The Strand Magazine/Volume 2/Issue 9/For an Old Debt
For an Old Debt.
So, hush! I will give you this leaf to keep;
See, I shut it inside the sweet, cold hand!
There, that is our secret: go to sleep!
You will wake, and remember, and understand.
LD Sim was the name they gave him, but he was by no means old—thirty at the most. He had an old-fashioned way with him; that, I suppose, was the reason of it. He had a slow, methodical way of setting about his business; but whatever he did, tardy though its accomplishment, was well done. He had a slow way, too, of taking to people—looked at first with suspicion upon everyone and everything, but once he had taken to a man he stuck to him through thick and thin.
Phil was a different creature. He had none of those premature wrinkles which disfigured—yes, disfigured—his brother's face. Why should he? Life was serious enough, in all conscience, without making it more serious.
"Old Sim—dear old Sim!" He really must have followed the line, by right divine, of Methusaleh, some people thought, and there criticism stopped. Adverse tongues could say no more than that, and Heaven forbid that Phil should be on their side. Sim had earned his living almost from the time he had cut his teeth; so, at least, it was averred. His father, who had a carpenter's shop in Hadlow, had died, leaving the business in difficulties, from which Sim, by dogged perseverance, had extricated it.
"Called him vagabond."
Phil admired his brother, but frankly confessed he was unable to imitate him. Perseverance was not in his blood, and what isn't in the blood—well, you know the proverb. He had been of a restless turn; could not settle down, for the life or him, to any one thing long. When a boy he had run away to sea; but had come back, after a couple of years, with much less enthusiasm for the nautical profession than when he started. Then he evinced a love for the drama. He joined a strolling company. His experience on the stage was much shorter than his experience on the ocean. Six months sufficed. He came back hungry, ragged, and footsore. Sim was his refuge at all times. He stood between him and the father when the latter, after one of his early escapades, called him vagabond, and would have turned him out of doors. And when the time came that there was no father or mother in the homestead, Sim occupied the place of both. As Phil put it, in the stage slang he sometimes affected, Sim was a sort of "combination company," or "general utility man."
It was hard to discover what precise object Sim had in life. His brother could never make out. He hadn't even a hobby. That kind of thing is dangerous. Phil said it was, and he of course knew. He had two or three hobbies. He thought them necessary for mental and physical equilibrium. It was noticed, however, that Sim's colour—what little he had of it—would come quicker and go quicker when Miss Katie Hewson came to the shop. The wrinkles in his face would make their way into curious crannies, and broaden out into a smile. It was pleasant to see Sim at such times. Then you might be sworn his life was not altogether objectless.
Phil was going along steadily enough at this time—to all appearances, at least. He was earning fairly good wages as a clerk at the Hadlow Brewery, and stuck to his desk with a diligence that surprised and delighted his brother.
One evening, just as the autumn had begun, and the leaves were beginning to fall from the trees, he came in, and did not, as was his wont, stir out again. He chatted away in his careless, free style to Sim; admired the cabinet he had almost finished, which was intended as an exhibit at a forthcoming exhibition in the district, and for "possibilities" afterwards. Phil remarked among other things in keeping with these possibilities, that it would be a handsome addition to Sim's home when he got married, as he supposed he some day would. Sim gave a deprecatory twist of the head, but his face broadened out into one of those queer smiles of his.
Then Phil took three or four energetic puffs at his pipe, watched intently for a minute or so the graceful circlets and wavering outlines of the smoke, and broke out abruptly:
"Sim, old fellow, I know that I am indebted to you for a lot—more than I can ever repay you. Will you help me to wipe it off?"
Sim kept on doggedly at his work. He had heard something like this before.
"Ah, I see you distrust me. Quite right, old fellow. I know that I've given you cause."
Sim put down his tools now, and looked up.
"Don't put it that way, boy"—Phil was only four years younger than Sim, but he still regarded him as a boy—"don't put it that way. Have I ever mistrusted you? I know that you've had your oats to sow. You've sown them, and we've got rid of the bad crop, haven't we? Shake hands on it."
"Right, Sim, right. But will you trust me a little further."
"Out with it, boy."
"I've a scheme in my mind by which I hope to clear off some—all, in fact—of the debt I'm still under to you. Only—and here's the difficult—I want £20 to do it."
"Don't you think anything about the debt that's due to me. Between brothers there's no debt and credit account, and"
"Oh, yes, Sim, I know you; I know your kind heart, God bless you; but I'm not altogether disinterested. My scheme, which is certain to succeed, will make me a more prosperous, a happier man. Now do you see where I am? Will you help me to that?"
"Her hand remained in his longer than usual."
Sim thought for a moment. Twenty pounds would clear him out. He had just that amount in hand. He had withdrawn it only that day from the bank—Phil, of course, was unacquainted with that fact—for the purpose of clearing off the mortgage still remaining upon the house. One thing made his decision the harder. That afternoon Miss Kate Hewson had called in on some excuse or other. Her hand had remained in his longer than usual at parting, and she had—yes, there was no mistaking it distinctly returned his pressure. A small thing? Very; but to a soft, impressionable nature like Sim's it meant a great deal. In the imaginative picture that pressure summoned up came the difficulty; for, if you have before you an object, the attainment of which necessitates an acquaintance with the principles of £ s. d., it is hard to part with the multiples by which the sum can be worked out.
"Ah, Sim, you are getting selfish, you are getting selfish," he soliloquised. Then his honest, grey eyes looked straight into Phil's: "You shall have it," he said; "but you'll be careful, Phil: it's all I have." Not a word about his intentions: not a word about the mortgage. When Sim did a thing, you see, he did not do it by halves.
Three days after this interview there was considerable excitement in Hadlow. Give people something to talk about in a village, and you may rely upon them carrying out the contract. Item one—Philip Pentreath had disappeared. Item two—Miss Kate Hewson had disappeared also. Item three—there was a small discrepancy in Phil's accounts at the brewery, which, rumour said, amounted to £50. There was another item—a very inconsiderable one this—Simeon Pentreath was ill. All of which items were summed up in the general remark—"Poor old Sim!" To this pity Sim was indifferent, for the simple reason that he was oblivious either to censure or blame. He had a long struggle to regain that happy condition of consciousness to public opinion which he would have preferred being with out; but struggling had been in Sim's line, and, though he did not throw any particular heart in the present combat, he eventually, in spite of himself, and thanks mainly to a compassionate neighbour who nursed him day and night, succeeded in turning out the Dark Shadow which had hovered over his threshold. You would have quite understood the grim victory he achieved had you seen him afterwards. He himself was so much of a shadow that there were sufficient reasons why the other should have given up the competition.
Of course there came a letter of deep contrition from Phil, to which his newly-made wife—née Miss Kate Hewson—appended, in a neat postscript, "her love." Equally, as a matter of course, Phil was going to carve out a fortune in the—land—Australia which he had honoured with his presence, and intended to pay Sim tenfold for the "small sum" he had borrowed of him. Phil was kind enough to say all this, for which mark of brotherly regard (as well as the sisterly postscript) Sim should have been devoutly thankful. Only—Sim was so diffident—he never took the trouble to thus express himself. Those queer wrinkles deepened a bit, that was all. These alone told to the curious what his struggle had been.
There was one circumstance which prevented him from becoming quite a misanthrope. It occurred about eight years after his brother left Hadlow. Mrs. Cortis, the neighbour who had watched over him through his illness, herself succumbed to the fate from which she had saved him. Her husband followed within a few short months. They left a little girl, who could only just toddle. Mary was her name. This fatality—out of the husk of misery sometimes comes a kernel of happiness—was Sim's salvation. The child had no relatives in the village, and he adopted her. Strange foster-father and—mother! Yes, Sim was a "general utility man," no doubt of it.
The gnarled tree shot its arms around. this tendril, and held it fast. It expanded with its expansion. Sim had lost faith in mankind, taken in its adult branches. He wanted to discover if there was not an exception to the general stock, taken in its earlier growth. The experiment, he plainly foresaw, was a risky one; but life after all was an experiment. He had been taunted with having no hobby. Why should not he, like the rest of them, have one? Had he remained at this dubious stage, the hobby would not have proved a very hopeful or attractive one. When a person once starts analysis, the process is simply intellectual—not of the heart. Sim soon grew out of this. The child became to him not a problem, but a reality. She underwent this metamorphosis when she first lisped the name of "Father!" Sim then comprehended to the full his responsibilities, and, God helping him, he said, he would not shirk them.
And the child gave him back in interest all she received. The carpenter's shop, wrapped for so long in gloom, became radiant with sunshine. She prattled to him as he worked at the bench; had her own hammer and her own piece of wood to knock imaginary tacks in; and began to be ambitious of the use of chisel and saw—an ambition which Sim would artfully counteract by the opportune provision of putty and like harmless material.
Sim and Mary.
Then there came the schooldays, in which it was Sim's delight to watch the progression from pot-hooks and hangers to the proud moment when she could write her name. The afternoon which witnessed this evidence of her caligraphic skill was a memorable event. The child came skipping into the workshop with great glee, took possession of a large carpenter's pencil, and, bending down her pretty head over a smooth deal board, which she had frequently extemporised for a slate, triumphantly traced thereon, in large, capital letters, "MARY." The reward was a doll's house, fit for a princess, every piece of furniture in which was Sim's own handiwork.
There were days and nights of anxiety, too, when the child had her first serious illness. Sim had a nurse to attend on her, but he, after all, was the chief attendant at the sick-bed. The doctor laughingly told him that he would grant him his certificate for that profession at any time. Sim laughed, too, but it was after Mary had recovered. He could not afford to indulge in the luxury before, he said, even supposing that his muscles had been equal to the relaxation.
Thus the years sped on, until Sim really became old. The child, too, expanded into a young woman, and had grown in comeliness as well as stature. Sim saw this with joy, tempered with fear. At such times the thought would cross his mind. "She cannot always be my lass! Someone else will step in, and claim the prize." As this thought came, and he pictured his desolate hearth-home without Mary—he would cry out in agony: "My God, let it not be! I have suffered; am content to suffer still more but spare me that agony!"
Is there not some occult power of divination between hearts attuned to the same sympathies? How else can you explain it that when thoughts like these bowed the head and saddened the heart of Sim, a loving pair of arms would be found around his neck, a warm, soft cheek against his furrowed one?
Another autumn evening. Sim somehow always remembered that time of the year. The chill breath of the coming winter could be felt in the air. You looked outside and then inside, and inside carried it by a large majority. Have you ever noticed on certain evenings about this time that orchestral symphony the part of Nature; how her flutes, and violins, and 'cellos, and bass viols go to work in prelude to the last act of the seasons? No? Well, I don't think Sim's observation ever went so far as that either. Whatever had been the lot which life had brought him, he was quite content with it now. Only the least sensitive flesh has its creepy moments, and
What was that? Mary was sitting by the fireside knitting; Sim had just loaded his pipe. They heard footsteps outside. They looked at each other; for they were not in the habit of having late visitors. There was a gentle rap on the door, and Mary got up and opened it.
"There was a gentle rap on the door."
"Is Mr. Pentreath within?"
"Yes, sir."
"Can I see him?"
A voice like an echo—clear and intelligible enough, but still an echo. Sim had risen to his feet. The light of the lamp flickered in the wind, and he could see nothing distinctly. The flame steadied itself as the stranger crossed the threshold.
"Good God, can it be? Phil!"
Sim asks the question in tones of surprise, wonderment, fear. Thought has bridged the twenty-four years or so since his brother left the homestead: he feels, with a quick gasp of agony, the old wound re-opening. And yet—and yet, this cannot be Phil.
"Well, now, that's strange," said the visitor. "How the deuce do you, who have never seen me, come to recognise me directly you clap eyes in my direction? There must be a strong family likeness somewhere. I am Phil—Phil Pentreath, at your service. And you're my uncle—Uncle Sim—of whom I've heard so much, and long wished to see. Won't you shake hands with a fellow? I've come all the way from Melbourne for that express purpose."
Sim shook hands with him like one in a dream. It seemed so unreal; and yet there was that dull pain which he had thought dead, throb, throb, throbbing into life, and making all so real. For he began to understand: this was Phil's son—her son. He was just like what the father had been twenty-four years since: the same figure, eyes, expression—the same name, too.
Luckily, Mary was there. By her womanly tact all feeling of constraint disappeared, and they were soon seated around the fire engaged in animated conversation. Phil Pentreath, sen., it appeared, had prospered of recent years—was regarded quite as a wealthy man in the colonies. Then he woke up to the consciousness that he had a brother, and Phil Pentreath, jun., the only son, who had long felt a wish to see England, was sent, as his father's envoy, to "look old Sim up."
"So, you see, I've looked you up," said the young man, "though I must say you didn't seem very pleased at first. Anyhow, you must put up with me for a bit, for my father's sake. In a little while I hope you will put up with me for my own."
Young Phil.
Sim repeated, in an absent sort of way, "for his father's sake," and then they parted for the night.
Young Phil had taken up his quarters at the Hadlow Arms, the principal inn in the village; and for the next month or so was a frequent visitor at the old carpenter's shop. He was a frank, manly sort of young fellow, and made friends wherever he went. On the second day of his stay he had slipped an envelope into his uncle's hand. It was from his father, he said. Sim was to open it when he was alone. Obeying this request, he found within a slip of paper, on which were written these words only—"For an old debt." Enclosed with this was a draft for £100. Sim went to a cupboard in the shop, unlocked the door, and took out a cabinet, thickly covered with dust—the cabinet upon which he had worked so long since, and which was still unfinished. He opened one of the drawers, took therefrom a document, enclosed the slip of paper and the draft along with this in an envelope, and wrote across it the same words contained in his brother's message—"For an old debt." The document contained the signatures of Messrs. Bedders, the brewers, in satisfaction of a sum of £50 paid to them some years since by Simeon Pentreath, on behalf of Philip Pentreath, his brother. He put the envelope in the drawer, and returned the cabinet to its hiding-place.
"Do you regret my visit?"
Phil and Mary were naturally thrown very much together during this time, and seemed to take a great deal of pleasure in each other's society. One could not help admiring Mary, you see, and—well, between young couples who can prevent sympathy? With declining years Sim had become lynx-eyed; but whether saw this growing feeling cannot positively be affirmed. Only, that old wound of his occasionally gave him greater trouble.
Phil's visit was drawing to a close. He came to the shop one evening. Sim was asleep in his arm-chair.
"Mary," said Phil, "do you regret my visit to England?"
Mary opened her sweet blue eyes in astonishment.
"Why should I, Phil?" she answered simply.
"Well, I don't know; but I sometimes think Uncle Sim does."
"Father? No, no; if you knew him as I do, you would not say that," with a tender look in the direction of the sleeper.
"You love him very much? "
"Very, very much. He has been more than a father to me."
"Ah!" and the young man sighed. "I thought of making a request, Mary; but I see it would be hopeless."
Mary averted her face. She knew instinctively what that request was. The young man paused to see if there were any further sign, and thought he saw a tear stealing down the fair cheek.
"Would you entrust your life to one who would love you—yes, quite as dearly as he?"
"Don't, don't," said Mary, rising to her feet, and still averting her face. "I know all you would say. But that can never be. My duty is here—with him. Do not tempt me to forget it."
The sleeper in the arm-chair slightly moved. Dreaming probably. A smile wreathed itself around the withered lips, as though the dream were a happy one.
"Do not hastily decide, Mary. On your decision so much depends—for me. You like me a little: ah! I see you do. I knew I was not so deceived as all that. Don't think I cannot appreciate and admire your loyalty—your devotion to my uncle; but he would be the last to stand in the way of your future happiness. Let me wake him, and you shall hear it from his own lips?"
"No—pray don't; I know what his answer would be. He would never think of self; he never has done. He would only think of me. He has devoted himself heart and soul to me. I can sacrifice a little in return for his dear sake."
Yes; evidently happy dreams. A sigh of contentment came from the lips of the sleeper.
"She looked into the flickering flame."
"Ah! Mary," said Phil, "every word you utter makes it harder for me to relinquish all hope. I cannot accept your decision as final. See, I have to run over to Tunbridge this evening. It will be midnight before I return. It is now nine. That will give you three good hours to decide. If I see a light burning in your window—as I have often seen it unbeknown to you when I've returned here for a last look after wishing you good night—I will take it that your decision is favourable. If the light be out, then I shall know that my hopes are too. That shall be my farewell. I will not trust myself to see you again."
"That would be cruel," said Mary, with a suppressed sob.
"On whose part? Not mine, Mary, for with you will rest the more agreeable alternative."
And before she could say more he had gone. The girl covered her face with her hands and wept. Then she knew that life has its sorrows and perplexities for young as well as old.
"Mary, dear." It was the voice—very quiet and soft it seemed—of Sim.
"Awake, father?" The girl came forward and put her arms around his neck, and kissed him passionately.
"Why, lass, what's the matter? Your cheek is wet. You've been crying!"
"And you. See!" and with her handkerchief she tenderly wiped away two large tear-drops that were trickling down the furrowed cheeks.
"Have I? Well, that's queer. I must have been dreaming. They were happy dreams, though, if there were tears with 'em. And you—have you been dreaming, too?" with a quick glance at her face.
"I have not had the chance yet," she said, evasively. "I will tell you to-morrow'—this with a forced little laugh.
"To-morrow!" he repeated. "Well, then, to-morrow. May your dreams, child, be happy now and always. Good-night, darling.'
"Good-night, dearest," she answered. The old man folded her lovingly in his arms for a moment, and pressed upon her lips one long, lingering kiss. His eyes followed her as she lit a candle and went out.
She reached her chamber, and put down the candlestick on the little table by the window. She looked into its flickering flame. "If the light be out, then I shall know that my hopes are too," he had said. "That shall be my farewell."
Ah the decision was hard—far harder than she had first thought. She drew the curtains to one side, and looked out. Patches of dark grey cloud, which gained now and again gleams of evanescent light from the pale, cold moon, were moving fleetly on. Very quiet the village seemed, and Mary found herself wondering whether under any roof therein there was any such question trembling in the balance as that which she was now called on to decide. She again glanced upward, as though seeking inspiration. Like twin sentinels she now saw twinkling through the drifting clouds two stars—one symbolising duty; the other love. Which should be her lamp? She drew a deep breath, half sob, and put out the light. That was her answer.
****
Mary's sleep was a troubled, broken one. She could not have slept very long, as it seemed to her, when she awoke with a shiver, and—What was that? The candle was alight! By what magic had this been done? She had put it out of that she was certain. Could she have risen in her sleep and re-lit it? She raised herself on her elbow—now quite awake; and, as she did so, felt a gust of cold air on her face. She looked whence it came, and saw that the door, which she had firmly closed, was partly open. She sprang out of bed, hurriedly drew a shawl around her, put on her slippers, took the candle, and passed out. She listened at her father's bedroom. No sound within. She opened the door. No one there, and the bed had not been slept in. She hastened below in great fear and trembling.
And there she found him, his head resting on a dusty old cabinet, which she never remembered having seen before. Just beside the arm which served him as a pillow was an envelope, which she read, even in that anxious moment, "For an old debt."
"Fallen asleep again, poor dear," thought Mary aloud. Then, "Father!"
No response. She touched him on the shoulder. Still no reply. "Father! Father!" This time in pathetic, wailing accents. But the sleeper still slept on. He had paid the last great debt of all, and had gone to render his account.
