"THOU KNOWEST!"
Mrs. Van Camp put ease and comfort from her, placed Poll in his cage, and left a bunch of white grapes dangling from its top, hoping that the fruit might attract his attention sufficiently to stop his hoarse: "'Omeo! 'Omeo! dead! dead!" that now was more distressing to listen to than his most distinct profanity. She had dressed herself for the street, and in her character of god-mother hastened to Sybil's side. Then, finding her prostrated, and, for the time being, utterly incapable of action of any kind, like the loyal friend she was, she went on up to Riverdale at once to the assistance of John Lawton and Leslie Galt; who, dazed and confused, seemed as helpless as two male babes, until the bright, clever, capable old lady took charge and gave orders and made suggestions.
Neither she nor Leslie liked the strange blank look in poor old John Lawton's eyes. The blow had stunned him seemingly. Yet he was observant enough about anything affecting his Letitia, and Sybil Van Camp had felt tears springing to her eyes when, having to enter Mrs. Lawton's sleeping-room, she saw John catch up the little bottle of rouge vinaigre from the toilet-table and hide it in his pocket. "Poor, loyal old gentleman!" she thought; "as if all her world did not know that Letitia Lawton rouged!"
The absence of his worshipped children made the burden of his grief almost unbearable. He knew that Dorothy was to be deceived, if possible, for a few days, so that she might have undiminished strength and courage for the great trial she was approaching so rapidly; but Sybil—"where was Sybil?" That was all he said, muttering the words very low.
He could give no assistance to anyone, could not tell where anything could be found; only he could not be kept away from that white, still thing, that he looked at with such blank, piteously faded eyes, as though he were trying to trace in it some resemblance to the light, frivolous but vivid Letitia, who for twenty-four years had talked him to sleep o' nights, and whose silence now was so sudden and so cruel.
Once Leslie, coming softly in to try again to lead the old man away, overheard him murmuring: "She does not come—they are both independent of me now. I—I—think I'll just go with you Letitia, my dear!" and, frightened, he turned and sought Mrs. Van Camp.
And that wise woman answered: "You see, you were in error trying to hide this disaster to Mr. Thrall from him. He thinks Sybil neglects him. The shock will not break him entirely, as you imagine, but it will arouse him to a desire to help his child."
"Right!" exclaimed Leslie. "That's the dear old chap all over! We must make him believe her welfare depends wholly upon his protection and care—or, indeed, Mrs. Van Camp, I fear he will—well, let us say, let go!"
And so the kindly conspirators planned that, as the death of Mr. Thrall could scarcely be kept from Dorothy's knowledge, and if she learned of it she would think her mother was with Sybil for a few days, the shattered old man Lawton should be made to believe Sybil's welfare depended entirely upon him; and Sybil,—poor child!—crushed as she was, would see at a glance that her father's life depended upon her loving companionship. And then they led the old gentleman from the darkened room out to the porch, and, each holding one of his hands, they told him of the accidental shooting of Mr. Thrall, of the crushing effect of the double blow upon Sybil. But before their story was done he was drawing his hands away and crying: "My little girl! my little girl! I must go to you at once!" and it required the repeated assurance of Mrs. Van Camp that his child would come to him by an early train next morning to keep him from hurrying to the city.
When Mrs. Van Camp had left the red brick house with the flower-filled windows Sybil had raised herself from her pillows and had struck the small gong-bell on the stand by her bed sharply—twice—three times. And Stivers called up to her: "In a moment, Miss Sybil!" but did not appear; and again the gong sounded, and at last the woman came with a cup of black coffee in her hand. "It's no use frowning, Miss—no use waving your hand! That doctor gave you an opiate last night, and now you just—no! I won't listen to what you want until you swallow down this coffee—to steady your nerves. No! Miss—no! He's not gone yet—there's no 'extra' out at all. That's some pedler you hear. Take it down now, all of it. There! You'll be the better for that. Now, what was it you wanted?"
And Sybil fastened her woful eyes on the woman's face, and begged: "Mrs. Stivers, will you bring a jeweler here to my room, as quickly as possible?"
"A—a—what?" stammered Stivers, "a jeweler—no, I can't leave you to go away over——"
"But," the girl interrupted, "anyone will do—any working jeweler. Right in the next avenue there is a little shop—you won't be gone more than fifteen minutes. You must, indeed you must!"
"O-o-oh!" thought Stivers; "she wants to get rid of that opal, now all the damage is done." Aloud she warned: "If you're going to try to do any business, you don't want a little tu-penny-ha'penny creature like that to deal with. Well! well! I'm going—but suppose the bell rings? Yes, I'll hurry!"
White and worn-looking, Sybil fell back upon the pillow, her tumbled dark hair clouding over her brows, her hot eyes staring before her, and every nerve tense, waiting for the "E-e-extray! e-e-extray!" at whose sound her world of love would crumble to nothingness.
Had she or had she not heard Stewart gasp "The word—the ruby—?" If she had, then the word must have had an immense significance for him, and suddenly her dumb, inert despair was broken by an intense longing to know what the word was that even rapidly approaching death had not driven from his recollection. For Sybil did not try to deceive herself. Anyone hearing that awful breathing must have realized that it meant a pierced lung, and she had been hopeless from the first. She felt that the explanation given by Thrall and Roberts was not true—that the shooting had not been accidental; but she supposed it had been the motiveless act of a drink-maddened man. For Jim Roberts had never breathed a hint—drunk or sober—of the miserable fate of his young sister, still less of his piteous passion of love for herself. So, in the absence of reasonable motive, she charged the dreadful deed to drunkenness.
Stivers had eagerly seized upon the cue given by rumor, and declared that Sybil had been shopping, and was going toward the theatre, when, etc., etc.; and she had carefully drilled her mistress in this story, before the arrival of Mrs. Van Camp.
And now the unhappy girl lay there straining her ears for that cry of "Extra!" that she so dreaded, and tormenting herself with thoughts of what she might have said and done yesterday, had she not been so stupefied with terror. At last she heard Stivers opening the door, and presently she was showing in a sandy-haired, hooked-nosed young man, with thick red lips and an appraising eye, that seemed at a glance to put a price upon each article in the room. She took the glittering diamond heart from her neck, and, placing it in the man's hand, asked him to remove the back. She would not listen to his proposal to take it to his shop—it must be done there, even at the risk of scratching the gold. Scratch or dent it, if he must, but open it he should! At last the back came off, and the man remarked: "I think there's something engraved here." But Sybil's hand-clasp covered the inscription. "Wait in the other room," she commanded.
She bolted the door, flew to the window, and, catching the light upon the metal, read the word she had worn upon her breast three years—the word Stewart said made the sole value of the gem—read and fell upon her knees, and buried her face in the pillow and sobbed and cried: "I understand you better now, dear heart!" and kissed again and again the four little letters that formed that one significant word, "Wife."
An hour later the expected cry arose in the street. Hoarse bawling went up one side and down the other, and Sybil knew the man who had been her idol, dearer, more precious than the whole great world, he whose love had been as the very breath of life to her, was gone away forever! And, lying with the locket pressed against her lips, she breathed: "Wife, you said, dear heart? Then your widow now, and as loyal in the shadow of your death as I was in the sunlight of your life!"
In the passenger list there had appeared the names of Mr. J. Lawton Bassett and daughter, and the pair thus registered had gone on board over night because of the very early hour of sailing, they said, but it was really an effort to avoid public notice; and all the bell-ringing, pulling, hauling, rushing, and trampling were over and comparative quiet reigned before John Lawton and Sybil, his daughter, ascended to the deck to look about them and with sad eyes to take farewell of the great city they loved, with its rapidly softening outlines, blending, blurring into a grayish mass touched with a few strong darks, many sharp, white lights, and here and there a gleam from the golden cross of some sky-piercing spire. As they leaned against the rail, the girl with cloudy hair, sombre eyes, and black-robed figure clinging to the arm of the pale old gentleman, also in mourning, they made a pathetic picture. Silently they watched—each was trying to hide grief for the other's sake. It was well for Sybil that this helpless old father needed her devoted care, for an awful temptation had come to her in her despair. "Oh," she cried, now in her heart, "if I only had Dorothy's faith in God! Dorothy's hope for the beautiful hereafter! But," she mused bitterly, "Dorothy has not sinned, while I—and yet, if God is what she believes Him, He could pity even me!" Then she shivered, for, looking out over the water, she thought of the exultant old anthem, and quoting "The sea is His, and He made it!" she felt suddenly that she was too small, too insignificant, for her cry of repentance to be noticed.
The wind was sharpening. Her thoughts came back to her father. They had been out there a very long time—too long, and—and what was that man—the purser—doing? Handing an envelope to a big man already in cap and ulster, and calling—could she be right—calling: "Miss Lawton? Is a Miss Sybil Lawton here?" The pilot had been dropped half an hour or more ago. Why—why, what was this? An envelope thrust into her unwilling hand, and the purser was away, calling for a Mr. Pemberton Something, and waving one last missive aloft for its claimant.
"Dorothy!" gasped the old man, and closed his eyes a moment.
Sybil's nervous fingers tore the envelope, and opened the bit of yellow paper. She read breathlessly, looked about her, passed her hand over her eyes, read again. And then she flung her arms about her father's trembling, frail old body, buried her face in his breast, and laughed—laughed with tears running down her cheeks—laughed and blessed God for his goodness! Then, looking up at her father's quivering mouth, she put her fingers on it, saying: "Don't, dada, it's good news—about Dorothy!"
A smile came to his lips, an eager light to his eyes. "Why! why!" he said. "I expected the news would be awaiting us at Liverpool; but really, I——"
Again that hysterical laughter shook the girl. "You're surprised, darling!" she said, "but wait till you hear the message."
"Sybil Letitia and Dorothy Grace have arrived. Mother and both babies well. Look for cable. Leslie."
John Lawton straightened up suddenly. "W-w-what!" stammered he. "Sybil Letitia? W-w-y? Who on earth—Dorothy Grace? Why, but that's two, Sybil! Two's twins! Well, I am astonished—at Dorothy!" And then, before she could answer, a pleased look came on his face, as he continued: "Poor Letitia would have thought that so fashionable! I wish she knew, dear! She so loved to be within the fashion!" He drew Sybil close to him, and she thought with sick longing of that stronger arm that used to circle her about so tenderly. He looked backward as he murmured: "Little Dorrie's babies!" Then, glancing down at the dark, drooping head without reason, a conviction came to him that Dorothy's children would have to be Sybil's children, too.
She raised her woful eyes, and, meeting his pitying glance, answered the look, saying: "Dorothy never failed yet to share her joys with me, dada!"
He turned his eyes again toward the land they were leaving. "Sybil Letitia—that's for you and wife. Dorothy Grace—that's for Dorrie and Leslie's mother. I—didn't he say anything about the color of their eyes, dear? Strange!" he murmured, discontentedly. "He might have said that much!"
"Probably we shall learn all you wish at Liverpool, dear!" she patiently answered, while her heart contracted with a new loneliness. They had fled together from two freshly made graves, but already it was evident that baby hands were tuning the worn old heart-strings anew; that these two creatures, with eyes full of knowledge from the great Beyond, held speechless till they should forget from whence they came, and allowed only wordless cries, were yet summoning him, with almost irresistible power, back, back!
"Do you not think, daughter, that brief trips abroad at frequent intervals are as beneficial as one more prolonged visit?" he naïvely asked, his pale old eyes looking quite eagerly at her.
"Yes, dear," she answered him, and then she led him away, fearing the effect on him of the cold and the increasing motion. Still he looked backward, and she persuadingly said: "Go, now, dear, and as soon as you are safely in your berth I'll come to you, and we will talk——"
"About Dorothy's babies—our little twins?"
"Yes, dada! All about them—their names and probable color, probable weight, everything we can think of!" And then she went back and looked long out over the vast gray, pathless expanse. "'The sea is His, and He made it!' What inconceivable power! And yet that mighty Creator noted the fall of a sparrow. Oh!" she thought, as she pressed the jewel to her breast till it hurt the tender flesh. "I—who am widowed for all my life—I thank you for your mercy and goodness in bringing safe and happy deliverance to my beloved sister! And humbly I beseech you now, to deliver me my soul! For I am a sinful woman—troubled and heavy, for that we lost our way through love! But now I cannot bear my woe alone! Help me, O mighty and powerful One, hereafter to live according to Thy will! Purify me in heart and mind, that I may be a fit companion for those little ones you have sent into our lives!"
She, too, began to feel a longing for sight and touch of those precious mysteries—Dorrie's babies. Stewart had been so anxious for Dorothy's welfare. She pressed her locket closer. "Oh!" she thought, "how I will love them! Sybil Letitia—Dorothy Grace! Yes, you are very nice and stately, and will look well upon the records, and, later on, upon marriage cards; but, dear little gifts, you will answer, all your baby years at least, to the tenderly commonplace Sybbie and Dorrie, so familiar to a Lawton nursery, and will doubtless be as hardy, happy, and sturdy as Lawton-Galt babies ought to be! And oh, if you thrive and are spared to the years of your sweet budding, you shall, by your right divine, be taught frankly and by high authority those great truths that are too often learned only in degrading secrecy from unworthy lips. Do I not know the danger, the cruelty, of sending forth the young in the innocence of utter ignorance! But you, my Dorrie's little daughters, shall be taught to look forward to some proud day in your girlhood when, as a guerdon for patient waiting and unhesitating obedience, you shall receive from reverent lips knowledge of the mysteries of life and love—of the almost divine honor of a perfectly pure womanhood! So shall propinquity be as naught; so no moment of strange, overwhelming weakness, no sudden flaring up of impulse, shall have power to bewilder and confuse you, to your harm! And thus, knowing something of both your weakness and your strength, it will not be in the innocence of ignorance that you will face the world, but with the clear-eyed, pure-hearted innocence of wisdom!"
Just then Sybil's skirts snapped in the wind, and whipped close about her ankles. "Oh!" she exclaimed. "Papa! I must go to papa!" She smiled faintly as she thought, "While he has been waiting the babies have grown up into lovely womanhood."
One more long look she gave over the heaving, restless, gray sea, and suddenly a very agony of grief swept over her. She bowed her head. "I can't help it," she breathed; "I repent of my sin, yet I still love and long for him!"
She pressed the locket (with the word) closer. "But I will pray on, all my life; for"—she raised great tear-brimmed eyes to heaven—"to understand is to pardon, and 'Thou knowest'!"