CHAPTER XXXI
EVIL OMENS
The first step in Philip's declension happened in this way. Sylviahad made rapid progress in her recovery; but now she seemed at astationary point of weakness; wakeful nights succeeding to languiddays. Occasionally she caught a little sleep in the afternoons, butshe usually awoke startled and feverish.
One afternoon Philip had stolen upstairs to look at her and hischild; but the efforts he made at careful noiselessness made thedoor creak on its hinges as he opened it. The woman employed tonurse her had taken the baby into another room that no sound mightrouse her from her slumber; and Philip would probably have beenwarned against entering the chamber where his wife lay sleeping hadhe been perceived by the nurse. As it was, he opened the door, madea noise, and Sylvia started up, her face all one flush, her eyeswild and uncertain; she looked about her as if she did not knowwhere she was; pushed the hair off her hot forehead; all whichactions Philip saw, dismayed and regretful. But he kept still,hoping that she would lie down and compose herself. Instead shestretched out her arms imploringly, and said, in a voice full ofyearning and tears,--
'Oh! Charley! come to me--come to me!' and then as she more fullybecame aware of the place where she was, her actual situation, shesank back and feebly began to cry. Philip's heart boiled within him;any man's would under the circumstances, but he had the sense ofguilty concealment to aggravate the intensity of his feelings. Herweak cry after another man, too, irritated him, partly through hisanxious love, which made him wise to know how much physical harm shewas doing herself. At this moment he stirred, or unintentionallymade some sound: she started up afresh, and called out,--
'Oh, who's theere? Do, for God's sake, tell me who yo' are!'
'It's me,' said Philip, coming forwards, striving to keep down themiserable complication of love and jealousy, and remorse and anger,that made his heart beat so wildly, and almost took him out ofhimself. Indeed, he must have been quite beside himself for thetime, or he could never have gone on to utter the unwise, cruelwords he did. But she spoke first, in a distressed and plaintivetone of voice.
'Oh, Philip, I've been asleep, and yet I think I was awake! And Isaw Charley Kinraid as plain as iver I see thee now, and he wasn'tdrowned at all. I'm sure he's alive somewheere; he were so clear andlife-like. Oh! what shall I do? what shall I do?'
She wrung her hands in feverish distress. Urged by passionatefeelings of various kinds, and also by his desire to quench theagitation which was doing her harm, Philip spoke, hardly knowingwhat he said.
'Kinraid's dead, I tell yo', Sylvie! And what kind of a woman areyo' to go dreaming of another man i' this way, and taking on soabout him, when yo're a wedded wife, with a child as yo've borne toanother man?'
In a moment he could have bitten out his tongue. She looked at himwith the mute reproach which some of us see (God help us!) in theeyes of the dead, as they come before our sad memories in thenight-season; looked at him with such a solemn, searching look,never saying a word of reply or defence. Then she lay down,motionless and silent. He had been instantly stung with remorse forhis speech; the words were not beyond his lips when an agony hadentered his heart; but her steady, dilated eyes had kept him dumband motionless as if by a spell.
Now he rushed to the bed on which she lay, and half knelt, halfthrew himself upon it, imploring her to forgive him; regardless forthe time of any evil consequences to her, it seemed as if he musthave her pardon--her relenting--at any price, even if they both diedin the act of reconciliation. But she lay speechless, and, as far asshe could be, motionless, the bed trembling under her with thequivering she could not still.
Philip's wild tones caught the nurse's ears, and she entered full ofthe dignified indignation of wisdom.
'Are yo' for killing yo'r wife, measter?' she asked. 'She's noane sostrong as she can bear flytin' and scoldin', nor will she be formany a week to come. Go down wi' ye, and leave her i' peace if yo'rea man as can be called a man!'
Her anger was rising as she caught sight of Sylvia's averted face.It was flushed crimson, her eyes full of intense emotion of somekind, her lips compressed; but an involuntary twitchingovermastering her resolute stillness from time to time. Philip, whodid not see the averted face, nor understand the real danger inwhich he was placing his wife, felt as though he must have one word,one responsive touch of the hand which lay passive in his, which wasnot even drawn away from the kisses with which he covered it, anymore than if it had been an impassive stone. The nurse had fairly totake him by the shoulders, and turn him out of the room.
In half an hour the doctor had to be summoned. Of course, the nursegave him her version of the events of the afternoon, with much_animus_ against Philip; and the doctor thought it his duty to havesome very serious conversation with him.
'I do assure you, Mr. Hepburn, that, in the state your wife has beenin for some days, it was little less than madness on your part tospeak to her about anything that could give rise to strong emotion.'
'It was madness, sir!' replied Philip, in a low, miserable tone ofvoice. The doctor's heart was touched, in spite of the nurse'saccusations against the scolding husband. Yet the danger was now tooserious for him to mince matters.
'I must tell you that I cannot answer for her life, unless thegreatest precautions are taken on your part, and unless the measuresI shall use have the effect I wish for in the next twenty-fourhours. She is on the verge of a brain fever. Any allusion to thesubject which has been the final cause of the state in which she nowis must be most cautiously avoided, even to a chance word which maybring it to her memory.'
And so on; but Philip seemed to hear only this: then he might notexpress contrition, or sue for pardon, he must go on unforgiventhrough all this stress of anxiety; and even if she recovered thedoctor warned him of the undesirableness of recurring to what hadpassed!
Heavy miserable times of endurance and waiting have to be passedthrough by all during the course of their lives; and Philip had hadhis share of such seasons, when the heart, and the will, and thespeech, and the limbs, must be bound down with strong resolution topatience.
For many days, nay, for weeks, he was forbidden to see Sylvia, asthe very sound of his footstep brought on a recurrence of the feverand convulsive movement. Yet she seemed, from questions she feeblyasked the nurse, to have forgotten all that had happened on the dayof her attack from the time when she dropped off to sleep. But howmuch she remembered of after occurrences no one could ascertain. Shewas quiet enough when, at length, Philip was allowed to see her. Buthe was half jealous of his child, when he watched how she couldsmile at it, while she never changed a muscle of her face at all hecould do or say.
And of a piece with this extreme quietude and reserve was herbehaviour to him when at length she had fully recovered, and wasable to go about the house again. Philip thought many a time of thewords she had used long before--before their marriage. Ominous wordsthey were.
'It's not in me to forgive; I sometimes think it's not in me toforget.'
Philip was tender even to humility in his conduct towards her. Butnothing stirred her from her fortress of reserve. And he knew shewas so different; he knew how loving, nay, passionate, was hernature--vehement, demonstrative--oh! how could he stir her once moreinto expression, even if the first show or speech she made was ofanger? Then he tried being angry with her himself; he was sometimesunjust to her consciously and of a purpose, in order to provoke herinto defending herself, and appealing against his unkindness. Heonly seemed to drive her love away still more.
If any one had known all that was passing in that household, whileyet the story of it was not ended, nor, indeed, come to its crisis,their hearts would have been sorry for the man who lingered long atthe door of the room in which his wife sate cooing and talking toher baby, and sometimes laughing back to it, or who was soothing thequerulousness of failing age with every possible patience of love;sorry for the poor listener who was hungering for the profusion oftenderness thus scattered on the senseless air, yet only b
y stealthcaught the echoes of what ought to have been his.
It was so difficult to complain, too; impossible, in fact.Everything that a wife could do from duty she did; but the loveseemed to have fled, and, in such cases, no reproaches or complaintscan avail to bring it back. So reason outsiders, and are convincedof the result before the experiment is made. But Philip could notreason, or could not yield to reason; and so he complained andreproached. She did not much answer him; but he thought that hereyes expressed the old words,--
'It's not in me to forgive; I sometimes think it's not in me toforget.'
However, it is an old story, an ascertained fact, that, even in themost tender and stable masculine natures, at the supremest season oftheir lives, there is room for other thoughts and passions than suchas are connected with love. Even with the most domestic andaffectionate men, their emotions seem to be kept in a cell distinctand away from their actual lives. Philip had other thoughts andother occupations than those connected with his wife during all thistime.
An uncle of his mother's, a Cumberland 'statesman', of whoseexistence he was barely conscious, died about this time, leaving tohis unknown great-nephew four or five hundred pounds, which put himat once in a different position with regard to his business.Henceforward his ambition was roused,--such humble ambition asbefitted a shop-keeper in a country town sixty or seventy years ago.To be respected by the men around him had always been an object withhim, and was, perhaps, becoming more so than ever now, as a sort ofrefuge from his deep, sorrowful mortification in other directions.He was greatly pleased at being made a sidesman; and, in preparationfor the further honour of being churchwarden, he went regularlytwice a day to church on Sundays. There was enough religious feelingin him to make him disguise the worldly reason for such conduct fromhimself. He believed that he went because he thought it right toattend public worship in the parish church whenever it was offeredup; but it may be questioned of him, as of many others, how far hewould have been as regular in attendance in a place where he was notknown. With this, however, we have nothing to do. The fact was thathe went regularly to church, and he wished his wife to accompany himto the pew, newly painted, with his name on the door, where he satein full sight of the clergyman and congregation.
Sylvia had never been in the habit of such regular church-going, andshe felt it as a hardship, and slipped out of the duty as often asever she could. In her unmarried days, she and her parents had goneannually to the mother-church of the parish in which Haytersbank wassituated: on the Monday succeeding the Sunday next after the RomishSaint's Day, to whom the church was dedicated, there was a greatfeast or wake held; and, on the Sunday, all the parishioners came tochurch from far and near. Frequently, too, in the course of theyear, Sylvia would accompany one or other of her parents to ScarbyMoorside afternoon service,--when the hay was got in, and the cornnot ready for cutting, or the cows were dry and there was noafternoon milking. Many clergymen were languid in those days, anddid not too curiously inquire into the reasons which gave them suchsmall congregations in country parishes.
Now she was married, this weekly church-going which Philip seemed toexpect from her, became a tie and a small hardship, which connecteditself with her life of respectability and prosperity. 'A crust ofbread and liberty' was much more accordant to Sylvia's nature thanplenty of creature comforts and many restraints. Another wish ofPhilip's, against which she said no word, but constantly rebelled inthought and deed, was his desire that the servant he had engagedduring the time of her illness to take charge of the baby, shouldalways carry it whenever it was taken out for a walk. Sylvia oftenfelt, now she was strong, as if she would far rather have beenwithout the responsibility of having this nursemaid, of whom shewas, in reality, rather afraid. The good side of it was that it sether at liberty to attend to her mother at times when she would havebeen otherwise occupied with her baby; but Bell required very littlefrom any one: she was easily pleased, unexacting, and methodicaleven in her dotage; preserving the quiet, undemonstrative habits ofher earlier life now that the faculty of reason, which had been atthe basis of the formation of such habits, was gone. She took greatdelight in watching the baby, and was pleased to have it in her carefor a short time; but she dozed so much that it prevented her havingany strong wish on the subject.
So Sylvia contrived to get her baby as much as possible to herself,in spite of the nursemaid; and, above all, she would carry it out,softly cradled in her arms, warm pillowed on her breast, and bear itto the freedom and solitude of the sea-shore on the west side of thetown where the cliffs were not so high, and there was a good spaceof sand and shingle at all low tides.
Once here, she was as happy as she ever expected to be in thisworld. The fresh sea-breeze restored something of the colour offormer days to her cheeks, the old buoyancy to her spirits; here shemight talk her heart-full of loving nonsense to her baby; here itwas all her own; no father to share in it, no nursemaid to disputethe wisdom of anything she did with it. She sang to it, she tossedit; it crowed and it laughed back again, till both were weary; andthen she would sit down on a broken piece of rock, and fall togazing on the advancing waves catching the sunlight on their crests,advancing, receding, for ever and for ever, as they had done all herlife long--as they did when she had walked with them that once bythe side of Kinraid; those cruel waves that, forgetful of the happylovers' talk by the side of their waters, had carried one away, anddrowned him deep till he was dead. Every time she sate down to lookat the sea, this process of thought was gone through up to thispoint; the next step would, she knew, bring her to the question shedared not, must not ask. He was dead; he must be dead; for was shenot Philip's wife? Then came up the recollection of Philip's speech,never forgotten, only buried out of sight: 'What kind of a woman areyo' to go on dreaming of another man, and yo' a wedded wife?' Sheused to shudder as if cold steel had been plunged into her warm,living body as she remembered these words; cruel words, harmlesslyprovoked. They were too much associated with physical pains to bedwelt upon; only their memory was always there. She paid for thesehappy rambles with her baby by the depression which awaited her onher re-entrance into the dark, confined house that was her home; itsvery fulness of comfort was an oppression. Then, when her husbandsaw her pale and fatigued, he was annoyed, and sometimes upbraidedher for doing what was so unnecessary as to load herself with herchild. She knew full well it was not that that caused her weariness.By-and-by, when he inquired and discovered that all these walks weretaken in one direction, out towards the sea, he grew jealous of herlove for the inanimate ocean. Was it connected in her mind with thethought of Kinraid? Why did she so perseveringly, in wind or cold,go out to the sea-shore; the western side, too, where, if she wentbut far enough, she would come upon the mouth of the Haytersbankgully, the point at which she had last seen Kinraid? Such fancieshaunted Philip's mind for hours after she had acknowledged thedirection of her walks. But he never said a word that coulddistinctly tell her he disliked her going to the sea, otherwise shewould have obeyed him in this, as in everything else; for absoluteobedience to her husband seemed to be her rule of life at thisperiod--obedience to him who would so gladly have obeyed hersmallest wish had she but expressed it! She never knew that Philiphad any painful association with the particular point on thesea-shore that she instinctively avoided, both from a consciousnessof wifely duty, and also because the sight of it brought up so muchsharp pain.
Philip used to wonder if the dream that preceded her illness was thesuggestive cause that drew her so often to the shore. Her illnessconsequent upon that dream had filled his mind, so that for manymonths he himself had had no haunting vision of Kinraid to disturbhis slumbers. But now the old dream of Kinraid's actual presence byPhilip's bedside began to return with fearful vividness. Night afternight it recurred; each time with some new touch of reality, andclose approach; till it was as if the fate that overtakes all menwere then, even then, knocking at his door.
In his business Philip prospered. Men praised him because he didwell to himself. He had
the perseverance, the capability forhead-work and calculation, the steadiness and general forethoughtwhich might have made him a great merchant if he had lived in alarge city. Without any effort of his own, almost, too, withoutCoulson's being aware of it, Philip was now in the position ofsuperior partner; the one to suggest and arrange, while Coulson onlycarried out the plans that emanated from Philip. The whole work oflife was suited to the man: he did not aspire to any differentposition, only to the full development of the capabilities of thatwhich he already held. He had originated several fresh schemes withregard to the traffic of the shop; and his old masters, with alltheir love of tried ways, and distrust of everything new, had beencandid enough to confess that their successors' plans had resultedin success. 'Their successors.' Philip was content with having thepower when the exercise of it was required, and never named his ownimportant share in the new improvements. Possibly, if he had,Coulson's vanity might have taken the alarm, and he might not havebeen so acquiescent for the future. As it was, he forgot his ownsubordinate share, and always used the imperial 'we', 'we thought','it struck us,' &c.
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