_FROM THE DEAD_
“My lady, I cannot stay, but I must be the one to bring the news. He is
living after all.”
Bride had risen from her knees at the sound of hurrying steps along
the corridor, and now stood face to face with the faithful old nurse,
who with the doctor had been fighting the two hours’ battle, in the
teeth of almost hopeless despair, over the rigid and motionless form of
Eustace Marchmont, and now she stood white and panting before her young
mistress, but with tears of gladness standing in her eyes.
Bride raised her face for a moment, her eyes alight with the intensity
of her thanksgiving. The dawn was just stealing in through the
uncurtained window. She looked for a moment at the crimson blush in the
east, and then suddenly bent her head and kissed the faithful woman
beside her.
“Thank God!” she said very softly; “and thank you, dear nurse, for I
know how you have been toiling for him--and for me.”
“Oh, my Ladybird, it would have broken my heart if he had slipped away
out of life just when--but there, there! I mustn’t stop to talk. And we
mustn’t build too much on keeping him here. He’s been a terrible time
in the water, and been fearfully dashed about. He’ll have a fight to
pull through; but then he’s young and strong, and he’ll have the best
sort of hope to help him. There, deary, there, there! I can’t linger
longer. There’s a deal to be done, and the doctor has to go when he can
spare a moment to look to that other poor fellow. I don’t know which is
the worst of the two, but they are both of them alive at least.”
“Saul too? Ah! I am glad!” cried Bride; and then the nurse hurried
away, and she sat down after the long strain of those strange hours,
and tried to collect her scattered thoughts.
Eustace living--though by no means out of danger! Ah! but was it not
enough just now to be assured that the life was still in him? Surely
since God had given him back in answer to her prayers, He had spared
him for some great purpose. He had brought him to the very gates
of death, but had brought him back therefrom already. Was not that
evidence that he was spared for some good purpose? Might she not look
forward in faith and confidence to Him, Who had saved him from these
terrible bodily perils, that He would also be with him in any other
trial that might lie before him, bodily or spiritual? Need she be
fearful or troubled any more after the wonderful experiences of the
past night? Eustace had been given back to her prayers. What need she
fear when that proof of Fatherly love was hers?
Bride mechanically put the finishing touches to her toilet, and washed
from her face the traces of her long vigil; then, unable to remain
inactive any longer, she left her room and descended the staircase, the
light broadening and strengthening in the sky as she did so, as the sun
rose from behind banks of low-lying cloud, and looked forth upon the
new day now begun.
The great door at the far end of the hall stood wide open to the breezy
morning, and even as Bride reached the foot of the staircase a tall
figure darkened it for a moment, and Mr. Tremodart came in with an
uncertain air, glancing about him here and there, as if in search of
something or some one.
Bride stepped forward and held out her hand.
“You have heard?” she asked briefly.
“Ah yes! it is a terrible thing, a terrible thing! Lady Bride, it
makes me feel that I must send in my resignation to the Bishop, and
ask him to appoint another pastor to this flock. Surely had I done my
duty, they would not now be such savages and fiends! I have been down
with them, poor miserable men! I have been hearing their confession.
They have been led away by a spirit stronger than their own. The Lord
forgive me! Perhaps had I been more to them and more with them, they
would not have hearkened to such evil counsel!”
The clergyman’s remorse was painful to see. Bride had grown to feel
a great liking and respect for Mr. Tremodart during the past year.
That he was somewhat out of his element as a parish priest, she never
attempted to deny. That he had been placed in his present position
without any real aptitude for his vocation, he never himself denied;
but he had tried to do his duty according to his own lights; and though
often too much engrossed in his favourite pursuits to give all the time
he should have done to his flock, he had never neglected to respond to
a summons from any one of them, however personally inconvenient, and
had always striven to relieve distress, both of body and mind, as far
as in him lay, though his methods were sometimes clumsy, and his words
halting and lame.
Still on the whole he had won the respect and liking of his flock,
and the confidence of the black sheep better, perhaps, than a more
truly earnest and devoted man might have done. The fishermen were not
afraid of him. They knew he understood their ways of thinking, and had
a sympathy with them even in their peccadillos. He did not receive or
purchase smuggled goods, as too many of his profession did in those
days; but he did not look with any very great displeasure on a traffic
that he had been used to all his life, and which seemed almost a part
of the economy of life. But with all his faults and his easy-going
ways, he had never for a moment encouraged indifference to human
life or suffering; and the knowledge that the men of Bride’s Bay had
deliberately lured to her doom a great vessel, from which only one man
had been rescued alive, was a terrible thought. The moment the news had
been brought to him, Mr. Tremodart had hastened down to the shore to
learn the truth of the matter, and had now come to the castle with a
grave face and heavy heart, to seek news of the survivor, and the man
who had been found with him.
“Perhaps we might all have done more for them than we did,” said Bride
gently; “but men will listen so much more readily to the voice of the
tempter than to those who would hold them back from their sinful deeds.
And Saul Tresithny had such power over them! I fear it was he who led
them on.”
“Ay! ay! there can be no doubting that. One and all, they all say it.
’Twas his doing--his planning from first to last. They, poor fellows,
thought of the spoil to be had, and listened with greedy ears; but he
was thinking darker thoughts, I fear. They say he wanted nothing for
himself. All his mind was fixed upon some evil hope of vengeance. His
hatred for mankind had driven him well-nigh mad. Ah! Lady Bride, I
think that we may well say that if God is Love--as we have His blessed
assurance--then the devil is--hatred. For sure only the devil himself
could so have inspired that spirit of hatred which could vent itself in
such an act as that of last night.”
“Indeed, I think so,” answered Bride, in a low tone of great feeling.
“It is too terrible to think of. What will happen to those poor men?
Where are they now?”
“The officers have taken them. I fear they will be committed for trial.
I scarce know the penalty--transportation, I should think. Perhaps a
few may be released--a few of the younger men; but example will be made
of some. It would scarce be right to wish it otherwise. That noble
vessel! and all hands lost, and every soul on board save one! Ah me! ah
me! And the men of St. Bride the culprits! I could sink to the ground
for shame!”
“Do you know who the survivor is?” asked Bride.
“Nay; I did but hear he had been carried here--he and Tresithny, locked
in one embrace, none knowing whether either were alive or dead. I came
for news of them.”
“They are both living--now,” answered Bride, with a strange light in
her eyes, “though we must not build too much on that. The survivor from
the wreck is our kinsman, Eustace Marchmont.”
“God bless my soul! you don’t say so?” cried the clergyman, starting
back in great astonishment.
“Yes,” answered Bride; “we were expecting him shortly, and he spoke of
coming by sea in one of the new steam-ships. That was the one which was
wrecked last night. Eustace was there. He had on a great life-belt, and
Saul was clinging round him when they were carried in. Saul had been
left behind on the wreck whilst the other men took their first load of
spoil to shore. What happened then nobody yet knows; but when my father
and his men reached the wreck, they found those two in the water,
floating near to it at the end of a rope--whether alive or dead, it was
hours before anybody knew.”
“You don’t say so? What an extraordinary thing! Do you think they were
struggling together in the water? Could Saul have been striving to do
some injury to Mr. Marchmont----?”
“Oh no, no,” cried Bride quickly; “I am sure that was not so. What
it all means I cannot tell yet; but I know that Saul loved Eustace. I
think he was the only being in the world he has ever truly loved. I
cannot help thinking he was trying to save him--trying to draw him out
of the water. But we may never know the truth of it. Yet I shall never
believe that Saul would lift up a hand against Eustace.”
“I trust not--I trust not. Ah! poor fellow, it will be a mercy for him
if he die a natural death from exposure. He has nothing to live for
now, I fear, save transportation or the gallows.”
Bride turned pale and took a backward step. That aspect of the case had
not struck her before.
“Ah!” she exclaimed, with a little gasp, and was silent, trying to take
it all in. Oh, that blind, misguided nature, warped and deformed by
unreasoning and unreasonable hatred! How had the springs of nobility
lying latent there been poisoned at their very source! How had the
man’s whole career been blasted and shattered through the entering in
of that demon of jealousy and hatred, which had gradually struggled
with and overpowered every other emotion, and become absolute master of
the man! And there had been a time when Saul had been spoken of as a
youth of such promise. Alas! how had that promise been fulfilled?
Bride and the clergyman stood facing each other in silence, the morning
sunshine lying in broad bands across the paved floor of the hall,
and the sounds of life from without speaking cheerful things of the
awakening day. The butler came forward and broke the spell of silent
musing by informing his young mistress that breakfast had been carried
in, but that His Grace was still resting after the fatigues of the
night, and did not wish to be disturbed.
“Then you will breakfast with me, Mr. Tremodart,” said Bride, “and then
we will ask for fresh news of the patients.”
The meal was a silent one, but both stood in need of refreshment and
felt strengthened by it. At the conclusion Bride rose up, and looking
at her companion said--
“Will you come with me? I am going to ask news of him at his door.
Perhaps, if he is conscious, he will like to see you. I fear his life
will be in danger for some time. He may feel the need of your presence.”
“I--I--hardly know whether I could help him if such were the case,”
answered Mr. Tremodart, always rather nervous at the prospect of being
called upon for spiritual ministrations, especially by those of the
educated and superior classes. He was not a man of ready speech, and
felt his deficiency greatly. “Perhaps Mr. St. Aubyn would come,” he
suggested. “I think he knows Mr. Marchmont better than I.”
“I think it is likely he will come when he hears,” answered Bride; “but
we belong to you too, Mr. Tremodart, and at least you will come and
hear the news from the sick-room?”
He was very anxious to do so, and followed the girl up the staircase
and along the corridors. Bride paused at length at a half-open door. It
led into a pleasant room furnished as a study, and beyond it was the
bedroom, from which proceeded a quiet murmur of voices.
Bride held her breath to listen. Was it Eustace speaking? No, she
thought it was the doctor; but was there not a still lower voice, a
mere whisper? or was it only the beating of her heart?
The door of communication opened suddenly, and the nurse came out. Her
face lighted at the sight of Bride.
“Oh, my lady, I think he is asking for you. We can’t quite make out his
words. He has no voice, and scarce any breath; but I saw his lips move,
and I’m almost sure he’s saying your name. We can’t tell whether he
knows us yet--whether his mind is there. But I think if you would go in
to him we might be able to tell.”
Bride looked at her companion.
“Let us go in together,” she said, feeling a strange desire for the
support of another presence. She hardly knew what it was that she
would be called upon to witness in that room; but at least Eustace was
there--Eustace was still living; and if he wanted her, was not that
enough?
Her face was very pale, but her manner was quite composed as she walked
forward, passed the screen, and stood beside the bed.
Upon the bed, perfectly flat, with only one thin pillow beneath his
head, lay Eustace, as motionless and almost as rigid as though life
were extinct. His arms lay passively outside the bed-clothing just
as they had been placed. The left arm was bound up in a splint, but
the right lay almost as helpless and powerless beside him. There was
a white bandage about his head, and his face was almost as white as
the linen. The lips were ashen grey, and a shadow seemed to rest upon
the face, robbing it of almost all semblance of life. Only the eyes
retained any of their colour. They were sunken and dim, but there was
life in their glance yet; and as Bride stood beside him, and softly
spoke his name, a sudden gleam of joyous recognition flashed from them,
and the white lips curved to the faint semblance of a smile.
“Bride,” he said, in the lowest whisper.
She took the powerless hand in his, and then bent down and kissed him.
“I am here, Eustace, I am with you. You will live for my sake,” she
said, in soft clear tones, which seemed to penetrate the mists of
weakness closing him in. The dim eyes brightened more and more, and
fixed themselves upon her fair, sweet face. She felt a very slight
answering pressure of the fingers she held, and again she heard the
whisper of her name.
The doctor was standing a little distance off. He had known Bride from
her infancy, and was watching the little scene with extreme interest,
both professional and personal. Now he came forward and stood on the
other side of the bed; his kind old face was beaming with satisfaction.
“That is good, very good, Lady Bride,” he said; “I can see what is the
medicine our patient wants. You have done more for him in a minute than
I have been able to do all these hours. We want him to get a grip on
life again--just to help him to hold on to it till Nature can make up
for the terrible exhaustion of those hours in the water. Now look here,
it’s most important he should take the hot soup and the cordial nurse
has over there. We can’t get more than a few drops down at a time, but
perhaps you will be more successful. We are keeping up the animal heat
by outward applications, but we must keep the furnace inside going
still. Try what you can do for him, my dear. I think you have made him
understand as we have not succeeded in doing yet.”
The nurse came to the bedside with cup and spoon, and Bride took them
from her hand. With a gentle tenderness almost like that of a mother
she bent over Eustace, raised his head as she had been wont to do for
her mother in her long last illness, and gave him what the doctor bade
her.
He swallowed it without a murmur, perfectly understanding her voice
and touch. Three or four spoonsful were taken in this way, the doctor
looking on and slightly rubbing his hands.
“If you can stay with him two hours, and feed him like that every ten
minutes, Lady Bride,” he said, “I think we shall see a change for the
better by that time. Everything depends on keeping up the vital power.
It was down to the very lowest ebb when he was brought in. If he had
not the most magnificent constitution, he could never have survived all
that exposure. It will be everything if he can be kept up. Will you be
his nurse for to-day, and keep guard over him? You can do more than all
the rest of us put together. Are you willing?”
Bride desired nothing better. She had hardly dared to let herself hope
to see Eustace for many days, and here she was established beside him
as head-nurse, and the person most needful to his recovery. Her heart
bounded within her as the doctor and Mr. Tremodart stole away together
to visit the other patient, and she found herself left in charge of her
lover.
Yes, she called him so now without hesitation or fear. She had long
known that love was stealing more and more into her heart, and latterly
she had not been afraid to face the thought and to follow it to its
conclusion.
She loved Eustace, and he loved her. She had heard that from his own
lips before she had had any love to give to him. But since she had
begun to pray for him, to intercede for him, to bring his name into the
presence of God day by day and night by night, not in despondency, but
in perfect faith, faith that her prayers for him would be heard and
answered, and that the Father would turn his heart homewards, and go
forth to meet him when once his steps were homeward set--since she had
begun to think of him and pray for him thus, love had gradually stolen
into her heart; whilst since the strange events of the past night, when
their spirits had met in the darkness and the storm, and God had used
her as an instrument for the saving of her lover’s life, she had not
feared to recognise that love, and to call Eustace her own.
His eyes were turned now upon her with a restful look of infinite
content. He did not try to speak; he had not strength to return the
soft pressure of her hand from time to time, but he lay and looked
at her; and when she bent over him, and spoke his name in words that
sounded like a caress, and touched his brow with her lips, or smoothed
away the dank tumbled hair, he smiled a slight smile of restful peace,
and he never resisted her pleading voice when she put food to his lips,
and bade him make the effort to swallow it “for her sake.”
Two hours had gone by thus, and Bride began to see a slight, indefinite
change in her patient. The grey shadow was lighter than it had been.
There was more brightness in the eyes; once or twice she had heard a
whispered “thank you” spoken, and when the sound of the opening door
fell upon their ears, he as well as she looked to see who was coming--a
plain proof of a distinct advance in his condition.
It was the Duke. He looked weary and worn and pale. He had not escaped
without some exhaustion and suffering from the effects of the night’s
adventure, and was feeling old and shaken, as indeed he looked. But
sleep had restored him to some extent, and now his anxiety had brought
him to Eustace’s side. His face lighted with pleasure as he saw the
look of recognition on the white face, and noted that Bride had taken
up her station beside the bed.
He came forward and stood beside them, looking down at his young
kinsman.
“You are better, Eustace?” he said kindly; and to Bride’s surprise the
answer came quite audibly, though only in a very faint whisper--
“Bride is giving me new life.”
“That is well, very well. Do not talk. Keep quiet, and Bride will take
care of you;” and at that moment the doctor came back, and looked at
his patient with an emphatic nod of approval.
“Very good, very good, couldn’t be better. Lady Bride, if you will only
go on as successfully as you have begun, we shall have him round the
corner by the time the day is over. A magnificent constitution--truly
a magnificent one! Could not have believed it! Gave very little signs
of life four hours ago--just a flicker; but I was afraid to hope too
much, and now--why, there’s quite a pulse, and no fever. Wonderful!
wonderful!”
Eustace was growing drowsy by this time--a very favourable symptom in
the doctor’s sight. The murmur of voices about him induced a state of
dreamy torpor. His eyes closed, and he dropped off into a light dose,
as people do who are very weak, but have no fever or pain. Bride looked
up with a smile at her father.
“He will be better if he sleeps,” she said. “Will you not sit down,
papa? you look so tired.”
The doctor gave a shrewd glance at the Duke’s face, and seconded his
daughter’s recommendation. They drew a little away from the bed, and
Bride asked softly--
“What about Saul?”
The doctor shook his head.
“He is in a raging fever. Whether it is an affection of the brain,
or the effects of the exposure and wetting on a constitution already
much enfeebled, I hardly know yet, but he is in raving delirium at
present, and I doubt if we pull him through. Poor fellow! poor fellow!
It is a fine character blasted and ruined, a fine career flung away
for the gratification of senseless passion! Ah me!--we live in a world
of perplexities. The history of that young man has been a source of
wonderment and sorrow to the whole place. I fear it is drawing to its
close now.”
“Perhaps that is the happiest thing for him,” said Bride softly, “if
only----”
She did not finish her sentence--there was no need. All who knew the
young man’s story could finish it themselves. As the girl sat beside
Eustace whilst the hours sped by, each one renewing her hope and sense
of thankful relief in seeing the flame of life within him burn more
steadily and brightly, her thoughts were much with that other patient
lying not so far away, wondering what was going on in his soul, and
whether this chastening had indeed been for the salvation of his soul.
Towards evening Eustace was so wonderfully recovered that he had
spoken a few short sentences, and would have told her something of the
wreck of the vessel, only that consecutive speech was forbidden him.
The grey shadow had vanished, a faint colour had come into his lips.
He was able to take such nourishment as his condition required, and to
dispense with much of the outward application of heat. At last he fell
into a sound, refreshing, and perfectly natural sleep, and Bride, at
the suggestion of the nurse, stole away to get a mouthful of air on the
terrace before dark, after which she went herself to that other part of
the house where Saul lay, to try to get speech of Abner, who was with
his grandson, as he had been ever since he was brought in the previous
night.
The old man came out to her, looking bent and aged, but with a light in
his eyes which Bride saw at once.
“Is he better?” she asked eagerly; and the answer was curious.
“I trust and hope that he is, my lady. I think that he has prayed.”
“Prayed?” repeated Bride, her eyes lighting in quick response. “Ah,
Abner!--then he must indeed be better!”
“I think he will die,” said Abner, with quiet calmness; “but what
matters the death of the corruptible body, if the spark of immortal
life and love be quickened in the soul? My lady, in his ravings of
fever my boy has laid bare his soul to me--all the terrible darkness,
all the wild hatred, all the fearful thoughts which went to prompt
that last dread act of his life. But he has told other things as well.
He has told how, whilst he sat alone upon the wreck, gloating over
the crime he had committed, he saw an object in the water, and knew
that one of his victims was near him. I cannot paint that scene as he
has painted it in his ravings, but I think I see it all. He turned
his light upon the victim, and he saw the face of Mr. Marchmont, his
friend. Then I think he saw his handiwork as it appears in the sight
of God. He saw himself the blackest of sinners, and with a prayer on
his lips that he might be permitted to make this atonement, he sprang
into the water to strive and save Mr. Marchmont, who else must surely
have been sucked back into the cruel quicksands lying so close at hand.”
“Ah!” cried Bride softly, “I said so--I thought so!”
“So he tied himself to the vessel--ah! he has been acting it all so
fearfully, that I can see it as though I had been there!--he flung
himself into the sea and grappled with the floating figure, trying
to pull it to the wreck and place it in safety. Ah! how he must have
struggled with the wind and tide that were fighting against him! but
in his mortal agony he turned in prayer to the God he had despised and
defied, and prayed to Him that this life--this one life--might be given
to him. Ah! how many times has that prayer passed his lips to-day--‘God
help me! God give me strength! God be merciful to me, a sinner!’ He
knows not what he says now, but he knew it when he lifted his heart
in prayer in the hour of his extremest need. It was not for his own
life he prayed, but for the life of the one he sought to save. I truly
believe that in those terrible moments he lived through a lifetime
of agony and repentance. God does not measure time as we do. I think
He will accept those moments of agonised penitence as He accepted
the repentance of the thief upon the cross. I think he looked to his
Saviour in that hour of mortal weakness and despair, when life and all
seemed slipping away. Last night was the witness of the crowning sin of
his reckless life, yet I believe, by the grace of God, it was witness,
too, of a penitent malefactor turning towards Him at the last. This
gives me more hope and joy than I have ever known before for him.”
Bride went away with a great awe upon her--a deep respect and sympathy
for the faith of this patient man, and a sense of the intense reality
of the power of prayer such as she had scarcely experienced in her
life before. She knew that Abner had been praying for the conversion
of Saul, even as she had been praying that Eustace might turn in faith
towards the God of Salvation. Once it had seemed as though nothing
could conquer the invincible wildness of the one or the intellectual
scepticism of the other. But God had put forth His hand in power, and
had caused that even the powers of evil should aid in bringing about
the answer. She wanted to think it out. She wanted to be alone in her
awe and her thankfulness. She went swiftly up to her own room, and sank
upon her knees, burying her face in her hands.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]