CHAPTER XII
When the doctor had gone upstairs, Philip went into the dining-room toeat something, only to find that food was repugnant to him; he couldscarcely swallow a mouthful. To some extent, however, he supplied itsplace by wine, of which he drank several glasses. Then, drawn by astrange fascination, he went back into the little study, and,remembering the will, bethought himself that it might be as well tosecure it. In taking it off the table, however, a folded and mucherased sheet of manuscript was disclosed. Recognizing Bellamy'swriting, he took it up and commenced to read the draft, for it wasnothing else. Its substance was as follows.
The document began by stating that the testator's former will wasdeclared null and void on account of the "treacherous anddishonourable conduct of his son Philip." It then, in brief butsweeping terms, bequeathed and devised to trustees, of whom Philip wasnot one, the unentailed property and personalty to be held by them:firstly, for the benefit of any _son_ that might be born to the saiddisinherited Philip by _his wife Hilda_--the question of daughtersbeing, probably by accident, passed over in silence--and failing suchissue, then to the testator's nephew, George Caresfoot, absolutely,subject, however, to the following curious condition: Should the saidGeorge Caresfoot, _either by deed of gift or will_, attempt to conveythe estate to his cousin Philip, or to descendants of the said Philip,then the gift over to the said George was to be of none effect, andthe whole was to pass to some distant cousins of the testator's wholived in Scotland. Then followed several legacies and one charge onthe estate to the extent of 1000 pounds a year payable to the_separate_ use of the aforesaid Hilda Caresfoot for life, andreverting at death to the holder of the estate.
In plain English, Philip was, under this draft, totally disinherited,first in favour of his own male issue, by his wife Hilda, all mentionof daughters being omitted, and failing such issue, in favour of hishated cousin George, who, as though to add insult to injury, wasprohibited from willing the property back either to himself or hisdescendants, by whom the testator had probably understood the childrenof a second marriage.
Philip read the document over twice carefully.
"Phew!" he said, "that was touch and go. Thank heavens he had no timeto carry out his kind intentions."
But presently a terrible thought struck him. He rang the bell hastily.It was answered by the footman, who, since he had an hour beforehelped to carry his poor master upstairs, had become quitedemoralized. It was some time before Philip could get an answer to hisquestion as to whether or no any one had been with his father that daywhilst he was out. At last he succeeded in extracting a reply from theman that nobody had been except the young lady--"leastways, he beggedpardon, Mrs. Caresfoot, as he was told she was."
"Never mind her," said Philip, feeling as though a load had been takenfrom his breast, "you are sure nobody else has been?"
"No, sir, nobody, leastways he begged pardon, nobody except lawyerBellamy and his clerk, who had been there all the afternoon writing,with a black bag, and had sent for Simmons to be witnessed."
"You can go," said Philip, in a quiet voice. He saw it all now, he hadlet the old man die _after_ he had executed the fresh willdisinheriting him. He had let him die; he had effectually and beyondredemption cut his own throat. Doubtless, too, Bellamy had taken thenew will with him; there was no chance of his being able to destroyit.
By degrees, however, his fit of brooding gave way to one of sullenfury against his wife, himself, but most of all against his deadfather. Drunk with excitement, rage, and baffled avarice, he seizedand candle and staggered up to the room where the corpse had beenlaid, launching imprecations as he went at his dead father's head. Butwhen he came face to face with that dread Presence his passion died,and a cold sense of the awful quiet and omnipotence of death came uponhim and chilled him into fear. In some indistinct way he realized howimpotent is the chafing of the waters of Mortality against the iron-bound coasts of Death. To what purpose did he rail against that solemnquiet thing, that husk and mask of life which lay in unmoved mockeryof his reviling?
His father was dead, and he, even he, had killed his father. He washis father's murderer. And then a terror of the reckoning that mustone day be struck between that dead man's spirit and his own tookpossession of him, and a foreknowledge of the awful shadow under whichhe must henceforth live crept into his mind and froze the very marrowin his bones. He looked again at the face, and, to his excitedimagination, it appeared to have assumed a sardonic smile. The curseof Cain fell upon him as he looked, and weighed him down; his hairrose, and the cold sweat poured from his forehead. At length he couldbear it no longer, but, turning, fled out of the room and out of thehouse, far into the night.
When, haggard with mental and bodily exhaustion, he at lengthreturned, it was after midnight. He found Dr. Caley waiting for him;he had just come from the sick-room and wore an anxious look upon hisface.
"Your wife has been delivered of a fine girl," he said; "but I ambound to tell you that her condition is far from satisfactory. Thecase is a most complicated and dangerous one."
"A girl!" groaned Philip, mindful of the will. "Are you sure that itis a girl?"
"Of course I am sure," answered the doctor, testily.
"And Hilda ill--I don't understand."
"Look here, my good fellow, you are upset; take a glass of brandy andgo to bed. Your wife does not wish to see you now, but, if necessary,I will send for you. Now, do as I tell you, or you will be down next.Your nerves are seriously shaken."
Philip did as he was bid, and, as soon as he had seen him off to hisroom, the doctor returned upstairs.
In the early morning he sent for two of his brother-practitioners, andthey held a consultation, the upshot of which was that they had cometo the conclusion nothing short of a miracle could save Hilda's life--a conclusion that she herself had arrived at some hours before.
"Doctor," she said, "I trust to you to let me know when the end isnear. I wish my husband to be present when I die, but not before."
"Hush, my child--never talk of dying yet. Please God, you have manyyears of life before you."
She shook her golden head a little sadly.
"No, doctor, my sand has run out, and perhaps it as as well. Give methe child--why do you keep the child away from me? It is the messengersent to call me to a happier world. Yes, she is an angel messenger.When I am gone, see that you call her 'Angela,' so that I may know bywhat name to greet her when the time comes."
During the course of the morning, she expressed a strong desire to seeMaria Lee, who was accordingly sent for.
It will be remembered that old Mr. Caresfoot had on the previous day,immediately after Hilda had left him, sat down and written to MariaLee. In this note he told her the whole shameful truth, ending it witha few words of bitter humiliation and self-reproach that such a thingshould have befallen her at the hands of one bearing his name. Overthe agony of shame and grief thus let loose upon this unfortunate girlwe will draw a veil. It is fortunate for the endurance of human reasonthat life does not hold many such hours as that through which shepassed after the receipt of this letter. As was but natural,notwithstanding old Mr. Caresfoot's brief vindication of Hilda'sconduct in his letter, Maria was filled with indignation at what toherself she called her treachery and deceit.
While she was yet full of these thoughts, a messenger came gallopingover from Bratham Abbey, bringing a note from Dr. Caley that told herof her old friend's sudden death, and of Hilda's dangerous condition,and her desire to see her. The receipt of this news plunged her into afresh access of grief, for she had grown fond of the old man; nor hadthe warm affection for Hilda that had found a place in her gentleheart been altogether wrenched away; and, now that she heard that herrival was face to face with that King of Terrors before whom allearthly love, hate, hope, and ambition must fall down and cease theirtroubling, it revived in all its force; nor did any thought of her ownwrongs come to chill it.
Within half an hour she was at the door of t
he Abbey House, where thedoctor met her, and, in answer to her eager question, told her that,humanly speaking, it was impossible her friend could live throughanother twenty-four hours, adding an injunction that she must not staywith her long.
She entered the sick-room with a heavy heart, and there from Hilda'sdying lips she heard the story of her marriage and of Philip'sperfidy. Their reconciliation was as complete as her friend's failingvoice and strength would allow. At length she tore herself away, and,turning at the door, took her last look at Hilda, who had raisedherself upon her elbow, and was gazing at her retreating form with anearnestness that was very touching. The eyes, Maria felt, were takingtheir fill of what they looked upon for the last time in this world.Catching her tearful gaze, the dying woman smiled, and, lifting herhand, pointed upwards. Thus they parted.
But Maria could control herself no longer: her own blasted prospects,the loss of the man she loved, and the affecting scene through whichshe had just passed, all helped to break her down. Running downstairsinto the dining-room, she threw herself on a sofa, and gave fullpassage to her grief. Presently she became aware that she was notalone. Philip stood before her, or, rather, the wreck of him whom sheknew as Philip. Indeed, it was hard to recognize in this scared man,with dishevelled hair, white and trembling lips, and eyes ringed roundwith black, the bold, handsome youth whom she had loved. The sight ofhim stayed her sorrow, and a sense of her bitter injuries rushed inupon her.
"What do you want with me?" she asked.
"Want! I want forgiveness. I am crushed, Maria, crushed--quitecrushed," and he put his hands to his face and sobbed.
She answered him with the quiet dignity that good women can command inmoments of emergency--dignity of a very different stamp from Hilda'shaughty pride, but perhaps as impressive in its way.
"You ask forgiveness of me, and say that you are crushed. Has itoccurred to you that, without fault of my own, except the fault oftrusting you as entirely as I loved you, I too am crushed? Do you knowthat you have wantonly, or to gain selfish ends, broken my heart,blighted my name, and driven me from my home, for I can live here nomore? Do you understand that you have done me one of the greatestinjuries one person can do to another? I say, do you know all this,Philip Caresfoot, and, knowing it, do you still ask me to forgive you?Do you think it possible that I _can_ forgive?"
He had never heard her speak like this before, and did not rememberthat intense feeling is the mother of eloquence. He gazed at her for amoment in astonishment; then he dropped his face into his hands againand groaned, making no other answer. After waiting awhile, she wenton--
"I am an insignificant creature, I know, and perhaps the mite of myhappiness or misery makes little difference in the scale of things;but to me the gift of all my love was everything. I gave it to you,Philip--gave it without a doubt or murmur, gave it with both hands. Ican never have it back to give again! How you have treated it you bestknow." Here she broke down a little, and then continued: "It may seemcurious, but though my love has been so mistakenly given; though youto whom it was given have dealt so ill with it; yet I am anxious thaton my side there should be no bitter memory, that, in looking back atall this in after years, you should never be able to dwell upon anyharsh or unkind word of mine. It is on that account, and also becauseI feel that it is not for me to judge you, and that you have alreadymuch to bear, that I do as you ask me, and say, 'Philip, from my heartI forgive you, as I trust that the Almighty may forgive me.'"
He flung himself upon his knees before her, and tried to take herhand. "You do not know how you have humbled me," he groaned.
She gazed at him with pity.
"I am sorry," she said; "I did not wish to humble you. I have one wordmore to say, and then I must go. I have just bid my last earthlyfarewell to--your wife. My farewell to you must be as complete asthat, as complete as though the grave had already swallowed one of us.We have done with each other for ever. I do not think that I shallcome back here. In my waking moments your name shall never willinglypass my lips again. I will say it for the last time now. _Philip,Philip, Philip_, whom I chose to love out of all the world, I pray Godthat He will take me, or deaden the edge of what I suffer, and that Hemay never let my feet cross your path or my eyes fall upon your faceagain."
In another second she had passed out of the room and out of his life.