CHAPTER XXXVI
Carrie, Philip, and Sebastian formed a curious little household for the next few weeks. Sebastian, who was first a doctor and then a man, deferred his judgment upon Philip’s case in the meantime, and directed his energies to Philip’s recovery. This, with a vigorous young constitution, was not very prolonged, and he was soon going about as usual, only with the maimed hand in a sling. Then, and not till then, Sebastian began to study Philip’s character very carefully. He would sit in silence and look at the young man, puzzling what the truth of this strange business was. For the life of him Sebastian could not resist the charm of Phil’s manner, and found himself unconsciously joining in his jests and his talk; but every one did that—what surprised him much more was to find that he esteemed Philip in his more serious moments. When Philip chose to be serious he was terribly in earnest, compelling attention to his subject, and Sebastian could scarcely believe the evidence of his senses when first he heard him speak in this way.
It was one evening as the two men sat alone together, Carrie having gone out of the room, that Philip began to speak of the future.
‘You know, sir,’ he said, ‘I must begin to earn my living—I cannot let you support my wife, far less myself, and I do not suppose that the fortune which my father meant to leave me can be mine now. Even if it were, I scarce think I could touch it while all the world supposes me to be his murderer.’
Sebastian was silent for a moment, and Phil turned quickly and looked at him.
‘Do you think I did that, sir?’ he asked.
‘If you did, you have the most extraordinary easy conscience of any man I have ever met,’ said Sebastian.
Phil gave a light little sigh. ‘Well, sir, ’tis more than generous of you to house a murderer, even for the sake of your dear daughter.—But to return to what I spoke of first. Murderer or no, I cannot let another man work for me and be idle myself, yet I fear, with the stigma that’s on me now, I can scarce hope for success in any profession here. Sir, do you think I should leave England and make a home for my wife elsewhere?’
‘Yes,’ said Sebastian slowly; ‘I fear ’tis your only chance. But leave Carrie with me meantime—a living, far less a competency, is none so easy to make, as you’ll find when you begin to try to make one.’
‘Oh, I’ve been deucedly rich!’ cried Phil. ‘I should have been working years ago; but I’ll work now like twelve men, sir, to make up for lost time. Tell me, sir, isn’t work a splendid thing? Now, when I see you each day with more than you can overtake, I wish from my heart I’d belonged always to those that toil. Some fraction of it all must live, you know, even of work like yours, sir, that appears to be only from day to day, ’tis really moving the world on. Our horrible idle days are dead before they are half lived!’
‘I never saw you in earnest before, Philip,’ said Sebastian, with a smile for the heat of youth.
‘You see—pardon me—you have not seen very much of me,’ said Phil; ‘but I must be in earnest now: Heaven knows I’ve played myself long enough. ’Tis true I enter into life halt now,’ he added, in a sadder tone.
This was not the last conversation they had on this much-vexed subject of what Phil was to do; but things took on a different complexion suddenly, one night not long after.
There came a thunder upon the knocker and a note from Dr. Munro. It was dated from a house in —— Street, and contained only these words: ‘Do your endeavour to come as speedily as may be, bringing with you Philip Meadowes.’
Sebastian could not explain the strange summons. He passed the note to Philip.
‘Simon Prior lives there,’ said Phil, as he looked at the address.
‘Will you come, then?’
‘Yes, sir; I fancy he hath business with me,’ said Phil. When they reached the house, Munro met them on the stairway.
‘Come this way,’ he said, leading them into a sitting-room. He closed the door and signed to them to sit down.
‘This is the house of Simon Prior, the same who witnessed at your trial,’ he said, with a bow towards Philip. ‘And Simon Prior is taken with seizures that threaten to end his days ere long. Years ago he came under my hands in hospital (do you remember, Shepley? no, why should you?) from a street accident. He seemingly thought me skilful, for now he sends for me again, and this time the case is scarce so easy. Now, since I have been called in, the man has seemed in great trouble of mind—a more arrant coward I never knew—and he takes no rest day nor night, tossing and crying out. Since this afternoon he calls continually to see you, “Philip Meadowes,” and moreover hath made me send by special messenger summoning Judge Matthews to his bedside. His Lordship is not yet arrived, mayhap he will not trouble himself to come, but I have told him that the summons may have special bearings on a certain interesting case he lately tried, so I look to see him shortly.’
Philip said nothing; but he turned his sparkling eyes on Sebastian for a moment.
‘Doth Prior wander in his mind then?’ said Sebastian, a little anxiously.
‘No, he fears death and judgment apparently, but when the terrors pass off him, he is in full possession of his senses.’
‘And he seems anxious to see Philip?’
‘After a fashion. At first he seemed to struggle long about the matter, then asked me if death was near, inevitably, for him, and when I replied that it was, he said, after a pause for thought, “Then send for Philip Meadowes.” ’Twas after that he summoned Judge Matthews, seemingly an afterthought.’
They heard at this moment the sound of Matthews’ arrival in the hall. Munro went out to meet him and usher him in. Philip found himself again in the presence of his Judge.
‘A good evening to you, gentlemen,’ said Matthews. Phil drew himself up proudly and met his surprised look with a steady glance.
‘I fancy we are about to hear a curious statement from Mr. Simon Prior, my Lord,’ said Munro, ‘but before we go into his chamber I had best tell you of his condition. ’Tis critical to a degree, but his mind is clear still. The thoughts that distract him come, I fancy, from an evil conscience, so I have troubled you to come at his bidding and hear whatever he hath to say, in hopes that his mind being put at rest, his bodily state may be bettered. Gentlemen, shall we go into the sick-room?’
They followed Munro into a large dim-lighted room, a silent, curious trio.
Simon Prior at sound of their footsteps started up on his elbow, and peered into the dimness of the shadowy room.
‘Are they come? are all come? Is Philip Meadowes come, and Shepley, and Judge Matthews?’ he said, in an anxious, loud voice.
‘All are come, sir; calm yourself and lie back. My Lord here is willing to hear aught you may have to say,’ said Munro, laying Prior back against the pillows. Matthews stepped forward and stood beside the bed, but at sight of him Prior started up again.
‘The Judge! the Judge!’ he cried, ‘and before day shines I’ll stand before the Judge of All!’
‘Sir, sir, compose yourself,’ said Matthews, as he took a seat by the side of the bed and laid his hand kindly enough across the coverlet. ‘I am come to hear your story; take your time, I shall listen, however long it may be.’
‘Easily told, easily,’ said Prior. He seemed to have strung himself up to tell all his story, for he rattled it off now like a schoolboy who repeats his letters. ‘Easily told—just that I did it—killed Richard Meadowes. I took off my shoes and followed him, trusting to the dark night. Oh, it was all as easy as could be. Then I told him I was Philip—just for vengeance—just because Phil was the only thing he loved on earth, and I wished to make his heart bleed at the last. “I am Philip,” I said in this high voice’—(he broke out into it as he spoke)—‘just as Philip there speaks—and Meadowes believed me. He died believing it. Oh, I paid him out for his treachery, for a thousand treacheries, and he thought his own boy had turned traitor at the last! And I’m glad I did it, for he had thrown me over like an old shoe when I had served his turn. Oh, sin’s easy, easy; nothing so easy as sinning at the first, but now, how am I to die? how am I to die?’
He tossed himself back against the pillows, his arms flung above his head. Philip came forward and stood looking pityingly down at him.
‘Now you have cleared me of this crime, Prior,’ he said, ‘let your mind be easy of that. I am here alive and well, as you see. You have my forgiveness, if that is any comfort to you. Is this all you have to tell us?’
‘All? all?—that’s but the end of a hideous story; the beginning was so long ago I scarce remember it. Always money, money. There was the matter of Anne Champion; but he was to pay every debt I had, you know, and I was hard pressed at the time. Lord lay not that sin to my charge! ’Twas Meadowes’ sin, not mine; and there was that other affair in the year ’24 that——’
‘There,’ said Phil, turning away, ‘I for one have heard all I wish to hear.’
But Prior talked on:—
‘There was the matter of Anne Champion, as I said; listen, Philip, for she was your mother, you know, and you, Shepley, you were her lover once, you remember; come, and I shall tell you all of that I——’
‘Sir, sir,’ said Phil in a low quick whisper to Sebastian, and he pointed to the door. They passed out together, with the sound of Prior’s voice still talking on and on as they closed the door. In silence they passed down the staircase and out into the silent street. They stood together there for a moment without speaking. Then Sebastian laid his hand on Phil’s shoulder.
‘Come, my son,’ he said.
Phil and Carrie were perhaps the happiest man and woman in London that night. And Sebastian Shepley, watching their joy, entered into it and saw in them the bright end of a dark story.
Ah, untraceable jugglery of Time, and Change, and Fate! In all the arts of the conjurer is no trickery like this; from pain and dishonour and treachery, and broken hearts and blighted hopes, from such a soil life sends up her fresh and vigorous shoots, the immortal blossomings of the tree that cannot wither, whose leaves shall surely, at some far-off day, heal the nations!