The Unknown Sea Part 15

'Christian, I do not feel that I have left in me another spring, so while I have the voice I must speak out, and I may not let you be.

'You know of Rhoda's birth: born she was on the same night as our child.

As for me, I could not look upon the one innocent but thought on the other would rise, and on the pitiful difference there was. Somehow, the wife regarded it as the child of its father only, I think always, till Rhoda stood before her, the very image of her mother. And with me 'twas just the other way about; and I was main fond of the poor young mother; a sweet, gentle creature she was--a quiet dove, not a brave hawk like little Rhoda. I wished the little thing could have shared with ours heart and home; but that the wife could not have abided, the man being amongst us too. But I went and managed so that none can cast up on Rhoda as a pauper foundling.

'Lad, as I would like you to think well of me when I am gone, G.o.d knows I can ill afford to have more than is due stand against me; so look you, lad, I was not such a wastrel as you had cause for thinking. I don't deny what may have been in old days before, but for a good seventeen year when I have gone off for a fling now and then, Rhoda has been the better for it, not I the worse. It has been hard on the wife, and I own I have done a deal of cheating by her and by you too, and have stinted you unfairly.

There, there, hold your tongue, and let me start fair again.

'After our child was taken from us, and the poor wife took on so for our blame, it was borne in on me that the rightest amending was not far to seek; and I put it to her at last. But I spoke too soon, when her hurts were quick and raw, and she could not bear it. She was crazy-like then, and I put my notion by for a bit. You see, it was like this: I reckoned the fatal misdoing was unchristian rancour against the father, and care for his deserted child should best express contrition. But the wife couldn't look that way--and she got from the Book awful things to say against the wicked man and his children; and all she repented on was her wrong ways, in neglect of right wors.h.i.+p to affront the man; and I think in her heart she cursed him more bitter than ever. A penance it would have been to her to do violence to her griefs and indignations by taking up the child; but it would have righted her as nothing else could, and that I knew, and I looked to bring her to it yet. For me, well, I was on other ground before then, and more than once Rhoda's baby hand had closed upon my finger, ay, upon my heart, though then she was not like my own.

And that in a way made me slack to drive against the grain, when with me the point ran smooth and sweet.

'Now, Christian, what came next?'

The old man had been very slow with his tale, watching his listener intently all the while to be sure he heeded and understood. Christian shook his head, but there was very sensible apprehension on his face as he looked to Giles.

'You came, Christian.

'You took the place in heart and home that might have come to be little Rhoda's, as I hoped.

'You came from the sea that had taken our own, and so the wife said it was the hand of G.o.d. I thought the hand of G.o.d pointed otherwise.

Christian, what say you?'

He could answer nothing: Giles waited, but he could not.

'You will take care of my little maid as I want?'

'I cannot! ah, I cannot!'

'All these years Rhoda has wanted a home as I think because of you; and because of you I could not hope for the wife's heart to open to her.'

'She should hate me! you should!' said Christian. His face was scared.

'You can make ample amends--oh! ample; and Rhoda will count the wants of her youth blessed that shall lay the rest of her days to your keeping.

She will--Christian, are you so blind?--she will.

'Ah, dear lad! I got so well contented that the wife had had her way and had taken you, when I saw what the just outcome should be; and saw her shaping in the dark towards the happy lot of the sweet little slip she ignored. Long back it began, when you were but a little chap. Years before you set eyes on her, Rhoda had heard of you.

'In the end I could fit out no plan for you to light on her; and a grubby suitor was bargaining for her, so I had to make a risky cast. She was to enter as a pa.s.sing stranger I had asked to rest. The wife fell on her neck, before a word. Well, well, what poor fools we had both been!

'Christian, why do you say No?'

'I wish her better.'

'But she loves you! I swear she loves you! And I, O good Lord! I have done my best to set her affections on you. How shall I lie still in the grave while her dear heart is moaning for its hurt, and 'tis I that have wrought it.'

To a scrupulous nature the words of Giles brought cruel distress.

Christian's eyes took to following Rhoda, though never a word of wooing went to her. In the end he spoke.

'Dear Rhoda,' he said, and stopped; but instantly she looked up startled.

His eyes were on the ground.

'Rhoda, I love you dearly. Will you be my wife?'

She grew white as death, and stayed stone-still, breathless. Then he looked at her, stood up, and repeated resolutely: 'Rhoda, dearest, will you be my wife?'

She rose to confront him, and brought out her answer:

'No.'

He stared at her a moment in stupid bewilderment.

'You will not be my wife?' he said.

She put out all her strength to make the word clear and absolute, and repeated: 'No.'

His face grew radiant; he caught her in his arms suddenly and kissed her, once, twice.

'O my sister!' he cried, 'my dear sister!'

She did not blush under his kisses: she shut her eyes and held her breath when his eager embrace caught her out of resistance. But when it slackened she thrust him back with all her might, broke free, and with a low cry fled away to find solitude, where she might sob and sob, and wrestle out her agony, and tear her heart with a name--that strange name, that woman's name, 'Diadyomene.'

She had his secret, she only, though it was nought but a name and some love t.i.tles and pa.s.sionate entreaties that his ravings had given into her safe keeping.

On the morrow Christian's boat lay idle by the quay. Before dawn moved he had gone.

'I think--I think you need not fear for him,' said Rhoda, when the day closed without him. 'I think he may be back to-morrow.'

'You know what he is about--where he has gone, child?'

First she said 'Yes,' and then she said 'No.'

In the dusk she crept up to Giles. Against his breast she broke into pitiful weeping.

'Forgive me! forgive me! I said "No" to him.'

CHAPTER X

With its splendour and peace unalterable, the great sanctuary enclosed them.

Face to face they stood, shattered life and lost soul. Diadyomene tried to smile, but her lips trembled; she tried to greet him with the old name Diadyomenos, but it fell imperfect. And his grey eyes addressed her too forcibly to be named. What was in them and his face to make her afraid?

eyes and face of a lover foredoing speech.

The eager, happy trouble of the boy she had beguiled flushed out no more; nay, but he paled; earnest, sad, indomitable, the man demanded of her answering integrity. Uncomprehended, the mystery of pain in embodied power stood confronting the magic of the sea, and she quailed.

'Agonistes, Agonistes!' she panted, 'now I find your name: it is Agonistes!'