"THOU KNOWEST!"
Mrs. Van Camp put ease and comfort from her, placed Poll in his cage,
and left a bunch of white grapes dangling from its top, hoping that the
fruit might attract his attention sufficiently to stop his hoarse:
"'Omeo! 'Omeo! dead! dead!" that now was more distressing to listen to
than his most distinct profanity. She had dressed herself for the
street, and in her character of god-mother hastened to Sybil's side.
Then, finding her prostrated, and, for the time being, utterly incapable
of action of any kind, like the loyal friend she was, she went on up to
Riverdale at once to the assistance of John Lawton and Leslie Galt; who,
dazed and confused, seemed as helpless as two male babes, until the
bright, clever, capable old lady took charge and gave orders and made
suggestions.
Neither she nor Leslie liked the strange blank look in poor old John
Lawton's eyes. The blow had stunned him seemingly. Yet he was observant
enough about anything affecting his Letitia, and Sybil Van Camp had felt
tears springing to her eyes when, having to enter Mrs. Lawton's
sleeping-room, she saw John catch up the little bottle of rouge vinaigre
from the toilet-table and hide it in his pocket. "Poor, loyal old
gentleman!" she thought; "as if all her world did not know that Letitia
Lawton rouged!"
The absence of his worshipped children made the burden of his grief
almost unbearable. He knew that Dorothy was to be deceived, if possible,
for a few days, so that she might have undiminished strength and courage
for the great trial she was approaching so rapidly; but Sybil--"where
was Sybil?" That was all he said, muttering the words very low.
He could give no assistance to anyone, could not tell where anything
could be found; only he could not be kept away from that white, still
thing, that he looked at with such blank, piteously faded eyes, as
though he were trying to trace in it some resemblance to the light,
frivolous but vivid Letitia, who for twenty-four years had talked him to
sleep o' nights, and whose silence now was so sudden and so cruel.
Once Leslie, coming softly in to try again to lead the old man away,
overheard him murmuring: "She does not come--they are both independent
of me now. I--I--think I'll just go with you Letitia, my dear!" and,
frightened, he turned and sought Mrs. Van Camp.
And that wise woman answered: "You see, you were in error trying to hide
this disaster to Mr. Thrall from him. He thinks Sybil neglects him. The
shock will not break him entirely, as you imagine, but it will arouse
him to a desire to help his child."
"Right!" exclaimed Leslie. "That's the dear old chap all over! We must
make him believe her welfare depends wholly upon his protection and
care--or, indeed, Mrs. Van Camp, I fear he will--well, let us say, let
go!"
And so the kindly conspirators planned that, as the death of Mr. Thrall
could scarcely be kept from Dorothy's knowledge, and if she learned of
it she would think her mother was with Sybil for a few days, the
shattered old man Lawton should be made to believe Sybil's welfare
depended entirely upon him; and Sybil,--poor child!--crushed as she was,
would see at a glance that her father's life depended upon her loving
companionship. And then they led the old gentleman from the darkened
room out to the porch, and, each holding one of his hands, they told him
of the accidental shooting of Mr. Thrall, of the crushing effect of the
double blow upon Sybil. But before their story was done he was drawing
his hands away and crying: "My little girl! my little girl! I must go to
you at once!" and it required the repeated assurance of Mrs. Van Camp
that his child would come to him by an early train next morning to keep
him from hurrying to the city.
When Mrs. Van Camp had left the red brick house with the flower-filled
windows Sybil had raised herself from her pillows and had struck the
small gong-bell on the stand by her bed sharply--twice--three times. And
Stivers called up to her: "In a moment, Miss Sybil!" but did not appear;
and again the gong sounded, and at last the woman came with a cup of
black coffee in her hand. "It's no use frowning, Miss--no use waving
your hand! That doctor gave you an opiate last night, and now you
just--no! I won't listen to what you want until you swallow down this
coffee--to steady your nerves. No! Miss--no! He's not gone yet--there's
no 'extra' out at all. That's some pedler you hear. Take it down now,
all of it. There! You'll be the better for that. Now, what was it you
wanted?"
And Sybil fastened her woful eyes on the woman's face, and begged: "Mrs.
Stivers, will you bring a jeweler here to my room, as quickly as
possible?"
"A--a--what?" stammered Stivers, "a jeweler--no, I can't leave you to go
away over----"
"But," the girl interrupted, "anyone will do--any working jeweler. Right
in the next avenue there is a little shop--you won't be gone more than
fifteen minutes. You must, indeed you _must_!"
"O-o-oh!" thought Stivers; "she wants to get rid of that opal, now all
the damage is done." Aloud she warned: "If you're going to try to do any
business, you don't want a little tu-penny-ha'penny creature like that
to deal with. Well! well! I'm going--but suppose the bell rings? Yes,
I'll hurry!"
White and worn-looking, Sybil fell back upon the pillow, her tumbled
dark hair clouding over her brows, her hot eyes staring before her, and
every nerve tense, waiting for the "E-e-extray! e-e-extray!" at whose
sound her world of love would crumble to nothingness.
Had she or had she not heard Stewart gasp "The word--the _ruby_--?" If
she had, then the word must have had an immense significance for him,
and suddenly her dumb, inert despair was broken by an intense longing to
know what the word was that even rapidly approaching death had not
driven from his recollection. For Sybil did not try to deceive herself.
Anyone hearing that awful breathing must have realized that it meant a
pierced lung, and she had been hopeless from the first. She felt that
the explanation given by Thrall and Roberts was not true--that the
shooting had not been accidental; but she supposed it had been the
motiveless act of a drink-maddened man. For Jim Roberts had never
breathed a hint--drunk or sober--of the miserable fate of his young
sister, still less of his piteous passion of love for herself. So, in
the absence of reasonable motive, she charged the dreadful deed to
drunkenness.
Stivers had eagerly seized upon the cue given by rumor, and declared
that Sybil had been shopping, and was going toward the theatre, when,
etc., etc.; and she had carefully drilled her mistress in this story,
before the arrival of Mrs. Van Camp.
And now the unhappy girl lay there straining her ears for that cry of
"Extra!" that she so dreaded, and tormenting herself with thoughts of
what she might have said and done yesterday, had she not been so
stupefied with terror. At last she heard Stivers opening the door, and
presently she was showing in a sandy-haired, hooked-nosed young man,
with thick red lips and an appraising eye, that seemed at a glance to
put a price upon each article in the room. She took the glittering
diamond heart from her neck, and, placing it in the man's hand, asked
him to remove the back. She would not listen to his proposal to take it
to his shop--it must be done there, even at the risk of scratching the
gold. Scratch or dent it, if he must, but open it he should! At last the
back came off, and the man remarked: "I think there's something engraved
here." But Sybil's hand-clasp covered the inscription. "Wait in the
other room," she commanded.
She bolted the door, flew to the window, and, catching the light upon
the metal, read the word she had worn upon her breast three years--the
word Stewart said made the sole value of the gem--read and fell upon her
knees, and buried her face in the pillow and sobbed and cried: "I
understand you better now, dear heart!" and kissed again and again the
four little letters that formed that one significant word, "Wife."
An hour later the expected cry arose in the street. Hoarse bawling went
up one side and down the other, and Sybil knew the man who had been her
idol, dearer, more precious than the whole great world, he whose love
had been as the very breath of life to her, was gone away forever! And,
lying with the locket pressed against her lips, she breathed: "Wife, you
said, dear heart? Then your widow now, and as loyal in the shadow of
your death as I was in the sunlight of your life!"
* * * * *
In the passenger list there had appeared the names of Mr. J. Lawton
Bassett and daughter, and the pair thus registered had gone on board
over night because of the very early hour of sailing, they said, but it
was really an effort to avoid public notice; and all the bell-ringing,
pulling, hauling, rushing, and trampling were over and comparative quiet
reigned before John Lawton and Sybil, his daughter, ascended to the
deck to look about them and with sad eyes to take farewell of the great
city they loved, with its rapidly softening outlines, blending, blurring
into a grayish mass touched with a few strong darks, many sharp, white
lights, and here and there a gleam from the golden cross of some
sky-piercing spire. As they leaned against the rail, the girl with
cloudy hair, sombre eyes, and black-robed figure clinging to the arm of
the pale old gentleman, also in mourning, they made a pathetic picture.
Silently they watched--each was trying to hide grief for the other's
sake. It was well for Sybil that this helpless old father needed her
devoted care, for an awful temptation had come to her in her despair.
"Oh," she cried, now in her heart, "if I only had Dorothy's faith in
God! Dorothy's hope for the beautiful hereafter! But," she mused
bitterly, "Dorothy has not sinned, while I--and yet, if God is what she
believes Him, He could pity even me!" Then she shivered, for, looking
out over the water, she thought of the exultant old anthem, and quoting
"The sea is His, and He made it!" she felt suddenly that she was too
small, too insignificant, for her cry of repentance to be noticed.
The wind was sharpening. Her thoughts came back to her father. They had
been out there a very long time--too long, and--and what was that
man--the purser--doing? Handing an envelope to a big man already in cap
and ulster, and calling--could she be right--calling: "Miss Lawton? Is a
Miss Sybil Lawton here?" The pilot had been dropped half an hour or
more ago. Why--why, what was this? An envelope thrust into her unwilling
hand, and the purser was away, calling for a Mr. Pemberton Something,
and waving one last missive aloft for its claimant.
"Dorothy!" gasped the old man, and closed his eyes a moment.
Sybil's nervous fingers tore the envelope, and opened the bit of yellow
paper. She read breathlessly, looked about her, passed her hand over her
eyes, read again. And then she flung her arms about her father's
trembling, frail old body, buried her face in his breast, and
laughed--laughed with tears running down her cheeks--laughed and blessed
God for his goodness! Then, looking up at her father's quivering mouth,
she put her fingers on it, saying: "Don't, dada, it's good news--about
Dorothy!"
A smile came to his lips, an eager light to his eyes. "Why! why!" he
said. "I expected the news would be awaiting us at Liverpool; but
really, I----"
Again that hysterical laughter shook the girl. "You're surprised,
darling!" she said, "but wait till you hear the message."
"_Sybil Letitia and Dorothy Grace have arrived. Mother and
both babies well. Look for cable. Leslie._"
John Lawton straightened up suddenly. "W-w-what!" stammered he. "Sybil
Letitia? W-w-y? Who on earth--Dorothy Grace? Why, but that's two, Sybil!
Two's twins! Well, I am astonished--at Dorothy!" And then, before she
could answer, a pleased look came on his face, as he continued: "Poor
Letitia would have thought that so fashionable! I wish she knew, dear!
She so loved to be within the fashion!" He drew Sybil close to him, and
she thought with sick longing of that stronger arm that used to circle
her about so tenderly. He looked backward as he murmured: "Little
Dorrie's babies!" Then, glancing down at the dark, drooping head without
reason, a conviction came to him that Dorothy's children would have to
be Sybil's children, too.
She raised her woful eyes, and, meeting his pitying glance, answered the
look, saying: "Dorothy never failed yet to share her joys with me,
dada!"
He turned his eyes again toward the land they were leaving. "Sybil
Letitia--that's for you and wife. Dorothy Grace--that's for Dorrie and
Leslie's mother. I--didn't he say anything about the color of their
eyes, dear? Strange!" he murmured, discontentedly. "He might have said
_that_ much!"
"Probably we shall learn all you wish at Liverpool, dear!" she patiently
answered, while her heart contracted with a new loneliness. They had
fled together from two freshly made graves, but already it was evident
that baby hands were tuning the worn old heart-strings anew; that these
two creatures, with eyes full of knowledge from the great Beyond, held
speechless till they should forget from whence they came, and allowed
only wordless cries, were yet summoning him, with almost irresistible
power, back, back!
"Do you not think, daughter, that brief trips abroad at frequent
intervals are as beneficial as one more prolonged visit?" he naively
asked, his pale old eyes looking quite eagerly at her.
"Yes, dear," she answered him, and then she led him away, fearing the
effect on him of the cold and the increasing motion. Still he looked
backward, and she persuadingly said: "Go, now, dear, and as soon as you
are safely in your berth I'll come to you, and we will talk----"
"About Dorothy's babies--our little twins?"
"Yes, dada! All about them--their names and probable color, probable
weight, everything we can think of!" And then she went back and looked
long out over the vast gray, pathless expanse. "'The sea is His, and He
made it!' What inconceivable power! And yet that mighty Creator noted
the fall of a sparrow. Oh!" she thought, as she pressed the jewel to her
breast till it hurt the tender flesh. "I--who am widowed for all my
life--I thank you for your mercy and goodness in bringing safe and happy
deliverance to my beloved sister! And humbly I beseech you now, to
deliver me my soul! For I am a sinful woman--troubled and heavy, for
that we lost our way through love! But now I cannot bear my woe alone!
Help me, O mighty and powerful One, hereafter to live according to Thy
will! Purify me in heart and mind, that I may be a fit companion for
those little ones you have sent into our lives!"
She, too, began to feel a longing for sight and touch of those precious
mysteries--Dorrie's babies. Stewart had been so anxious for Dorothy's
welfare. She pressed her locket closer. "Oh!" she thought, "how I will
love them! Sybil Letitia--Dorothy Grace! Yes, you are very nice and
stately, and will look well upon the records, and, later on, upon
marriage cards; but, dear little gifts, you will answer, all your baby
years at least, to the tenderly commonplace Sybbie and Dorrie, so
familiar to a Lawton nursery, and will doubtless be as hardy, happy, and
sturdy as Lawton-Galt babies ought to be! And oh, if you thrive and are
spared to the years of your sweet budding, you shall, by your right
divine, be taught frankly and by high authority those great truths that
are too often learned only in degrading secrecy from unworthy lips. Do I
not know the danger, the cruelty, of sending forth the young in the
innocence of utter ignorance! But you, my Dorrie's little daughters,
shall be taught to look forward to some proud day in your girlhood when,
as a guerdon for patient waiting and unhesitating obedience, you shall
receive from reverent lips knowledge of the mysteries of life and
love--of the almost divine honor of a perfectly pure womanhood! So shall
propinquity be as naught; so no moment of strange, overwhelming
weakness, no sudden flaring up of impulse, shall have power to bewilder
and confuse you, to your harm! And thus, knowing something of both your
weakness and your strength, it will not be in the innocence of ignorance
that you will face the world, but with the clear-eyed, pure-hearted
innocence of wisdom!"
* * * * *
Just then Sybil's skirts snapped in the wind, and whipped close about
her ankles. "Oh!" she exclaimed. "Papa! I must go to papa!" She smiled
faintly as she thought, "While he has been waiting the babies have
grown up into lovely womanhood."
One more long look she gave over the heaving, restless, gray sea, and
suddenly a very agony of grief swept over her. She bowed her head. "I
can't help it," she breathed; "I repent of my sin, yet I still love and
long for him!"
She pressed the locket (with the word) closer. "But I will pray on, all
my life; for"--she raised great tear-brimmed eyes to heaven--"to
understand is to pardon, and 'Thou knowest'!"
THE END.