The Unknown Sea Part 33

'We took measures, indeed, to know if that could be; but out of all the search we sent about not a sign nor a clue came. If she were indeed that one Diadyomene, we may only look to know more when the young man Christian shall come again.'

Rhoda turned her face to the wall when she answered very low: 'He will not come again. Well I know he will never come again.'

Then her breathing shortened convulsively, and past restraint her grief broke out into terrible weeping.

The dark-robed monitress knelt in prayer beside her. That pious heart was wise and loving, and saw that no human aid could comfort this lorn girl fallen upon her care. When Rhoda was spent and still, she spoke:

'My child, if, indeed, we can no more pray G.o.d to keep that brave young life from sin and death, yet may we pray that his soul may win to peace and rest under the mercy of heaven. Nay, there is no need that you too should rise for kneeling. Lie down, lie down, for your body is over spent. Kneel before G.o.d in spirit.'

There was long silence, and both prayed, till Rhoda faltered to the betrayal of her unregenerate heart: 'Was she so very fair indeed? Where is she laid? Take me--oh, let me once look upon her face.'

'It may not be. She lies a day buried, there without among our own dead--although--G.o.d only knows what she was.'

Rhoda again would rise.

'Yet take me there. Night-time? Ah yes, night, night that will never pa.s.s.'

At daybreak she stood, alone at her desire, beside a new-made grave, and knew that the body of Diadyomene lay beneath, and knew hardly less surely, that somewhere beneath the sea she overlooked the body of Christian lay. Nearest the sea was the grave on the windblown, barren cliff. No flower could bloom there ever, only close dun turf grew. Below stretched the broken, unquiet sea, fretted with rock and surf, deep chanting of the wind and moon. One white sea-bird was wheeling and pitching restlessly to and fro.

She turned her eyes to the land far east for the thought of Lois. Over there a winter dawn flushes into rose, kindles bright and brighter, and a ruddy burnish takes the edges of flat cloud. Lo! the sun, and the grey sea has flecks of red gold and the sea-bird gleams. She cannot face it.

Rhoda knelt down by the grave to pray. Presently she was lying face downward along the turf, and she whispered to the one lying face upward below.

'Ah! Diadyomene, ah! Margaret. G.o.d help me truly to forgive you for what you have done.

'I have tried. Because he asked it, I have torn out my heart praying for you.

'You fair thing! you were fairer than I, but you did not love him so well as I.

'Ah! ah! would it were I who lay down there under the quiet shelter of the turf; would it were you who lived, able to set up his honour and make his name fair before all men!

'Ah! ah! a dark rebuke the mystery of your life has brought; and the mystery of your death eats it in.

'Can you bear to be so silent, so silent, nor deliver a little word?

'When you rise, Diadyomene, when the dead from the sea rise, speak loud, speak very loud, for all to hear.

'He loved you! He loved you!'

The sod above the face of Diadyomene was steeped with the piercing tears of Rhoda. 'He loved you!' came many times as she sobbed.

Blind with tears, she rose, she turned from the grave; blind with tears, she stood overlooking the sea; sun and shine made all a glimmering haze to her. She turned from those desirable s.p.a.ces for burial to stumble her blind way back to the needs of the living.

It was late, after sunset, that Rhoda, faint and weary, dragged into sight of the light of home. In the darkness a voice named her, struck her still. 'Philip's voice!'

Groping for her in the dark, he touched her arm. Energy she had to strike off his hand and start away, but it failed when she stumbled and fell heavily; for then Philip without repulse helped her to her feet, and as she staggered a little, stunned, would have her rest a moment, and found the bank, and stripped off his coat for her seating. She said, 'No, no,'

but she yielded.

'You thought me dead?' he asked.

She sat dumb and stupid, worn out in body and mind.

'Do you hold _me_ to blame?'

Still she did not speak.

'Rhoda, O Rhoda, I cannot bear this! Has that devil Christian taught you?'

Rhoda rose up with an indignant cry. Then she steadied her voice and spoke.

'The name of Christian I love, honour, reverence, above all names on earth. You are not worthy even to utter it. Betake you, with your lies, your slanders, your suspicions, to others ready to suspect and slander and lie--not to me, who till I die can trust him utterly.'

She turned and went. Philip stood.

'Is he dead?' he said to himself. 'He is dead. He must be dead.'

Awe and compa.s.sion alone possessed him. To his credit be it said, not one selfish consideration had a place then. Quick wits told him that Rhoda had inadvertently implied more than she would. He overtook her hastily.

'Hear me! I will not offend. I will not utter a word against him.'

He spoke very gently, very humbly, because of his great compa.s.sion; and truly, Christian dead, it were not so hard to forgo rancour. But Rhoda went on.

'You must hear what I come to tell you before you reach home. Do you think I have been watching and praying for your return these hours, only to gird at Christian? For his mother's sake I came, and to warn you----'

She stopped. 'What is it? What is it? Say quick.'

'Nothing that you fear--nothing I can name. Hear me out!

'Last night I came back, and told, in part, what had befallen me; and heard, in part, what had befallen Christian. To-day, one thrust in upon his mother, open-mouthed, with ugly hints. She came to me straight and asked for the whole truth. Rhoda, I swear I said nothing but bare truth, mere plain, unvarnished fact, without one extravagant word; but her face went grey and stony as she heard--oh! grey and stony it went; and when I asked her to forgive me--I did, Rhoda, though what wrong had I done?--she answered with her speech gone suddenly imperfect.'

Rhoda pressed forward, then stopped again--

'What did you tell her? I must know that.'

Philip hesitated: 'Then against Christian I must speak in substance, however I choose my words.'

'Go on--go on!'

So Philip told, as justly and truly as he could, all he might.

'Was this,' put in Rhoda, 'off the Isle Sinister?'

'Yes.'

She heard all the tale: of Christian's sullen mood; of the dark something attending below, that he knew, that he watched; of his unfinished attempt at murder.

'That we knew,' she said.