Chapter Thirty One.
“But this I know, that not even the best and first,
When all is done, can claim by desert what even to the last and worst
Of us weak workmen, God from the depths of his infinite mercy giveth.
These bones shall rest in peace, for I know that my Redeemer liveth.”
Owen Meredith.
The short conversation between the two men did not leave the same impression upon Anthony as it had left upon David. Other thoughts had hold of him too completely to allow of much wandering from them. Although he had made no distinct resolution to do that which he had done, and permitted himself to believe that his words had not been premeditated, but were such as grew out of the situation, the possibility that they might be spoken had in truth lived in his heart, or had, rather, been lived upon, for some time past. He was too young not to feel that suffering was intolerable, that his own wrong must be righted, deliverance come in some unknown fashion. The hope was never altogether absent even in his moments of deepest dejection, and as yet he could scarcely grasp the fact that he had used the one resource which had seemed to him at once desperate and certain, and that—it had failed him.
When he reached the bridge a bark at his heels startled him. He stood still and whittled for Sniff, and meeting no return remembered that he had left the Bennetts hurriedly, and had forgotten to ask for the dog. He turned round at once, and more from a vague feeling that some pain haunted the road by which he had reached his present point, than from any actual choice, took the path by the canal, and passed the spot from which that day he had seen the sun sink, and watched the shades gather.
The Norwegian vessel lay still against the quay, its masts rising sharply against the softer darkness of the sky, in which tremulous stars were shining. Underneath the wall there was a blackness of water, where a plank or two floated and caught the faint light. Smoke was still pouring out of the little hooded funnel where the men had their fire, and there were three or four figures on the deck, and laughter which did not sound quite friendly. Anthony, as he came nearer, could distinguish words of broken English, and fancied that the men had been drinking and were quarrelsome. It was all shadowy and dusky, with here and there a little weird leaping light, and rough voices grating on the silence. But as he passed by the water’s edge he heard another voice which he recognised as David Stephens’s, and this made him look at the group with more curiosity, and wonder what the young man could be doing on board a foreign vessel. He could distinctly see him standing in the midst of the sailors, who were jeering or threatening, and presently he saw him turn away as if to jump on shore. Anthony lingered, he could scarcely tell why, when suddenly there was a cry and a splash; one of the men by accident or design had pushed violently against David, and he was in the water. The sailors, sobered in an instant, were crowding, looking, shouting, and in another moment Anthony was in the midst of them, had caught a rope, and swung himself down between the vessel and the quay. He was a good swimmer, the danger lay in the cramped space in which it was possible to move, and in the darkness which hid everything; but presently lights flashed, people were running and calling, and a gleam struck for a moment on something at which he clutched and missed, and clutched again, and dragged up at last on the slippery planks. Help came very quickly, men collected, two boats were jostling each other, and they lifted the burden from him, laid it in the boat, and rowed to the landing steps. There the men who were carrying poor David paused as if in doubt.
“Where shall us take un, sir?” asked one of the old sailors.
“It’s young Stephens, the preacher!” said another who had got a lantern, and held it up to the white face.
“You may carr’n over to my place, if you’m minded,” said a gruff voice out of the little throng. “It’s handy, and the mis’ess wouldn’t be willing for he to be drownded.”
“Take him to whichever house is nearest. And, here, one of you, go off for Mr Bowles,” said Anthony, recovering his breath.
They carried him very tenderly across the road to a door at which a little light was already shining. The foreign sailors were watching with alarmed faces, uncertain how far they would be held answerable for what had happened. One of them began explaining in broken English to Anthony that he had come on board to look for some boy whom he accused them of harbouring, and then the men made fun of him, not in the least intending what had happened, their spokesman declared. It was so impossible to say whether there had really been more than this, that Anthony could only listen in silence. He was a little confused himself, for it had all passed in a minute, and there was a strange flutter of unreality about the darkness and the trampling feet moving through the narrow door. A kind grave-looking woman was there, who came forward with wet eyes, and touched Davids hand gently; she had had but a moment of preparation, and yet it all seemed ready as the men came in with their dripping burden, and carried it up stairs and laid it on the bed. Her husband stopped the people who were pressing after, but a lad broke past him, ran up into the room, and fell on his knees by the bedside, crying bitterly.
“I’m Nat, David. I’ll go back with you where you please,” he said over and over, with a sharpness of appeal which touched them all. It seemed as if the heavy lids must lift themselves, the mouth unclose, in answer to this boyish cry; the men fell back a little, and waited in mute expectation. David had been right in tracking him to the ship. He had got one of the men to hide him for a lark, and then he had heard all the inquiries, the jerk, the sudden splash. They had some ado to keep him from flinging himself over the side, too.
But neither cries nor remorse touched the quiet of the face which lay unconscious of them all in that awful insensibility which affects us with a curious sympathy as something that one day must hold us also in thrall. They thought that he was dead, and when at last, after the doctor had tried all means of restoration, life struggled feebly back, it was so slight and so precarious that it scarcely seemed like life at all.
“I suspect some blow was received in the fall; but the poor fellow was weakly before, and the shock has proved too much for his rallying powers,” said Mr Bowles, under his breath.
“Do you mean that he will die?” said Anthony, shocked.
“You had better go and change your clothes, Mr Miles,” said the doctor, evading the question. “Can you find your way to my house?”
“I will go to the Bennetts’, and hurry back as soon as possible. Is anything wanted?”
“A little brandy for yourself. Nothing here, thank you.”
Anthony was quickly back again, and Mr Bennett with him, full of fussy good-nature. David had spoken a word or two, and the calm of his face had deepened into something that looked like happiness, as he lay with his eyes resting upon Nat Wills, who was burying his head in the bedclothes, and now and then lifting it to sob out remorseful words. But as his look turned towards Anthony, and lay there for a minute or two as if he were not sufficiently conscious to know who it was, those who were watching saw a sudden change pass over the still features. It might have been wonder, fear, even terror, which drew the muscles together and opened the eyes, but it was shown so sharply that every one turned at once to look in the same direction, and see what caused the movement.
“You may as well just slip behind, the sight of you seems to excite him,” said the young doctor, a little curious like the rest. As for Anthony, the intensity of the look fairly appalled him. He had disliked and opposed Stephens, but he was one of those people to whom it is always a shock to have ill-feeling returned, especially at a moment when he was full of kindly emotion towards the man whose life he had saved.
“He wishes to say something. Keep back, good people,” said Mr Bennett. “Is there anything you want, my poor fellow?”
The pale lips parted and closed again.
“He has not strength to bear questioning,” said the doctor, impatiently. He would have stopped it more decidedly if that look had not remained upon the man’s face, so terrible in its dumb language that it seemed as if something must be done to loosen its tension. And yet Anthony had drawn back into the shadows. After a moment’s thinking, Mr Bowles motioned him forward. “You had better speak and find out what is the matter,” he said in a low voice, “for something is exciting him more than he can long bear.”
Side by side with Nat Wills, Anthony Miles knelt down by the bedside.
“Do you know me, David?” he said, with the gentleness that death teaches us.
Once more David tried to speak, once more the words failed him. His eyes turned away in piteous entreaty, and the doctor, passing his arm round him, got him to swallow a few drops of stimulant. Then those who were nearest heard his voice as if front far away.
“I was going to you—next—that letter—”
“The letter?” repeated Anthony in surprise. The shadow of his life was not touching him at that moment; he could not understand.
“Have you given him a letter?” asked Mr Bennett.
“The letter—- about the—will.”
The blood rushed over Anthony’s face. He understood at last. For an instant it was like the lifting of an iron weight, for an instant his heart leaped up. Mr Bennett came closer and began to question eagerly,—
“Do you mean the Cornish letter?—the one all the talk has been about?”
“I ought to have told—O God, have mercy!”
“Told what?—What do you mean?—Say it out, man!”
“Give him time,” said the doctor, quietly.
“It did come—I saw the postmark—Polmear—I gave it myself to—”
“Hush!” said Anthony, very gravely and kindly. “You need not tell us any more, David, for I know it all.”
“But—Anthony, Anthony, my dear fellow, for Heaven’s sake, let us hear what he means. Our coming here I consider quite providential. Here is this abominable story on the point of being cleared up. Don’t stop him for worlds.”
“Mr Miles never had—it,” said Stephens, speaking more strongly. “You will find the bits—I picked up—and the date in my pocket-book. He tore it up—”
“There is nothing more to be said,” interrupted the young man, much moved. “If this has been on your conscience, David, I am very sorry, for I knew that the letter reached Underham, although I never saw it. Your being able to tell these gentlemen so much ought to be a good thing for me, I suppose,” he went on with a touch of the old bitterness; “but as to other particulars, the way you can best repair any wrong is by keeping silence.” The dying man’s eyes met his once more with a mute look of anguish. Was the sin he had nursed to die with him without his being permitted to reveal it?
“I thought—you hindered the—good work,” he said, lifting his feeble hands as if to ask for mercy.
“And what troubles you now is, that you feel you have wronged Mr Miles?” said the doctor, who began to understand something.
“David, listen,” said Anthony, speaking in a low gentle voice. “May God forgive me as I forgive you, freely, fully. May God forgive my hard thoughts of you. He is teaching us both something, and I think I have the most to learn. I wish there was one soul could cling to me as that poor boy is clinging now to you.”
David’s eyes turned slowly towards Nat Wills, and softened into a look of great love.
“Nat,” he said faintly,—“Nat!”
“I’ll go just where you likes,” said the boy, eagerly looking up.
“Then you’ll go to Thorpe—to Mr Salter—Mr Miles will, maybe, help you—and you’ll tell. There’s nothing like telling before it’s too late.” His voice had grown stronger, his eye brightened.
“Do you know that it was Mr Miles who saved your life?” said Mr Bennett, who had been a good deal shocked by what he heard.
But David was still looking at the boy.
“The mist is lifting from the water,” he said slowly. “Does Faith see it?—Faith told me she would—look, look!”
“He is wandering,” said the doctor, softly.
What does the soul see when the cords are loosened for a moment, and it goes where our feeble pity follows, not knowing what we say? Do the mists lift indeed, and does the glory of the Day Dawn shine in its nearness? Whatever David may have beheld, something of its wonder touched his face, and brightened it with an intense joy, a joy which rested, and at which by and by they looked reverently as at something which had done with earth and its sin forever.