"THAT CAD SAWYER."--PART II.
"Did the road wind uphill all the way?
Yes to the very end."
CHRISTINA ROSSETTI.
Grandmother's voice had faltered a little now and then during the latter
part of her reading. The children looked at each other significantly.
"Uncle Carlo _died_ you know," whispered Sylvia again to Ralph and Molly.
"And uncle Jack too," said Ralph.
"Yes, but much longer after. Uncle _Carlo_ was only a boy when he died,"
said Molly, as if the fact infinitely aggravated the sorrow in his case.
Their whispering did not interrupt their grandmother this time. She had
already paused.
"I think, dears," she said, "I had better read the rest to-morrow
evening. There is a good deal more of it, and my voice gets tired after
a while."
"Couldn't I read it for you, mother dear?" said aunty.
Grandmother smiled a little roguishly. "No, my dear, thank you," she
said. "I think I like best to read myself what I have written myself. And
you, according to that, will have your turn soon, Laura."
"_Mother!_ how did you find out what I was doing?" exclaimed aunty.
"A little bird told me, of course," said grandmother, smiling. "You know
how clever my little birds are."
During this mysterious conversation the children had sat with wide open
eyes and puzzled faces. Suddenly a light broke upon Sylvia.
"I know, I know," she cried. "_Aunty's_ writing a story for us too. Oh,
you delightful aunty!"
"Oh you beautiful aunty! oh you delicious aunty!" echoed Molly. "Why
don't you say something too, Ralph?" she exclaimed, turning reproachfully
to her brother. "You like stories just as much as we do--you know you
do."
"But you and Sylvia have used up all the adjectives," said Ralph. "What
_can_ I call aunty, unless I say she's a very jolly fellow?"
"Reserve your raptures, my dears," said aunty, "'The proof of the
pudding's in the eating,' remember. Perhaps you may not care for my story
when you hear it. I am quite willing to wait for your thanks till you
have heard it."
"But any way, aunty dear, we'll thank you for having _tried_," said Molly
encouragingly. "I daresay it won't be _quite_ as nice as grandmother's.
You see you're so much younger, and then I don't think anybody _could_
tell stories like her, could they? But, grandmother dear," she went on,
"would you mind telling me one thing? When people write stories how do
they know all the things they tell? How do you know what poor Mr. Sawyer
said to himself when he was alone in his room that day? Did he ever tell
anybody? I know the story's true, because uncle Jack told it you himself,
only I can't make out how you got to know all those bits of it, like."
"What a goose you are, Molly!" exclaimed both Ralph and Sylvia. "How
could any stories ever be written if people went on about them like
that?"
But Molly's honest puzzled face made grandmother smile.
"I know how you mean, dear," she said, "I used to think like that myself.
No, I don't know _exactly_ the very words Mr. Sawyer said to himself,
but, judging from my knowledge of the whole story, I put myself, as it
were, in his place, and picture to myself what I would have said. I told
you I had altered it a little. When your uncle wrote it out it was all in
the first person, but not having been an eye-witness, as he was, it
seemed to me I could better give the _spirit_ of the story by putting it
into this form. Do you understand at all better, dear? When you have
heard the whole to the end you will do so, I think. All the part about
Carlo I had from his own lips."
"Thank you, grandmother dear. I think I understand," said Molly, and she
was philosophical enough to take no notice of the repeated whisper which
reached her ears alone. "Oh, you _are_ a goose!"
It was not till the next evening that grandmother went on with the second
part of her story.
"What do all those stars mean?" asked Molly, peeping over her
grandmother's shoulder before she began to read. "Look Sylvia, how
funny!" and she pointed to a long row of * * * * at the end of the
first part of the manuscript.
"They mean that some length of time had elapsed between the two parts of
the story," said grandmother.
"Oh, I see. And each star counts for a year. I suppose. Let me see; one,
two, three----"
"Molly, _do_ be quiet, and let grandmother go on," said Ralph and Sylvia,
their patience exhausted.
"No, they are not counted like that," said grandmother. "Listen, Molly,
and you will hear for yourself."
"The first part of my little story finished in the snow--on a cold
December morning in England. The second part begins in a very different
scene and many, many miles away from Ryeburn. Three or four years have
passed. Some of those we left boys are now men--many changes have taken
place. Instead of December, it is August. Instead of England we have a
far away country, which till that time, when the interest of the whole
world was suddenly concentrated on it, had been but little known and
still less thought of by the dwellers in more civilised lands. It is the
Crimea, children, and the Crimea on a broiling, stifling August day. At
the present time when we speak and think of that dreadful war and the
sufferings it entailed, it is above all the _winters_ there that we
recall with the greatest horror--those terrible 'Crimean winters.' But
those who went through it all have often assured me that the miseries of
the summers--of some part of them at least--were in their way quite as
great, or worse. What could be much worse? The suffocating heat; the
absence, or almost total absence, of shade; the dust and the dirt, and
the poisonous flies; the foul water and half-putrid food? Bad for the
sound ones, or those as yet so--and oh, how intolerably dreadful for the
sick!
"'What could be much worse?' thought Jack Berkeley to himself, as after a
long killing spell in the trenches he at last got back to his tent for a
few hours' rest.
"'My own mother wouldn't know me,' he said to himself, as out of a sort
of half melancholy mischief he glanced at his face in the little bit of
cracked looking-glass which was all he had to adorn himself by. He was
feeling utterly worn out and depressed--so many of his friends and
companions were dead or dying--knocked down at that time quite as much by
disease as by Russian bullets--in many cases the more terrible death of
the two. And things in general were looking black. It was an anxious and
weariful time.
"Jack threw himself on the bed. He was too tired to undress. All he
longed for was coolness and sleep--the first the less attainable of the
two, for the thin sides of his tent were as powerless to keep out the
scorching heat as the biting cold, and it was not till many more months
of both heat and cold had passed that any better shelter was provided for
him or his fellows.
"But heat and flies notwithstanding Jack fell asleep, and had slept
soundly for an hour or two when he was suddenly awakened by a voice
calling him by name.
"'Berkeley,' it said, 'you are Berkeley of the 300th, aren't you? I am
sorry to awaken you if you're not, but I couldn't see your servant about
anywhere to ask. There's a poor fellow dying, down at Kadikoi, asking for
Berkeley--Jack Berkeley of the 300th.'
"'Yes, that's me,' said Jack, rubbing his eyes with his smoke-begrimed
hands, which he had neither had energy nor water to wash before he fell
asleep. 'That's me, sure enough. Who is it? What does he want?'
"'I don't know who he is,' replied the other. 'I didn't hear his name.
He's not one of us. He's a poor devil who's out here as a correspondent
to some paper--I forget which--he's only been out a short time. He's
dying of dysentery--quite alone, near our quarters. I'm Montagu of the
25th Hussars--Captain Montagu, and our doctor, who's looking after him,
sent in for me, knowing I'd been at Ryeburn, as the poor fellow said
something about it. But it must have been after my time. I left in '48.'
"'I don't think I remember you,' said Jack meditatively. 'But you may
have been among the upper boys when I was one of the small ones.'
"'Sure to have been,' said Captain Montagu. 'But about this poor fellow.
He was so disappointed when he found I was a stranger to him that I said
I'd try to find some other Ryeburn boy who might remember him. And some
one or other mentioned you, so I came over to look you up.'
"'Very good of you,' said Jack, who was still, however, feeling so sleepy
that he could almost have wished Captain Montagu had _not_ been so good.
'Shall I go back with you to Kadikoi? Very likely it's some one I did not
know either, still one can but try.'
"'You're very tired,' said Montagu, sympathisingly. 'I am sorry to give
you such a long walk. But the doctor said he couldn't last long, and the
poor fellow seemed so eager when he heard your name.'
"'Oh, he _does_ know me then?' said Jack, his interest reviving. 'I
didn't understand.'
"'Oh yes. I mentioned your name when I heard it, and he said at once if
it was _Jack_ Berkeley he would extremely like to see him. It was stupid
of me not to ask his name.'
"'I'll be ready to go with you in a moment,' said Jack, after frantic
efforts discovering in a bucket a very small reserve of water with which
he managed to wash his face clear of some part of its grimy covering.
'My servant's gone to Balaclava to see what he could get in the way of
food for a change from these dreadful salt rations. He brought me a
bottle of porter the other day; it cost three shillings, but I never
enjoyed anything so much in my life.'
"'I can quite believe it,' said Captain Montagu feelingly. 'Your servant
must be worth his weight in gold.'
"In another minute they were on their way. The sun was beginning to sink,
fortunately; it was not _quite_ so hot as a few hours previously. But it
was quite as dusty, and the walking along a recently and roughly made
track, not worthy the name of road, was very tiring. It was fully five
miles to Kadikoi--five miles across a bare, dried-up country, from which
all traces of the scanty cultivation it had ever received were fast
disappearing under the present state of things. There was not a tree,
hardly a stunted shrub, to be seen, and the ground--at best but a few
inches of poor soil above the sterile rock, felt hard and unyielding
as well as rough. It was a relief of its kind at last to quit the level
ground for the slope leading down to Balaclava, where, though they were
too small to afford anything in the shape of shade, the sight of some
few, starved-looking bushes and some remains of what might once have been
grass, refreshed the eye, at once wearied and dazzled by the glare and
monotony of the sun-dried plain.
"The tent to which Captain Montagu led the way stood by itself on some
rising ground, a little behind the row of nondescript hovels or mud huts
representing what had been the little hamlet of Kadikoi. It looked
wretched enough as the two young men made their way in, but everywhere
looked wretched, only the bareness and comfortlessness impressed one
doubly when viewed in connection with physical suffering that would have
been hard to endure even with all the alleviations and tenderness of
friends and home about one.
"The doctor was just leaving the tent--his time was all too precious
to give much of it where it was evident that his skill could be of no
avail--but before going he had done what he could for the sick man's
comfort, and he lay now, pale, worn, and wan, but no longer in pain, and
by the bedside--a low narrow camp stretcher--sat a young soldier, holding
from time to time a cup of water to the dry lips of the dying man. Clumsy
he might be, but there was no lack of tenderness in his manner or
expression.
"That's one of our men that the doctor sent in,' whispered Montagu; 'the
poor fellow there had been lying alone for two or three days, and no one
knew. His Greek servant--scoundrels those fellows are--had deserted him.'
"Jack cautiously approached the bed.
"'This is Mr. Berkeley--Jack Berkeley of the 300th, whom you said you
would like to see,' said Captain Montagu gently, stepping in front of
Jack.
"The sick man's eyes lightened up, and a faint flush rose in his cheeks.
He was very fair, and lying there looked very young, younger somehow than
Jack had expected. _Had_ he ever seen him before? There was nothing
remarkable about the face except its peculiarly gentle and placid
expression--yet it was a face of considerable resolution as well, and
there were lines about the mouth which told of endurance and fortitude,
almost contradicting the wistfulness of the boyish-looking blue eyes.
Jack grew more and more puzzled. _Something_ seemed familiar to him,
yet----
"'How good, how very good of you to come. Do you remember me, Berkeley?'
said the invalid, feebly stretching out a thin hand, which Jack
instinctively took and held gently in his own strong grasp.
"Jack hesitated. A look of disappointment overspread the pale face.
"'I am afraid you don't know me. Perhaps you would not have come if you
had understood who it was.'
"'I did not hear your name,' said Jack, very gently, 'but, of course,
hearing you wished to see me----' he hesitated. 'Were we at Ryeburn
together?'
"'Yes,' said the dying man. 'My--my name is Sawyer--Philip Sawyer--but
you only knew my surname, of course.'
"Jack understood it all. Even before the name was mentioned, the
slight nervous stammer, the faint peculiarity of accent, had recalled
to his memory the poor young junior master, whose short, apparently
unsuccessful, Ryeburn career had left its mark on the lives of others
besides his own.
"_Jack_ understood--not so the sick man. He was surprised and almost
bewildered by the eagerness with which his visitor received his
announcement.
"'Sawyer, Mr. Sawyer!' he exclaimed. 'You cannot imagine how glad I am
to see you again. I don't mean--I am terribly sorry to see you like
this--but I have so often wished to find you, and I could never succeed
in doing so.'
"He turned as he spoke to Captain Montagu.
"'I'll stay with him for an hour or two--as long as I can,' he said.
'I think,----' he added, glancing at the extempore sick-nurse, and
hesitating a little. Captain Montagu understood the glance.
"'Come, Watson,' he said to the young soldier, 'Mr. Berkeley will sit
with--with Mr.----'
"'Sawyer,' said Jack.
--"'With Mr. Sawyer for a while. Shall he return in an hour, Berkeley?'
"'Thank you, yes,' said Jack, and then he found himself alone with his
old master.
"'You said you tried to trace me after I left Ryeburn,' said Sawyer.
'Will you tell me why? There was no special reason for it, was there? I
know I was disliked, but the sort of enmity I incurred must soon have
died out. I was too insignificant for it to last. And the one great
endeavour I made was to injure no one. That was why I left
hurriedly--before I should be forced to make any complaints.'
"He stopped--exhausted already by what he had said. 'And I have so much
to say to him,' he whispered regretfully to himself.
"'I know,' said Jack sadly. 'I understood it all before you had left many
months.'
"Mr. Sawyer looked pleased but surprised.
"'It is very kind of you to speak so,' he said. 'I remember that dear
little brother of yours when he came to see me off that last morning--I
remember his saying, 'I'm sure Jack would have come if he had thought of
it.' You don't know what a comfort the remembrance of that boy has been
to me sometimes. You must tell him so. Dear me--he must be nearly grown
up. Is he too in the army?'
"'No, oh no,' said Jack. 'He--he died the year after you knew him.'
"Sawyer's eyes looked up wistfully in Jack's face. 'Dead?' he said. 'That
dear boy?'
"'Yes,' Jack went on. 'It was of scarlet fever. It was very bad at
Ryeburn that half. We both had it, but I was soon well again. It was not
till Carlo was ill that he told me of having run over to wish you
good-bye that morning--he had been afraid I would laugh at him for being
soft-hearted--what a young brute I was--forgive my speaking so, Sawyer,
but I can't look back to that time without shame. What a life we led you,
and how you bore it! You were too good for us.'
"Sawyer smiled. 'No,' he said. 'I cannot see it that way. I had not the
knack of it--I was not fit for the position. The boys were very good
boys, as boys go. It would have been inexcusable of me to have made them
suffer for what, after all, was an unfortunate circumstance only. I had
attempted what I could not manage. And Carlo--he is dead--somehow,
perhaps because I am so near death myself, it does not shock or startle
me. Dear little fellow that he was!'
"'And while he was ill he was constantly talking about you. It seemed the
only thing on his conscience, poor little chap, that he had joined at all
in our treatment of you. And he begged me--I would have promised him
anything, but by that time I saw it plainly enough for myself--to try to
find you and ask you to forgive us both. But I little thought it would
have been like this--I had fancied sometimes----' Jack hesitated, and the
colour deepened in his sunburnt cheeks.
"'What?' said Mr. Sawyer. 'Do not be afraid of my misunderstanding
anything you say.'
"'I had hoped perhaps that if I found you again I might be able to be of
some use to you. And now it is too late. For you see we owe you some
reparation for indirectly forcing you to leave Ryeburn--you might have
risen there--who knows? I can see now what a capital teacher you were.'
"Mr. Sawyer shook his head.
"'I know I could teach,' he said, 'but that was all. I did not understand
boys' ways. I never was a boy myself. But put all this out of your mind,
Berkeley, for ever. In spite of all the disappointment, I was very happy
at Ryeburn. The living among so many healthy-minded happy human beings
was a new and pleasant experience to me. Short as it was, no part of my
life has left a pleasanter remembrance. You say you would like to do
something for me. Will you write to my mother after I am gone, and tell
her? Tell her how little I suffered, and how good every one was to me,
a perfect stranger. Will you do this?'
"Jack bent his head. 'Willingly,' he said.
"'You will find her address in this book,' he went on, handing a thick
leather pocket-book to Jack. 'Also a sort of will--roughly drawn up, but
correctly--leaving her all I have, and the amount of that, and the Bank
it is in--all is noted. I have knocked about so--since I was at Ryeburn I
have tried so many things and been in so many places, I have learnt to
face all eventualities. I was so pleased to get the chance of coming out
here----'
"He stopped again.
"'You must not tire yourself so,' said Jack.
"'What does it matter? I can die so much more easily if I leave things
clear--for, trifling as they are, my poor mother's comfort depends on
them. And I am so glad too for you to understand about me, Berkeley. That
day--it went to my heart to have to refuse you about the subscription for
the fireworks.'
"'Don't speak of it. I know you had some good motive,' said Jack.
"'Necessity--sheer, hard necessity,' said poor Sawyer. 'The money I had
got that morning was only just in time to save my younger brother from
life-long disgrace, perhaps imprisonment.'
"Then painfully--in short and broken sentences--he related to Jack
the history of his hard, sad, but heroic life. _He_ did not think it
heroic--it seemed to him, in his single-minded conscientiousness, that
he had done no more than his duty, and that but imperfectly. He had given
his life for others, and, hardest of all, for others who had little
appreciated his devotion.
"'My father died when I was only about twelve,' he said. 'He had been a
clergyman, but his health failed, and he had to leave England and take a
small charge in Switzerland. There he met my mother--a Swiss, and there I
was partly brought up. When he died he told me I must take his place as
head of the family. I was not so attractive as my brother and sister; I
was shy and reserved. Naturally my mother cared most for them. I fear she
was too indulgent. My sister married badly, and I had to try to help her.
My poor brother, he was always in trouble and yet he meant well----'
"And so he told Jack the whole melancholy history, entering into details
which I have forgotten, and which, even if I remembered them, it would be
only painful to relate. His brother was now in America--doing well he
hoped, thanks of course to him; his sister's circumstances too had
improved. For the first time in his life Sawyer had begun to feel his
burdens lessening, when he was brought face to face with the knowledge
that all in this world was over for him. Uncomplainingly he had, through
all these long years, borne the heat and burden of the day; rest for him
was to be elsewhere, not here. But as he had met life, so he now met
death--calmly and unrepiningly, certain that hard as it had been hard as
it seemed now, it must yet be for the best--the solving of the riddle he
left to God.
"And his last thought was for others--for the mother who had so little
appreciated him, who required to lose him, perhaps, to bring home to her
his whole value.
"'I have always foreseen the possibility of this,' he said, 'and prepared
for it as best I could. Besides the money I have confided to you, I
insured my life, most fortunately, last year. She will have enough to get
on pretty comfortably--and tell her,' he hesitated, 'I don't think she
will miss me very much. I have never had the knack of drawing much
affection to myself. But tell her I was quite satisfied that it is all
for the best, and Louis may yet return to cheer her old age.'
"Jack stayed till he could stay no longer. Then, with a grasp of the hand
which meant more than many words, he left his new, yet old friend,
promising to be down again at Kadikoi first thing in the morning. 'But
take the papers with you, Berkeley, the papers and the pocket-book, in
case, you know----' were Sawyer's last words to him.
"Jack was even earlier the next day than he had expected. But when he got
to the tent the canvas door was drawn to.
"'Asleep?' he said to the doctor of the 25th Hussars, who came up at that
moment, recognizing him.
"'Yes,' said the doctor, bending his head reverently, as he said the
word.
"He unfastened the door, and signed to Jack to follow him. Jack
understood--yes, asleep indeed. There he lay--all the pain and anxiety
over, and as the two men gazed at the peaceful face, there came into
Jack's mind the same words which his mother had whispered over the dead
face of his little brother,
"'Of such is the kingdom of Heaven'."