Alone on a Wide Wide Sea, Vol. 3 (of 3)

by William Clark Russell

I lay in my bed listening to her, and often answering and agreeing with her in many points of her argument, but all the time perfectly resolved to remain dead to my husband, that my sister’s peace should not be ruined and her life wrecked. The problem of how I was to regain my children was indeed fearful, and, as I did think, insoluble; but I had seen them, I had kissed them in their sleep, they were alive and well. All this greatly comforted me, and though I was almost crazy with a mother’s yearning for them, I felt better capable of waiting, now that I had seen them, than before—better capable of exercising patience for my sister’s sake, looking to God to reward me for my sacrifice by uniting me with my children without desolating my sister’s life.

When the night came I again slept well, and was awakened next morning by a knock on the door. The servant entered, and handed me a letter in deep mourning. I was startled by the deep black edge upon the envelope, and told the maid to open the curtains. She did so, flooding the room with light, and withdrew. I looked at the envelope, and instantly recognised the handwriting as that of my sister. It was addressed to Mrs. John Campbell, care of Mrs. Lee. In fact, the address was precisely the same as that which I had written upon the cards I had taken to Bath with me, one of which, as you will remember, Mrs. Lee had stitched inside of the back of my jacket, the only difference being that the envelope bore my name, Mrs. John Campbell.

I trembled violently, and for some few minutes felt so faint that the letter drooped in my hand on to the coverlet, whilst I lay back for the support of the pillow. Then I looked at the letter again; it was in Mary’s writing. I knew the writing as well as though I had seen her with a pen in her hand addressing the envelope. For a long time I could not summon courage to open the letter. It was not only the handwriting and the seeing my name plain upon the envelope; it was the mourning also that terrified me, so significant was it of the character of the enclosure. At last I opened the letter, and read this:

‘My own darling Sister,—When, after fainting at the sight of your boy, you were brought into your house, and your hat and veil were removed, I knew you. Beloved sister, I knew you instantly. Your white hair, your changed appearance, could not disguise you from the eyes of my love. They had told me that during a great part of the day a woman in black, thickly veiled, had several times passed this house, and when your veil was removed, and I saw that it was you, Agnes, then I knew all, I understood all. I knew that you had come to catch a sight of your children, that you knew I had become your husband’s wife, and I understood that your secret visit meant that when you returned to your home you would never come here again. And why? That your husband and I might think you dead, as we have long believed you dead, and that I might be left to live as I have lived since you were mourned as lost to us for ever.

‘My darling sister! It was because I knew you that I insisted upon your remaining in the house all night, for then you would have rested, sleep would have given you strength, I should have been able to see you in the morning, have heard your story, and have told you mine. Oh! what has kept you from us for three years? What sufferings have you undergone to change you so? I have loved and tended your little ones as though they had been my own. You will find them well, and very beautiful children. You saw but little of Johnny. You fell whilst he was looking at you. I have been wakeful all night, pacing the floor of a room that was above the one in which you slept—not thinking over what I should do; no! what I was to do I knew very well; but thinking about you, your three years’ absence, the meeting of two sisters who knew each other and loved each other, and yet dared not speak to each other.

‘And why did not I speak to you, Agnes? Because, my beloved, I desired the morning to come, when, after having sat and conversed with you in your bedroom, I should have been able to depart from your house, leaving it to you to tell your husband the story of your return, and of my going, when he came back to his home in the evening.

‘You know that I was married to him fourteen weeks ago. Your secret visit convinced me that that news had reached you. Oh! had the gentle and all-merciful God brought you home to us but four months earlier! I can write to you that I was married to John, but I could not look at you and say so.

‘Yet I believed you dead, dear sister, and your husband believed you dead. The body of the man who attended you in the boat was washed ashore, and the boat was afterwards found drifting about, upside down. How could we doubt that you had perished? But I have not come between you and your husband’s heart. Your memory is sweet and sacred to him. Often does he talk of you. It is a subject that he never wearies of. One to take the place of you was needed for Johnny and little Mary, and who fitter than I? But oh! but oh! that you had returned but four months earlier!

‘And now with the tears standing in my eyes, and my heart aching as though it must break, I am going to bid you farewell for ever. Do not fear for me. God’s love will stay my hand. I will do nothing that is rash or sinful. I shall hear of you and always in spirit be with you, and my prayers shall ever be for you and for your husband, and your little ones. By the time this letter reaches your hands, your husband will have known all, and will in all probability be on his way to Newcastle-on-Tyne.

‘As for me, I go where no inquiries can ever reach me. It will be useless to seek for me; not the utmost strength of our love, Agnes, would ever be able to court me from my concealment. You may hear of me in my death, but in no wise else, and some day you will know why I have chosen to hide myself until the grave closes over me.