Smith and the Pharaohs, and other Tales

by H. Rider Haggard

This was Anthony's last outing, but he lived till Christmas Eve, hisson's eighth birthday. That morning the boy was brought into his roomto receive some present that his father had procured for him, andwarned that he must be very quiet. Quiet, however, he would not be; histumultuous health and strength seemed to forbid it. He racketed aboutthe room, teasing the spaniel which lay by the side of the bed, untilthe patient beast growled at him and even bit, or pretended to bitehim. Thereon he set up such a yell of pain, or anger, or both, that hisfather struggled from the bed to see what was the matter, and so broughton the haemorrhage which caused his death.

  "I am afraid you will have trouble with that child, Barbara," he gaspedshortly before the end. "He seems to be different from either of us; buthe is our son, and I know that you will do your best for him. I leavehim in your keeping. Good night, dearest, I want to go to sleep."

  Then he went to sleep, and Barbara's heart broke.

  CHAPTER VII

  BARBARA'S SIN

  The months following Anthony's death were to Barbara as a bad dream.Like one in a dream she saw that open, wintry grave beneath the tallchurch tower about whose battlements the wind-blown rooks wheeled ontheir homeward way. She noted a little yellow aconite that had openedits bloom prematurely in the shadow of the wall, and the sight of itbrought her some kind of comfort. He had loved aconites and planted manyof them, though because of his winter absences years had gone by sincehe had seen one with his eyes, at any rate in England. That this floweramong them all should bloom on that day and in that place seemed to hera message and a consolation, the only one that she could find.

  His sad office over, her father accompanied her home, pouring into herear the words of faith and hope that he was accustomed to use to thosebroken by bereavement, and with him came her mother. But soon shethanked them gently and bade them leave her to herself. Then theybrought her son to her, thinking that the sight of him would thaw herheart. For a while the child was quiet and subdued, for there was thatabout his mother's face which awed him. At last, weary of being still,he swung round on his heel after a fashion that he had, and said:

  "Cook says that now father is dead I'm master here, and everyone willhave to do what I tell them."

  Barbara lifted her head and looked at him, and something in herfawn-like eyes, a mute reproach, pierced to the boy's heart. At anyrate, he began to whimper and left the room.

  There was little in the remark, which was such as a vulgar servant mightwell make thoughtlessly. Yet it brought home to Barbara the grim factof her loss more completely perhaps than anything had done. Her belovedhusband was dead, of no more account in the world than those who hadpassed from it at Eastwich a thousand years ago. He was dead, and soonwould be forgotten by all save her, and she was alone; in her heartutterly alone.

  The summer came and everyone grew cheerful. Aunt Thompson arrived atthe Hall to stay, and urged Barbara to put away past things and resignherself to the will of Providence--as she had done in the case of thedeparted Samuel.

  "After all," she said, "it might have been worse. You might have beencalled upon to nurse an invalid for twenty years, and when at last hewent, have found the best part of your life gone, as I did," and shesighed heavily. "As it is, you still look quite a girl, having kept yourfigure so well; you are comfortably off and have a good position, and inshort there is no knowing what may happen in the future. You must comeup and stay with me this winter, dear, instead of poking yourself awayin this damp old house, where everybody seems to die of consumption.Really it is a sort of family vault, and if you stop here long enoughyou will catch something too."

  Barbara thanked her with a sad little smile, and answered that she wouldthink over her kind invitation and write to her later. But in the endshe never went to London, at least not to stay, perhaps it reminded hertoo vividly of her life there with Anthony. At Eastwich she could bearsuch memories, but for some unexplained reason it was otherwise inLondon.

  Indeed, in the course of time her aunt gave up the attempt to persuadeher, and devoted herself to forwarding the fortunes of her other prettynieces, Barbara's sisters, two of whom, it should be said, already shehad settled comfortably in life. Also she took a fancy to the boy, inwhose rough, energetic nature she found something akin to her own.

  "I am sick of women," she said; "it is a comfort to have to do with amale thing."

  So it came about that after he went to school young Anthony spent alarge share of his holidays at his great-aunt's London house. It may beadded that he got no good from these visits, since Lady Thompson spoilthim and let him have his way in everything. Also she gave him more moneythan a boy ought to have. As a result, or partly so, Barbara found thather son grew more and more uncontrollable. He mixed with grooms and lowcharacters, and when checked flew into fits of passion which frightenedher.

  Oddly enough, during these paroxysms, which were generally followed bytwo or three days of persistent sulking, the only person who seemedto have any control over him was a certain under-housemaid named BessCotton, the daughter of a small farmer in the neighbourhood. This girl,who was only about three years older than Anthony, was remarkable forher handsome appearance and vigour of body and mind. Her hair and largeeyes were so dark that probably the local belief that she had gipsy orother foreign blood in her veins was true. Her complexion, however, waspurely English, and her character had all the coarseness of thosewho have lived for generations in the Fens, whence her father came,uncontrolled by higher influences, such as the fellowship of gentle-bredand educated folk.

  Bess was an excellent and capable servant, one, moreover, who soonobtained a sort of mastery in the household. On a certain occasion theyoung Squire, as they called him, was in one of the worst of his rages,having been forbidden by his mother to go to a coursing meeting whichhe wished to attend. In this state he shut himself up in the library,swearing that he would do a mischief to anyone who came near him, apromise which, being very strong for his years, he was quite capable ofkeeping. The man-servant was told to go in and bring him out, but hungback.

  "Bless you," said Bess, "I ain't afraid," and without hesitation walkedinto the room and shut the door behind her.

  Barbara, listening afar off, heard a shout of "Get out!" followed bya fearful crash, and trembled, for all violence was abominable to hernature.

  "He will injure that poor girl," she said to herself, and rose,proposing to enter the library and face her son.

  As she hurried down the long Elizabethan corridor, however, she heardanother sound that came to her through an open window, that of Anthonylaughing in his jolliest and most uproarious manner and of the housemaidBess, laughing with him. She stayed where she was and listened. Bess hadleft the library and was coming across the courtyard, where one of theother servants met her and asked some question that Barbara did notcatch. The answer in Bess's ringing voice was clear enough.

  "Lord!" she said, "they always gave me the wild colts to break upon thefarm. It is a matter of eye and handling, that's all. He nearly got mewith that plaster thing, so I went for him and boxed his ears till hewas dazed. Then I kissed him afterwards till he laughed, and he'll neverbe any more trouble, at least with me. That mother of his don't know howto handle him. She's another breed."

  "Yes," said the questioner, "the mistress is a lady, she is, and gentlelike the squire who's gone. But how did they get such a one as MasterAnthony?"

  "Don't know," replied Bess, "but father says that when he was a boyin the Fens they'd have told that the fairy folk changed him at birth.Anyway, I like him well enough, for he suits me."

  Barbara went back to her sitting-room, where not long afterwards the boycame to her. As he entered the doorway she noted how handsome he lookedwith his massive head and square-jawed face, and how utterly unlike anyArnott or Walrond known to her personally or by tradition. Had he beena changeling, such as the girl Bess spoke of, he could not have seemedmore different.

  He came and stood before her, his hands in his pockets and a smile uponhis face, for he could
smile very pleasantly when he chose.

  "Well, Anthony," she said, "what is it?"

  "Nothing, mother dear, except that I have come to beg your pardon. Youwere quite right about the coursing meeting; they are a low lot, and Ioughtn't to mix with them. But I had bets on some of the dogs and wantedto go awfully. Then when you said I mustn't I lost my temper."

  "That was very evident, Anthony."

  "Yes, mother; I felt as though I could have killed someone. I did tryto kill Bess with that bust of Plato, but she dodged like a cat and thething smashed against the wall. Then she came for me straight and gaveme what I deserved, for she was too many for me. And presently all myrage went, and I found that I was laughing while she tidied my clothes.I wish you could do the same, mother."

  "Do you, Anthony? Well, I cannot."

  "I know. Where did I get my temper from, mother? Not from you, or myfather from all I have heard and remember of him."

  "Your grandfather would say it was from the devil, Anthony."

  "Yes, and perhaps he is right; only then it is rather hard luck on me,isn't it? I can't help it--it comes."

  "Then make it go, Anthony. You are to be confirmed soon. Change yourheart."

  "I'll try. But, mother dear, though I am so bad to you, you are the onlyone who will ever change me. When that wild-cat of a girl got the betterof me just now, it was you I thought of, not her. If I lost you I don'tknow what would become of me."

  "We have to stand or fall alone, Anthony."

  "Perhaps, mother. I don't know; I am not old enough. Still, don't leaveme alone, for if you do, then I am sure which I shall do," and bendingdown he kissed her and left the room.

  After this scene Anthony's behaviour improved very much; his reportsfrom school were good, for he was quick and clever, and his great skillin athletics made him a favourite. Also his grandfather, who preparedhim for confirmation, announced that the lad's nature seemed to havesoftened.

  So things remained for some time, to be accurate, for just so long asthe girl Bess was a servant at the Hall.

  Anthony might talk about his mother's influence over him, and withoutdoubt when he was in his normal state this was considerable. Also itserved to prevent him from breaking out. But when he did break out, BessCatton alone could deal with him. Naturally it would be thought thatthere was some mutual attraction between these young people. Yet thiswas not so, at any rate on the part of the girl, who had been overheardto tell Anthony to his face that she hated the sight of him and "wouldcut him to ribbons" if she were his mother.

  At any rate, there were others, or one other, of whom Bess did not hatethe sight, and in the end her behaviour caused such scandal that Barbarawas obliged to send her out of the house.

  "All right, ma'am," she said, "I'll go, and be glad of a change. You mayring your own bull-calf now and I wish you joy of the job, since there'snone but me that can lead him."

  A few days later Anthony returned from school. With him came a letterfrom the head master, who wrote that he did not wish to make anyscandal, and therefore had not expelled the boy. Still, he would beobliged if his mother would refrain from sending him back, as he did notconsider him a suitable member of a public school. He suggested, inthe lad's own interest, that it might be wise to place him in someestablishment where a speciality was made of the training of unrulyyouths. He added that he wrote this with the more regret since Anthony'sfather and grandfather had been scholars at ---- in their day, and herson possessed no mean intellectual abilities. This would be shown bythe fact that he was at the head of his class, and might doubtless underother circumstances have risen to a high place in the sixth form.

  Then followed the details of his misdoings, of which one need only bementioned. He had fought another boy, who, it may be added, was olderthan himself, and beaten him. But the matter did not end there, sinceafter his adversary had given up the fight Anthony flew at him andmaltreated him so ferociously before they could be separated, that for awhile the poor lad was actually in danger of collapse.

  When reproached he expressed no penitence, but said only that he wishedthat he had killed him. This he repeated to his mother's face; moreover,he was furious when he found that Bess Catton had been sent away anddemanded her return. When told that this was impossible he announcedquietly that he would make the place a hell, and kept his word.

  For a year or more before this date Barbara had not been well. Shesuffered from persistent colds which she was unable to shake off, andwith these came great depression of spirit. Now in her misery the poorwoman went to her room, and falling on her knees prayed with all herheart that she might die. The burden laid upon her was more than shecould bear. Only one consolation could she find, that her belovedhusband had not lived to share it, for she knew it would have crushedhim as it crushed her.

  Her father was now very old, and so feeble that everyone screened himfrom trouble so far as might be. But this particular trouble could notbe hid, and Barbara told him all.

  "Do not give way, my dearest daughter," he said, "and above all do notseek to fly from your trial, which doubtless is sent to you for somegood purpose. Troubles that we strive to escape nearly always recoilupon our heads, whereas if they are faced, often they melt away. If youremain in the world to watch and help him, your son's nature, bad as itseems to be, may yet alter, for after all I know that he loves you. Butif you give up and leave the world, who can tell what will happen to himwhen he is quite uncontrolled and in possession of his fortune?"

  Barbara recognised the truth of her father's words, and while he livedtried to act up to them. But as it happened Mr. Walrond did not livelong, for one evening he was found dead in the church, whither he oftenwent to pray.

  About this time the doctors told Barbara that her condition of healthwas somewhat serious. It seemed that her lungs also showed signs ofbeing affected. Perhaps she had contracted the disease from her husband,and now that she was so broken in spirit, it asserted itself. Theyadded, however, that if she took certain precautions, and above all wentaway from Eastwich, there was every reason to hope that she would quiterecover her health.

  In the end Barbara did not go away. At the time Anthony was beinginstructed by a tutor who resided at the Hall to prepare him forthe University and ultimately for the Army. Needless to say, she wasemployed continually in trying to compose the differences between himand this tutor. How then could she go away and leave that poor gentlemanand her old mother, who when she was not staying with one of her othermarried daughters now made her home at the Hall?

  Thus she argued to herself, but the truth was that she did not wishto go. Her dearest associations were in the churchyard yonder, thechurchyard where she hoped ere long she would be laid. She hated life,she sought and craved for death. This was her sin.

  Night by night she lay awake and thought of Anthony, her darling, herbeloved. She remembered that dream of his about a home that awaited himin another world, and she loved to fancy him as dwelling in that placeof peace and making ready for her coming.

  Nobody thought of him now except herself and his old dog Nell. The dogthought of him, she was sure, for it would sleep beneath his empty bed,and at times sit up, look at it and whine. Then it would come and restits head upon her as she slept, and she would wake to find it looking ather with a question in its eyes. One night in the darkness it did this,then left her and broke into a joyous whimpering, such as it used tomake when its master was going to take it out. She even heard it jumpingup as though to paw at him, and wondered dreamily what it could mean.

  When she woke in the morning she saw the poor beast lying stiff and coldupon the bed that had been Anthony's, and though she wept over it, hertears were perhaps those of envy rather than of sorrow, for she was surethat it had found Anthony.

  More and more Barbara threw out her soul towards Anthony. Across thevoid of Nothingness she sent it travelling, nor did it return withempty hands. Something of Anthony had greeted it, though she couldnot remember the greeting, had spoken with it, though she cou
ld notinterpret the words. Of this at least she was sure, she had been near toAnthony.

  Once she seemed to see him. In the infinite, infinite distance, millionsof miles away, the sky opened as it were. There in the opening wasAnthony talking with one whom she knew for their daughter, the baby thathad died, talking of her. In a minute they were gone, but she had seenthem, she was sure that she had seen them, and the knowledge warmed herheart.

  So there was no error, the Bible was true, more or less; Faith was notbuilt on running water or on sand. Life was not a mere hellish mockery,where tiaras turned to crowns of thorn and joy was but an inch rule bywhich to measure the alps of human pain. Life was a door, a gateway.The door dreadful, the gate perilous, if you will, but beyond it lay nodream, no empty blackness. Beyond it stretched the Promised Land peopledwith the lost who soon would be the found.

  Barbara's last illness was rapid. When she began to go she went swiftly.

  "Can't you save her?" asked her son of one of the doctors.

  "The disease has gone too far," he answered. "Moreover, it is impossibleto save one who seeks to die."

  "Why does she seek to die?" blurted Anthony, glaring at him.

  "Perhaps, young gentleman, you are in a better position to answer thatquestion than I am," replied the doctor, who knew of Anthony's cruelconduct to his mother and had reproached him with it, not once but onseveral occasions.

  "You mean that I have killed her," said Anthony savagely.

  "No," replied the doctor, "she is dying of tuberculosis of the lungs.What were the primary causes which induced that disease I cannot besure. All I said was that she appears to welcome it, or rather itsissue. And I will add this on my own account, that when she does die theworld will lose one of the sweetest women that ever walked upon it. Goodmorning."