Esther was now seated in the easy-chair; Wyndham stood by the
mantel-piece. He had got a shock, and that shock had given him
strength, and a good deal of his old manner.
"Esther," he said, "I cannot tell you all the story, but some of it I
should like you to hear. You are a friend to me, Esther, and the part
that relates to myself I will confide to you."
"Sir, I know the other part; you have been the victim of a wicked man."
"Hush; I don't wish to speak about anyone but myself. I don't blame
anyone but myself. I loved a woman, Esther Helps, so much better than
myself that for her sake I resolved to die to the world. I need not
give you the reason of this. It seemed to me necessary for her
happiness that I should do this; and I did not think it too much to do.
I married my wife knowing that the great love I had for her was not
returned. This seemed all for the best, as when I died, as die to all
appearance I should, her heart would not be broken. She could continue
to live happy and honored. Do you follow me?"
"Yes, sir, yes. Are you tired? Will you sit, Mr. Wyndham?"
"I was never less tired. When I speak of my wife I feel as if a fresh
vigor were coming into me. We were married, and I soon found that I had
overtaxed my own resolve. In one particular I could not complete the
sacrifice I had undertaken. I tried to make her love me, and for a
time--a short time--I thought I had succeeded."
The speaker paused, and the eagerness of his tone changed.
"I failed. The heart that I most craved for was not to be mine. I
tested it, but it did not respond. This was best, no doubt, but the
fact preyed on me dreadfully. I went on board the _Esperance_, and,
then, God forgive me, the thought took possession of me, the idea
overmastered me, that I would make my fictitious death real. Everything
had been carefully arranged with regard to my apparent death. That part
implicates others, so I will not touch upon it. I resolved to make
certainty doubly certain by dying in earnest. Thus my wife's future
would be assured. My death would be real, the thing that might come
upon her would be averted for ever. I was in a condition when I could
not balance right and wrong; but my intellect was sufficiently keen and
sensible to make me prepare for the deed I contemplated. I took steps
which would prevent anyone on board thinking that I had fallen
overboard by design. My death would be attributed to the merest
accident. Thus all was made absolutely safe. What is the matter,
Esther?"
"Oh, Mr. Wyndham! Oh, you frighten me. Did you--did you think of your
soul, sir?"
"I did, Esther. But I loved my wife better than my hope of heaven. I
resolved to risk even that for her. As I tell you, I had no sense of
personal right or wrong at that time. You see that I am a very wicked
man, Esther--no hero--a man who yielded to a dire temptation. I won't
talk about this. The night came, and I dropped into the water. There
was a storm that night. It was dark, but now and then the stars could
be seen through the rifts of the clouds. As I leapt overboard I looked
up, and saw the brightness of the Southern Cross. Then I went under.
The great waves closed over my head. The next instant I came to the
surface only possessed with one fierce frantic desire, to save the life
I meant to throw away. Better be a living dog than a dead lion, I said
to myself. Yes, I would live--if only like the miserable dogs of
Eastern towns, w ould live as the outcast, as the scum of the earth--I
would live. I had done a horrible thing in seeking to throw away my
life. I cried aloud in an anguish of terror:--'God spare me! God leave
my breath in my body! Don't take my spirit before the judgment seat!'
Through the rifts in the clouds I saw a boat at a little distance
manned by some of the sailors who were looking for me. I shouted, but
no living voice could be heard in the gale. Then I resolved to husband
my strength. I was an excellent swimmer, and I could always float like
a cork. I could not swim in that sea, but I could lie quite passive on
the waves. I turned on my back, and waited for the issue of events. I
closed my eyes and felt myself being moved up and down. The motion in
itself was not unpleasant. The waves were wonderfully buoyant. Instead
of losing my strength I was rested. My heart beat steadily. I knew that
my chance of life depended on my keeping very cool. Presently something
struck me. I put out my hand and grasped a floating oar. By means of
the oar I knew that unless I froze with the cold I could keep above the
water for hours. I placed it under my arms and kept above the water
with very little effort.
"The cold, however, was intense, and I doubt that I could have lived
till morning had not another chance of deliverance just then appeared.
The clouds had almost cleared from the sky, and by the brightness of
the southern constellations I saw something gleaming white a little
further off. It was not the ship, which must have been a league or two
away by now, but something I could see in my present horizontal
position. I ventured to raise my head a very little, and saw a boat--a
boat painted white--which, strange to say, had not been overturned by
the roughness of the waves. It was gently floating onwards in my
direction. The name _Esperance_ was painted in gold letters on the
outside of the boat, near the bow. I guessed at once what had
happened. One of the ships' boats had got loose from its moorings in
the gale, and was now sent to me as an ark of deliverance. It was
evidently on one of the ship's oars, too, that I was supporting my
head.
"Then I saw that God did not mean me to die, and a great glow of
gratitude and even happiness ran through me. You will wonder at this,
but you don't know how horrible death looked in the jaws of that angry
sea.
"The boat came nearer, and nearer and my happiness and sense of relief
grew to almost rapture. I cried aloud:--'God. I thank Thee! Take the
life you have thought worth preserving almost through a miracle, as
your own absolutely. Take my body, take my spirit, to spend, to
worship, to lose myself in Thee!' Then the boat came up, and I had to
duck under to avoid being stunned by her.
"It is no easy matter to get into an empty boat in a rough sea. My
hands were almost numb, too, for I had been a couple of hours in the
water. I felt, however, quite cool, self-possessed and quiet. I could
think clearly, and bring my little knowledge of boats to my aid. I knew
my only chance of not upsetting the boat was to climb over by the
stern. This, after tremendous difficulties, I accomplished. I lay in
the bottom of the boat for some time quite unconscious. When at last I
was able to rouse myself, daylight had come and the storm had gone
down. My clothes were drenched through with salt water. I could not
keep from shivering, and every bone ached. I was not the least hungry,
but I was consumed with thirst. There were two or three oars lashed to
the side of the boat. I could row, therefore, and the exercise warmed
me. Presently the sun came up in the heavens. I was glad of this, but
its rays beating on my uncovered head soon produced headache, which in
its turn brought on a queer giddiness and a feeling of sickness. I saw
now that I was going to be very ill, and I wondered how long I should
retain my senses. I knew that it behoved me to be very careful. I was
alive, but for my wife's sake I must appear to be dead. I saw that I
had taken the very best possible step to insure this end, and if I
could only carry on my purpose to its conclusion I should have adopted
a far better plan for securing the establishment of my own apparent
death than the one originally devised for me.
"Aching as I did from head to foot I found it difficult to keep my
thoughts collected. I managed, however, to do so, and also to scratch
out the name of the _Esperance_ from the bows of the boat. This I
accomplished with my pocket knife. I also cut away my own name from my
linen, and from two handkerchiefs which I found in my pockets. These
handkerchiefs had been marked by my wife. After this I knew there was
no more I could do. I must drift along and take my chance of being
picked up. I cannot recall how I passed the day. I believe I rowed a
little when I felt cold; but the greater part of the time I simply
allowed the boat to drift.
"That evening I was picked up by a trading vessel bound for the Cape.
Its crew were mostly Dutch, and several of the sailors were black. I
faintly remember going on board the vessel. Then all memory leaves me.
I had a long illness--a fever which changed me, turning my hair very
grey. I grew a beard in my illness, and would not allow it to be
removed when I got better, as I knew that in the future I must live
under the shadow of death, I must completely sink the identity which
made life of value.
"I was put into hospital when we arrived at Cape Town, and when I got
better was given a small purse of money, which had been collected by
some people who professed to take an interest in me. On the day I left
the hospital I really commenced my new life.
"It is unnecessary to tell you all that followed. I had not forgotten
my vow--the vow I made to God verily out of the deeps. I determined,
as far as it was in me, absolutely to renounce myself and to live for
God as He reveals himself in suffering man. I did not resolve to do
this with any ulterior motive of saving my own soul, and atoning for
the sin of the past. I felt that God deserved all that I could possibly
give Him, and to give it absolutely and without reservation kept me, I
believe, from losing my senses. For a time all went well. Then the
hunger which had been my curse came back. You will ask what that was.
It was a sense of utter starvation which no physical food could
satisfy, which no mental food could appease. I _must_ get near my wife.
I had sinned for her, and now I could not keep away from her. I must at
least live in the same country. I prayed against this hunger; I fought
with it. I struggled with it, but I could not beat it down. A year ago
I came back to England. I came to London, to the safest place for a man
who must hide. Willing hands are always needed to help to lighten some
of the load of misery in this great city. I called myself Brother
Jerome, and presently I found my niche. I worked, and I could have been
happy. Yes, starving in body, with nowhere to lay my head, I could have
been happy following _The_ Blessed example, but for the hunger which
always drove me mad, which was gnawing at my heart, which gnaws there
still--which--Esther--Esther Helps--is--killing me!"
Wyndham dropped his head on his hands. He uttered one groan. When he
raised his head again his eyes were wet.
"I am close to my wife," he said; "but I have never heard of her
once--not once since I returned."
Then he sat down in the chair which Esther rose from. He began to cough
again, and Esther saw the drops of sweat standing large on his
forehead.
It was now her turn to speak. She stood upright--a tall, slim woman--a
woman who had gone through a change so great as almost to amount to a
new birth--while Wyndham had been telling his story.
"Now," she said, "I am happy. I praise God for His mercies, for it is
given to me to comfort you."
Wyndham raised his head; he was too exhausted to ask her what she
meant, except with his eyes.
"Your wife is well, and from this day forth you shall hear news of her,
fresh news, once a week. Every Sunday you shall hear."
"Esther, don't torture me. Are you telling me truth?"
"I am telling you the solemn truth. Would I lie to a man like you? Mr.
Wyndham, do you know, has anyone ever told you that you have a child?"
"Nobody. Is this the case? My God, a child!"
"Yes, sir, a little boy; he is called after you. He is three years old.
You'd like to see him, maybe?"
"Good heavens, Esther, this is like new wine to me. I have a son of my
own--Valentine's son!"
He began to pace the floor.
"And you would like to see him, wouldn't you, sir?"
"Yes--no--the joy might kill me. People have died of joy."
"You wouldn't die of joy, sir. It has always been the other way with
you. Joy would make you live, would cure that cough, and that sinking
feeling you have told me of."
"And the hunger, Esther--the hunger which gnaws and gnaws. Esther, you
are a wonderful woman."
"Sit down, Mr. Wyndham. Keep quiet. Don't get excited. I'll do this for
you. I made up the plan this morning. It was about that I came to speak
to you. The baby wants a new nurse. To-morrow I am going to offer for
the place. I shall get it, too, no fear of that. I shall live in the
same house as your wife, every night your son will sleep in my arms.
Each Sunday I come here with my news--my weekful of news. Some day I
bring your son. What more natural than that I should come to my father
once a week. Who will suspect? Mr. Wyndham, that hunger of yours shall
have one weekly meal. No fear, no fear. And now, sir, go to bed, and
may God Almighty bless you!"