XI

She was right: those few minutes of concentrated agony had in truth

made me ill. My wet clothes clinging round my body began to chill me

now, and as I crept into the house and upstairs to my room, my teeth

were chattering like castanets.

As I threw off my wet clothes and turned into bed, I was partially

forewarned by the throbbing at my temples, the rolling fire at the

back of my eyeballs, the thirst in my parched throat, that some kind

of illness, some kind of fever, was upon me. And no wonder, after

such a night!

In that awful trance, when I had sat with my face buried on

Winifred's breast, not only had the physiognomy of the cove, but

every circumstance of our lives together, been photographed in my

brain in one picture of fire. When, after the concentrated agony of

those first moments of tension, I looked up into Winifred's face, as

though awakening from a dream, my flesh had 'appeared,' she told me,

'grey and wizened, like the flesh of an old man.' The mental and

physical effects of this were now gathering around me and upon me.

From a painful slumber I awoke in about an hour with red-heat at my

brain and with a sickening dread at my heart. 'It is fever,' thought

I; 'I am going to be ill; and what is there to do in the morning at

the ebb of the tide before Winifred can go upon the sands? I ought

not to have come home at all,' I said. 'Suppose illness were to

seize me and prevent my getting there?' The dreadful thought alone

paralysed me quite. Under it I lay as under a nightmare. I scarcely

dared try to get out of bed, lest I should find my fears

well-grounded. At last, cautiously and timorously, I put one leg out

of bed and then the other, till at length I felt the little ridges of

the carpet; but my knees gave way, my head swam, my stomach heaved

with a deadly nausea, and I fell like a log on the floor.

As I lay there I knew that I was indeed in the grasp of fever. I

nearly went crazed from terror at the thought that in a few minutes I

should perhaps lapse into unconsciousness and be unable to

rise--unable to reach the sands in the morning and seek for Wynne's

body--unable even to send some one there as a substitute to perform

that task. But then whom was I to send? whom could I entrust with

such a commission? I was under a pledge to my dead father never to

divulge the secret of the amulet save to my mother and uncle. And

besides, if I would effectually save Winifred from the harm I

dreaded, the hideous sacrilege committed by her father must be kept a

secret from servants and townspeople. Whom then could I send on this

errand? At the present moment, there were but four people in the

world who knew that the cross and casket had been placed in the

coffin--my mother, my uncle, myself, and now, alas! Winifred. My

mother was the one person who could do what I wanted done. Her

sagacity I knew; her courage I knew. But how could I--how dare I,

broach such a matter to her? I felt it would be sheer madness to do

so, and yet, in my dire strait, in my terror at the illness I was

fighting with, I did it, as I am going to tell.

By this time the noise of my fall had brought up the servants. They

lifted me into bed and proposed fetching our medical man. But I

forbade them to do so, and said, 'I want to speak to my mother.'

'She is herself unwell, sir,' said the man to whom I spoke.

'I know,' I replied. 'Call her maid and tell her that my business

with my mother is very important, or I would not have dreamed of

disturbing her; but see her I must.'

The man looked dubious, but observing my wet clothes on a chair he

seemed to think that something had happened, and went to do my

bidding.

In a very short time my mother entered the room. I felt that my

moments of consciousness were brief, and began my story as soon as we

were alone. I told her how the sudden dread that Wynne would steal

the amulet had come upon me; I told her how I had run down to the

churchyard and discovered the landslip; I told her how, on seeing the

landslip, I had descended the gangway and found the body of Wynne,

the amulet, the casket, and the written curse. But I did not tell her

that I had met Winifred on the sands. Excited as I was, I had the

presence of mind not to tell her that.

As I proceeded with my narrative, with my mother sitting by my

bedside, a look of horror, then a look of loathing, then a look of

scorn, swept over her face. I knew that the horror was of the

sacrilege. I knew that the loathing and the haughty scorn expressed

her feeling towards the despoiler--the father of her whose cause I

might have to plead; and I began to wish from the bottom of my heart

that I had not taken her into my confidence. When I got to the

finding of Tom's body, and the look of terror stamped upon his face,

a new expression broke over hers--an expression of triumphant hate

that was fearful.

'Thank God at least for that!' she said. Then she murmured, 'But that

does not atone.'

Ah! how I regretted now that I had consulted her on a subject where

her proud imperious nature must be so deeply disturbed. But it was

too late to retreat.

'Henry,' she said, 'this is a shocking story you tell me. After

losing my husband this is the worst that could have happened to

me--the violation of his sacred tomb. Had I only hearkened to my own

misgiving about the miscreant! Yet I wonder you did not wait till the

morning before telling me.'

'Wait till the morning?' I said, forgetting that she did not know

what was at my heart.

'Doubtless the matter is important, Henry,' said she. 'Still, the

mischief is done, the hideous crime has been committed, and the news

of it could have waited till morning.'

'But, mother, unless my father's words are idle breath, it is

important, most important, that the amulet should again be buried

with him. I meant to go to the sands in the morning and wait for the

ebbing tide--I meant to take the cross from the breast of the dead

man, and to replace it in my father's coffin. That, mother, was what

I meant to do. But I am too ill to move; I feel that in an hour or

so, or in a few minutes, I shall be delirious. And then, mother! Oh,

_then_!--'My mother looked astonished at my vehemence upon the

subject.

'Henry,' she said, 'I had no idea that you felt such an interest in

the matter; I have certainly misjudged your character entirely. And

now, what do you want me to do?'

'Nobody,' I said, 'must know of the cross but ourselves. I want you,

mother, to do what I cannot do: I want you to go on the sands and

wait for the turn of the tide; I want you to take the cross from

Wynne's breast, if the body should be exposed, and secure it in

secret till it can be replaced in the coffin.'

'_I_ do this, Henry?' said my mother, with a look of bewilderment at

my earnestness. 'Yet there is reason in what you say, and grievous as

the task would be for me, I must consider it.'

'But will you engage to do it, mother?'

'Really, Henry, you forget yourself,--you forget your mother too. For

me to go down to the sands and watch the ebbing of the tide, and then

defile myself by touching the body of this wretch, is a task I

naturally shrink from. Still if, on thinking it over, I find it my

duty to do it, it will not be needful for me to enter into a compact

with my son that my duty to my dead husband shall be performed.

Good-night. I quite think you will be better in the morning. I see no

signs myself of the fever you seem to dread, and, alas! I am not, as

you know, ignorant of the way in which a fever begins.'

She was going out of the room when I exclaimed, in sheer desperation,

'Mother, I have something else to say to you. You remember the little

girl, the little blue-eyed girl, Wynne's daughter, who came here

once, and you were so kind to her, so gracious and so kind'; and I

seized her hand and covered it with kisses, for I was beside myself

with alarm lest my one hope should go.'

The sudden little laugh of bitter scorn that came from my mother's

lips, the sudden spasm that shook her frame, the sudden shadow as of

night that swept across her features, should at once have hushed my

confession. But I went on: my tongue would not stop now: I felt that

my eloquence, the eloquence of Winifred's danger, must conquer, must

soften even the hard pride of her race.

'And she has never forgotten your graciousness to her, mother.'

'Well?' said my mother, in a tone whose velvet softness withered me.

'Well, mother, she is in all things the very opposite of her father.

This very night she told me'--and I was actually on the verge of

repeating poor Winifred's prattle about her resembling her mother,

and not her father (for already my brain had succumbed to the force

of the oncoming fever, and the catastrophe I was dreading made of me

a frank and confiding child).

'Well?' said my mother, in a voice softer and more velvety still.

'What did she tell you?'

That tone ought to have convinced me of the folly, the worse than

folly, of saying another word to her.

'But I can conquer her,' I thought; 'I can conquer her yet. When she

comes to know all the piteousness of Winifred's case, she _must_

yield.'

'Yes, mother,' I cried, 'she is in all things the very opposite of

Tom. She has such a horror of sacrilege; she has such a dread of a

crime and a curse like this; she has such a superstitious belief in

the power of a dead man's curse to cling to the delinquent's

offspring, that, if she knew of what her father had done, she would

go mad--raving mad, mother--she would indeed!' And I fell hack on the

pillow exhausted.

'Well, Henry, and is this what you summoned me from my bed to tell

me--that Wynne's daughter will most likely object to share the

consequences of her father's crime? A very natural objection, and I

am really sorry for her; but further than that I have certainly no

affair with her.'

'But, mother, the body of her father lies beneath the _débris_ on the

shore; the ebbing tide may leave it exposed, and the poor girl,

missing her father in the morning, will seek him perhaps on the shore

and find him--find him with the proof of his crime on his breast, and

know that she inherits the curse--my father's curse! Oh, think of

_that_, mother--think of it. And you only can prevent it.'

For a few moments there was intense silence in the room. I saw that

my mother was reflecting. At last she said:

'You say that Wynne's daughter told you something to-night. Where did

you see her?'

'On the sands.'

'At what hour?'

'At--at--at--about eleven, or twelve, or one o'clock.'

I felt that I was getting into a net, but was too ill to know what I

was doing. My mother paused for awhile; I waited as the prisoner

tried for his life waits when the jury have retired to consult. I

clutched the bedclothes to stay the trembling of my limbs. On a chair

by my bedside was my watch, which had been stopped by the sea-water.

I saw her take it up mechanically, look at it, and lay it down again.

In the agony of my suspense I yet observed her smallest movement.

'And in what capacity am I to undertake this expedition?' said she at

length, in the same quiet tone, that soul-quelling tone she always

adopted when her passion was at white-heat. 'Is it in the capacity of

your father's wife executing his wishes about the amulet? Or is it as

the friend, protectress, and guardian of Miss Wynne?'

She sat down again by my bedside, and communed with

herself--sometimes fixing an abstracted gaze upon me, sometimes

looking across me at the very spot where in the shadow beside my bed

I bad seemed to see the words of the Psalmist's curse written in

letters of fire. At last she said quietly, 'Henry, I will undertake

this commission of yours.'

'Dear mother!' I exclaimed in my delight. 'I will undertake it,'

pursued my mother in the same quiet tone, 'on one condition.'

'Any condition in the world, mother. There is nothing I will not do,

nothing I will not sacrifice or suffer, if you will only aid me in

saving this poor girl. Name your condition, mother; you can name

nothing I will not comply with.'

'I am not so sure of that, Henry. Let me be quite frank with you. I

do not wish to entrap you into making an engagement you cannot keep.

You have corroborated to-night what I half suspected when I saw you

talking to the girl in the churchyard; there is a very vigorous

flirtation going on between you and this wretched man's daughter.'

'Flirtation? 'I said, and the incongruity of the word as applied to

such a passion as mine did not vex or wound me; it made me smile.

'Well, for her sake, I hope it is nothing more,' said my mother. 'In

view of the impassable gulf between her and you, I do for her sake

sincerely hope that it is nothing more than a flirtation.'

'Pardon me, mother,' I said, 'it was the word "flirtation" that made

me smile.'

'We will not haggle about words, Henry; give it what name may please

you, it is all the same to me. But flirtations of this kind will

sometimes grow serious, as the case of Percy Aylwin and the Gypsy

girl shows. Now, Henry, I do not accuse you of entertaining the mad

idea of really marrying this girl, though such things, as you know,

have been in our family. But you are my only son, and I do love you,

Henry, whatever may be your opinion on that point; and, because I

love you, I would rather, far rather, be a lonely, childless woman in

the world, I would far rather see you dead on this floor, than see

you marry Winifred Wynne.'

'Ah! mother, the cruelty of this family pride has always been the

curse of the Aylwins.'

'It seems cruel to you now, because you are a boy, a generous boy.

You think it the romantic, poetic thing to elevate a low girl to your

own station--perhaps even to show your superiority to conventions by

marrying the daughter of the miscreant who has desecrated your own

father's tomb. But, Henry, I know the race to which you and I belong.

In five years' time--in three years, or perhaps in two--you will

thank me for this; you will say: "My mother's love was not cruel, but

wise."'

'Oh, mother!' I said, '_any_ condition but that.'

'I see that you know what my condition is before I utter it. If you

will give me your word--and the word of an Aylwin is an oath--if you

will give me your word that you will never marry Winifred Wynne, I

will do as you desire. I will myself go upon the sands in the

morning, and if the body has been exposed by the tide I will secure

the evidence of her father's guilt, in order to save the girl from

the suffering which the knowledge of that guilt would cause her, as

you suppose.'

'As I suppose!'

'Again I say, Henry, we will not quarrel about words.'