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.