THE WAKING.
The carter was holding the curtain back and critically apostrophizing
the thing within.
“Ay, he be sound enough. Reckon nought but the last trump’ll waken
yon. Now, youngster, where may you live?”
I told him.
“Sure,” he said, “the old crazed mill?” Then I thought he muttered:
“Well, ’tis one vermin the less,” but I was not sure and nothing
mattered--nothing.
He asked me if I would like to ride with it inside. The mere
suggestion was terror to me, and I stammered out that I would rather
walk, for I had tried my best already and had given up hope.
So we set off slowly through the dumb, haunted twilight. Thoughts
would not come to me in any definite form. I imagined the cathedral
bells were ringing, till I found it was only a jangling in my brain,
discordant and unearthly. People came toward us who on nearing were
resolved into distorted rags of mist; voices croaked with laughter,
and they were only the swung branches of trees.
Suddenly I heard an exclamation--real enough this time--and saw the
carter run to the head of his team and stop them.
“Woa, then!” he cried, in a frightened voice; and then with terrified
impatience: “Coom hither, marn; I tell ’ee. Don’t ’ee stand theer
gawking at the air. Dang it, the ghost walks!” He stamped his heavy
foot, seeing me motionless; then cried again: “Take thee foul burden
out o’ the wain and dang me for a fool ever to have meddled wi’t!”
A gush of wondrous hope flooded my breast. I tore to the rear of the
wagon, dashed back the curtain--and there was Modred sitting up and
swaying feebly from side to side.
I leaped; I caught him in my arms; my breath came in laughter and
sobs. “Oh, Modred, Modred!” I cried. “I didn’t mean it--it wasn’t
me--I’m not like that!” and then I broke down and wept long and
convulsively, though I would never let him out of my clutch.
“Where am I?” he said, faintly; “oh, it hurts so. Every vein in my
body is bursting with pain.”
At this I beat under my hysterical outburst and set to rubbing him all
over in frantic eagerness. It seemed to ease him a little and I
blessed him that he lay passively against me and did not offer to push
me away. Poor fellow, he was far too weak as yet for any resistance.
Presently I heard the carter bawl in tremulous tones: “Art gone, the
two of ’ee?”
“Come here,” I called back, with a tearful laugh. “He’s better; he’s
recovered!”
The fellow came round gingerly and stood a little distance off.
“Eh?” he said, dubiously.
“See for yourself!” I cried. “He wasn’t drowned after all. He’s come
round!”
The man spat viciously in the road and came sullenly forward. He was
defrauded of an excitement and he felt the injury grievously.
“You young varmint!” he growled. “Them’s your tricks for to get a free
lift.”
“Nonsense!” I said, buoyantly; “you yourself thought him dead. Carry
us on to the mill and I’ll promise you a proper skinful of liquor.”
He was crabbed and undecided, but presently he went forward and
whipped up his horses with a surly oath. As the wagon pitched, Modred
opened his eyes, which he had shut, and looked up at me.
“Are you feeling better, old boy?” I said, tenderly.
“The pain isn’t so bad, but I’m tired to death,” said he.
“Rest, and don’t talk. You’ll be stronger in a bit.”
He closed his eyes again and I tried to shield him as much as I could
from the jolting. I had already wrapped him up warm in some old sacks
that were heaped in a corner of the wagon. So all the way home I held
him, counting his every breath, loving him as I had never done before.
It was dark when we reached the mill and I laid him gently back and
leaped down.
“Dad! Dad!” I shouted, running down the yard and into the house; but
he was already standing at the head of the stairs, with a candle in
his hand.
“Modred’s had an accident!” I cried, in a subdued voice--I could not
keep the lie back. It seemed so dreadful at the outset to confess and
stand aside condemned--while others helped. Jason and Zyp came out on
the landing and my father ran down the stairs hurriedly.
“What’s that?” he said--“Modred!”
“He got caught in the weeds and was nearly drowned, but he’s getting
better.”
“Where is he?” He seized me by the arm as he spoke, and dragged me to
the mill door. I could feel the pulses in his finger tips through my
coat.
“He’s in a wain outside, and I promised the man a long drink for
bringing us home.”
“There’s a full bottle in the cupboard--bring it down,” shouted my
father to Jason. Then he hurried to the wagon and lifted out the
breathing figure and looked into its face. After all, it was his
youngest.
“Not much harm, perhaps,” said he. “Run and tell them to heat some
water and the blankets.”
While I was finding old Peg and explaining and giving the order, they
carried him upstairs. I did not dare follow them, but, the reaction
over, leaned, feeling sick and faint, in the passage outside the
little kitchen. Perhaps even now he was telling them, and I dreaded
more than I can describe the sentence which a first look at any one of
their faces might confirm.
Presently old Peg came out to me with a can of boiling water and flung
an armful of warm blankets over my shoulder.
“There’s for you, Renalt,” she cried in her thin, rusty voice; then
muttered, clawing her hips like a monkey: “’Tis flying in the Lord’s
face o’ Providence, to me a old woman; like as restoring a froze snake
on the hearth.”
I had no heart for retort, but sped from the sinister old witch with
my burden. I saw Zyp and Jason in the living-room as I passed, but,
though they called to me, I ran on and upstairs to the door of
Modred’s room, which was next ours.
My father came out to my knock and took the things from me.
“Now,” said he, “I want nobody here but myself and Dr. Crackenthorpe.
Go you and fetch him, if he’s to be found.”
Happy to be employed in any useful service, I hurried away on my
errand. The door of the sitting-room was shut, at which I was glad.
Very little respite gave me fresh lease of hope.
The doctor’s home was close by, in a straggling street of old
buildings that ran off our end of the High street, and the doctor
himself was, I was told, within.
I found him seated in a musty little parlor, with some ugly casts of
murderers’ heads facing him from the top of a varnished bookcase.
“Ah, my friend!” he screeched, cracking his knuckles; “those interest
you, eh? Well, perhaps I shall have the pleasure of adding your
picture to them some day.”
An irrepressible shudder took me and he laughed, not knowing the
reason of it.
“Now, what’s your business?” said he.
I told him.
“Eh,” he said, and bent forward and looked at me narrowly. “Near
drowned, eh? Why, what were you doing, you young limb?”
“I went after him,” I answered, faintly, “but I couldn’t get the weeds
loose.”
“Dressed, too?” he said, for the sop of my underclothes had come
through the upper, and nothing escaped his hawk’s eye; “why, you’re a
hero, upon my word.”
He bade me begone after that and he would follow immediately. And I
returned to the mill, and, softly climbing the stairs, shut myself
into my room and sat upon the edge of the bed listening--listening for
every breath and sound in the old eerie house. I heard the doctor come
up the stairs and enter the room next door. I heard the low murmur of
voices and strained my ears to gather what was said, but could not
make out a word. And the darkness grew into my soul and shut out all
the old light of happy reason. Should I ever feel innocent again? And
would Modred, satisfied with his knowledge of the dreadful heritage of
remorse I had laid up for myself, forego his right to denounce me and
to forever make me an outcast and alone? I hardly dared to hope it,
yet clung with a strenuous longing to thought of his mercy.
It may have been hours I sat there. I do not know. I had heard
footsteps go up and down the stairs many times. And then a silence
fell. What was the meaning of it? Was it possible that life had only
rallied in him momentarily, like the flame of a dying candle and had
suddenly sunk for good and all into endless darkness? Had he told? Why
did no one come near me? I could stand it no longer.
As I sprung to my feet I heard a footstep again on the stairs and
Jason walked into the room and shut the door. He took no notice of me,
but began to undress.
“Jason!” I cried, and the agony in my voice I could not repress. “How
is he? Has he spoken? Oh, don’t keep me in this torture.”
“What torture?” said my brother, looking at me with a cold,
unresponsive eye. “Why should you be upset more than the rest of us?
He’s asleep all right, and not to be bothered with any questions.”
Thank God! Oh, thank God! I took no notice of his looks or tone, for I
was absorbed in great gratitude to heaven that my worst fears were
idle ones.
“Where’s dad?” I said.
“Drinking downstairs with the doctor. They’ll make high revel of it, I
expect.”
He was already in bed; but I sat on and on in the darkness. I had only
one thought--one longing to wait till Jason was fast in slumber, and
then to creep to Modred’s side and implore his forgiveness.
Presently the deep, regular breathing of my brother announced to me
the termination of my vigil. With my heart beating in a suffocating
manner, I stole to the door, opened it and stood outside that of
Modred’s room. I listened a moment. A humming noise of garrulous
voices below was the only sound that broke the silence of the house.
Softly I turned the handle and softly crept into the room. There was
light in it, for on the wash-hand stand a rush candle burned dimly in
an old lanthorn.
He gave a start, for he was lying awake in his bed, then half-rose on
his elbow and looked at me with frightened eyes.
“Don’t come near,” he whispered. “What do you want? You aren’t going
to try to kill me again?”
I gave a little strangled, agonized cry, and, dropping on my knees
where I stood, stretched out my arms to him imploringly.
“Oh, Modred, don’t! Don’t! You can’t think I meant it! It was only a
horrible impulse. I was mad, and I nearly drowned myself directly
afterward in saving you.”
The fright went from his face and something like its familiar look
returned to it.
“Are you sorry?” he said.
“Sorry? Oh, I will do anything you like if you will only believe me.”
“Come here, Renny,” he said, “and stand by me. I want to see you
better.”
I obeyed humbly--lovingly.
“You want me to forgive you?”
“If you could, Modred--if you only could.”
“And not to peach?”
I hung my head in shame and the tears were in my eyes again.
“Well, I’ll agree, on one condition.”
“Make any you like, Modred. I’ll swear to keep it; I’ll never forget
it.”
“Zyp’s it,” he said, looking away from me.
“Yes,” I said, gently, with a prescience of what was coming.
“You’ll have to give her up for good and all--keep out of her way; let
her know somehow you’re sick of her. And keep Jason out of the way.
You and he were chums enough before she came.”
“I swear for myself, and to do what I can with Jason,” I said, dully.
What did it matter? One way or another the buoyant light of existence
was shut to me for good and all.
“It’s the only way,” said Modred, and he gave me a look that I dare
not call crafty. “After all, it isn’t much,” he said, “considering
what you did to me, and she seems to be getting tired of you--now,
doesn’t she?”
“Yes,” I said in a low voice.
“Then, that’s settled. And now let me be, for I feel as if I can
sleep. Hand me my breeches first, though. There’s something in the
pocket I want.”
“Shall I get it out for you, old boy?”
“No, no!” he answered, hurriedly. “Give them to me, can’t you?”
I did as he wanted and crept from the room. What did it matter? Zyp
had already cast me off, but for the evil deed I was respited. A
moment ago the girl had seemed as nothing, set in the scale against my
brother’s forgiveness. Could it be the true, loving spirit of
forgiveness that could make such a condition? Hush! I must not think
that thought. What did it matter?
I did not go back to my room, but sat on a stair at the head of the
downward flight, with a strange, stunned feeling. Below the voices
went on spasmodically--now a long murmur--now a snatch of song--now an
angry phrase. By and by, I think, I must have fallen into a sort of
stupor, for I seemed to wake all at once to a thunderous uproar.
I started to my feet. Magnified as all sounds are in the moment of
recovered consciousness, there was yet noise enough below to convince
me that a violent quarrel between the two men was toward. I heard my
father’s voice in bitter denunciation.
“You’ve been hawking over my quarry this long while. I’ll tear the
truth out of your long throat! Give me back my cameo--where is it?”
“A fig for your cameo!” cried the other in a shrill voice, “and I tell
you this is the first I’ve heard of it.”
“You’ve been watching me, you fiend, you! Dogging me--haunting me!
I’ll have no more o’t! I’m not to be bribed or threatened or coaxed
any more; least of all thieved from. Where is it?”
“You aren’t, aren’t you?” screeched the doctor. “You leave me here and
I fall asleep. You’re away and you come storming back that I’ve robbed
you. It’s a trap, by thunder, but you won’t catch me in it!”
“I believe you’re lying!” cried my father. His voice seemed strained
with passion. But the other answered him now much more coolly.
“Believe what you like, my friend. It’s beneath my dignity to
contradict you again; but take this for certain--if you slander me in
public, I’ll ruin you!”
Then silence fell and I waited to hear no more. I stole to my room and
crept to bed. I had never changed my drenched clothes and the deadly
chill of my limbs was beginning to overcome the frost in my heart.
It seemed hours before the horrible coldness relaxed, and then
straightway a parching fever scorched me as if I lay against a
furnace. I heard sounds and dull footsteps and the ghostly creaking of
stairs, but did not know if they were real or only incidents in my
half-delirium.
At last as day was breaking I fell into a heavy, exhausted sleep. It
merged into a dream of my younger brother. We walked together as we
had done as little children, my arm around his neck. “Zenny,” he said,
like a baby paraphrasing Zyp’s words, “what’s ’ove dat ’ey talk
about?” I could have told him in the gushing of my heart, but in a
moment he ran from me and faded.
I gave a cry and woke, and Jason was standing over me, with a white,
scared face.
“Get up!” he whispered; “Modred’s dead!”