CHAPTER XX.
A CONVERSATION IN WASTDALE CHURCH.
When I returned with the shoe, I found Dorothy sitting huddled againstthe church wall in a very doleful attitude.
"Oh!" she cried remorsefully, as she took the shoe from me, "you aredrenched through and through, and it is I that am to blame."
"It matters nothing at all," I replied. "I have been out upon the topsof these ridges, and of nights. It would be strange if I were notinured to a little cold."
"You will take your coat, however."
I had the greatest difficulty in persuading her to keep it; for sinceI was drenched already, the coat would not dry me, but I should wetthe coat. This was the argument I employed to her, though I hadanother, and a more convincing, to satisfy myself--I mean the sight ofher wrapped up in it. It was a big, rough, heavy frieze coat and madea nest for her; she had drawn the collar of it close about her ears,and her face, rosy with warmth and the whipping of the wind as we cameacross the fields, peeped from the coat, like a moss-rose at thebudding.
We sat for a while in silence--for the whistling of the storm wasgrown so loud, that we had need to shout, and even then the windsnatched up the words out of hearing almost before they had passed ourlips.
In front of us the tempest roistered about the valley, twisting thesleet and snow this way and that, shrieking about the bases of thehills, whistling along the invisible ridges; now and again, however,there came a momentary lull, and during one of these intervals theclouds broke upon our left and disclosed the peak of Great Gable.Rising in that way, from the mists that still hid its flanks, the peakseemed so high that you thought it must be slung in mid-air; it stoodout black against the grey clouds, barren, impregnable. Dorothyshuddered at the aspect of it.
"You were out upon those heights," she shouted into my ear, "night andday, after you left Applegarth?"
"Yes!" I nodded. Doubtless I should have pointed out that I did notmake my bed upon the pinnacles, and that there was all the differencein the world betwixt rain and snow. But, to tell the truth, heranxiety on my account was of that sweetness to me that I could notlightly bring myself to dispense with it. I was debating the matter inmy mind, when a tile, loosened by the wind, slid from the roof of thechurch and smashed upon the ground, a couple of feet from Dorothy. Itturned the current of my thoughts effectually. The door of the churchI knew to be locked; I crept round to the east end of the building.There was a great window with the panes set in lead, which reachedfrom the roof to within three feet of the ground. And in that window asecond window was made by the lowest of these leaded panes. Insertingmy knife, I was able to force up the latch which fastened this secondwindow, and found that, with some squeezing and compression, a bodymight crawl through the opening. I went back to Dorothy. "It will besafer in the church," said I. I climbed through the window by the sideof the altar, and turned to help Dorothy in after me. But as I was inthe act of helping her, I heard a clatter on the ground without. Shewas halfway through the window at the moment, and slipped back with alaugh.
"This time," said she, as she appeared again, and set her hands uponthe sill--"this time I did not drop it on purpose." And I helped herin.
The church was barely furnished with perhaps a dozen of rough dealpews, and had not even a vestry, so that the parson's surplice layneatly folded upon a chair in the chancel. Into one of the pews weentered, and since Dorothy was warm within my coat, I took and wrappedthe surplice about my shoulders. So we sat side by side, silent, inthe gloom of the church, the whitewashed walls glimmering about us,the sleet whipping the windows and tearing at the door. Somehow thesound of the storm had now become very pleasant to me, since it seemedto shut us off, as upon an island, more securely from the world.
It is strange how a man may walk again and again along a quitefamiliar path with companions who have grown familiar in his thoughts,and then on some one day, in a twinkling, and for no reason that hecan afterwards discern, let him think never so hard, the companionswith whom he has fared will lose their familiarity, will become, as itwere, transfigured, and the spot to which he has come will take on amagical aspect and a magical light He seems to have come thither forthe first time on that day; and let him con over the landmarks toprove the fancy wrong, the fancy will none the less abide with him,solid as truth. He recognizes the spot as in some way intimatelyconcerned with him; it seems to have been waiting for him, and for theconjunction of this one particular hour with him. And the picturewhich he has of it, thus suddenly revealed, becomes henceforth partand parcel of his being, imperishably treasured within the heart ofrecollection. So, at all events, it was with me.
A picture of this valley in which we were, of this church in which wesat, sprang up before my eyes, and I viewed it with a curiousdetachment. It was as though I stood upon the rim of the mountains andlooked down into the hollow. I saw the desolate hills ringing itabout, made yet more desolate by the blurring snow. I saw the littlewhite church set within its stunted, beaten yews, apart in themid-centre of the valley. It was, too, as though I saw, by somestrange clairvoyancy, through the walls, and beheld the two fugitivessecurely sheltered, side by side, in the dusk of the pew. And thepicture has remained clamped in my memory ever since, so that I havebut to close my eyes, and not merely do I see it vividly as I didthen, but I experience again that vague sense of a voice cryingsomewhere out of Nature's heart, "This spot has been waiting for youtwain, and for this one hour."
It was a movement which Dorothy made, brought me to myself. For shesuddenly clasped her hands together with a shudder.
"You are cold?" I cried.
"No," she replied in a low voice. "I was thinking of that peak we sawand the horror of it by night," and her voice trembled for an instant,"and of your watching from the darkness the lights of Applegarth. Wewere comfortably in our beds; and it rained that night I remember thepatter of the rain against the windows."
"Nay," said I, "there was little harm done. I am no snow-man to bewashed away by a capful of rain."
She turned to me very quickly.
"Tell me," she said, in a voice no less quick. "The evening that youwent from us--you were talking for a long while at the gate with MaryTyson, you will remember. I interrupted your talk."
"Yes! I remember," I answered, staring straight in front of me.
"Well," she continued, "I have often wondered," her voice sankyet lower, "whether that going of yours was not a flight--flightfrom--from us at Applegarth. For, after all, it was something MaryTyson said to you that made you go."
I turned towards her with a start.
"You know what Mary Tyson said?"
She looked at me in silence, her eyes shining out of the dusk. Thenshe lowered her head.
"I guessed it," she said in a whisper. "I guessed it then, for I knowMary's care for me. And the next morning when we sent her to warn youthat the sheriff was at the door, I read it in her face. I mean," saidshe, recovering herself hastily, "I read your departure in her face,and I knew it was what she had said to you had driven you out, and notyour own necessities."
She paused; I did not answer.
"The knowledge has troubled me sorely," she said, "for you were ourguest."
"It made but the one night's difference," I urged, "for on the morrowcame the officers."
"Ah! but that was the accident," she answered shrewdly. "They mightnot have come--they might never have come--and still you would havefled. I have said this much to you," she went on with a change oftone, "because I would have you look on me just as a friend, whotrusts you, who has great cause to trust and thank you, and who wouldcount it a very real happiness if she could, in any small way, repayyou. I told you when we met on your march that I knew there was somegreat trouble."
"And the answer I gave to you then, I must give now. I am bound toface that trouble by myself. It was my sin brought it about."
"Ah! but one never knows whence help may come," she replied; and thegentle earnestness with w
hich she spoke so tempted me to unbosommyself, that instinctively I drew away from her. "You think it is justa woman's curiosity which prompts me," she cried, mistaking mymovement. "Ah! no. Acquit me of that fault! I am not sure, but it maybe that I can help you."
Did she know? I wondered. My thoughts went back to that last meetingnear Penrith. I had spoken then of a prison-door which must closebetween us twain, and she had made an answer which seemed to hint asuspicion of the truth.
"And even if I cannot, the mere telling sometimes helps," shecontinued, "so long as one tells it to a friend. I mean"--and here shebegan to speak very slowly, choosing her words, and with a certaindifficulty in the utterance--"I mean I was afraid that something Marymight have said checks you. There are things one does not confide toan acquaintance, or, again, to one whom you think to look upon you asever so much nearer than an acquaintance. But to a friend, yes! Afriend is a halfway house between, where one can take one's ease;" andshe drew a breath, like one that has come to the end of a dangeroustask.
As for me, I sat listening to that word "friend." The walls seemed toretain it, and whisper it again to me after she had ceased, and in thechanging tones which she had used. For now Dorothy had spoken it withan earnest insistence, as though anxious--almost over-anxious--Ishould just accept the phrase as the true definition of what she felttowards me; and now her voice had faltered and stumbled at the word.It may have been a lack of modesty--I cannot tell--but I think itwould have been the falsest modesty in the world had I affected toneglect the manner of the speech, while considering the matter of it.But be it as it may, the one thought which rose in my mind, engrossingme, distinct, horrible in distinctness, was this: What if that word"friend" cloaked and concealed another--another which, but for thosefew weeks at Blackladies, I might--who knows!--perhaps have persuadedher to speak? Why then, if that was true, here was I implicating, indistress, the one woman who was chiefest in the front of my thoughts.
How that sin of mine reached out, making me a ban and a curse, bearingits evil fruit in unimaginable ways! And in the agony of my heart Icried--
"Would to God I had never come to Applegarth!"
The cry rang fierce and sharp through the little church. Silencesucceeded it, and then--
"That is not very kind," said Dorothy, with a tremulous reproach, "Itpains me."
"Ah! don't mistake," I went on. "For myself, I could not hope to makeyou understand what my visit there has meant to me. I came toApplegarth on an evening. The day I had passed waiting upon thehillside, and while I was waiting there, I made a resolve to repair,under God's will, a great wrong. Well, when I first saw you, I had butone thought--a thought of very sincere gladness that I had come tothat resolve or ever I had had speech with you. And during the weeksthat followed, this resolve drew strength and vigour from yourcompanionship. That vigour and that strength it keeps, so that my onefear now is, lest chance may bar me from the performance. That is yourdoing. For until I came to Applegarth, all my life behind me waslittered with broken pledges."
She laid her hand for an instant upon my sleeve.
"But what return have I made to you," I continued, "except a pitifulhypocrisy? I came to Applegarth an outlaw--yes, my one fault myloyalty! So you believed; so I let you believe. I wore your brother'sclothes, and he died at Malplaquet. There was hypocrisy in the wearingof them!" And I turned suddenly towards her. "There was a picture Ionce saw--the picture of a dead man speaking. Even then it seemed tome an image of myself."
"A dead man speaking!" interrupted Dorothy, with a start.
"Yes!" said I, and I told her of the picture which Lord Bolingbrokehad shown to me at the monastery of the Chartreux in Paris, and of thethought which I had drawn from it.
"A dead man speaking," she repeated, in a voice which seemed hushedwith awe; "how strange!"
The storm had ceased to beat the window; the dusk was deepening todarkness; the silence was about us like a garment I sat wondering atDorothy's tone, wondering whether I should say what yet remained tosay. But I had made use before of secrecy and deception. It would bebest I should simply speak the truth.
"A dead man speaking," again said Dorothy.
"I had warning enough, you see," said I, "and I recognized thewarning. The picture seized upon my thoughts. I knew it for anallegory, but made no profit of my knowledge. And so the allegoryturns fact."
"What do you mean?" she asked, catching her breath.
"Oh, don't speak until I have done!" I cried "I find it hard enough totell you as it is while you sit silent. But the sound of your voicecheats me of my strength, sets the duty beyond my reach. For it is aduty." I paused for a moment to recover the mastery of my senses. "Ispoke to you once of a prison-door which would close between you andme. But that was not the whole of the truth. That prison-door willclose, but it will open again; I shall come out from it, but upon ahurdle."
"Oh no!" cried Dorothy in such a voice of pain as I pray God I maynever hear the like of again. I felt it rive my heart. She swayedforward; her forehead would have struck the rail of the pew in front.I put my arm around her shoulders and drew her towards me. I felt herface pressed against my bosom, her fingers twining tightly upon mycoat.
"Yes, yes, it is true," I went on. "The allegory turns fact. Even inParis, those months agone, I came to look upon myself as the figure inthe picture, as the dead man speaking, meaning thereby the hypocritedetected. But now the words take on a literal meaning. It is a deadman who is speaking to you--no more than that--in very truth a deadman. You must believe it; and believe this too, that since my cup oflife this long while back has over-brimmed with shame, and since itwas I who filled it why, I could go very lightly to my death, but forthe fear lest it should cause my little friend to suffer pain."
She disengaged herself gently from my clasp.
"I cannot take that fear away from you," she said in a broken whisper.
"And indeed I would not lose it," I replied. "In my heart of hearts Iknow that I would not lose it."
"What is it, then, you mean to do?" she asked.
"To travel with my friend as far as Ravenglass, to set her safe onboard the _Swallow_, and then--somewhere there is a man in prisonwhose place is mine."
"You do not know where?" she exclaimed suddenly.
"No," said I, "but----"
She interrupted me with a cry.
"Look!" she said hurriedly, and pointed to a little window closebeneath the roof. Through that window the moonlight was creeping likea finger down the wall, across the floor. "The storm has cleared; wecan go."
She rose abruptly from her seat, and moved out into the chancelSomething--was it the hurry of her movement, the tension of hervoice?--made me spring towards her. I remembered that, when I spoke toher on the hillside near Penrith, it had seemed to me then that shehad some inkling of the truth.
"You know!" I exclaimed--"you know where the prisoner is?"
"No," she cried, and her voice rose almost to a scream belying theword she spoke.
How she came by her knowledge I did not consider. She knew! I had noroom for any other thought.
"Oh, you do know!" I implored, and dropping on my knee I seized thehem of her dress to detain her. I felt the dress drag from me; I heldit the more firmly. "You do not know--oh, tell me! A man innocent ofall wrongdoing, lies in prison--the charge, treason. Think you theywill weigh his innocence after this rebellion? The fetters he wearsare mine, his punishment is mine, and I must claim it. There's noother way but this plain and simple one. I must needs claim it. Ohthink, ever since I have known you, the necessity that I should dothis thing has grown on me, day by day, as each day I saw you. I havefelt that I owed it to you that I should succeed. Do not you preventme!"
She stood stock still; I could hear the quick coming and going of herbreath, but in the uncertain twilight I could not read her face; andshe did not speak.
"Listen!" I continued "If you do not tell me, it will make nodifference. I shall still give myself up. But to the other it may makeall the dif
ference in the world. For it may be that I shall fail tosave him."
Still she kept silence. So, seeing no other way, I stood up before herand told her the story from end to end, beginning with that day when Ifirst rode over Coldbarrow Fell to Blackladies in company with JervasRookley, down to the morning when I fled from the garden where thesoldiers searched for me.
I saw her head droop as she listened, and bow into her hands; yet Ihad to go on and finish it.
"But," said she, "you were not all to blame. The woman----"
"Nay," said I, "it can serve no purpose to portion out the blame; for,portion it as you will, you cannot shred away my share."
"Mr. Herbert," she objected again, "would have been taken in yourgarden, whether you had returned or no that afternoon."
"But my fault was the instrument used to ruin him. He was taken whilehe followed me. He was taken, too, because of me. For had I not riddenso often into Keswick, he would never have been suspected."
"It was his jealousy that trapped him, and Jervas Rookley provoked thejealousy."
"But I furnished him with the means."
The arguments were all old and hackneyed to me. I had debated thembefore, so that I had the answers ready. There was, besides, one finalargument, and without waiting for her to speak again, I used it.
"And what of the wife waiting in Keswick?"
She turned away with a little swift movement, and again stood silentThen she said--
"Yes! I too will face it bravely. Mr. Herbert lies in Carlisle Castle,waiting his trial. You know, after the message came to Applegarth, myfather and I fled to Carlisle; we took refuge with friends--Whigs, butof my mother's family, and for her sake they gave us shelter. Theyknew the Governor of the Castle. He told them of a prisoner newlybrought thither upon a warrant--a Mr. Herbert, who solaced himselfnight and day with the painting of the strangest picture ever known.You showed to me a letter at Applegarth, wherein a painter wasmentioned and named, and I knew you had some trouble to distress you.I grew curious to see the prisoner; no one suspected I was inCarlisle, and so my friends consented to take me. I saw him. It istrue I had no speech with him, but I saw the picture. It was aportrait of yourself, I thought, but I could not be sure. I was surebefore you told me. I was sure when you spoke to me of that pictureyou had seen in Paris. For this portrait, too, that Mr. Herbertpainted, was a portrait of yourself, as a dead man speaking."
I noticed that as she spoke her voice gained confidence and strength,and at the close it rang without a trace of fear or reluctance.
"Thank you," said I, simply. "Thank you with all my heart."
"Yes!" she replied, "it was right that I should tell you. You will goto Carlisle?"
"In truth I will;" and as she moved into a line with the window, themoonlight made a silver glory about her face. I saw with a great joythat her eyes, her lips were smiling. It seemed to me, indeed, thatboth our hearts were lighter. There was this one thing to do, and nowhere was the means revealed by which it might be done.
We climbed out of the window, and since it was too late for thecontinuance of our journey, we sought lodging for the night at thatfarmhouse which I had already visited. I remember walking across thefields in the star-shine and the moonlight, wondering at thisvicarious revenge Herbert had taken on my picture, and at the strangedestiny which had made this girl, so dear to me, the instrument of myatonement. And as we waited at the door, I said to her:
"I owed you much before to-night; but to-night you have doubled thedebt."
"And I am proud to hear you say it," she replied.
From the farmer I borrowed a change of clothes, and coming down thestairs again, found Dorothy, to her evident satisfaction, in her ownshoes, which she had taken from the pocket of my great-coat. We satfor a long while after our supper over the fire in the kitchen,talking of the days at Applegarth and laughing over that owl-hunt.Only twice was any reference made to our conversation in the church.For once I said:
"Do you remember when I came down to Applegarth, you were singing asong? It was called, 'The Honest Lover,' and I would fain have thewords of it." And thereupon she wrote out the song upon a sheet ofpaper and gave it to me.
And again, when Dorothy had lit her candle, she stood for an instantby the door.
"That resolve you spoke of?" she said. "You had come to it on the daythat you first reached Applegarth. It was the resolve to free Mr.Herbert at any cost?"
"Yes," said I.
"And it was that you were so glad you had determined on when you firstsaw me?"
"Yes," said I again.
"Well," said she, "it is the sweetest compliment that was ever paid toa woman."
The next morning we started betimes in the same cheerfulness ofspirits, and making light of that dreaded snow as we crossed Burnmoor,descended into Eskdale about nine of the forenoon, and so reachedRavenglass before it was dusk. There, to my inexpressible delight, Isaw the _Swallow_ riding on an anchor a little way out. We crept downto the beach, and waited there until it was dark. Then I lighted alantern which I had brought from the farmhouse for the very purpose,and lifting it up, swung it to and fro. In a little there was ananswering flash from the sloop, and a little after that I heard thesound of oars in the water, and fell to wondering what sort of partingwe should make, and, perhaps, in a measure, to dreading it. But theparting was of the simplest kind.
"It is good-bye, then," said Dorothy, "and we will shake hands, if youplease."
This time I took her hand fairly within my palm, and held it claspedwhilst it clasped mine.
"I am thanking God," said I, "for the truest friend that ever manhad."
"Yes!" said she, nodding her head, "that is very prettily said, and nomore than the truth."
"Ah!" said I, "you ever enjoyed a very proper notion of yourself;" andwith that the boat grounded upon the beach, and, after all, we twoparted with a laugh. I heard the song of the seamen at the windlass,coming across the water with an airy faintness, and then I set my faceto the hillside.
Lawrence Clavering Page 20