CHAPTER XXXIV
A RECKLESS RECRUIT
She lay across a chair, her arms helplessly stretched out, her faceunseen. Every now and then a thrill ran through her body: she wastalking to herself all the time with incessant low incontinence ofwords.
Philip stood near her, motionless: he did not know whether she wasconscious of his presence; in fact, he knew nothing but that he andshe were sundered for ever; he could only take in that one idea, andit numbed all other thought.
Once more her baby cried for the comfort she alone could give.
She rose to her feet, but staggered when she tried to walk; herglazed eyes fell upon Philip as he instinctively made a step to holdher steady. No light came into her eyes any more than if she hadlooked upon a perfect stranger; not even was there the contractionof dislike. Some other figure filled her mind, and she saw him nomore than she saw the inanimate table. That way of looking at himwithered him up more than any sign of aversion would have done.
He watched her laboriously climb the stairs, and vanish out ofsight; and sat down with a sudden feeling of extreme bodilyweakness.
The door of communication between the parlour and the shop wasopened. That was the first event of which Philip took note; butPhoebe had come in unawares to him, with the intention of removingthe breakfast things on her return from market, and seeing themunused, and knowing that Sylvia had sate up all night with hermother, she had gone back to the kitchen. Philip had neither seennor heard her.
Now Coulson came in, amazed at Hepburn's non-appearance in the shop.
'Why! Philip, what's ado? How ill yo' look, man!' exclaimed he,thoroughly alarmed by Philip's ghastly appearance. 'What's thematter?'
'I!' said Philip, slowly gathering his thoughts. 'Why should therebe anything the matter?'
His instinct, quicker to act than his reason, made him shrink fromhis misery being noticed, much more made any subject for explanationor sympathy.
'There may be nothing the matter wi' thee,' said Coulson, 'butthou's the look of a corpse on thy face. I was afeared something waswrong, for it's half-past nine, and thee so punctual!'
He almost guarded Philip into the shop, and kept furtively watchinghim, and perplexing himself with Philip's odd, strange ways.
Hester, too, observed the heavy broken-down expression on Philip'sashen face, and her heart ached for him; but after that firstglance, which told her so much, she avoided all appearance ofnoticing or watching. Only a shadow brooded over her sweet, calmface, and once or twice she sighed to herself.
It was market-day, and people came in and out, bringing their storeof gossip from the country, or the town--from the farm or thequay-side.
Among the pieces of news, the rescue of the smack the night beforefurnished a large topic; and by-and-by Philip heard a name thatstartled him into attention.
The landlady of a small public-house much frequented by sailors wastalking to Coulson.
'There was a sailor aboard of her as knowed Kinraid by sight, inShields, years ago; and he called him by his name afore they werewell out o' t' river. And Kinraid was no ways set up, for all hislieutenant's uniform (and eh! but they say he looks handsome init!); but he tells 'm all about it--how he was pressed aboard aman-o'-war, an' for his good conduct were made a warrant officer,boatswain, or something!'
All the people in the shop were listening now; Philip alone seemedengrossed in folding up a piece of cloth, so as to leave no possiblechance of creases in it; yet he lost not a syllable of the goodwoman's narration.
She, pleased with the enlarged audience her tale had attracted, wenton with fresh vigour.
'An' there's a gallant captain, one Sir Sidney Smith, and he'd anotion o' goin' smack into a French port, an' carryin' off a vesselfrom right under their very noses; an' says he, "Which of yo'British sailors 'll go along with me to death or glory?" So Kinraidstands up like a man, an' "I'll go with yo', captain," he says. Sothey, an' some others as brave, went off, an' did their work, an'choose whativer it was, they did it famously; but they got caught bythem French, an' were clapped into prison i' France for iver solong; but at last one Philip--Philip somethin' (he were a Frenchman,I know)--helped 'em to escape, in a fishin'-boat. But they werewelcomed by th' whole British squadron as was i' t' Channel for t'piece of daring they'd done i' cuttin' out t' ship from a Frenchport; an' Captain Sir Sidney Smith was made an admiral, an' him aswe used t' call Charley Kinraid, the specksioneer, is made alieutenant, an' a commissioned officer i' t' King's service; and iscome to great glory, and slep in my house this very blessed night asis just past!'
A murmur of applause and interest and rejoicing buzzed all aroundPhilip. All this was publicly known about Kinraid,--and how muchmore? All Monkshaven might hear tomorrow--nay, to-day--of Philip'streachery to the hero of the hour; how he had concealed his fate,and supplanted him in his love.
Philip shrank from the burst of popular indignation which he knewmust follow. Any wrong done to one who stands on the pinnacle of thepeople's favour is resented by each individual as a personal injury;and among a primitive set of country-folk, who recognize the wildpassion in love, as it exists untamed by the trammels of reason andself-restraint, any story of baulked affections, or treachery insuch matters, spreads like wildfire.
Philip knew this quite well; his doom of disgrace lay plain beforehim, if only Kinraid spoke the word. His head was bent down while hethus listened and reflected. He half resolved on doing something; helifted up his head, caught the reflection of his face in the littlestrip of glass on the opposite side, in which the women might lookat themselves in their contemplated purchases, and quite resolved.
The sight he saw in the mirror was his own long, sad, pale face,made plainer and grayer by the heavy pressure of the morning'sevents. He saw his stooping figure, his rounded shoulders, withsomething like a feeling of disgust at his personal appearance as heremembered the square, upright build of Kinraid; his fine uniform,with epaulette and sword-belt; his handsome brown face; his darkeyes, splendid with the fire of passion and indignation; his whiteteeth, gleaming out with the terrible smile of scorn.
The comparison drove Philip from passive hopelessness to activedespair.
He went abruptly from the crowded shop into the empty parlour, andon into the kitchen, where he took up a piece of bread, and heedlessof Phoebe's look and words, began to eat it before he even left theplace; for he needed the strength that food would give; he needed itto carry him out of the sight and the knowledge of all who mighthear what he had done, and point their fingers at him.
He paused a moment in the parlour, and then, setting his teeth tighttogether, he went upstairs.
First of all he went into the bit of a room opening out of theirs,in which his baby slept. He dearly loved the child, and many a timewould run in and play a while with it; and in such gambols he andSylvia had passed their happiest moments of wedded life.
The little Bella was having her morning slumber; Nancy used to telllong afterwards how he knelt down by the side of her cot, and was sostrange she thought he must have prayed, for all it was nigh uponeleven o'clock, and folk in their senses only said their prayerswhen they got up, and when they went to bed.
Then he rose, and stooped over, and gave the child a long,lingering, soft, fond kiss. And on tip-toe he passed away into theroom where his aunt lay; his aunt who had been so true a friend tohim! He was thankful to know that in her present state she was safefrom the knowledge of what was past, safe from the sound of theshame to come.
He had not meant to see Sylvia again; he dreaded the look of herhatred, her scorn, but there, outside her mother's bed, she lay,apparently asleep. Mrs. Robson, too, was sleeping, her face towardsthe wall. Philip could not help it; he went to have one last look athis wife. She was turned towards her mother, her face averted fromhim; he could see the tear-stains, the swollen eyelids, the lips yetquivering: he stooped down, and bent to kiss the little hand thatlay listless by her side. As his hot breath neared that hand it wastwitched away, and a shiver
ran through the whole prostrate body.And then he knew that she was not asleep, only worn out by hermisery,--misery that he had caused.
He sighed heavily; but he went away, down-stairs, and away for ever.Only as he entered the parlour his eyes caught on two silhouettes,one of himself, one of Sylvia, done in the first month of theirmarriage, by some wandering artist, if so he could be called. Theywere hanging against the wall in little oval wooden frames; blackprofiles, with the lights done in gold; about as poor semblances ofhumanity as could be conceived; but Philip went up, and afterlooking for a minute or so at Sylvia's, he took it down, andbuttoned his waistcoat over it.
It was the only thing he took away from his home.
He went down the entry on to the quay. The river was there, andwaters, they say, have a luring power, and a weird promise of restin their perpetual monotony of sound. But many people were there, ifsuch a temptation presented itself to Philip's mind; the sight ofhis fellow-townsmen, perhaps of his acquaintances, drove him upanother entry--the town is burrowed with such--back into the HighStreet, which he straightway crossed into a well-known court, out ofwhich rough steps led to the summit of the hill, and on to the fellsand moors beyond.
He plunged and panted up this rough ascent. From the top he couldlook down on the whole town lying below, severed by the brightshining river into two parts. To the right lay the sea, shimmeringand heaving; there were the cluster of masts rising out of thelittle port; the irregular roofs of the houses; which of them,thought he, as he carried his eye along the quay-side to themarket-place, which of them was his? and he singled it out in itsunfamiliar aspect, and saw the thin blue smoke rising from thekitchen chimney, where even now Phoebe was cooking the householdmeal that he never more must share.
Up at that thought and away, he knew not nor cared not whither. Hewent through the ploughed fields where the corn was newly springing;he came down upon the vast sunny sea, and turned his back upon itwith loathing; he made his way inland to the high green pastures;the short upland turf above which the larks hung poised 'at heaven'sgate'. He strode along, so straight and heedless of briar and bush,that the wild black cattle ceased from grazing, and looked after himwith their great blank puzzled eyes.
He had passed all enclosures and stone fences now, and was fairly onthe desolate brown moors; through the withered last year's ling andfern, through the prickly gorse, he tramped, crushing down thetender shoots of this year's growth, and heedless of the startledplover's cry, goaded by the furies. His only relief from thought,from the remembrance of Sylvia's looks and words, was in violentbodily action.
So he went on till evening shadows and ruddy evening lights came outupon the wild fells.
He had crossed roads and lanes, with a bitter avoidance of men'stracks; but now the strong instinct of self-preservation came out,and his aching limbs, his weary heart, giving great pants and beatsfor a time, and then ceasing altogether till a mist swam andquivered before his aching eyes, warned him that he must find someshelter and food, or lie down to die. He fell down now, often;stumbling over the slightest obstacle. He had passed the cattlepastures; he was among the black-faced sheep; and they, too, ceasednibbling, and looked after him, and somehow, in his poor wanderingimagination, their silly faces turned to likenesses of Monkshavenpeople--people who ought to be far, far away.
'Thou'll be belated on these fells, if thou doesn't tak' heed,'shouted some one.
Philip looked abroad to see whence the voice proceeded.
An old stiff-legged shepherd, in a smock-frock, was within a coupleof hundred yards. Philip did not answer, but staggered and stumbledtowards him.
'Good lork!' said the man, 'wheere hast ta been? Thou's seen OudHarry, I think, thou looks so scared.'
Philip rallied himself, and tried to speak up to the old standard ofrespectability; but the effort was pitiful to see, had any one beenby, who could have understood the pain it caused to restrain criesof bodily and mental agony.
'I've lost my way, that's all.'
''Twould ha' been enough, too, I'm thinkin', if I hadn't come outafter t' ewes. There's t' Three Griffins near at hand: a sup o'Hollands 'll set thee to reeghts.'
Philip followed faintly. He could not see before him, and was guidedby the sound of footsteps rather than by the sight of the figuremoving onwards. He kept stumbling; and he knew that the old shepherdswore at him; but he also knew such curses proceeded from noill-will, only from annoyance at the delay in going and 'seem' aftert' ewes.' But had the man's words conveyed the utmost expression ofhatred, Philip would neither have wondered at them, nor resentedthem.
They came into a wild mountain road, unfenced from the fells. Ahundred yards off, and there was a small public-house, with a broadruddy oblong of firelight shining across the tract.
'Theere!' said the old man. 'Thee cannot well miss that. A dunnotho', thee bees sich a gawby.'
So he went on, and delivered Philip safely up to the landlord.
'Here's a felly as a fund on t' fell side, just as one as if he weredrunk; but he's sober enough, a reckon, only summat's wrong i' hishead, a'm thinkin'.'
'No!' said Philip, sitting down on the first chair he came to. 'I'mright enough; just fairly wearied out: lost my way,' and he fainted.
There was a recruiting sergeant of marines sitting in thehouse-place, drinking. He, too, like Philip, had lost his way; butwas turning his blunder to account by telling all manner ofwonderful stories to two or three rustics who had come in ready todrink on any pretence; especially if they could get good liquorwithout paying for it.
The sergeant rose as Philip fell back, and brought up his own mug ofbeer, into which a noggin of gin had been put (called in Yorkshire'dog's-nose'). He partly poured and partly spilt some of thisbeverage on Philip's face; some drops went through the pale andparted lips, and with a start the worn-out man revived.
'Bring him some victual, landlord,' called out the recruitingsergeant. 'I'll stand shot.'
They brought some cold bacon and coarse oat-cake. The sergeant askedfor pepper and salt; minced the food fine and made it savoury, andkept administering it by teaspoonfuls; urging Philip to drink fromtime to time from his own cup of dog's-nose.
A burning thirst, which needed no stimulant from either pepper orsalt, took possession of Philip, and he drank freely, scarcelyrecognizing what he drank. It took effect on one so habituallysober; and he was soon in that state when the imagination workswildly and freely.
He saw the sergeant before him, handsome, and bright, and active, inhis gay red uniform, without a care, as it seemed to Philip, takinglife lightly; admired and respected everywhere because of his cloth.
If Philip were gay, and brisk, well-dressed like him, returning withmartial glory to Monkshaven, would not Sylvia love him once more?Could not he win her heart? He was brave by nature, and the prospectof danger did not daunt him, if ever it presented itself to hisimagination.
He thought he was cautious in entering on the subject of enlistmentwith his new friend, the sergeant; but the latter was twenty timesas cunning as he, and knew by experience how to bait his hook.
Philip was older by some years than the regulation age; but, at thattime of great demand for men, the question of age was lightlyentertained. The sergeant was profuse in statements of theadvantages presented to a man of education in his branch of theservice; how such a one was sure to rise; in fact, it would haveseemed from the sergeant's account, as though the difficultyconsisted in remaining in the ranks.
Philip's dizzy head thought the subject over and over again, eachtime with failing power of reason.
At length, almost, as it would seem, by some sleight of hand, hefound the fatal shilling in his palm, and had promised to go beforethe nearest magistrate to be sworn in as one of his Majesty'smarines the next morning. And after that he remembered nothing more.
He wakened up in a little truckle-bed in the same room as thesergeant, who lay sleeping the sleep of full contentment; whilegradually, drop by drop, the bitter recollections of the day before
came, filling up Philip's cup of agony.
He knew that he had received the bounty-money; and though he wasaware that he had been partly tricked into it, and had no hope, nocare, indeed, for any of the advantages so liberally promised himthe night before, yet he was resigned, with utterly despondentpassiveness, to the fate to which he had pledged himself. Anythingwas welcome that severed him from his former life, that could makehim forget it, if that were possible; and also welcome anythingwhich increased the chances of death without the sinfulness of hisown participation in the act. He found in the dark recess of hismind the dead body of his fancy of the previous night; that he mightcome home, handsome and glorious, to win the love that had neverbeen his.
But he only sighed over it, and put it aside out of his sight--sofull of despair was he. He could eat no breakfast, though thesergeant ordered of the best. The latter kept watching his newrecruit out of the corner of his eye, expecting a remonstrance, ordreading a sudden bolt.
But Philip walked with him the two or three miles in the mostsubmissive silence, never uttering a syllable of regret orrepentance; and before Justice Cholmley, of Holm-Fell Hall, he wassworn into his Majesty's service, under the name of Stephen Freeman.With a new name, he began a new life. Alas! the old life lives forever!