THE LAST HOPE.
They were sitting in the courtyard, my mother and my wife. They looked
the embodiment of serene happiness. Their large fans--the use of the
fan came like an inspiration to Philippa, my mother acquired it after
much practice--were languidly waving to and fro. Philippa’s rounded arm
was outstretched; her fair left hand was in the clear water which fell
from the fountain and filled a white marble basin, in which the gold
carp darted about in erratic tacks. She was moving her fingers gently
backward and forward, startling the timid fish, and half smiling at
their terror. It seemed to me that my mother was remonstrating at the
uproar she was creating in the brilliant-coated republic.
That picture is still in my mind. That picture! I can sit now in
my chair, lay down my pen, and call up every picture of that time.
Nothing, save the grief, has ever faded, or ever will fade, from my
memory.
It was well for both of us that I had fought out the battle with myself
in solitude, where no eye could see me, where I could see no one. Even
as it was, knowing what a change my news must work, I paused, and a
ghost of the day’s temptation rose before me. But it rose too late. The
die was cast. Philippa had seen me, and my mother’s eyes followed hers.
I braced myself up, and went toward them with as jaunty a manner as I
could assume. My mother began a mock tirade on my shameful desertion of
Philippa and herself. Her words carried no meaning to my ears. My eyes
met those of my wife.
With her I made no attempt at concealment. Where was the good? The
worst, the very worst had come. My eyes must have told her the truth.
I saw her sweet face catch fire with alarm. I saw her lips quiver. I
saw the look of anguish flash into her eyes; yet I knew that I was
helpless, utterly helpless.
She rose. I made some conventional excuse and went to my room. In a
moment Philippa was at my side.
“Basil, husband, love,” she whispered, “it has come!”
I laid my head on the table and sobbed aloud. Philippa’s arms were
wreathed around my neck.
“Dearest, I knew it must come. I have known it ever so long. Basil, do
not weep. Once more, I tell you I am not worth such love as yours.”
I covered her dear face with kisses. I strained her to my heart. I
lavished words of love upon her. She smiled faintly, then sighed
hopelessly--a sigh which almost broke my heart.
“Tell me all, my love,” she said, calmly. “Let me know the very worst.”
I could not speak; for the life of me the words would not come. With
trembling hands I drew out the newspaper, and pointed to the fatal
lines. She read them with a calm which almost alarmed me.
“I knew it must be,” was all she said.
I threw myself on my knees before her. I embraced her, I was half
distraught. Save for my wild ejaculations of undying love, there was
silence for many minutes between us.
Presently, with great force, she raised my head, and looked at me with
her sweet and sorrowful eyes.
“Basil, my dearest, you have been wrong. The right is right, the wrong
is wrong. See what you have done! Had you not striven to save me, only
I should have had to answer for this. Now it is you and me, and perhaps
a third--an innocent, stainless life, that will be wrecked.”
“Spare me! Spare me!” I said. “As you love me, spare me!”
She kissed me. “Dearest, forgive me. I should not blame you. Only I am
to blame.” Then, with a sudden change in her voice, “When do we start
for England, Basil?”
Although I expected this question, I trembled and shuddered as I heard
it. Too well I knew what England meant. It meant Philippa’s standing
in open court, in a prisoner’s dock, the center of a gaping crowd,
self-accused of the murder of her husband! And as I pictured this, once
more, and for the last time, the temptation shook me.
I spoke, but I averted my eyes from hers. I could not meet them. My
voice was husky and strange; it sounded like the voice of another man.
A sort of undercurrent of thought ran through me, that if Philippa
would but share it, I could bear any burden, any dishonor.
“Listen!” I said, in quick accents. “We are far away; safe. We love
each other. We can be happy. Let the man take his chance. What does
anything matter, so long as we love and are together?”
I felt that her eyes were seeking mine. I felt a change in the clasp of
her hand. I knew that she was nobler and better than I.
“Basil,” she said softly, and speaking like one in a dream, “it was not
my husband, not the man I love, who said that. I forgive you for the
sake of your great love, for the sake of all you have done, or tried to
do, for me. Tell me now, when do we start for England?”
Her words brought back my senses. Never in the wildest height of my
passion had I loved Philippa as I loved her at that moment. I besought
her pardon. She gave it, and once more repeated her question.
With the calm of settled despair I consulted the railway-guide, and
found that if we left Seville to-morrow morning by the first train,
we might, by travelling day and night, early on the morning of the
twentieth reach the town in which the trial was to be held. I made the
result of my researches known to my wife; and upon my assuring her
that we should have time to spare, she left all the arrangement of the
journey to me.
After this, another painful question arose. Was my mother to be
told? Philippa, who may, perhaps, in her secret heart have craved
for a woman’s support and sympathy in her approaching trial, at
first insisted that my mother should be taken into our confidence--a
confidence which, alas! in a few days’ time would be gossip to the
world. I besought her to waive the point, to spare my mother’s feelings
until the very last moment. We could not take her with us on our
hurried journey. We were young; she was old. The fatigue, combined
with the grief, would be more than her frame could endure. I could not
bear to think of her waiting lonely in Seville for the bad news which
she knew must come in a day or two from England. Let us say nothing
respecting the wretched errand on which we are bound. Let us depart in
secret, and leave some plausible explanation behind us.
To my relief, Philippa at last consented to this. Then, after a long,
tearful embrace, we steeled ourselves to join my mother at the evening
meal, and to bear ourselves so that she should suspect nothing of the
tempest within our hearts. We did not very long subject ourselves to
this strain upon our nerves. It seemed to me now that every moment
spent otherwise than alone with my wife was a precious treasure wasted,
a loss which I should forever regret. So very early we pleaded fatigue,
and retired to our rest. Such rest!
Philippa bade my mother good-night with an embrace so long and
passionate that I feared it would awaken alarm, especially when it was
succeeded by my own veiled, but scarcely less emotional, adieu. For who
could say that we should ever meet again? I do not believe it struck
Philippa that in accompanying her I was running the slightest risk. Had
she thought so, she would have insisted upon going alone. But I knew
that the part I had played in that night’s work would probably bring a
severe punishment upon my own head. What did I care for that?
Silently and sadly in the retirement of our room we made our
preparations for the journey, which began with the morn. There was no
need to cumber ourselves with much luggage. We should rest in no bed
until the trial was over. What resting-place might then be Philippa’s,
Heaven only knew! So our packing was soon completed.
Then I wrote a letter, to be given to or found by my mother in the
morning. I told her that an important matter took me post-haste to
England; that Philippa had determined to accompany me; that I would
write as soon as we reached London. I gave no further explanation. I
hoped she would attribute my sudden flight to the erratic nature which
she often averred I possessed.
After all, the deception mattered little. In a week’s time nothing
would matter. Grief, overwhelming grief, would be my portion; a portion
which, by her affection for me and for Philippa, my poor mother would
be forced to share.
All being now ready for our start, we strove to win some hours of
sleep. Our efforts were mocked to scorn. Through that, the last
night we might spend alone together, I believe neither my wife nor
myself closed an eyelid. Let me draw a veil over my wild distress and
Philippa’s calm acquiescence in her fate. Some grief is too sacred to
describe.
Morning! Bright, broad, clear, cool, odorous morning! Our sleeplessness
had at least spared us the anguish of awaking, and, while for a moment
glorying in the beauty of the world, to remember what this morning
meant to us. Giving ourselves ample time to reach the railway-station,
we crept from our room, and, with eyes full of blinding tears, crossed
the pleasant _patio_. I paused in the centre, and plucking a lovely
spray from the great orange-tree, kissed it and gave it to my wife.
Without a word she placed it in the bosom of her dress. As she drew her
mantle aside to do so, for the first time I noticed that she wore the
very dress which clad her on that fatal night. Although it was utterly
unsuited to the almost tropical heat through which we should have
to travel, I dared not remonstrate with her. Now, of all times, her
slightest wish should be my law.
Noiselessly I undid the massive studded wooden gate, which at
night-time closed the entrance to the _patio_. Unseen, we stepped into
the shady, narrow street. Our luggage was light. I could carry it with
ease to the station, which was not a great distance off. We were there
only too soon.
We had to wait some time ere the train, which, following the example of
the true Spaniard, declines on any consideration to be hurried, made
its appearance. We took our seats in silence. At last the dignified
train condescended to move onward. We sat side by side, and gazed and
gazed in the direction of the beautiful city from which we were flying;
gazed until we saw the very last of it, until even the great towering
Giralda was lost to view. Then, and only then, I think we fully
realized to what end we were speeding.
The next three days and nights seem now little more to me than a
whirling dream. On and on we went to work out our fate; over the same
ground which I had traversed, with scarcely less agitated feelings,
some months ago. I ground my teeth when I thought how little my
strenuous and seemingly successful efforts had availed. Now, not from
any omission of precaution; not because the law compelled; not by the
exercise of force; but simply on account of the great dictum of right
and wrong, we were, of our own accord, retracing our steps to face the
danger from which we had fled. Oh, bitter irony of destiny!
What was money to me now? Nothing but so much dross! It could do one
thing, only one, that gold which I lavished so freely on that journey.
It could assure that Philippa and I might travel alone. It could give
us privacy for the time that journey lasted, that was all.
Yet although alone, we spoke but little. Our thoughts were not such
as can be expressed by words. Her hand in mine, her head on my
shoulder--sleeping when we could sleep, waking and looking into each
other’s faces--knowing that every mile of sunny or starlit country over
which we passed brought us nearer to the end. Ah! I understood then
how it is that lovers who are menaced by some great sorrow can kill
themselves, and die smiling in each other’s arms! We might have done
so; but our deaths would have left to perish that stranger whom we were
speeding to save.
So, as in a dream, the hours, the days, the nights, went by. We might
have been travelling through the fairest scenery in the world, or
through the most arid desert. I scarcely troubled to glance out of the
carriage window. The world for me was inside.
It was after we left Paris--Paris, which to-day seemed all but within
stone’s-throw of London--that I aroused myself, and braced my energies
to discuss finally with Philippa our proper plan of action. I felt that
my right course would be to go straight to some solicitor, tell the
tale, and ask him to put matters in train. But I could not bring myself
to do this. Our secret was as yet our own. Moreover, through the misery
of those hours, one ray of hope had broken upon me. If Philippa could
be brought to yield to my guidance, to follow my instructions, it was
not beyond the bounds of possibility that we might be saved, and saved
with clean hands.
“Dearest,” I whispered, “to-night we shall be in London.”
Her fingers tightened on mine. “And at Tewnham?” she said. “We shall be
in time?”
“In ample time. But, Philippa, listen--”
“Basil, as you love me, not one word to tempt, to dissuade me!”
“Not one; but listen. Sweetest, if you will be guided by me, even now
all may go well. This man--”
“The poor man who is standing in my place?”
“Yes; listen. Heaven forbid that I should tempt you. Think; he is, no
doubt, a man of a lowly station in life. Philippa, I am rich, very
rich.”
“I do not understand you,” she said, pressing her hand to her brow.
“Money will compensate for anything. Let him stand his trial. He is
innocent. If there is justice in the land, he may, he must be found not
guilty.”
“But the agony of mind he must pass through!”
“For that I will pay him over and over again. He may be but a country
boor, to whom a thousand pounds would be inexhaustible wealth. But,
whatever his station, the compensation sent to him by an unknown hand
shall make him bless the day which laid him under the false accusation.
Reflect, look at the matter in every light. I swear to you that in my
opinion we may, with a clear conscience, await the result of the trial.”
She sighed, but made no answer. Her silence was a joy to me. It told me
that my specious argument carried weight. I took her hands and kissed
them. I told her again and again that I loved her; that my life as well
as hers depended on her yielding.
It was long before she yielded. The thought of a fellow-creature
lying in prison, perhaps for months, and to-morrow to stand in shame
before his judges, on account of a deed which she herself had done,
was anguish to her noble nature. Then, growing desperate at seeing the
only plank which could save us from the wreck spurned for the sake of
what, in my present mood, I was able to believe too finely strained a
scruple, I used my last and, as I rightly judged, my most powerful
argument. I told her that it would be not only she who would suffer for
that unconscious act, but that I, her husband, must pay the penalty due
from an accessory after the crime.
Heaven forgive me for the anguish my words caused that loving
heart! Philippa, on whom the intelligence of my danger fell like a
thunderbolt, sank back in her seat, pale and trembling. Had I ever
doubted that my wife’s heart-whole love was my own, that look would
have dispelled the doubt.
She prayed and besought me to leave her at the next station; to let her
finish the journey and make her avowal alone. My reply was short, but
sufficiently long to put all hope of my consenting to such a course out
of her head. Then, for my sake, she yielded.
“On one condition--one only,” she said.
“Be guided by me in this. In all else you shall do as you like.”
“I must be in the court, Basil. I must hear the trial. If the worst
happen, there must not be the delay of a moment; then and there I must
proclaim the truth.”
“You shall be at hand--close at hand. I will be present.”
“No! I must be there. I must hear and see all. If the man is found
guilty, I must, before his horrible sentence is pronounced, stand up
and declare his innocence.”
“All that could be done afterward.”
“No; it must be done then. Basil, fancy--put yourself in his place!
Nothing could atone for his anguish at hearing himself condemned to
death for a crime he knows nothing of. I must be there. Promise me I
shall be there, and for your sake I will do as you wish.”
It was the best concession I could get. I promised. I concealed the
fact that if, when sentence was pronounced, a woman rose in the body
of the court, and asserted the prisoner’s innocence and her own guilt,
the probabilities were she would be summarily ejected. This made no
difference. Let Philippa be silent; let the man be found not guilty,
and the next train could bear us back to Seville.
Yes, even now there was hope!