The Unknown Sea Part 34

Told in the dark by one who had lived through them, nearly died through them, whose voice yet acknowledged the terror of them,--circ.u.mstances were these of no vague indication to Rhoda. The reality of that dark implication stirred her hair, chilled her blood, loosened her joints; yet her faith in Christian did not fall.

But no word had she to say to refute the dreadful accusation; no word for Philip; no word for an adverse world. And what word for his mother? Her heart died within her.

The most signal evidence sufficient for her own white trust was a kiss, a close embrace, hard upon the naming of Diadyomene. She had no shame to withhold it; but too likely, under his mother's eye, discount would offer were maiden blood quick to her face when she urged her tale.

She knew that an ominous hum was against Christian, because he had struck, and swum, and escaped as no other man could; she guessed how the roar went now because of Philip's evidence. How inconsiderable the wrong of it all was, outdone if one injurious doubt his mother's heart entertain.

To hatred and to love an equal disregard death opposed. No menace could disturb, no need could disturb the absolute repose Christian had entered.

She envied his heart its quiet in an unknown grave.

'Be a little kind, Rhoda; be only just; say I was not to blame.'

She could not heed.

'Why do you hate me so? For your sake I freely forgive Christian all he has done; for your sake I would have been his friend, his brother, in spite of all. O Rhoda, what can I do?'

'Let be,' she said, 'for you can undo nothing now. If I saw you kneeling--no, not before me--but contrite, praying: "G.o.d be merciful to me, for by thought and word and deed I have sinned against the n.o.blest, the worthiest," then, then only, far from hate, I think I could almost love.'

No indignation was aflame with the words; the weary voice was so sad and so hopeless as to a.s.sure Philip she spoke of one dead.

'All I can do now is to pray G.o.d to keep me from cursing you and the world for your working of a cruel wrong that can never be ended.' Her voice pitched up on a strain. 'Oh, leave me, leave me, lest I have not grace enough to bear with you!'

Philip, daring no more, stood and heard the hasty, uneven steps further and die. His eyes were full of tears; his heart ached with love and pity for Rhoda in her sorrow and desolation, that he could do nothing to relieve--nothing, because her infatuation so extravagantly required.

Rhoda braced her heart for its work, reached to the latch, and stood face to face with Lois. The trial began with the meeting of their eyes; Rhoda stood it bravely, yielding no ground.

'Is he dead?' muttered Lois.

'None can tell us.' She faltered, and began to tremble, for the eyes of Lois were dreadful to bear; dreadful too was her voice, hoa.r.s.e and imperfect.

'Is he worse than dead?'

'No! Never--never think it.'

Lois forbore awhile with wonderful stoicism. She set Rhoda in her own chair; the turf-covered embers she broke into a blaze to be prodigal of warmth; there was skilly waiting hot; there was water. She drew off Rhoda's shoes, and bathed her feet, swollen and sore; she enforced food.

Though she would not yet ask further, the sight of her face, grey and stony indeed, the touch of her hands, trembling over much, were imperative to Rhoda's heart, demanding what final truth she could give.

'Child, if you need sleep, I can bear to wait.'

'I could not,' said Rhoda. 'No.'

She looked up into the tearless, sleepless eyes; she clasped the poor shaking hands; and her heart rose in wors.h.i.+p of the virtues of that stern, patient soul.

As the tale began they were face to face; but before long Rhoda had slipped from her seat, to speak with her head against his mother's knees.

'I will tell you all now. I must, for I think I am no longer bound to silence, and, indeed, I could not bear it longer--I alone.'

'And you promised, if I would let you go unquestioned away.'

'I did, thinking I went to fathom a mystery. Ah, no! so deep and dark I find it to be, the wit of man, I think, will never sound it. But your faith and love can wing above it. Mine have--and yours, oh!--can, will, must.'

'Ah, Christian! Child, where is my Christian? His face would tell me briefly all I most would know.'

'You have listened to an ugly tale. I know--I know--I have seen Philip.

You must not consider it yet, till you have heard all. I own it not out of accord with the rest, that reason just shudders and fails at; but through all the dark of this unfathomable mystery my eyes can discern the pa.s.sing of our Christian white and blameless.'

'Your eyes!' moaned Lois.

Rhoda understood. She hid her face and could not speak. In her heart she cried out against this punishment as more than she deserved, and more than she could bear. No word that she could utter, no protest, no remorse, could cover a wrongful thing she had said for Lois to recall. So small the sin had looked then; so great now. She had spoken fairly of deadly sin just once, and now Lois could not rely on her for any right estimate, nor abide by her ways of regard.

'Ah, Christ!' she whispered in Christian's words, 'is there no forgiveness of sins?'

Lois heard that, and it struck her to the heart.

Rhoda took up her burden again.

'Christian loved one Diadyomene. What she was I dare not think: she was shaped like a woman, very beautiful. Dead she is now; I have seen her new grave. G.o.d have mercy on her soul, if any soul she have.

'I have known this for long, for some months.'

'He told--you!'

'No--yes. I heard her name from him only in the ravings of fever. He never thought I knew, till the very last: then I named her once; then he kissed me; then he went.'

She turned back to the earliest evidence, telling in detail of Christian's mad course with her; then of his ravings that remained in her memory painfully distinct; she kept back nothing. Later she came to faltering for a moment till Lois urged:

'And he asked you to be his wife?'

'Yes.'

'And because of this knowledge you refused him?'

'Yes. And he kissed me for joy of that nay-saying. On the very morrow he went--do you remember? It was to her, I knew it.'

'O Rhoda, you might have saved him, and you did not!'

Rhoda raised her head and looked her wonder, for Christian's sake, with resentment.

'G.o.d smote one,' she said, 'whose hand presumed to steady His ark.'

'O child, have you nothing to show to clear him?'

'Wait, wait! There is much yet to tell.'

Then she sped on the last day with its load for record, and, scrupulously exact, gave words, tones, looks: his first going and return; the coming of Philip's kinsmen; that strange vagary of the rowan berries that he had won her to a bet. Lois had come upon a garbled version of Christian's escape; Rhoda gave her his own, brief and direct.

'Was it Christian--man alive!--that came to you?'