me in error, and I sent it immediately to you/ I put it into her hand in silence. She read it through, and then said : ‘ So she knew yon, and yet made no sign ! She must be a girl of great nobility of mind, of wonderful strength of character/ She read the letter through again and exclaimed : * And now, Agnes, you will return with your husband.’ ‘No,’ I answered, ‘ I cannot and will not think of him as my husband whilst my sister ives.’ She said much to dissuade me from this resolution, pointing out that great as might he my love for my sister, my husband must be first of all with me. Did I remember my marriage vows ? Did I remember saying that I would forsake all others and keep only to my husband ? This was a vow solemnly uttered at the altar and God was a witness to it, and I should be grievously ginning were I false to that vow. I

answered that I loved my husband and that I remembered my marriage vows, but that my husband had married my sister believing me dead, that she was his wife and must remain his wife. I asked for my children, I said; and when I bad them—and here I broke into a ps.ssion of weeping, for God knows I spoke truly when I said that I loved my husband ; and yet my love for my sister, my determination that she should not be dishonoured by my reappeai’ing after I was supposed dead must certainly divorce me from my husband; and then there was the thought of my sister hiding for the remainder of her days alone, knowing no other happiness than such as would flow from the belief that I was happy ; I say all these thoughts broke in upon me and extinguished my speech. (To be concluded.)