“THE WAGES OF SIN.”
Morning! No books; no idle, listless hours for me to-day. Plenty to
do, plenty to think about; all sorts of arrangements to make. Farewell
to my moody, sullen life. Farewell to my aimless, selfish existence.
Henceforward I should have something worth living for--worth dying
for, if needs be! Philippa was coming to me to-day; coming in grief,
it is true; coming as a sister comes to a brother. Ah! after all the
weary, weary waiting, I shall see her to-day--to-morrow, every day!
If a man’s devotion, homage, worship, and respect can in her own eyes
reinstate my queen, I shall some day see the bloom come back to her
cheek, the bright smile play once more round her mouth, the dark eyes
again eloquent with happy thoughts. And then--and then! what should
I care for the world or its sneers? To whom, save myself, should I
be answerable? Then I might whisper in her ear, “Sweet, let the past
vanish from our lives as a dream. Let happiness date from to-day.”
Although Philippa would grace my poor cottage for one night only, I
had a thousand preparations to make for her comfort. Fortunately I had
a spare room, and, moreover, a furnished one. Not that I should have
troubled, when I went into my seclusion, about such a superfluity as
a guest-chamber; but as it happened I had bought the house and the
furniture complete, so could offer my welcome guest fair accommodation
for the night.
I summoned my stolid man. I told him that my sister was coming on a
visit to me; that she would sleep here to-night, but that most likely
we should go away to-morrow. He could stay and look after the house
until I returned or sent him instructions what to do with it. William
manifested no surprise. Had I told him to make preparations for the
coming of my wife and five children, he would have considered it all
a part of the day’s work, and would have done his best to meet my
requirements.
He set to work in his imperturbable, methodical, but handy way to get
Philippa’s room in trim. As soon as this was done, and the neglected
chamber made cosey and warm-looking, I told him to borrow a horse and
cart somewhere, and fetch the luggage from Mrs. Wilson’s. He was to
mention no names; simply to say that he had come for the luggage, and
to ask if the lady had any message to send.
Then I sat down in the room which my love would occupy, and mused upon
the strange but unhappy chance which was bringing her beneath my roof.
I wished that I had an enchanter’s wand to turn the humble garniture
of the chamber into surroundings meet for my queenly Philippa. I
wished that I had, at least, flowers with which I could deck her
resting-place; for I remembered how passionately she loved flowers.
Alas! I had not seen a flower for months.
Then I drew out Sir Mervyn Ferrand’s letter, read it again and again,
and cursed the writer in my heart.
William was away about two hours; then he made his appearance with
some boxes. I was delighted to see these tangible signs that Philippa
meant to keep her promise. Till that moment I had been troubled
by something like the doubt, that after all she might, upon calm
reflection, rescind the resolution formed in her excitement. Now her
coming seemed to be a certainty.
Nevertheless, William brought no message; so there was nothing for me
to do but wait patiently until she chose to cross my threshold.
Although my pleasing labors of love were ended, I was not left idle.
There was another task to be done to-day. I set my teeth and sat down,
thinking quietly as to the way in which it might be best performed.
To-night I meant to stand face to face with that black-hearted
scoundrel known as Sir Mervyn Ferrand!
I consulted the time-table. His letter named no particular hour; but
I saw that if he carried out his expressed intention of being here
to-night, there was but one train by which he could come; there was but
one way from Roding to the house at which Philippa had been staying.
He meant to walk, his letter said; this might be in order to escape
observation. The train was due at Roding at seven o’clock. The weather
was cold; a man would naturally walk fast. Mrs. Wilson’s house must be
four miles from the station. Let me start from there just before the
train arrives, and I should probably meet him about half-way on his
journey. It would be dark, but I should know him. I should know him
among a thousand. There on the open lonely road Sir Mervyn Ferrand,
coming gayly, and in his worldly cynicism certain of cajoling, buying
off, or in some other way silencing the woman who had in an evil day
trusted to his honor and love, would meet, not her, but the man who
from the first had sworn that a wrong to Philippa should be more than a
wrong to himself! He would meet this man, and be called to account.
Stern and sinister as were my thoughts--freely and unreservedly as I
record them: as indeed I endeavor in this tale to record everything--I
do not wish to be misjudged. It is true that in my present mood I was
bent upon avenging Philippa with my own hand; true that I meant, if
possible, to take at some time or another this man’s life; but at least
no thought of taking any advantage of an unarmed or unsuspecting man
entered into my scheme of vengeance. I designed no murderous attack.
But it was my intention to stop the man on his path; to confront him
and tell him that his villainy was known to me; that Philippa had fled
to me for aid; that she was now in my custody; and that I, who stood
in the position of her brother, demanded the so-called satisfaction
which, by the old-fashioned code of honor, was due from the man who had
ruthlessly betrayed a woman. Well I knew that it was probable he would
laugh at me--tell me that the days of duelling were over, and refuse to
grant my request. Then I meant to see if insults could warm his noble
blood; if my hand on his cheek could bring about the result which I
desired. If this failed, I would follow him abroad, cane him and spit
upon him in public places.
A wild scheme for these prosaic law-abiding days; yet the only one that
was feasible. It may be said that I should have taken steps to have
caused the miscreant to be arrested for bigamy. But what proof of his
crime had we as yet, save his own unsigned confession? Who was to move
in the matter--Philippa--myself? We did not even know where this wife
of whom he had spoken lived, or where she died. There were a hundred
ways in which he might escape from justice, but whether he was punished
for his sin or allowed to go scot-free, Philippa’s name and wrongs must
be bruited about, her shame made public. No; there was but one course
to take, and but one person to take it. It rested with me to avenge the
wrongs of the woman I loved by the good old-fashioned way of a life
against a life.
Truly, as I said, I had now plenty to live for!
The hours went by, yet Philippa came not. I grew restless and uneasy as
the dusk began to make the road, up which I gazed almost continually,
dim and indistinct. When the short winter’s day was over, and the long
dark night had fairly begun, my restlessness turned into fear. I walked
out of my house and paced my garden to and fro. I blamed myself for
having yielded so lightly to Philippa’s wish--her command rather--that
I should on no account fetch her. But then, whenever did I resist a
wish, much less a command of hers? Oh, that I had been firm this once!
The snow-storm of the previous evening had not lasted long--not long
enough to thoroughly whiten the world. The day had been fine and
frosty, but I knew that the wind had changed since the sun went down.
It was warmer, a change which I felt sure presaged a heavy downfall of
snow or rain. There was a moon, a fitful moon; for clouds were flying
across it, dark clouds, which I guessed would soon gather coherence
and volume, and veil entirely that bright face, which now only showed
itself at irregular intervals.
The minutes were passing away. I grew nervous and excited. Why does she
not come? My hope had been to see my poor girl safely housed before
I started to execute my other task. Why does she not come? Time,
precious time, is slipping by! In the hope of meeting her, I walked for
some distance up the road. “Why does she delay?” I groaned. Even now I
should be on my way to Roding, or I may miss my prey. Heavens! can it
be that she is waiting to see this man once more? Never! never! Perish
the thought!
But, all the same, every fibre in my body quivered at the bare
supposition of such a thing.
I could bear the suspense no longer. For the hundredth time I glanced
at my watch. It wanted but ten minutes to seven o’clock, and at
that hour I had resolved to start from Mrs. Wilson’s, on my way to
Roding. Yet now I dared not leave my own house. Any moment might bring
Philippa. What would she think if I were not there to receive and
welcome her.
Five more precious moments gone! I stamped in my rage. After all, I can
only do one half of my task; the sweet, but not the stern half. Shall
I, indeed, do either? The train must now be close to Roding. In an hour
everything may be lost. The man will see her before she leaves the
house. He will persuade her. She will listen to his words; for did he
not once love her? He must have loved her! After all, he broke the laws
for the sake of possessing her, and--cursed thought!--she loved him
then; and she is but a woman!
So I tortured myself until my state of mind grew unbearable. At all
hazard, I must prevent Ferrand from meeting Philippa. Oh, why had she
not come as she promised? Could it be she was detained against her
will? In spite of her uninterested manner, I distrusted the woman I had
seen last night. It is now past seven o’clock. Philippa’s house, from
which I had reckoned my time, was nearly three miles away. I must give
up my scheme of vengeance. I must go in search of Philippa. If I do not
meet her I must call at Mrs. Wilson’s, find out what detains her, and
if needful bear her away by force.
By this time my steps had brought me back to my own house. I called
William, and told him I was going to walk up the road and meet my
expected guest. If by any chance I should miss her, he was to welcome
her on my behalf, and tell her the reason for my absence.
“Best take a lantern, sir,” said William; “moon’ll soon be hidden, and
them roads is precious rough.”
“I can’t be bothered with that great horn affair,” I said, rather
testily.
“Take the little one--the bull’s-eye--that’s better than nothing,” said
William. To humor him I put it into my pocket.
I ran at the top of my speed to the house at which I had last night
left Philippa. It took me nearly half an hour getting there. I rang the
bell impetuously. The door was opened by a maid-servant. I inquired for
Mrs. Farmer, knowing that Philippa had passed under this name to all
except her hostess. To my surprise I was told that she had left the
house, on foot and alone, some little while ago. The maid believed she
was not going to return, as her luggage had that morning been sent for.
The first effect of this intelligence was to cause me to blame my
haste. I must have missed her; no doubt passed her on the road. No;
such a thing was impossible. The way was a narrow one. The moon still
gave some light. If I had met Philippa, I must have seen her. She must
have seen me, and would then have stopped me. She could not have gone
the way I came.
But where was she? In what direction was I to seek her? Argue the
matter as I would--loth as I was to allow myself to be convinced, I was
bound to decide that she must have taken the path to Roding. There was
no other. She had gone, even as I was going, to meet Ferrand. She may
have started intending to come to me; but at the last moment a desire
to see the man once more--I fondly hoped for the purpose of heaping
reproaches on his head--had mastered her. Yes, whatever her object
might be, she had gone to meet him. And my heart sank as conviction
was carried to it by the remembrance that coupled with her refusal
to permit me to fetch her was an assertion that she had something to
do before she came to me. That, as I now read it, could be but one
thing--to meet this man!
Never again, if I can help it, shall his voice strike on her ear! Never
again shall their eyes meet! Never again shall the touch of even his
finger contaminate her! Let me follow, and stand between her and the
scoundrel. If they meet he will wound her to the heart. Her pride will
rise; she will threaten. Then the coward will try another line. He
will plead for mercy; he will swear he still loves her; he will bait
his hook with promises. She will listen; hesitate; perhaps yield, and
find herself once more deceived. Then she will be lost to me forever.
Now she is, in my eyes, pure as when first we met. Let me haste on,
overtake, pass her; meet her betrayer, and, if needful, strike him to
the ground.
As I turned from the house I became aware that a great and sudden
change had come over the night. It seemed to me that, even in the
few minutes which I had spent in considering what to do, the heavy
clouds had ranked and massed together. It was all but pitch-dark; so
dark that I paused, and drawing from my pocket the lantern with which
William’s foresight had provided me, managed after several trials to
light it. Then, impatient at the delay, I sped up the road.
I was now almost facing the wind. All at once, sharp and quick, I felt
the blinding snow on my face. The wind moaned through the leafless
branches on either side of the road. The snow-flakes whirled madly here
and there. Even in my excitement I was able to realize the fact that
never before had I seen in England so fierce a snow-storm, or one which
came on so suddenly. And, like myself, Philippa was abroad, and exposed
to its full fury. Heavens! she might lose her way, and wander about all
night.
This fear quickened my steps. I forced my way on through the mad storm.
For the time all thought of Sir Mervyn Ferrand and vengeance left my
heart. All I now wanted was to find Philippa; to lead her home, and see
her safe beneath my roof. “Surely,” I said, as I battled along, “she
cannot have gone much farther.”
I kept a sharp lookout--if, indeed, it can be called a lookout; for
the whirling snow made everything, save what was within a few feet of
me, invisible. I strained my ears to catch the faintest cry or other
sound. I went on, flashing my lantern first on one and then on the
other side of the road. My dread was that Philippa, utterly unable to
fight against the white tempest, might be crouching under one of the
banks, and if so I might pass without seeing her or even attracting her
attention. My doing so on such a night as this might mean her death.
Oh, why had she not come as promised? Why had she gone to meet the man
who had so foully wronged her? After what had happened, she could not,
dared not love him. And for a dreary comfort I recalled the utter
bitterness of her accent last night when she turned to me and said,
“Basil, did you ever hate a man?” No, she could not love him!
These thoughts brought my craving for vengeance back to my mind. Where
was Ferrand? By all my calculations, taking into account the time
wasted at starting, I should by now have met him. Perhaps he had not
come, after all. Perhaps the look of the weather had frightened him,
and he had decided to stay at Roding for the night. I raged at the
thought! If only I knew that Philippa was safely housed, nothing, in my
present frame of mind, would have suited me better than to have met him
on this lonely road, in the midst of this wild storm. If Philippa were
only safe!
Still no sign of her. I began to waver in my mind. What if my first
supposition, that I had passed her on the road, was correct? She
might be now at my cottage, wondering what had become of me. Should
I go farther or turn back? But what would be my feelings if I did
the latter, and found when I arrived home that she had not made her
appearance?
I halted, irresolute, in the centre of the road. Instinctively I beat
my hands together to promote circulation. I had left my home hurriedly,
and had made no provision for the undergoing of such an ordeal as this
terrible, unprecedented snow-storm inflicted. In spite of the speed at
which I had travelled, my hands and feet were growing numbed, my face
smarted with the cold. Heaven help me to decide aright, whether to go
on or turn back!
The decision was not left to me. Suddenly, close at hand, I heard a
wild peal, a scream of laughter which made my blood run cold. Swift
from the whirling, tossing, drifting snow emerged a tall gray figure.
It swept past me like the wind; but as it passed me I knew that my
quest was ended--that Philippa was found!
She vanished in a second, before the terror which rooted me to the spot
had passed away. Then I turned and, fast as I could run, followed her,
crying as I went, “Philippa! Philippa!”
I soon overtook her; but so dark was the night that I was almost
touching her before I saw her shadowy, ghost-like form. I threw my arms
round her and held her. She struggled violently in my grasp.
“Philippa, dearest! it is I, Basil,” I said, bending close to her ear.
The sound of my voice seemed to calm her, or I should rather say she
ceased to struggle.
“Thank Heaven, I have found you!” I said. “Let us get back as soon as
possible.”
“Back! No! Go on, go on!” she exclaimed. “On, on, on, up the road yet
awhile--on through the storm, through the snow--on till you see what I
have left behind me! On till you see the wages of sin--the wages of sin!”
Her words came like bullets from a mitrailleuse. Through the night I
could see her face gleaming whiter than the snow on her hood. I could
see her great, fixed, dark eyes full of nameless horror.
“Dearest, be calm,” I said, and strove to take her hands in mine.
As I tried to gain possession of her right hand something fell from it,
and, although the road was now coated with snow, a metallic sound rang
out as it touched the ground. Mechanically I stooped and picked up the
fallen object.
As I did so Philippa with a wild cry wrested herself from the one hand
whose numbed grasp still sought to retain her, and with a frenzied
reiteration of the words, “The wages of sin!” fled from me, and was
lost in the night.
Even as I rushed in pursuit I shuddered as the sense of feeling told
me what thing it was I had picked up from the snowy ground. It was a
small pistol! Cold as the touch of the metal must have been, it seemed
to burn me like a coal of fire. Impulsively, thoughtlessly, as I ran I
hurled the weapon from me, far, far away. Why should it have been in
Philippa’s hand this night?
I ran madly on, but not for long. My foot caught in a stone, and I
fell, half stunned and quite breathless, to the ground. It was some
minutes before I recovered myself sufficiently to once more stand
erect. Philippa must have obtained a start which, coupled with her
frenzied speed, almost precluded the possibility of my overtaking her.
Moreover, a strange, uncontrollable impulse swayed me. The touch of
that deadly weapon still burned my hand. Philippa’s words still rang in
my ears. “On, on, on, up the road yet awhile!” she had cried. What did
she mean? What had been done to-night?
I must retrace my steps. I must see! I must know! Philippa is flying
through the cold, dark, deadly night; but her frame is but the frame of
a woman. She must soon grow exhausted, perhaps sink senseless on the
road. Nevertheless, the dreadful fears which are growing in my mind
must be set at rest; then I can resume the pursuit. At all cost I must
know what has happened!
Once more I turned and faced the storm. Heavens! anything might happen
on such a night as this! I went on and on, flashing my lantern as I
went on the centre and each side of the road. I went some distance past
that spot where I judged that Philippa had swept by me. Then suddenly,
with a cry of horror, I stopped short. At my very feet, in the middle
of the highway, illumined by the disk of light cast by my lantern, lay
a whitened mass, and as my eye fell upon it I knew only too well the
meaning of Philippa’s wild exclamation, “The wages of sin! The wages of
sin!”