THE ODOUR OF ROSEMARY.
It happened as Joshua had calculated. The sun was setting as he
entered quiet Penmoyle. The walk from Truro had tired him more than
he had supposed possible. He could hardly drag himself along the last
mile or so of the dusty road, between hedges where the dog-roses and
honeysuckle climbed high above his head, and where the foxgloves were
opening their purple bells. The salt sea-wind, sweeping over yonder
swelling hills, seemed to have lost its refreshing power. He turned
his eyes wearily towards the western point--the wild Land’s End, with
its rocks of many-hued granite, on which the sea-gulls and cormorants
were perching in the rosy evening light. The scene was so familiar to
him that he could see it all, in that clear vision of the mind, as
he turned his gaze westward. Was there anything on this vast earth
more beautiful, he wondered, than that wild point of English soil,
with the great Atlantic waves for ever beating up against it--an
impregnable natural fortress, the rocky seat of dead and gone giants,
for ever defying the assaults of ocean?
His thoughts wandered a good deal during these last miles, when his
body was racked with the pains of exceeding fatigue. He thought of
Nicholas Wild, his old pupil, and the little chapel among yonder
hills. The young man had written him long letters, telling him of
the rich reward that had crowned his labours, and how he had built a
school for the children of his flock. Joshua had been too preoccupied
to take any notice of the letters, and the memory of that neglect
smote him now as he came nearer his pupil’s home.
‘Poor Nicholas! he was always faithful and affectionate. We will go
and see him, my wife and I,’ Joshua said to himself.
At last the old square tower of Penmoyle church rose in its gray
severity above the avenue of limes that led to it. Then came the
well-known street; the chestnut-grove where the children played at
eventide; the inn; the village pump; the cocks and hens, and a
vagabond pig picking up unconsidered trifles in the middle of the
road; the old yellow wagon turned up on end after a day’s usefulness.
The sun was still visible--a shining crimson disk on the edge of the
western hill.
It was a mere foolishness, no doubt, and Joshua chid himself for so
weak a regret, but he felt strangely disappointed when he came in
sight of the little green gate before Miss Webling’s cottage, and
did not see the graceful figure of his wife standing there, just as
he had seen her that happy afternoon two years ago, when he had come
full of benevolent intentions, and ignorant of his heart’s mystery.
He had counted on seeing her there. It would have been the natural
fulfilment of his dream, it seemed to him, that she should be on the
watch for his coming. She had called him, and, by some mystic power
beyond the limits of flesh and blood, he had heard her summons. Why
was she not watching for him, full of faith in his obedience? Was his
sympathy with her stronger than hers with him?
He passed the chestnut-grove. It seemed to him that the children
were less noisy than of old. They were there under the spreading
branches, the same boys and girls--the fustian jackets and lavender
pinafores, the petticoated little ones, with chubby cheeks and great
staring brown eyes. But there was a hush upon the scene. The elder
children were congregated in little knots talking. Some of them
suddenly perceived him, and there was a curious excitement among them
immediately, and much whispering, and some pointing at him with eager
fingers; and he could see that they all stopped their talk or games
to watch him.
Joshua walked slowly towards the green gate, strangely disappointed
and depressed. The windows of the Webling cottage faced south-west,
and it was only natural that the spotless blinds should be drawn to
exclude such a blaze of sunset; but it gave the house a blank look
not the less. The casements offered him no smile of welcome.
Here was a friendly welcome, however, from an unexpected direction.
Before Joshua had opened the gate, Mr. Martin, the kind old minister,
came hurrying across from his dwelling on the other side of the
road, and clasped him by both hands, and looked at him with eyes
brimming over with tears.
‘God bless you! God sustain and comfort you, my beloved friend!’
he cried. ‘I was watching for you. O, be composed, my friend,
be composed! Such a blessed euthanasia! The precious soul of my
Elizabeth was not more spotless or fitter for heaven. Dear friend,
let us go in together.’
Joshua turned and looked at him with wild wondering eyes; then
wrenched himself suddenly from the old man’s friendly grasp, and
moved towards the door.
‘No, no,’ he muttered; ‘I don’t want you. I am going alone--to see
my wife. Cynthia!’ he called, as he opened the door. ‘Cynthia!’ in a
louder and more urgent tone--‘Cynthia, where are you?’
A fiery impatience had taken hold of him. He could not wait for
formalities of any kind. The Miss Weblings would come, and there
would be stately greetings, and cake and wine brought out of the
wainscot cupboard, and all manner of ceremonies before he could open
his arms and clasp his ill-used wife to his heart, and weep over her
and be forgiven.
Deborah came out of the kitchen, and took his hands, just as old Mr.
Martin had done, and looked at him in the same tearful way.
Were the people all mad here, or was he? Even the children had seemed
to look at him strangely.
‘Dearest friend,’ said Deborah, ‘this is a sore trial for all of us.
Priscilla has been in hysterics all day; out of one fit into another.
Quite dreadful! The feathers we’ve burnt, and the vinegar, and all to
no purpose. She has such a feeling heart.’
It was Priscilla who was ill, then. That’s what all this fuss meant.
‘I want to see my wife,’ Joshua said shortly.
‘At once?’ faltered Deborah, looking at him timorously.
‘Yes, at once; this instant. Have I not come all these weary miles to
see her? This instant.’
‘O dear sir, what need of impatience? Be calm, I beg you.’
The doors of both parlours were open. Joshua had glanced in and seen
that both rooms were empty.
‘Where is she?’ he asked. ‘Up-stairs?’
‘Yes, in our spare room,’ Deborah answered huskily. ‘Let me show you
the way.’
‘I know it,’ he said; and went up-stairs before her.
The narrow corkscrew staircase was close and dark, like the winding
stair in a church-tower. Midway Joshua started as if he had been
shot, and came to a standstill.
There was a pungent odour of freshly-gathered herbs, a perfume he had
not smelt thus, on the threshold of a bedchamber, since his mother’s
death.
‘My God!’ he cried. ‘Is it rosemary?’
‘Yes,’ sobbed Deborah, ‘we always use it here. We’ve a bush in the
garden on purpose. The neighbours come and beg a bunch of it when
they’ve a death in the house.’
Joshua staggered up the few steep stairs, lifted the jingling latch
of the low wainscot door, and went into the room in which he had
slept two years ago, when the new joys and pains of love began to
grow in his heart.
That odour of rosemary had forewarned him what he was to see. No
living wife, standing on the threshold to greet him, with warm arms
ready to be wound about his neck--no sweet eyes lifted shyly to meet
his own--no faltering words, or half-broken sobs: only a fair marble
statue lying on a white flower-strewn bed, hands meekly folded,
violet-veined eyelids closed over wearied eyes--a broken heart for
ever at rest.
He stood looking at her for a long time, as it seemed to the
heart-stricken Deborah--looking at her with eyes that hung upon that
silent beauty in a rapture of despair; then flung up his arms with a
sudden gurgling cry, and fell upon the floor beside her bed like a
stone.
* * * * *
He remained unconscious for many hours, breathing stertorously, and
lying like a log upon the bed where his faithful attendants had
laid him. The village doctor had bled him, and administered various
orthodox remedies of a severe character, with but little result.
Mr. Martin, the good old dissenting minister, stayed with him all
through the weary night, which might know no dawn in this world. The
spinster sisters were indefatigable, Priscilla waiving her peculiar
prerogative of hysterics in her desire to be useful.
The sun had risen, and the birds were singing outside the open
casements, when Joshua slowly lifted his heavy lids and looked about
him with dim bloodshot eyes.
For some minutes after he had struggled back to consciousness there
was a dimness in his brain as well as in his eyes, and he looked at
the anxious watchful faces vaguely. Then memory came back with cruel
distinctness.
‘Tell me--everything,’ he said.
‘Dear friend,’ pleaded Mr. Martin, ‘let your mind be at rest for a
little while. Repose, dear sir; you have been heavily afflicted, and
you have had a stroke of illness which might have been fatal, had God
refused to hear our earnest prayers.’
‘Tell me about my wife,’ urged Joshua vehemently.
‘She is at rest. She has gone to her heavenly home. I, who was with
her at the last, have no doubt of her calling and election. She
was one of God’s chosen vessels, with a mind naturally attuned to
heavenly things, like that pure spirit, my heavenly-minded Elizabeth,
whose deathbed conversations it was my precious privilege to preserve
for the edification of many. Yes, she came very near that sainted
young woman in the holy simplicity of her nature.’
‘What was it that killed her?’ asked Joshua, putting aside all these
words with a motion of his strong hand. ‘Did she die of a broken
heart? Was it my ill-usage that caused her death?’
‘Your ill-usage, dear friend! Your senses must be wandering. She
always talked of you as the best and most honoured of husbands.
Ill-usage, and from you! She loved you above all earthly things. Your
name was on her lips with her last breath.’
‘Yes,’ cried Joshua, ‘she called me, and I heard her. Give me my
watch,’ pointing to the chest of drawers where it lay; ‘see, I
stopped the hands at the moment in which I heard her voice calling to
me in a kind of dream--not a common dream, mark you--twice as vivid
and lifelike. It was after midnight on Sunday; see, twenty minutes
past one.’
‘“This is the Lord’s doing; it is marvellous in our eyes!”’ exclaimed
Mr. Martin piously. ‘It was at that very hour her spirit took flight.’
‘Why was I not told that she was ill--dying?’ asked Joshua.
‘It was her wish that you should not be troubled. “He will send for
me or come for me when he wants me to go home again,” she said. “He
has higher things than me to think about.” She was so earnest in this
wish that we did not like to overrule her.’
‘And nobody thought that she was dangerously ill,’ explained Deborah.
‘The doctor couldn’t make her out. That was what he always said.
It was one of the strangest cases he’d ever had to deal with. Some
days she seemed so well and bright; and she was always industrious,
anxious to be doing something for us; household work or needlework,
it was all the same--we couldn’t give her enough to do.’
‘The journey here hurt her a great deal, I think,’ said Priscilla,
‘though she would never own to it. She walked a good bit of the way,
I believe, and she was footsore and very weak when she came. I opened
the door to her at dusk one evening, and I almost thought she was a
ghost. “I want to be your servant, dear Miss Priscilla,” she said,
“as I was in the old happy days.” “Why, Mrs. Haggard,” said I, “what
would your honoured husband think of such a notion?” But I’d hardly
got out the words before she fell down in a faint at my feet; and for
a week after that we had her laid up, and as low as could be.’
‘And you never wrote to me about her!’ cried Joshua, with agonised
reproach.
‘Well, the truth was we didn’t like. We thought there was something
wrong--a family quarrel perhaps, second marriages often turn out
so--and the poor thing seemed to have come to us for refuge, and
clung to us so; and if ever we talked of writing to you she seemed so
distressed. And we had always been fond of her, and had missed her
dreadfully after her marriage. She seemed like a daughter to us now
she had come back; and I’m sure we nursed her and took care of her in
her illness as if she’d really been a daughter, as I know Mr. Martin
will bear witness.’
‘You did,’ said the minister; ‘she could not have had better nursing
or kinder treatment.’
‘It was only just at the last that there was any mention of danger,’
continued Deborah. ‘On Saturday morning the doctor found her very
low, poor dear, and her mind was wandering a little. He seemed quite
distressed as he came down-stairs with me, as if it was a shock to
him to find her so. “I don’t at all like her looks this morning, Miss
Webling,” he said; “I begin to be afraid we shall lose her.” I never
had such a turn in my life. Poor Priscilla and I were almost beside
ourselves with grief, and it was as much as I could do to write you a
letter, begging you to come at once. You don’t seem to have received
that letter.’
‘No, it must have been delivered after I left home. The post is so
slow; you should have sent a messenger. Tell me, for God’s sake--did
she die happy, and did she love me at the last?’
‘At the last, and always,’ answered Mr. Martin earnestly. ‘She bared
her heart to me. I knew all its secrets, its waverings from the
right, its weakness. She had always loved and revered you. She had
been tempted, poor child, and her fancy had strayed to another for a
little while--only a little while. Heart and mind were true to her
duty. She was worthy of your fondest love; she was worthy of your
deepest regret.’
‘And I cast her from me, I repudiated her, I spurned her as the
vilest of sinners! O friend, can her injured spirit look down upon me
from heaven, and pity? Can God ever pardon my sin? He gave me this
sweet flower to wear in my bosom, and I cast it from me, and trampled
it under foot. I have steeped my soul in sin, I have dyed my hands
with blood!’
The two spinsters and the minister looked at each other with an
awful significance. These remorseful utterances seemed to them the
tokens of a wandering mind. That this man, their model and pattern of
uprightness, could deeply err came hardly within the limits of belief.