CHAPTER XIX
"They have all gone?" Luther Williams fixed his eyes on the woman by his side.
"Yes, all gone."
"The old Bible is for Phosie. I want my little girl to have some other things, though her grandmother gave it to me."
Miss Elliott leaned over eagerly. "You are—"
"I am your brother-in-law, Camilla. You have thought so more than once."
"You are Lewis Whitridge! Yes, yes, I have thought so, but I put the idea away, for it seemed beyond reason when there seemed little doubt of his having been dead for years. Lew, poor, dear, noble Lew! If I had known—"
"Not noble, Camilla. I was a wretched man fleeing from the law."
"Yes, but I know why you fled. It was to save my father, who was the guiltier of the two, for he enticed you, a younger man, into sharing his speculations. I know it all."
"He told?"
"No. I think he wanted to at the last, but he could not speak. I found some old letters, Lew, written after you had gone. They told the tale."
"They should have been destroyed. Does she know? My little girl?"
"No, I could not—I could not bring myself to tell her of her grandfather's share in the matter."
"I am glad of that. It would have done no good. She knows nothing then?"
"Nothing, except that her father gave his life for another."
"But I did not even do that."
"You sacrificed it for my father's good name, and leaving that out of the question, you have given it now. You tried to save John Bender."
"But my effort had no effect upon his safety. It was sheer good luck that saved him, and I did not try to save a drowning sailor, as you supposed. I slipped over the side of the vessel as she lay off the Mexican coast. I was always a fair swimmer, and I had no trouble getting to shore where I lay in hiding till the vessel got away. No one discovered—I changed my name, learned the language, and was soon earning my living. I managed to save a little and at the end of a year I yearned for my own country. I didn't want to venture so near home that I would be tempted to try to get a glimpse of those I had parted from forever. I would be no possible Enoch Arden to Lillian. I remembered hearing my father mention this lonely little island, a primitive enough spot then, and it seemed just the place for me. I took a vessel to Portland, a sailing vessel, came down here, where it seemed well to stay. No one has ever known."
"Why did you do it, Lew? Why did you not come back when the deficit was made good, and the matter was hushed up? My father was able to keep it out of the papers, and his influence with the directors of the bank saved the situation, so far as you were concerned, for you were his son-in-law, remember, and no one dreamed that he was the guiltier of the two. Your letters with the instructions about the checks were the ones I found, the last ever received from you."
"There was a little property belonging to me which came from my mother. I had almost forgotten about it. I went West to see about it and found it more valuable than I supposed. I sold it and sent your father the proceeds to pay back the amount I had persuaded myself I had borrowed from the bank. There was a little more than enough to cover my share."
"And the rest my father was able to pay before he died. And we thought—the world thought it was all your debt, yet how paltry your share was compared to his," said Miss Elliott bitterly.
"It does not matter now."
"It has mattered for years. Why did you stay away from Lillian and the child after all had been made right?"
"You forget that in the eyes of the world I was still responsible for the entire amount. Besides, there was another reason. I should have stayed away, anyhow, for Lillian's sake. I didn't know about the child. I heard from your father only in answer to those letters, that was just before I left for Mexico. His chief concern was the matter of the money. He did not mention Lillian. I asked him not to. I couldn't bear it, so I never knew that my little girl was born. After I had made restitution it seemed to me that there was nothing left for me to do but to cut loose from everything that should remind me of the old days. I would burn my ships behind me. I wonder why your father kept my letters, Camilla."
Miss Elliott gave a quick sob. "They were his punishment, Lew. He never recovered from the shock of your supposed death. I think he kept the letters as a sort of penance, to remind him of what you had done for him, and I think he meant us to discover them. He had not the courage, after you had disappeared absolutely, to tell the truth, and to lose the reputation he had always gloried in, but at the last he tried, I am convinced now. He died a poor man for he paid back all he owed—and we thought it was for you—oh, Lew!"
"Never mind. I am glad of what I did for him, though I am afraid he suffered more than I, after all."
"Poor father, poor father! Yes, I am sure he did. You knew my mother, Lew, and how dependent a nature hers was. She knew nothing of business matters and could scarcely be induced to look at one of father's papers after his death. That is why your letters lay so long unknown."
"It was all for the best—all—all, for Lillian did not love me. She cared for some one else, as you know, but your father liked me. He admired my fearless ventures in which I was for awhile successful, as he was, too. He had befriended my father when they were lads together, and my father was in danger of going wrong, so I felt I could repay by shielding my father's friend and mine. When discovery was sure to come, as we thought, I said to Mr. Elliott, 'You're not to appear in this. Why should we both suffer? It will kill your wife, and bring the greatest trouble to mine.' You know how they both adored him, Camilla, how they thought him the very pattern of a man. You know how he was honored and looked up to by everyone. Why implicate him when his would be the greater fall? As for me, Lillian, who had married me for money, would not tolerate me when I should be stripped of both money and character. She had already told me that she never loved me. Was it not better that I, who had lost all I cared for, should spare the others? 'The greatest good to the greatest number,' that was how it was. There might be a hue and cry for a little while, but the bank would not allow its depositors to suffer, and I could slip out of sight and be forgotten, while Lillian, in time, would perhaps marry some one who could make her happy, the man whom she really cared for. But she did not marry again?"
"No. Her early lover married just after Gwen was born, and I do not think she cared then, for she had her baby to comfort her. She was all in all to Lillian during the six years she lived. Oh Lew, it was hard for you, hard all around."
"Yes, it was hard—then—but it is all over now, and at the last I have had a great joy, and at the end there is peace. Poor little light-hearted Lillian, she had her sorrows, too. I felt so sure she would marry again, but I could not bear to have my belief made a certainty, and it was only when Gwen told me of her mother that I knew that the thing I dreaded had not happened after all. It must have been hard for you, Camilla, to have them all taken within so few years."
"Yes, though I had been so much from home that Lillian and I were almost strangers. Gwen has been a great comfort and happiness to me. She is much like you, Lew, in spirit, though more like her mother in appearance."
"God was good to let me have my little girl for a short time, and I thank you, Camilla, for all you have done for her. She must never know. There would have to be too many explanations, and it is better she should believe as she does, that she lost her father long ago. It would be a new grief to her to have the story told her now. You will not let her know that her father left a smirched character behind when he left his home."
"Don't, Lew. Dear brother, you long ago made restitution, and have paid a hard penalty for your folly."
"Yes, I have paid; that is a comfort. It doesn't excuse my past misdeeds, the borrowing a little more, a little more, hoping in the end to realize so much that it would be easy to pay back. It doesn't excuse that, but that I have lived to be honored and respected means much."
A spasm of pain passed over his face. "I am afraid you are tired, you are suffering," said Miss Elliott anxiously.
"A little maybe, but it will soon be over. Another swallow of the medicine maybe will be best."
She gave it to him and he lay quite still for a few minutes, then he turned his eyes upon her wistfully. "You promise she shall not know, Camilla."
"I promise she shall never think ill of her father. Before they are married I shall tell Kenneth the story of your love and sacrifice, and if any knowledge of that cloudy past should ever come to Gwen, I shall say to Kenneth that he must let her know the truth, so she will know how truly noble her father was. That is only justice, Lew. It is what my father would wish I am sure. I will consent to all else, to allowing the cloud to rest entirely upon you, so far as the world is concerned, but if there is ever a shadow of doubt in Gwen's mind it must be cleared so far as possible. You allow that I am right, Lew. It would be my father's wish, poor, proud, mistaken father!" The tears fell upon the hand she held.
"There, Camilla, there! It is past and gone. It may be he and I will meet in another world where we can straighten it all out."
"And Lillian, too. She will know, perhaps. In that other world our eyes must be opened to our earthly errors, and she will understand. That other life must surely compensate if there is any merit in noble sacrifice."
"I believe it will be all right. You will let them lay me there, over on the island, where I have been able to hold up my head among men?"
"I, Lew? Why should I raise a finger to prevent the carrying out of any wish of yours?"
"There is a little money. I have been a successful fisherman. I might have left it to my good friends the Tibbetts, but Cap'n Ben is not a poor man, and their wants are few. Good little Phosie, if I left it to her it might make gossip—besides now there is my own flesh and blood. So it must go to Gwen and the boy. Then they can marry and have enough. If this had not happened I might have found another way, but this is best, and I am content—more than content to die here where Luther Williams lived." He paused and motioned to the glass standing near. Miss Elliott gave him the medicine and he went on. "It may seem best to say that I discovered her to be the nearest relative for whom I cared at all. You can verify that, if necessary, and you can say that for family reasons I did not correspond with any of my distant kin. I think there will be no trouble. My lawyer in Portland will make everything right." He closed his eyes as if having finished, but he opened them presently. "You forgive me, Camilla?"
"Forgive you, Lew? It is I who should ask forgiveness for my people, for Lillian, for my father."
"No, no, that is all over. I have not a bitter thought against anyone. I have not been unhappy here. It has been peaceful, and at last—at last, Camilla, you brought her. Think of that! My little girl. I never dreamed of, or hoped for such happiness as I have had this summer past. And she loves her Daddy Lu. God bless the darling child. Kenneth is a good lad. I have taken pains to study him well. He will make her happy. Thank you for bringing her to me, Camilla." His voice had sunk into a whisper, and the last words were spoken with effort. His eyes closed again, and seeing that he made no further attempt to speak, Miss Elliott stole softly from the room to summon the others.
The autumn afternoon was closing. Royal colors blazed in the sunset sky. The wind had died down, and only a gentle plash of waves was heard. The bell-buoy, which all day long had sent forth its melancholy note at short intervals, but once in a while pealed faintly now.
The doctor put his finger on the patient's pulse. "He is sinking fast," he said in a low tone to Cap'n Ben. "He cannot last long."
Luther Williams raised his drooping lids and let his gaze rest on Gwen as he whispered a few words. She leaned over to hear. "Would you mind kissing me good-by," she heard. She did not hesitate to respond and he sighed contentedly. After a while he spoke again. "Phosie, where's Phosie?" His hand groped for the Bible. "I want you to have it. You have been good to me, Phosie, and sometimes—" The voice died away.
Miss Phosie knelt by the bed, clasping the Bible. The wandering hand found her free one presently and held it. So he drifted peacefully into a safe harbor just as Halfway Light sent its far-reaching beams over the waters.
It was a solemn procession which moved up the cove on the day that Luther Williams was laid away in the quiet burying-ground. Not a boat but went out to meet that one which brought him back to the spot where he had lived so long and so well. As Cap'n Ben's dory sailed ahead bearing its honored and beloved burden, each craft fell into line, and all moved slowly, slowly toward the island, the dories going first, the little row-boats following after. Into the house that had been home to him for so long, they bore Luther Williams. Not a window-plant anywhere about but was robbed of bud and blossom to be carried to Cap'n Ben's as a last offering to the man whom all his friends honored. Sorrowful as Kenneth felt he could but realize the picturesqueness of this fisherman's funeral cortege on the water, and it was scarcely less so on shore when everyone, on foot, followed the sturdy pall-bearers down the long road to the small enclosure, where under the October sky, and within sound of the breakers rested the quiet sleepers who had made their last port.
"'So shall they come to the haven where they would be,'" murmured Miss Elliott as they walked away. "How much better to leave one that you love, there in that peaceful place than to think of him still buffetting with the storms of life, with the waves of trouble that might wreck him utterly. He is spared much, dear child." She spoke to Gwen who was sobbing softly, while the tears welled constantly to Miss Elliott's own eyes.
"I know all that," replied the girl, "but when I think of him only a few days ago, so alive and well, so full of our plans, so helpful and kind to everyone, I cannot feel reconciled to his going."
"It is not you who will miss him most, my dear," said Miss Elliott; "it is those who for twenty years have seen him go and come, who have depended upon his unostentatious acts of kindness, his little deeds of willing service, and among them all it is Miss Phosie who will mourn longest, who will miss the ministering to his wants, who will have to become used to the silence of his room, who can no more watch for him at noon and at night. Yes, Gwen, he was but a new pleasure in your life, and when you go back home you will not miss him from your accustomed surroundings. Miss Phosie will have no one to take his place. Her lot is the hardest."
Gwen wiped her eyes and took hold of her aunt's hand. "Do you think—" she began.
Miss Elliott understood. "I think hers has been the devotion of years. You did not see her when she made her last farewell and put her one white rose into his hand. I did. At such times one sees to the depth of a human heart. I tell you because I want you always to cherish and love Miss Phosie as you would one who had been your own father's best friend."
Gwen's tears again flowed. "Dear Miss Phosie," she said. "You may be sure, Aunt Cam, that I shall always love her for what she did for Daddy Lu."
They were walking on alone. Kenneth had lingered with Cap'n Ben's family. "Aunt Cam," said Gwen after a while, "what was it Daddy Lu wanted to talk to you about, that last time?"
"About a sad family misunderstanding which he has not liked to mention to anyone," replied Miss Elliott quietly. She had been prepared for this question. "He also wanted to say," she went on, "that he had decided to leave his savings to you, or at least most of them, since you seem to be the nearest relative for whom he entertained any affection."
"Then he was really a relative."
"Yes, he had made investigations which gave him proof of that. Cap'n Ben says the will was probably made but a few days ago. Mr. Williams told him it was that which took him to Portland recently. He gave Cap'n Ben the name of the lawyer who drew it up and who has it now in his possession. Cap'n Ben is one of the executors I believe, while I am the other."
"It seems almost as if he must have had a premonition," said Gwen thoughtfully. "And to think he cared for me that much. Dear man! there will never be his like again. It does not seem possible that we had known him only this short time. I feel as if we had been friends always."
"Evidently he had the warmest affection for you," said Miss Elliott unsteadily, as she wiped her eyes.
"Shall we have to stay here longer, on account of the will?" asked Gwen presently.
"Not here I think, but maybe for a few days in Portland, so we will keep to our original plan of closing Wits' End next week."
Therefore when the boat left the wharf early the following Monday, it bore away Miss Elliott, Gwen and Kenneth. The two latter stood together watching first the houses then the last bit of Sheldon woods disappear from view.
"Such an eventful summer it has been," said Gwen as they swung around into the bay and lost sight of Fielding's Island.
"It has brought joy and sorrow to us both," returned Kenneth.
"In spite of the sorrow I hate to leave the dear island," said Gwen. "Could anyone ever have supposed I should find not only you there, Kenneth, but that I should have met a relative who learned to care so much for me that he named me as principal legatee in his will. I never dreamed that such a thing could ever come to me. Truly it is the unexpected that has happened. Dear Daddy Lu, if only he could have lived, and we all have been happy together. I shall never forget him, never. Oh, Kenneth, here is where we used to turn to go to his retreat as I called it. Everything reminds me of him—everything." Her eyes filled.
"Don't grieve for him, dearest. He wanted you to be happy. It would please him best to know he had helped to make you so."
"I can be happy after a while, perhaps, but not now—not yet. If we could but be together—you and I as we have been this summer."
"But we are coming back," replied Kenneth—"and it will be together."