Part 6 (2/2)
He eyed her with sudden, sharp suspicion.
”You have at any rate a woman's curiosity,” said he. ”When you wrote to me that your father was dead, but that I might have, for the last time, my usual lodging here, had you any reason to suppose me a rich man?”
”I think,” answered Hester slowly, after a pause, ”that I must have spoken so as to hurt you somehow. If so, I am sorry; but you must hear now just why I wrote. I knew that, ever since I was born, and long before, you had come once a year and lodged here for a night. I knew that you came because my father was the parish clerk and let you spend the night in St Mary's Church; and I know that, though he allowed it secretly, you did no harm there, else he would never have allowed it. Now he is dead, and meanwhile I keep the keys by the parson's wish until a new parish clerk is appointed. And so I wrote, thinking to serve you for one year more as my father had served you for many.”
”I thank you, Miss Hester, and I beg your pardon. Yet there is a question I need to ask, though you may very properly refuse to answer it.
Beyond my name and address and my yearly visits, what do you know of me?”
”Nothing at all.”
”You must have wondered why I should do this strange thing, year by year?”
”To wonder is not to be inquisitive. Of course I have wondered; but I supposed that you came to strengthen yourself in some purpose, or to keep alive a memory--of someone dear to you, perhaps. Into what has brought you to us year after year I have no wish at all to pry. But there is a look on your face--and when children come to me with that look they are unhappy with some secret, and want to be understood without having to tell all particulars. A schoolmistress gets to know that look, and recognises it sometimes in grown-up folk, even in quite old persons. Yes, and there is another look on your face. You are not strong enough to go alone to the church to-night, and you know it.”
”I am going, I tell you.”
He had pushed back his chair, and answered her, after a long pause, during which he watched her removing the cloth.
”To-morrow you may have recovered; but to-night you are faint from that attack. If you really must go, will you not let me go too, and take my promise neither to look nor to listen?”
”Get me the key,” he commanded, and walked obstinately to the door.
But there his strength betrayed him. He put out a hand against the jamb.
”I am no better than a child,” he groaned, and turned weakly to her.
”Come if you will, girl. There is nothing to see, nothing to overhear.”
She fetched cloak and bonnet and found the great keys. He and she stepped out by a back entrance upon a lane leading to the church. The storm had pa.s.sed. Aloft, in a clear s.p.a.ce of the sky, the moon rode and a few stars shone down whitely, as if with freshly washed faces. Hester carried a dark lantern under her cloak; but, within, the church was light enough for Rosewarne to grope his way to his accustomed pew. Hester saw him take his seat there, and choosing a pew at some distance, in the shadow of the south aisle, dropped on her knees.
Nothing happened. The tall figure in the chancel sat motionless.
Rosewarne did not even pray--since he did not believe in G.o.d. But because a woman, now long dead, had believed and had implored him to believe also, that they two might one day meet in heaven, he consecrated this night to her, sitting in the habitation of her faith, keeping his gaze upon that spot in the darkness where on a bright Sunday morning a young soldier had caught sight of her and met her eyes for the first time. Year after year he had kept this vigil, concentrating his thought upon her and her faith; but never for an instant had that faith come near to touching him, except with a sentimental pity which he rejected, despising it; never had he come near to piercing the well of that mysterious comfort and releasing its waters. To him the dust of the great dead yonder in the Beauchamp Chapel--dust of men and women who had died in faith--was dust merely, arid, unbedewed by any promise of a life beyond. They had played their parts, and great tombs and canopies covered their final nothingness.
This was the last time he would watch, and to-night he knew there was less chance than ever of any miracle; for weariness weighed on him, and the thought of coming annihilation held no terror, but only an invitation to be at rest.
From the tower overhead the airy chimes floated over Warwick, beating out a homely tune to mingle with homely dreams. He sat on, nor stirred.
The June dawn broke, with the twittering of birds in the churchyard.
He stood up and stretched himself, with a frown for the painted windows with their unreal saints and martyrs. His footsteps as he walked down the aisle did not arouse the girl, who slept in the corner of the pew, with her loosened hair pencilling, as the dawn touched it, lines of red-gold light upon the dark panels. Her face was pale, and sleep gave it a childlike beauty. He understood, as he stooped and touched her shoulder, why the apparition of her on the river-bank had so startled him.
”Come, child,” he said; ”the night is over.”
CHAPTER V.
THE CLOSE OF A STEWARDs.h.i.+P.
A strange impatience haunted Rosewarne on his homeward journey; an almost intolerable longing to arrive and get something over--he scarcely knew what. When at length he stood on the ferry slipway, with but a furlong or two of water between him and home, the very tranquillity of the scene irritated him subtly--the slow strength of the evening tide, the few s.h.i.+ps idle at their moorings, the familiar hush of the town resting after its day's business. He tapped his foot on the cobbles as though this fretful action could quicken Uncle Nicky Vro, who came rowing across deliberately as ever, working his boat down the farther sh.o.r.e and then allowing the tide to slant it upstream to the landing-place.
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