and illiterate old woman, who had loved Salome as her own child, Salome
turned to her baby to pour forth upon it, undivided, the rich torrent of
her love, gushing tinged with blood from a wounded heart.
There exists a sympathetic tie in nature and in human relations of which
Philip had never thought--that between the mother and the babe. And now
the wrong done to the mother reacted, revenged itself on her child. The
little one had been ailing for a while, now it became seriously ill.
The strain to which Salome had been put made itself felt in the weak
frame of the infant that clung to her breast. Salome would allow no one
to nurse her darling but herself whilst its precious life was in danger,
and the child would, on its part, allow no one else to touch it. It
sobbed and cried and demanded of its mother infinite patience and pity,
unwearied rocking in her arms and hugging to her heart, a thousand
kisses, and many tears, words of infinite love and soothing addressed to
it, soft sighs breathed over it from an utterly weary bosom, and earnest
prayers, voiceless often, but ever ascending, as the steam of the earth
to heaven.
For awhile, care for the babe excluded all other thoughts, devoured all
other cares. Through the long still night Salome was by her child; she
did not go to bed, she sat in the room by its crib, sometimes taking it
on her lap, in her arms, then, when it was composed to sleep, laying it
again in its cradle. She heard every stroke of the clock at every hour.
She could not sleep, she could but watch and pray.
Every hour or two Philip came to inquire after his child. He stood by
the cradle when it was sleeping there, stooped and looked at the flushed
face and the little clenched hands; but when it was on Salome's lap or
in her arms he did not come so near, he stood apart, and instead of
examining the child himself, asked about it. Salome controlled herself
from giving way to feeling; her composure, the confidence with which she
acted, impressed Philip with the idea that she had got over all other
troubles except that caused by the child's illness; and were this to
pass that she would be herself again.
But, through all her thought for the child ran the burning, torturing
recollection of what Philip had said concerning it. She was not sure
that he desired that it should live--live to grow up a Beaple Yeo--a
Schofield. The house was perfectly still. All the servants were
asleep. Only Salome was awake upstairs, when at four o'clock in the
morning, as the day was beginning to break raw and gray in the east, and
to look wanly in through the blind into the sick room--Philip entered.
Salome was kneeling by the crib--a swing crib of wood on two pillars.
She knelt by it, she had been rocking, rocking, rocking, till she could
no more stir an arm. Aching in all her joints, with her pulses
hammering in her weary brain, she had laid both hands on the crib side,
and her brow against it also. Was she asleep, or was she only fagged out
and had slidden into momentary unconsciousness through exhaustion of
power? Her beautiful copper hair, burnished in every hair, reflected
the light of the lamp on the dressing-table. On one delicate white
finger was the golden hoop. She did not hear Philip as he entered.
Hitherto, whenever he had come through the door, she had looked up at
him wistfully. Now only she did not, she remained by the crib, holding
to it, leaning her brow on it, and tilting it somewhat on one side.
He stood by her, and looked down on her, and for a while a softness came
over his heart, a stirring in its dead chambers as of returning life.
He saw how worn out she was. He saw that she who had been so hearty, so
strong, in a few days had become thin and frail in appearance, that the
fresh colour had gone from her cheek, the brightness from her eye, that
the sweet dimple had left her mouth. He saw her love and self-devotion
for her child, the completeness with which her soul was bound up in it.
And he saw how lonely she now was without her mother to talk to about
the maladies, the acquirements, and the beauty of her darling.
She did not glance up at that moment, or she would have seen tokens of
melting in his cold eye.
He remained standing by her, and he looked at the child now sleeping
quietly. It was better, he trusted. It could hardly be so still unless
it was better.
Then, all at once. Salome recovered consciousness, saw him, and said,
'Oh, Philip, you do not want him to die?'
Philip drew himself up.
'You have the crib too much tilted,' he said. He put his hands to it to
counterbalance her weight, but she raised her head from the side and the
crib righted itself. He still kept his hand where he had placed it,
without any reason for so doing.
'Philip,' she said again, with passionate entreaty in her voice, 'you do
not wish my darling to die?'
'How can you ask such a foolish question?' he answered. 'I am afraid
the long night-watching has been too much for you.'
'Oh, Philip--you do love him? You do love him--although there is
something of me in him. But----' she said hastily, 'he is mostly yours.
He is like you, he has dark hair and eyes, and his name is Philip, and
of course he _is_, he is a Pennycomequick! Oh, Philip! You love him
dearly?'
'Of course I love him; he is my child. Why do you doubt?'
'Because,' she said, 'I--I am his mother. But that is all--I am only a
sort of superior nurse. He is a Pennycomequick through and through, and
there is no--no--nothing of what you dread in him.'
'Yes, he is a Pennycomequick.'
'He can, he will be no other than a good and noble man. He can, he will
be that, if God spares him.'
'So I trust.'
'Oh, Philip--he is better, so much better. I am sure there is a turn.
I thank God--indeed, indeed I do. Look at his dear little face; it is
cool again.'
He had his hand on the side of the crib, and he stooped to look at the
sleeping babe. And, as he was so doing, Salome, who still knelt, put
her lips timidly to his hand and kissed it--kissed it as it rested on
the side of her babe's crib.
Then he withdrew his hand. He took his kerchief out of his pocket,
wiped it, said coldly, 'Yes, the child is better,' and left the room.
Philip went to bed. He had not asked Salome if she were going to rest,
he had not called up the nurse to relieve her, though he saw and
admitted that she was worn out. He had withdrawn his hand from her lips
not with intention to hurt her, but to show her that he was opposed to
sentimentality, and not inclined to be cajoled into a renewal of
confidence by such arts. That which angered and embittered him chiefly
was the fact that he was tied to a woman of such disreputable parentage.
Then, in the next place, he could not forgive the fraud practised on him
in making him marry her in ignorance of her real origin. He did not
investigate the question whether Salome were privy to it. He thought
that it was hardly possible she could have been kept in complete
ignorance of the truth. It was known to her sister. Some suspicion of
it at least must have been entertained by her. A fraud, a scandalous
one, had been perpetrated--on her own showing by her sister and reputed
mother--and even supposing she were not guilty of taking share in it,
she must reap the consequences of the acts of her nearest relatives.
Mrs. Cusworth and Mrs. Baynes were beyond the reach of his anger,
therefore it must fall on the one accessible.
Salome had acquired by marriage with him a good position and a
comfortable home, and it was conceivable that for the sake of these
prospective advantages she would have acquiesced, if not actually
concurring, in the wretched mean plot which had led to his connection
with her--the daughter of the most despicable of men, and his own
personal enemy.
Philip went to bed and fell asleep, satisfied with himself that he had
acted aright, and that suffering was necessary to Salome to make her
feel the baseness of her conduct.
Salome finding that the child fretted, took it out of the cot, drew it
to her bosom, and seated herself by the window. She had raised the
blind and looked out at the silvery morning light breaking in the east,
and the pale east was not more wan than her own face. When Psyche let
fall the drop of burning wax on the shoulder of Cupid, the god of Love
leaped up, spread his wings and fled. Psyche stood at the window
watching his receding form, not knowing whither he went, but knowing
that he went from her without prospect of return. So now did Salome
look from the window gazing forth into the cold sky, looking after lost
love--gone--gone, apparently, past recall.
*CHAPTER XXXIII.*
*EXILE.*
Days passed, and the house had settled into formal ways. The meals were
at the usual hours, to the minute. Philip went to the office at the
usual time, and at the usual time returned from it; everything had again
entered into its routine as before. But the relations between husband
and wife were not improved. They met at meals, rarely else. At table a
conventional conversation was maintained. Philip occupied his bachelor
apartments, and expressed no intention of leaving them. Beyond the
formal inquiries after Salome's health in the morning, he took no
interest in her condition of mind and body. He did not perceive that
she still suffered, was becoming thin, pale, and worn. He could not
have invented a more cruel torture than this daily life of chill
intercourse between them, and Salome felt that it was becoming
insupportable. She attended to the household duties. She looked after
his comforts, saw that his room was properly dusted, that his papers,
his books were always in the same place, that his clothing was in order,
that strict punctuality was observed in all that concerned him--he
accepted this as of course, and was unaware that every element that
conduced to his well-being was not present naturally. He did not know
that his wife entered his room when he was away and rectified the little
neglects and transpositions of the housemaid; he did not know how much
time, and how many tears were given to his shirts and his socks and
collars. He was unaware of the patient consideration devoted to the
dinner, to ensure that he should have an appetizing meal after his work
in the office during the day. He did not entertain the suspicion that
the regularity of the house was only effected by constant urgency and
supervision.
That there was a change in the relations of Philip and his wife did not
strike the outer world, which had not been invited by him previously to
consider the nature and closeness of those relations. In the presence
of others Philip was courteous and formal towards his wife now, but he
had been courteous and formal towards her in public before. He had not
called upon the neighbours and acquaintances to rejoice with him because
he had found domestic happiness; he did not invite them now to lament
with him because he had discovered it to be chimerical.
He refused to Salome none of those attentions which are required by
common politeness; what she missed were those which spring out of real
affection. His behaviour to her in public was unchanged, and he carried
this manner into his private interviews with her. Such interviews were
now brief and business-like. He no longer spoke to her about what was
past, he never referred to her father. He never allowed her to
entertain the smallest hope that his behaviour would change.
Philip rarely spoke to a servant, never except on business; and he was
surprised one day when the nurse ventured to intrude on his privacy and
ask leave to say something to him.
Philip gave the required permission ungraciously.
Then the woman said:
'Please, sir, the missus be that onconsiderate about hersen that she'd
never think o' telling nobody about nowt that was wrong with her. And
so, I dare say, you don't know, sir, that it is not all well wi' her.
Shoo has sudden faintive's, and they come on ow'er often. Shoo makes
light o't, but don't better of it. I sed to her, shoo ought to tell you,
but shoo wouldn't. And, please sir, shoo's a good missus, and too
precious to be let slip through the fingers for not looking after what's
amiss i' time. So--sir--I've made bould to say a word aboot it.'
Philip was surprised, even shocked.
'I will see to it,' he said; and then, 'That will do.'
He took occasion to speak with Salome about her health, and now his eyes
were opened to see how delicate she had become. She admitted her
fainting-fits, but made light of them.
'I have been overtaxed, that is all, Philip. I shall soon be quite
myself again.'
'You have had a good deal of anxiety, no doubt, and that may account for
it. Still--it would be a satisfaction to have an opinion. Do you care
for Mr. Knight?'
'Oh no, Philip--he is very clever, but too young. I should not like to
have Mr. Knight here about me. But I assure you, it is nothing!--I mean
there is nothing really the matter with me. It used to be said that I
had all the _physique_ of us two sisters, and Janet all the _verve_.'
'I wish you to have proper advice. You understand. I wish it.'
'Then, Philip, I will let anyone you like come and see me, or I will go
to anyone you recommend.'
'I have no knowledge of doctors,' he said almost contemptuously.
'If I might have a choice----' she hesitated.
'Of course you may--in reason.'
'There is Mr. John Dale; he was dear Uncle Jeremiah's best friend, and
he is Janet's guardian. I always liked him, and he knows about us
sisters. Besides, I do want to see him and ask him what he thinks about
Janet; but he is a long way off, he is at Bridlington. If you think it
would be extravagant sending so far, I would go myself gladly and see
him. Indeed, I dare say the journey would do me good.'
'Very well,' said Philip, 'I'll telegraph for Mr. Dale.'
'And then,' added Salome, 'if you do not object, he can overhaul baby
and see that the darling is sound as a bell. But--there is no need at
all to telegraph. I know quite well what is the matter with me. It is
nothing that any doctor can cure.'
'What is it?'
'I have had a good deal to worry me, to make me unhappy. I cannot
sleep, I am always thinking. I can see no way out of the trouble. If
there were the tiniest thread to which I could lay hold, then I should
soon be well--but there is none. It reminds me of what I have read
about the belief the North American Indians have concerning their
origin. They were, they say, once in a vast black abyss in the centre
of the earth, and there were tiny fibres hanging from the roof, and some
of them laid hold of these fibres, and crawled up them, and following
them came to the surface of earth and saw the sun, but others never
touched a depending thread, and they wander on in timeless darkness,
without a prospect, and without cognizance of life.'
'Well----'
'And I am like these, only with this pang, that I have been in the
light. No--there is no fibre hanging down for me.'
She spoke timidly, and in a tone of half inquiry.
He did not answer.
'Philip, you must believe my word when I say that I never knew till the
night before you heard it, that I was not what it had been given out I
was.'
'We will not debate that matter again,' said Philip sharply. 'It can
lead to nothing.'
'There is, then, no fibre,' she said sadly, and withdrew.
John Dale arrived, bluff, good-natured, boisterous.
'Hallo! what is the matter with you?' was his first salutation; and when
he had heard what her ailments of body were--she made light of them to
him--he shook his head and said bluntly, 'That's not all--it is mental.
Now, then, what is it all about?'
'Mamma was taken suddenly ill and died; it was a dreadful shock to me.
Then baby was unwell, and I had to watch him night and day; he would let
no one else be with him.'
'But the expression of your face is changed, and neither your mother nor
baby has done that. You are in some trouble. A doctor is a confessor.
Come, what is up?'
Then she told him--not all, but a good deal. She told him who she was,
and how she had discovered her origin--that her father was the man who
had started the swindle about Iodinopolis, but that Beaple Yeo was not
his real name; he had assumed that in place of his true name, Schofield.
'What--the scoundrel who did for Nicholas Pennycomequick?'
Salome bowed her head.
'I see it all,' said Dale. 'I never met that fellow Schofield, but I
knew Nicholas Pennycomequick, and I know how he was ruined. I had no
idea that the fellow Yeo, whom I met at Bridlington, was the same. Now,
my dear child, I understand more than you have told me. I shall not
give you any medicine, but order you away from Mergatroyd.'
'I cannot--I cannot leave baby.'
'Then take baby with you.'
Salome shook her head.
She also saw that nothing would do her good save an escape from the
crushing daily oppression of Philip's coldness and stiff courtesy.
A day or two later she received a letter with a foreign postmark, and
she tore it open eagerly, for she recognised her sister's handwriting.
The letter was short. Janet complained of not getting any better; her
strength was deserting her. And she added: 'Oh, Salome, come to me, come
to me if you can, and at once. He is here.'
There was no explanation as to who was implied, but Salome understood.
Her sister was ill, weak, and was pestered by the presence of that
man--that horrible man who was their father.
She went to Philip's door and tapped. She was at once admitted.
'Philip,' she said, 'I refused to take Mr. Dale's advice on Tuesday, I
will take it now if you will allow me. I have heard from Janet. She is
ill.' The tears came into her eyes. 'She is very ill, and entreats me
to fly to her without delay.'
She said nothing to him of who she had heard was with her sister.
'I am quite willing that you should go,' he said.
The words were hard. The lack of feeling in them touched her to the
quick.
'Very well, Philip,' she said; 'with your consent I will go. Baby must
do without me for a while, unless,' she brightened, 'unless you will
allow me to take baby and nurse with me.'
'No,' answered Philip, 'on no account. Go yourself, but I cannot
entertain that other proposal.'
She sighed.
'Where is Janet?' he asked.
'At Andermatt--on the St. Gothard. The air is bracing there.'
'Very well. You will want money. You shall have it.'
'And how long may I stay?'
'That entirely remains with yourself. As far as I am concerned, I am
indifferent.'
So Salome was to go. She was now filled with a feverish impatience to
be off--not that she cared for herself, that the change might do her
good--but because the leaving home would be to her agony, and she was
desirous to have the pang over.
She felt that she could not endure to live as she had of late, under the
same roof with her husband and yet separated from him, loving him with
her faithful, sincere heart, and meeting with rebuff only; guiltless,
yet regarded as guilty, her self-justification disregarded, her word
treated as unworthy of credence. No--she could not endure the daily
mortification, and she knew that it would be well for her to leave; but
for all that she knew that the leaving home would be to her the acutest
torture she could suffer. She must leave her dear child, uncertain when
she would see it again. She did not hide from herself that if she left,
she left not to return till some change had taken place in Philip's
feelings towards her. She could not return to undergo the same freezing
process. But she raised no hopes on what she knew of Philip's
character. As far as she was acquainted with it--it was unbending.
Salome had that simple faith which leads one to take a step that seems
plain, without too close a questioning as to ultimate consequences. She
had been told by the doctor whom she trusted that she must go away from
Mergatroyd, and immediately came the call of her sister. To her mind,
this was a divine indication as to the course she must take, and she
prepared accordingly to take it.
At the best of times it is not without misgiving and heartache that we
leave home, if only for a holiday, and only for a few weeks; we discover
fresh beauties in home, new attractions, things that require our
presence, and obstruct our departing steps. A certain vague fear always
rises up, lest we should never return, at least, that when we return
something should be changed that we value, something going wrong that we
have left right, some one face be missing that we hold to with infinite
love. It is a qualm bred of the knowledge of the uncertainty of all
things in this most shifting world, a qualm that always makes itself
felt on the eve of departure. With Salome this was more than a qualm;
she was going, she knew not to what; she was going, she knew not for how
long; and the future drew a gray impenetrable veil before her eyes--she
could not tell, should she return, to what that return would be. She
did not reckon about her child. She could not, she would not be
separated from it--but whether Philip would let the child go to her, or
insist on her return to the child, that she did not ask. The future
must decide. Whatever she saw to be her duty, that she would do. That
was Salome's motive principle. She would do her duty anywhere, at any
sacrifice: when she saw what her duty was.
A cab was procured from the nearest town, four miles distant, to take
Salome to the station.
Oh the last clasp of her babe! The tearful eyes, the quivering mouth,
the beating heart, the inner anguish; and then----as she ran downstairs,
with her veil drawn over her face, Philip encountered her un the
landing, and offered her--not his cheek, not his heart--but his arm to
take her to the cab.
END OF VOL. II.
BILLING AND SONS, PRINTERS, GUILDFORD.