Dawn

by H. Rider Haggard

  CHAPTER XIII

  Go, my reader, if the day is dull, and you feel inclined to moralize--for whatever may be said to the contrary, there are less usefuloccupations--and look at your village churchyard. What do you seebefore you? A plot of enclosed ground backed by a grey old church, anumber of tombstones more or less decrepit, and a great quantity oflittle oblong mounds covered with rank grass. If you have anyimagination, any power of thought, you will see more than that. First,with the instinctive selfishness of human nature, you will recognizeyour own future habitation; perhaps your eye will mark the identicalspot where the body you love must lie through all seasons andweathers, through the slow centuries that will flit so fast for you,till the crash of doom. It is good that you should think of that,although it makes you shudder. The English churchyard takes the placeof the Egyptian mummy at the feast, or the slave in the Romanconqueror's car--it mocks your vigour, and whispers of the end ofbeauty and strength.

  Probably you need some such reminder. But if, giving to the inevitablethe sigh that is its due, you pursue the vein of thought, it mayfurther occur to you that the plot before you is in a sense a summaryof the aspirations of humanity. It marks the realization of humanhopes, it is the crown of human ambitions, the grave of humanfailures. Here, too, is the end of the man, and here the birthplace ofthe angel or the demon. It is his sure inheritance, one that he neversolicits and never squanders; and, last, it is the only certainresting-place of sleepless, tired mortality.

  Here it was that they brought Hilda, and the old squire, and laid themside by side against the coffin of yeoman Caresfoot, whose fancy ithad been to be buried in stone, and then, piling primroses andblackthorn blooms upon their graves, left them to their chilly sleep.Farewell to them, they have passed to where as yet we may not follow.Violent old man and proud and lovely woman, rest in peace, if peace bethe portion of you both!

  To return to the living. The news of the sudden decease of old Mr.Caresfoot; of the discovery of Philip's secret marriage and the deathof his wife; of the terms of the old man's will, under which, Hildabeing dead, and having only left a daughter behind her, Georgeinherited all the unentailed portion of the property, with the curiousprovision that he was never to leave it back to Philip or hischildren; of the sudden departure of Miss Lee, and of many otherthings, that were some of them true and some of them false, followingas they did upon the heels of the great dinner-party, and theannouncement made thereat, threw the country-side into a state ofindescribable ferment. When this settled down, it left a strong andpermanent residuum of public indignation and contempt directed againstPhilip, the more cordially, perhaps, because he was no longer a richman. People very rarely express contempt or indignation against a richman who happens to be their neighbour in the country, whatever he mayhave done. They keep their virtue for those who are impoverished, orfor their unfortunate relations. But for Philip it was felt that therewas no excuse and no forgiveness; he had lost both his character andhis money, and must therefore be cut, and from that day forward he wascut accordingly.

  As for Philip himself, he was fortunately, as yet, ignorant of thekind intentions of his friends and neighbours, who had been so fond ofhim a week ago. He had enough upon his shoulders without that--for hehad spoken no lie when he told Maria Lee that he was crushed by thedreadful and repeated blows that had fallen upon him, blows that hadrobbed him of everything that made life worth living, and given him inreturn nothing but an infant who could not inherit, and who wastherefore only an incumbrance.

  Who is it that says, "After all, let a bad man take what pains he mayto push it down, a human soul is an awful, ghostly, unique possessionfor a bad man to have?" During the time that had elapsed between thedeath and burial of his father and wife, Philip had become thoroughlyacquainted with the truth of this remark.

  Do what he would, he could never for a single hour shake himself freefrom the recollection of his father's death; whenever he shut hiseyes, his uneasy mind continually conjured up the whole scene withuncanny distinctness; the gloomy room, the contorted face of the dyingman, the red flicker of the firelight on the wall--all these thingswere burnt deep into the tablets of his memory. More and more did herecognize the fact that, even should he live long enough to bury theevents of that hour beneath the debris of many years, the lapse oftime would be insufficient to bring forgetfulness, and the recognitionbrought with it moral helplessness. He had, too, sufficient religiousfeeling to make him uneasy as to his future fate, and possessed acertain amount of imagination, which was at this time all directedtowards that awful day when he and his dead father must settle theirfinal accounts. Already, in the quiet nights, he would wake with astart, thinking that the inevitable time had come. Superstitious fearsalso would seize him with their clammy fingers, and he would shake andtremble at the fancied step of ghostly feet, and his blood wouldcurdle in his veins as his mind hearkened to voices that were for everstill.

  And, worst of all, what had been done, and could never be undone, hadbeen done in vain. These deadly torments must be endured, whilst theobject for which they had been incurred had utterly escaped him. Hehad sold himself to the powers of evil for a price, and that price hadnot been paid. But the bond was good for all that.

  And so he would brood, hour after hour, till he felt himself drawingnear to madness. Sometimes by a strong effort he would succeed intearing his mind away from the subject, but then its place wasinstantly filled by a proud form with reproachful eyes, and he wouldfeel that there, too, death had put it out of his power to makeatonement. Of those whom he had wronged Maria Lee alone survived, andshe had left him in sorrow, more bitter than any anger. Truly, PhilipCaresfoot was in melancholy case. Somewhere he had read that the wagesof sin is death, but surely what he felt surpassed the bitterness ofdeath. His evil-doing had not prospered with him. The snare he had setfor his father had fallen back upon himself, and he was a crushed andruined man.

  It affords a curious insight into his character to reflect that allthese piled-up calamities, all this wreck and sudden death, did notbring him penitent on his knees before the Maker he had outraged. Thecrimes he had committed, especially if unsuccessful, or the sorrowsthat had fallen upon him, would have sufficed to reduce nine-tenths ofordinary men to a condition of humble supplication. For, generallyspeaking, irreligion, or rather forgetfulness of God, is a plant of nodeep growth in the human heart, since its roots are turned by the rockof that innate knowledge of a higher Power that forms the foundationof every soul, and on which we are glad enough to set our feet whenthe storms of trouble and emergency threaten to destroy us. But withPhilip this was not so. He never thought of repentance. His was notthe nature to fall down and say, "Lord, I have sinned, take Thou myburden from me." Indeed, he was not so much sorry for the past asfearful for the future. It was not grief for wrong-doing that wrunghis heart and broke his spirit, but rather his natural sorrow atlosing the only creature he had ever deeply loved, chagrin at theshame of his position and the failure of his hopes, and the icyfingers of superstitious fears.

  The crisis had come and passed: he had sinned against his Father inheaven and his father on earth, and he did not sorrow for his sin; hiswife had left him, murmuring with her dying lips exhortations torepentance, and he did not soften; shame and loss had fallen upon him,and he did not turn to God. But his pride was broken, all thatremained to him of strength was his wickedness; the flood that hadswept over him had purged away not the evil but the good, from theevil it only took its courage. Henceforth, if he sins at all, his willbe no bold and hazardous villany which, whilst it excites horror, canalmost compel respect, but rather the low and sordid crime, the safeand treacherous iniquity.

  Ajax no longer defies the lightning--he mutters curses on it beneathhis breath.

  On the evening of the double funeral--which Philip did not feel equalto attending, and at which George, in a most egregious hatband andwith many sobs and tears, officiated as chief mourner--Mr. Fraserthought it would be a kind act on his part
to go and offer suchconsolation to the bereaved man as lay within his power, if indeed hewould accept it. Somewhat contrary to his expectation, he was, onarrival at the Abbey House, asked in without delay.

  "I am glad to see a human face," said Philip to the clergyman, as heentered the room; "this loneliness is intolerable. I am as much aloneas though I lay stark in the churchyard like my poor wife."

  Mr. Fraser did not answer him immediately, so taken up was he innoticing the wonderful changes a week had wrought in his appearance.Not only did his countenance bear traces of the illness and exhaustionthat might not unnaturally be expected in such a case of bereavement,but it faithfully reflected the change that had taken place in hismental attitude. His eyes had lost the frank boldness that had madethem very pleasing to some people, they looked scared; the mouth toowas rendered conspicuous by the absence of the firm lines that oncegave it character; indeed the man's whole appearance was pitiful andalmost abject.

  "I am afraid," he said at length, in a tone of gentle compassion,"that you must have suffered a great deal, Caresfoot."

  "Suffered! I have suffered the tortures of the damned! I still sufferthem, I shall always suffer them."

  "I do not wish," said the clergyman, with a little hesitation, "toappear officious or to make a mockery of your grief by telling youthat it is for your good; but I should fail in my duty if I did notpoint out to you that He who strikes the blow has the power to healthe wound, and that very often such things are for our ultimatebenefit, either in this world or the next. Carry your troubles to Him,my dear fellow, acknowledge His hand, and, if you know in your heartof any way in which you have sinned, offer Him your hearty repentance;do this, and you will not be deserted. Your life, that now seems toyou nothing but ashes, may yet be both a happy and a useful one."

  Philip smiled bitterly as he answered--

  "You talk to me of repentance--how can I repent when Providence hastreated me so cruelly, robbing me at a single blow of my wife and myfortune? I know that I did wrong in concealing my marriage, but I wasdriven to it by fear of my father. Ah! if you had seen him as I sawhim, you would have known that they were right to call him 'DevilCaresfoot.'" He checked himself, and then went on--"He forced me intothe engagement with Miss Lee, and announced it without my consent. NowI am ruined--everything is taken from me."

  "You have your little daughter, and all the entailed estate--at least,so I am told."

  "My little daughter!--I never want to see her face; she killed hermother. If it had been a boy, it would have been different, for then,at any rate, that accursed George would not have got my birthright. Mylittle daughter, indeed! don't enumerate her among my earthlyblessings."

  "It is rather sad to hear you talk like that of your child; but, atany rate, you are not left in want. You have one of the finest oldplaces in the county, and a thousand a year, which to most men wouldbe riches."

  "And which to me," answered Philip, "is beggary. I should have hadsix, and I have got one. But look you here, Fraser, I swear beforeGod----"

  "Hush! I cannot listen to such talk."

  "Well, then, before anything you like, that, while I live, I willnever rest one single moment until I get my own back again. It mayseem impossible, but I will find a way. For instance," he added, as athought struck him, "strangely enough, the will does not forbid me tobuy the lands back. If I can get them no other way, I will buy them--do you hear?--I will buy them. I _must_ have them again before I die."

  "How will you get the money?"

  "The money--I will save it, make it, steal it, get it somehow. Oh! donot be afraid; I will get the money. It will take a few years, but Iwill get it somehow. It is not the want of a few thousands that willstop a determined man."

  "And suppose your cousin won't sell?"

  "I will find a way to make him sell--some bribe, something. There,there," and his enthusiasm and eagerness vanished in a moment, and thebroken look came back upon his face. "It's all nonsense; I am talkingimpossibilities--a little weak in my mind, I suppose. Forget it,there's a good fellow; say nothing about it. And so you buried them?Ah, me! ah, me! And George did chief mourner. I suppose he blubberedfreely; he always could blubber freely when he liked. I remember howhe used to take folks in as a lad, and then laugh at them; that's whythey called him 'Crocodile' at school. Well, he's my master now, andI'm his very humble servant; perhaps one day it will be the other wayup again. What, must you go? If you knew how fearfully lonely I am,you would not go. My nerves have quite gone, and I fancy all sorts ofthings. I can think of nothing but those two graves out there in thedark. Have they sodded them over? Tell them to sod them over. It waskind of you to come and see me. You mustn't pay any attention to mytalk; I am not quite myself. Good night."

  Mr. Fraser was an extremely unsuspicious man, but somehow, as hepicked his way to the vicarage to eat his solitary chop, he felt adoubt rising in his mind as to whether, his disclaimer notwithstanding,Philip had not sincerely meant all he said.

  "He is shockingly changed," he mused, "and I am not sure that it is achange for the better. Poor fellow, he has a great deal to bear, andshould be kindly judged. It is all so painful that I must try todivert my mind. Mrs. Brown, will you bring me a little chocolate-coloured book, that you will see on the table in my study, when youcome back with the potatoes? It has Plato--P-l-a-t-o--printed on theback."