CHAPTER XXXIII
The trial then was over. And it seemed indeed that before very long Philip Meadowes’ life too would be over. He who had laughed at imprisonment and laughed at trial could laugh no longer; he was forced to believe at last that the world held him to be a murderer, and that as such he must die. But even sitting in his cell, a man under sentence of death, Philip could not realise it. This the end of him? this, this, this? It was frankly impossible that this could be the end of Philip Meadowes and all his ambitions! of the beautiful life he and Carrie had meant to live together, of that passion clean and hot as flame that burned between them! Impossible! impossible!
And then, even above this cry of the heart, rose that keener note of anguish, that supreme utterance of the soul, the terror of unfulfilment. It lurks in every man, this protest of vitality against encompassing and ever encroaching mortality, and has its roots in life itself. With most men the feeling is quite unformulated and vague. ‘They would not like to be altogether forgotten’ is about all that it amounts to, and the fear, such as it is, finds ready cure in the laws of their being; having given hostages to Fortune they have no further dread that their memory will perish—the next generation will carry it on. But with another type of man the case is very different; for though the child of his body may be dearer to him than his own flesh, the child of the soul will be dearer yet.
It is this law of aspiration, effort, what you will, that moves on our world at all; for though it is not written that one man in a thousand shall influence the race, or one in a million leave an undying memory, yet it is written that every man, though half of them unknowingly, shall strive after some star, and some even shall succeed. And these myriads of agonising atoms form a great aggregate of achievement out of all proportion to their puny individual efforts, and slowly push the world on in its destined course.
Something of all this came over Philip now; above all his memories of this dear, warm, wooing world, that had so loved and courted him, came the agonising thought, ‘I am virtually dead; I must depart,leaving nothing behind.’ With extraordinary vividness of sensation he had lived; life had appeared to him as a long feast of rich and varied good things to which he had sat him down gaily. Some day he had thought to rise from it, gird on his armour, and go forth to some stirring and valorous enterprise; he had never decided what the enterprise would be, but trusted that the kind and bountiful Giver of life’s banquet would provide his children with work when they had feasted long enough. Now all these vague dreams of the future came down like a house of cards: he stood face to face with death, his work undone.
This was the thought which eclipsed every other as these strange days rolled on, each of them it seemed an eternity for length, each of them bringing Phil nearer and nearer to the gallows. The very gaolers pitied Philip for his youth and beauty; but they pitied Carrie more that day she obtained entrance to Newgate and a half-hour’s interview with her husband.
Phil sat, as he always sat then, his eyes fixed on the floor, his chin resting on his hands. He did not even look up as the door was unlocked, but said merely, ‘Lay it down, gaoler; I have little appetite these days,’ thinking his food had been brought in. Then with a cry, inarticulate, between joy and agony, Carrie ran towards him. Phil did not stir nor speak, and Carrie knelt down beside him, and buried her face against his shoulder, sobbing. He passed his arm round her, but still he did not speak.
‘O Phil! my darling, my joy, why can you not speak to me?’ cried Carrie. She took his hand in hers, and held it to her heart, kissing it and crying over it; but Phil was silent.
When he raised his eyes from the ground at last and looked at her, Carrie started, such a grave new look there was in them, and all the shine seemed to have gone from them.
‘What will you do, Carrie?’ he said suddenly. They were the first words he uttered. ‘Do you think your father will forgive you when you are left alone? will take you back to his home and care for you?’
‘Don’t! don’t!’ cried Carrie; but Phil went on—
‘I shall be hanged on the 12th of next month, Carrie; there’s no chance of a reprieve, they’ve tried for it in vain, the facts are too strong against me. I wish ’twere sooner, even for your sake, my poor darling. You’ll dream of me being hanged each night twice over ere then.’
Carrie put her fingers in her ears. ‘Stop, Phil! for Heaven’s sake do not say these things,’ she cried; ‘they cannot kill you. Have you stopped speaking now? May I take my fingers from my ears?’
‘Yes,’ laughed Philip. ‘Come, Carrie, tell me, have you no doubt of your husband these days when all the world calls him a murderer?’
‘Phil!’
‘Well, what do you make of it all—all this evidence?’
‘How did it happen?’ asked innocent Carrie.
‘I fear you know as much as I do. Prior did it, I fancy; took off his shoes and followed my father and killed him—that’s all I can think, but there’s not a ghost of fact to go to prove this. They had not even quarrelled, to my knowledge at least.’
‘O Phil! don’t look like that! Oh, you are not a boy any longer,’ said Carrie, for she had caught the strange new expression of his eyes again as he spoke.
‘I have been a boy too long,’ said Philip; he shook his head and smiled at Carrie as if she were a child; ‘and now I have grown old in a night—like Jack’s bean-stalk. Come and let me speak all my discontent to my love, and years after this she will remember, and will credit me with all I wished to do rather than all I left undone.’
Carrie looked up wonderingly, and Philip spoke on—
‘Oh, that’s the bitterness, Carrie; it’s not a shameful death, or leaving the happy world even—and hasn’t it been happy! No; I’d stand that if I left anything behind. But just to go out like a candle—phew!’—he blew into the air as if at a flame,—‘bright one minute, snuffed out the next. ’Tis ghastly. I cannot realise, it, Carrie; I won’t—I won’t, ’tis miserable injustice.’
Phil rose and paced about the cell for a moment, then he came and sat down beside Carrie again, and took her hand in his.
‘You don’t understand, you know, my heart,’ he said with something of his old lightness for a moment; ‘for I scarce think you ever felt thus. You now, if you were to die along with me, would not feel a pang, I believe.’
‘No, indeed, Phil; I should die gladly with you,’ said Carrie, mystified.
‘Ah, there’s the rub. I cannot die, Carrie; my personality cries out so loud against extinction ere it hath fulfilled itself. Foolish, vain talk; but I’ve thought of no other thing night and day since they passed sentence on me, except of you.’
Carrie, you know, was of another clay; she sat and looked at Phil with such a puzzled air that he fairly laughed aloud, and his ringing laugh struck strangely on the walls of Newgate. The poor old walls had heard many a groan, but so few laughs that the sound was scarcely recognised!
‘Did I puzzle her dear brains with nonsense?’ he said, taking Carrie’s face between his hands and kissing her. ‘Carrie, our jesting days are over, and sweet, sweet they’ve been for all their shortness.’
‘O Phil, they cannot be over,’ said Carrie; she was only twenty, poor child, an age that has little realisation.
‘Carrie, you must believe this,’ said her husband—he looked into her eyes as he spoke, and let his words fall slowly,—‘I shall be both dead and buried this day next month—dead and buried, Carrie, and you will be a widow. You must face this, must talk with me of what you are to do afterwards.’ But Carrie would only shudder and hide her face in her hands. Phil spoke on—a curious task to set his eloquence this—telling her unflinchingly all that would be, explaining, describing, till Carrie whitened and clutched his hand more tightly than ever.
‘Stop, Phil,’ she said, in a little choked whisper, ‘I believe it now.’
Then with a rattle of the bolts the door fell open, and the gaoler silently signed to Carrie that she must say her farewells.
‘I shall be allowed to see you once again, Phil,’ she whispered, before she turned away.
Carrie’s coach had been waiting for her at the prison gate all this time. And when she came out, Peter stepped forward to assist her. Carrie got in, and then sat staring before her in a bewildered fashion.
‘Shall we drive home, madam?’ asks Peter, his voice very husky.
‘To——. Yes—to my father’s,’ said Carrie.
CHAPTER XXXIV
In this moment of dismay Carrie’s heart had turned to her father, as the needle turns to the north, with a tenacity of trustfulness that a thousand quarrels would never shake. Here, if anywhere, lay her help, her comfort. She alighted at the door of her old home and passed in without waiting to inquire of Patty whether her father was at home or no. Her trouble would be her passport; she made sure of welcome now, if it had been refused to her in her prosperity.
The dusk had fallen, but firelight lit up the room as Carrie entered; it shone brightly on the polished panelling of the walls with rosy reflection.
Sebastian had just come in; he stood beside the fire; his great figure in the half light seemed to fill the little room. Carrie ran towards him with her arms outstretched and a cry of joy; the sight of him came to her in her distress like the very peace of heaven.
‘Save him! save him, dada!’ she cried, turning back in her extremity to her childish speech.
‘Eh, my poor Carrie!—so trouble hath come to you,’ said Sebastian, ‘and so you are come to me.’ He paused, and looked curiously at his daughter as he spoke. Carrie had changed so much since they parted; in her splendid raiment, her jewels and her laces, she looked such a great lady that Sebastian scarcely recognised her. But Carrie was oblivious of everything, save the one thing at her heart. She caught both Sebastian’s hands in hers, and cried again and again, ‘Save him, dada! Oh, sir, they’re going to hang him—to hang my Philip; he’ll hang ere the month is out if you do not save him.’
Sebastian sat down and Carrie knelt beside him; there was no word of dispute between them now; she gazed up into his face in an agony of entreaty, an ecstasy of confidence.
‘I feared ’twould go badly from the first,’ said Sebastian. ‘Have you seen your husband, Carrie, since the sentence?’
‘Yes, this afternoon. Oh, sir, ’tis impossible that Phil can die.’
‘And what doth he say—how explain this murder to you—to his wife?’ asked Sebastian curiously.
‘He says Simon Prior—(a man, sir, that I always hated, a man I made Phil quarrel with not long ago)—he says Simon Prior must have done it, else he can offer no explanation.’
‘And you—do you not think your husband did it, Carrie?’
Carrie drew back from her father for a moment in horror.
‘Sir!’ she began—but added a moment later—‘but that is because you do not know Phil.’
‘Carrie,’ said Sebastian, leaning forward to take her hand in his, ‘tell me, my child, my joy, the better part of life for me—tell me, are you as happy with Philip as you thought to be? do you love him as first you did? for youthful passions are hot, and many a time burn themselves out.’
‘I love him more a thousand times than when first I loved.’
‘And you believe no ill of him?’
‘As soon I would believe it of you, sir.’
Sebastian rose and began to pace up and down the room.
‘Have they tried for a reprieve, Carrie?’
‘Vainly, sir.’
Carrie sank down, burying her face in the cushions of her father’s chair, and Sebastian paced through the room in silence.
A scheme was already in his mind which would easily enough gain Philip’s release; but whether to do it? Even the sight of Carrie kneeling there in such an abandonment of grief could not move him. Willingly he would see Philip Meadowes die: an offence to him in the very circumstances of his birth; the son of his bitter enemy; himself the man who had stolen Carrie from him—how was it possible that he should work for Philip’s release? Moreover, Philip was a murderer; Carrie might dotingly believe in his innocence—to the world he stood accused; it would be plainly wrong and unprincipled to assist at the reprieve of such a man. No, he would not do it, would never suggest the possibility to Carrie, to any one. Philip should die, and Carrie would return to her father’s house, and they would bury the past in the grave that closed over Richard Meadowes and his son.
So argued Sebastian, as he paced up and down the quiet fire-lit room; then the silence became full of voices—the past sung and whispered to his heart; he was young again, and Annie was with him. Annie seemed now to speak so clearly that she might have been pacing beside him—she spoke always the same words, pleading with him for something with all her soul:—‘If ever you can help my Phil . . . for my sake . . . and forgettin’ Dick Sundon and all his lies.’ She urged again and yet again. The time had come in truth; if ever Phil wanted a helper, he wanted one now, and yet Sebastian held back.
‘Don’t ask it of me, Annie!’ he cried out aloud, forgetful of Carrie’s presence in the fierceness of the mental struggle he was going through. Carrie sat up in surprise at the sound of his voice, and hearing a name she did not know.
‘Did you speak, sir?’ she asked. Her voice woke him to the present, to the realities of things, and his decision was taken in a moment. How had he ever questioned?—he had promised Annie once and for ever to help her son if it ever lay in his power to do so; worthy or unworthy, as Phil might be, that promise must be kept for the sake of the woman who had trusted him. Sebastian flung out his arms with a gesture of relief—like a man who has been long cramped. In the sudden rebound from the tense feeling of the last few minutes, he fairly laughed aloud, then bending over Carrie he raised her face to his, and kissed her wet blue eyes.
‘Come, sweetheart,’ he said. ‘Take courage, mayhap we shall save him yet.’
Carrie held her breath, and Sebastian continued:—
‘My Lady Y—— suffers from an obscure disease of the finger-joints.’ . . . He paused and looked at Carrie for a moment.
‘I scarce see how my Lady Y——’s finger-joints affect my husband’s release, sir,’ pouted Carrie, who thought that her father had taken a sudden and rather unfeeling divergence into his own affairs at this point; but her tears were dried none the less; she listened breathlessly for what Sebastian was going to say next.
‘I have an idea the cure would be simple enough,’ said Sebastian. ‘I’ve seen more of what can be done with cutting than most men, and I’m not afraid of the knife.—Come, Carrie, mayhap we can cut this knot yet.’
‘How? what?’ queried Carrie, mystified.
‘Plainly, I’ll operate on your husband if he hath a mind to give a hand for his life, and an hour of agony.’
Carrie had heard—as what surgeon’s daughter of that day had not heard?—of many a criminal who owed his life to her father’s lancet. It was not an uncommon means of escape from the gallows, though the horror of it made it in every case a last resort. The difficulty of obtaining subjects for operation in those days was such that the surgeons considered themselves lucky when they could get some hapless prisoner to buy his life at their hands. As I say, many a tale of the kind Carrie had heard, yet she whitened now as she realised all that the plan involved.
‘Tush, Carrie,’ laughed her father, patting her white cheek. ‘Many’s the man hath gone through worse at my hands. Ask your old friend Cartwright how I took off his arm, and he’s here still to tell the tale.’
‘Ugh,’ shuddered Carrie.
‘Come, I had not thought to see my daughter a coward,’ urged Sebastian.
‘Will—will you arrange about it, sir?’ said Carrie faintly.
‘I shall see the authorities—then Philip; I have no fear of his refusing: all that a man hath will he give for his life, Carrie.’
‘Will it be very bad, sir?’ asked Carrie.
‘Well, I’ll scarce guarantee him a pleasant hour,’ laughed Sebastian. ‘The last I had under my hands from Newgate made noise enough to deafen one; the one before that had made himself as drunk as a lord, which was wiser in him for certain.’ Poor Carrie, treated to these details—for it was a robust age,—shivered and felt sick with horror.
‘Sir, sir, be quiet!’ she cried, with her fingers in her ears, and Sebastian laughed.
‘Send your coach home, Carrie, and stay with me,’ he said; ‘where else would you stay, now you are in trouble?’
‘Will you have me, sir?’
‘Till brighter days return, my daughter.’
CHAPTER XXXV
I never enter an old house without wishing it had a voice and could tell me all its stories and secrets; but the secrets of Newgate would be such as none of us would listen to willingly—I think we would stop our ears and hasten on were these stones to cry out! Nevertheless one of the Newgate cells could tell of a sunny morning long ago when Caroline Meadowes, Sebastian Shepley, and their friend, Dr. Munro, came together to aid at the release of Carrie’s husband. Philip needed all his light-heartedness that day, for though liberty was drawing near, he was to gain it by a dark enough entrance. As he stood beside the window and looked out into the sunshiny world where men walked free and happy, his thoughts were bitter enough; one man, at least, thought he, walked free that day who should not! Then the door was thrown open, and Carrie and her father came in, followed by Dr. Munro. Carrie was white as a lily, her blue eyes shone like stars; she ran towards her husband and clasped his hands—she could not speak, poor child. Sebastian wore his usual air of decision and cheerfulness; Munro looked with some curiosity at the three people brought together for such a strange purpose. Philip was the first to speak, coming forward with his graceful address to greet Sebastian, as though no disagreement had ever been between them.
‘My dear sir,’ he said, ‘I have no words in which to express my indebtedness to you.’
He spoke with so much of his father’s air and voice that Sebastian had almost recoiled from his outstretched hand, but, recollecting himself, he took it as cordially as might be.
‘This is my friend Dr. Munro,’ he said, ‘who hath come to see us through with this ticklish business.’
‘And hath Carrie come for the same end?’ asked Phil, as he turned to his wife and laughed; ‘I think ’twill be better for her to wait elsewhere till we are done with the matter.’
‘So thought I,’ said Sebastian, ‘but so did not think Carrie. Two hours of fatherly eloquence have I wasted on her this day already, and she hath turned a deaf ear to it all. Come she would, and stay she will, so there’s an end of it. But this I say, the first sound she makes, or tear she sheds, she goes from the room.’
‘Carrie, my sweet, better far go elsewhere and wait; ’twill not be long. I fear you’ll find it painful to watch this,’ said Phil, but Carrie shook her head.
‘Let me stay, Phil; ’twould be harder far not to be near you. I shall not cry nor scream, believe me; I shall be quiet all the time.’
‘Carrie is no coward in truth,’ said her father proudly. ‘Best give her her own way, Meadowes, as she seems determined in it.’
‘As you please, sir,’ he said; and there was a moment of ominous pause.
‘Come,’ said Sebastian; ‘off with your coat, Meadowes; the quicker we get to work the better.’ He turned up his own sleeves as he spoke, and Munro opened out the instruments he carried.
Philip flung off his coat.
‘Which arm, sir? left, I hope?’ he asked, beginning to roll up the shirt-sleeve off his left arm.
‘Left,’ said Sebastian shortly; ‘now lie down and we’ll be as quick as may be. Gad! a fine arm it is, and a fine hand—well, say farewell to it, my man, for ’twill not be fair again, I fear.’
He ran his fingers down Phil’s strong young arm as he spoke. Carrie, who stood beside him, heard him mutter something under his breath. ‘Flesh of her flesh, bone of her bone,’ he said, and Carrie with the self-importance of youth, concluded that her father spoke of her oneness with Philip; she thought of the wedding service: ‘He should have said, “they twain shall be one flesh,” ’ she thought.
‘Go on,’ said Phil; and Sebastian cut sharply into the white flesh. Carrie whitened and shuddered as she saw the first drop of blood—the price of a life—redden her father’s lancet. Then she went over to Phil’s side, and took his right hand in hers and held it fast. Every moment she felt it thrill and twitch, but Phil gave no other sign of what he suffered. Sebastian and Munro, intent on their work, bent over him with a word now and then to each other—it was something in these days to have live tissue to operate on: and poor Philip, between them, suffering the torments of Hades, lay there wondering how long he could hold out, for every second seemed an eternity of pain. At first mere strength supported him, then strength of will, then strength of love, then, when all these resources had failed him, Philip groaned aloud, and fell into blissful forgetfulness.
‘Poor fellow!’ muttered Sebastian. He glanced across at Carrie; she did not stir a muscle.
‘We will not be long now, madam,’ said Munro, with pity for her white face.
‘There—he hath paid dearly for—for life,’ said Sebastian a few minutes later; ‘and I doubt, Munro, my Lady Y——’s courage will not bear her through the same!’ And both the men laughed.
Phil came to himself slowly; and lay white and trembling, his face drawn with pain.
‘When you feel able, Philip,’ said Sebastian, in a voice as kind as a mother’s, bending down to speak to him, ‘I shall take you back to my house—you and Carrie; ’twill be home for you now.’
Philip just smiled and closed his eyes, and wondered vaguely how Dr. Shepley ever got his voice to sound so soft; but Carrie, crossing over to where her father stood, buried her face on his breast and wept her long restrained tears.
CHAPTER XXXVI
Carrie, Philip, and Sebastian formed a curious little household for the next few weeks. Sebastian, who was first a doctor and then a man, deferred his judgment upon Philip’s case in the meantime, and directed his energies to Philip’s recovery. This, with a vigorous young constitution, was not very prolonged, and he was soon going about as usual, only with the maimed hand in a sling. Then, and not till then, Sebastian began to study Philip’s character very carefully. He would sit in silence and look at the young man, puzzling what the truth of this strange business was. For the life of him Sebastian could not resist the charm of Phil’s manner, and found himself unconsciously joining in his jests and his talk; but every one did that—what surprised him much more was to find that he esteemed Philip in his more serious moments. When Philip chose to be serious he was terribly in earnest, compelling attention to his subject, and Sebastian could scarcely believe the evidence of his senses when first he heard him speak in this way.
It was one evening as the two men sat alone together, Carrie having gone out of the room, that Philip began to speak of the future.
‘You know, sir,’ he said, ‘I must begin to earn my living—I cannot let you support my wife, far less myself, and I do not suppose that the fortune which my father meant to leave me can be mine now. Even if it were, I scarce think I could touch it while all the world supposes me to be his murderer.’
Sebastian was silent for a moment, and Phil turned quickly and looked at him.
‘Do you think I did that, sir?’ he asked.
‘If you did, you have the most extraordinary easy conscience of any man I have ever met,’ said Sebastian.
Phil gave a light little sigh. ‘Well, sir, ’tis more than generous of you to house a murderer, even for the sake of your dear daughter.—But to return to what I spoke of first. Murderer or no, I cannot let another man work for me and be idle myself, yet I fear, with the stigma that’s on me now, I can scarce hope for success in any profession here. Sir, do you think I should leave England and make a home for my wife elsewhere?’
‘Yes,’ said Sebastian slowly; ‘I fear ’tis your only chance. But leave Carrie with me meantime—a living, far less a competency, is none so easy to make, as you’ll find when you begin to try to make one.’
‘Oh, I’ve been deucedly rich!’ cried Phil. ‘I should have been working years ago; but I’ll work now like twelve men, sir, to make up for lost time. Tell me, sir, isn’t work a splendid thing? Now, when I see you each day with more than you can overtake, I wish from my heart I’d belonged always to those that toil. Some fraction of it all must live, you know, even of work like yours, sir, that appears to be only from day to day, ’tis really moving the world on. Our horrible idle days are dead before they are half lived!’
‘I never saw you in earnest before, Philip,’ said Sebastian, with a smile for the heat of youth.
‘You see—pardon me—you have not seen very much of me,’ said Phil; ‘but I must be in earnest now: Heaven knows I’ve played myself long enough. ’Tis true I enter into life halt now,’ he added, in a sadder tone.
This was not the last conversation they had on this much-vexed subject of what Phil was to do; but things took on a different complexion suddenly, one night not long after.
There came a thunder upon the knocker and a note from Dr. Munro. It was dated from a house in —— Street, and contained only these words: ‘Do your endeavour to come as speedily as may be, bringing with you Philip Meadowes.’
Sebastian could not explain the strange summons. He passed the note to Philip.
‘Simon Prior lives there,’ said Phil, as he looked at the address.
‘Will you come, then?’
‘Yes, sir; I fancy he hath business with me,’ said Phil. When they reached the house, Munro met them on the stairway.
‘Come this way,’ he said, leading them into a sitting-room. He closed the door and signed to them to sit down.
‘This is the house of Simon Prior, the same who witnessed at your trial,’ he said, with a bow towards Philip. ‘And Simon Prior is taken with seizures that threaten to end his days ere long. Years ago he came under my hands in hospital (do you remember, Shepley? no, why should you?) from a street accident. He seemingly thought me skilful, for now he sends for me again, and this time the case is scarce so easy. Now, since I have been called in, the man has seemed in great trouble of mind—a more arrant coward I never knew—and he takes no rest day nor night, tossing and crying out. Since this afternoon he calls continually to see you, “Philip Meadowes,” and moreover hath made me send by special messenger summoning Judge Matthews to his bedside. His Lordship is not yet arrived, mayhap he will not trouble himself to come, but I have told him that the summons may have special bearings on a certain interesting case he lately tried, so I look to see him shortly.’
Philip said nothing; but he turned his sparkling eyes on Sebastian for a moment.
‘Doth Prior wander in his mind then?’ said Sebastian, a little anxiously.
‘No, he fears death and judgment apparently, but when the terrors pass off him, he is in full possession of his senses.’
‘And he seems anxious to see Philip?’
‘After a fashion. At first he seemed to struggle long about the matter, then asked me if death was near, inevitably, for him, and when I replied that it was, he said, after a pause for thought, “Then send for Philip Meadowes.” ’Twas after that he summoned Judge Matthews, seemingly an afterthought.’
They heard at this moment the sound of Matthews’ arrival in the hall. Munro went out to meet him and usher him in. Philip found himself again in the presence of his Judge.
‘A good evening to you, gentlemen,’ said Matthews. Phil drew himself up proudly and met his surprised look with a steady glance.
‘I fancy we are about to hear a curious statement from Mr. Simon Prior, my Lord,’ said Munro, ‘but before we go into his chamber I had best tell you of his condition. ’Tis critical to a degree, but his mind is clear still. The thoughts that distract him come, I fancy, from an evil conscience, so I have troubled you to come at his bidding and hear whatever he hath to say, in hopes that his mind being put at rest, his bodily state may be bettered. Gentlemen, shall we go into the sick-room?’
They followed Munro into a large dim-lighted room, a silent, curious trio.
Simon Prior at sound of their footsteps started up on his elbow, and peered into the dimness of the shadowy room.
‘Are they come? are all come? Is Philip Meadowes come, and Shepley, and Judge Matthews?’ he said, in an anxious, loud voice.
‘All are come, sir; calm yourself and lie back. My Lord here is willing to hear aught you may have to say,’ said Munro, laying Prior back against the pillows. Matthews stepped forward and stood beside the bed, but at sight of him Prior started up again.
‘The Judge! the Judge!’ he cried, ‘and before day shines I’ll stand before the Judge of All!’
‘Sir, sir, compose yourself,’ said Matthews, as he took a seat by the side of the bed and laid his hand kindly enough across the coverlet. ‘I am come to hear your story; take your time, I shall listen, however long it may be.’
‘Easily told, easily,’ said Prior. He seemed to have strung himself up to tell all his story, for he rattled it off now like a schoolboy who repeats his letters. ‘Easily told—just that I did it—killed Richard Meadowes. I took off my shoes and followed him, trusting to the dark night. Oh, it was all as easy as could be. Then I told him I was Philip—just for vengeance—just because Phil was the only thing he loved on earth, and I wished to make his heart bleed at the last. “I am Philip,” I said in this high voice’—(he broke out into it as he spoke)—‘just as Philip there speaks—and Meadowes believed me. He died believing it. Oh, I paid him out for his treachery, for a thousand treacheries, and he thought his own boy had turned traitor at the last! And I’m glad I did it, for he had thrown me over like an old shoe when I had served his turn. Oh, sin’s easy, easy; nothing so easy as sinning at the first, but now, how am I to die? how am I to die?’
He tossed himself back against the pillows, his arms flung above his head. Philip came forward and stood looking pityingly down at him.
‘Now you have cleared me of this crime, Prior,’ he said, ‘let your mind be easy of that. I am here alive and well, as you see. You have my forgiveness, if that is any comfort to you. Is this all you have to tell us?’
‘All? all?—that’s but the end of a hideous story; the beginning was so long ago I scarce remember it. Always money, money. There was the matter of Anne Champion; but he was to pay every debt I had, you know, and I was hard pressed at the time. Lord lay not that sin to my charge! ’Twas Meadowes’ sin, not mine; and there was that other affair in the year ’24 that——’
‘There,’ said Phil, turning away, ‘I for one have heard all I wish to hear.’
But Prior talked on:—
‘There was the matter of Anne Champion, as I said; listen, Philip, for she was your mother, you know, and you, Shepley, you were her lover once, you remember; come, and I shall tell you all of that I——’
‘Sir, sir,’ said Phil in a low quick whisper to Sebastian, and he pointed to the door. They passed out together, with the sound of Prior’s voice still talking on and on as they closed the door. In silence they passed down the staircase and out into the silent street. They stood together there for a moment without speaking. Then Sebastian laid his hand on Phil’s shoulder.
‘Come, my son,’ he said.
Phil and Carrie were perhaps the happiest man and woman in London that night. And Sebastian Shepley, watching their joy, entered into it and saw in them the bright end of a dark story.
Ah, untraceable jugglery of Time, and Change, and Fate! In all the arts of the conjurer is no trickery like this; from pain and dishonour and treachery, and broken hearts and blighted hopes, from such a soil life sends up her fresh and vigorous shoots, the immortal blossomings of the tree that cannot wither, whose leaves shall surely, at some far-off day, heal the nations!
Mis-spelled words and printer errors have been corrected. Where multiple spellings occur, majority use has been employed.
Punctuation has been maintained except where obvious printer errors occur.