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To-morrow
By
Joseph Conrad
TO-MORROW
By Joseph Conrad
What was known of Captain Hagberd i=
n the
little seaport of Colebrook was not exactly in his favour. He did not belon=
g to
the place. He had come to settle there under circumstances not at all
mysterious--he used to be very communicative about them at the time--but
extremely morbid and unreasonable. He was possessed of some little money
evidently, because he bought a plot of ground, and had a pair of ugly yellow
brick cottages run up very cheaply. He occupied one of them himself and let=
the
other to Josiah Carvil--blind Carvil, the retired boat-builder--a man of ev=
il repute
as a domestic tyrant.
These cottages had
one wall in common, shared in a line of iron railing dividing their front
gardens; a wooden fence separated their back gardens. Miss Bessie Carvil was
allowed, as it were of right, to throw over it the tea-cloths, blue rags, o=
r an
apron that wanted drying.
"It rots the
wood, Bessie my girl," the captain would remark mildly, from his side =
of
the fence, each time he saw her exercising that privilege.
She was a tall gi=
rl;
the fence was low, and she could spread her elbows on the top. Her hands wo=
uld
be red with the bit of washing she had done, but her forearms were white and
shapely, and she would look at her father's landlord in silence--in an info=
rmed
silence which had an air of knowledge, expectation and desire.
"It rots the
wood," repeated Captain Hagberd. "It is the only unthrifty, carel=
ess
habit I know in you. Why don't you have a clothes line out in your back
yard?"
Miss Carvil would=
say
nothing to this--she only shook her head negatively. The tiny back yard on =
her
side had a few stone-bordered little beds of black earth, in which the simp=
le
flowers she found time to cultivate appeared somehow extravagantly overgrow=
n,
as if belonging to an exotic clime; and Captain Hagberd's upright, hale per=
son,
clad in No. 1 sail-cloth from head to foot, would be emerging knee-deep out=
of rank
grass and the tall weeks on his side of the fence. He appeared, with the co=
lour
and uncouth stiffness of the extraordinary material in which he chose to cl=
othe
himself--"for the time being," would be his mumbled remark to any
observation on the subject--like a man roughened out of granite, standing i=
n a
wilderness not big enough for a decent billiard-room. A heavy figure of a m=
an
of stone, with a red handsome face, a blue wandering eye, and a great white
beard flowing to his waist and never trimmed as far as Colebrook knew.
Seven years befor=
e,
he had seriously answered, "Next month, I think," to the chaffing
attempt to secure his custom made by that distinguished local wit, the
Colebrook barber, who happened to be sitting insolently in the tap-room of =
the
New Inn near the harbour, where the captain had entered to buy an ounce of
tobacco. After paying for his purchase with three half-pence extracted from=
the
corner of a handkerchief which he carried in the cuff of his sleeve, Captai=
n Hagberd
went out. As soon as the door was shut the barber laughed. "The old one
and the young one will be strolling arm in arm to get shaved in my place
presently. The tailor shall be set to work, and the barber, and the candles=
tick
maker; high old times are coming for Colebrook, they are coming, to be sure=
. It
used to be 'next week,' now it has come to 'next month,' and so on--soon it
will be next spring, for all I know."
Noticing a strang=
er
listening to him with a vacant grin, he explained, stretching out his legs
cynically, that this queer old Hagberd, a retired coasting-skipper, was wai=
ting
for the return of a son of his. The boy had been driven away from home, he
shouldn't wonder; had run away to sea and had never been heard of since. Pu=
t to
rest in Davy Jones's locker this many a day, as likely as not. That old man
came flying to Colebrook three years ago all in black broadcloth (had lost =
his
wife lately then), getting out of a third-class smoker as if the devil had =
been
at his heels; and the only thing that brought him down was a letter--a hoax
probably. Some joker had written to him about a seafaring man with some such
name who was supposed to be hanging about some girl or other, either in
Colebrook or in the neighbourhood. "Funny, ain't it?" The old chap
had been advertising in the London papers for Harry Hagberd, and offering
rewards for any sort of likely information. And the barber would go on to
describe with sardonic gusto, how that stranger in mourning had been seen
exploring the country, in carts, on foot, taking everybody into his confide=
nce,
visiting all the inns and alehouses for miles around, stopping people on the
road with his questions, looking into the very ditches almost; first in the
greatest excitement, then with a plodding sort of perseverance, growing slo=
wer and
slower; and he could not even tell you plainly how his son looked. The sail=
or
was supposed to be one of two that had left a timber ship, and to have been
seen dangling after some girl; but the old man described a boy of fourteen =
or
so--"a clever-looking, high-spirited boy." And when people only
smiled at this he would rub his forehead in a confused sort of way before he
slunk off, looking offended. He found nobody, of course; not a trace of
anybody--never heard of anything worth belief, at any rate; but he had not =
been
able somehow to tear himself away from Colebrook.
"It was the
shock of this disappointment, perhaps, coming soon after the loss of his wi=
fe,
that had driven him crazy on that point," the barber suggested, with an
air of great psychological insight. After a time the old man abandoned the
active search. His son had evidently gone away; but he settled himself to w=
ait.
His son had been once at least in Colebrook in preference to his native pla=
ce.
There must have been some reason for it, he seemed to think, some very powe=
rful
inducement, that would bring him back to Colebrook again.
"Ha, ha, ha!
Why, of course, Colebrook. Where else? That's the only place in the United
Kingdom for your long-lost sons. So he sold up his old home in Colchester, =
and
down he comes here. Well, it's a craze, like any other. Wouldn't catch me g=
oing
crazy over any of my youngsters clearing out. I've got eight of them at
home." The barber was showing off his strength of mind in the midst of=
a
laughter that shook the tap-room.
Strange, though, =
that
sort of thing, he would confess, with the frankness of a superior intellige=
nce,
seemed to be catching. His establishment, for instance, was near the harbou=
r,
and whenever a sailor-man came in for a hair-cut or a shave--if it was a
strange face he couldn't help thinking directly, "Suppose he's the son=
of
old Hagberd!" He laughed at himself for it. It was a strong craze. He
could remember the time when the whole town was full of it. But he had his
hopes of the old chap yet. He would cure him by a course of judicious chaff=
ing.
He was watching the progress of the treatment. Next week--next month--next =
year!
When the old skipper had put off the date of that return till next year, he
would be well on his way to not saying any more about it. In other matters =
he
was quite rational, so this, too, was bound to come. Such was the barber's =
firm
opinion.
Nobody had ever
contradicted him; his own hair had gone grey since that time, and Captain
Hagberd's beard had turned quite white, and had acquired a majestic flow ov=
er
the No. 1 canvas suit, which he had made for himself secretly with tarred
twine, and had assumed suddenly, coming out in it one fine morning, whereas=
the
evening before he had been seen going home in his mourning of broadcloth. It
caused a sensation in the High Street--shopkeepers coming to their doors,
people in the houses snatching up their hats to run out--a stir at which he
seemed strangely surprised at first, and then scared; but his only answer t=
o the
wondering questions was that startled and evasive, "For the present.&q=
uot;
That sensation had
been forgotten, long ago; and Captain Hagberd himself, if not forgotten, had
come to be disregarded--the penalty of dailiness--as the sun itself is
disregarded unless it makes its power felt heavily. Captain Hagberd's movem=
ents
showed no infirmity: he walked stiffly in his suit of canvas, a quaint and
remarkable figure; only his eyes wandered more furtively perhaps than of yo=
re.
His manner abroad had lost its excitable watchfulness; it had become puzzled
and diffident, as though he had suspected that there was somewhere about him
something slightly compromising, some embarrassing oddity; and yet had rema=
ined
unable to discover what on earth this something wrong could be.
He was unwilling =
now
to talk with the townsfolk. He had earned for himself the reputation of an
awful skinflint, of a miser in the matter of living. He mumbled regretfully=
in
the shops, bought inferior scraps of meat after long hesitations; and disco=
uraged
all allusions to his costume. It was as the barber had foretold. For all one
could tell, he had recovered already from the disease of hope; and only Miss
Bessie Carvil knew that he said nothing about his son's return because with=
him
it was no longer "next week," "next month," or even
"next year." It was "to-morrow."
In their intimacy=
of
back yard and front garden he talked with her paternally, reasonably, and
dogmatically, with a touch of arbitrariness. They met on the ground of
unreserved confidence, which was authenticated by an affectionate wink now =
and
then. Miss Carvil had come to look forward rather to these winks. At first =
they
had discomposed her: the poor fellow was mad. Afterwards she had learned to
laugh at them: there was no harm in him. Now she was aware of an
unacknowledged, pleasurable, incredulous emotion, expressed by a faint blus=
h.
He winked not in the least vulgarly; his thin red face with a well-modelled
curved nose, had a sort of distinction--the more so that when he talked to =
her
he looked with a steadier and more intelligent glance. A handsome, hale,
upright, capable man, with a white beard. You did not think of his age. His
son, he affirmed, had resembled him amazingly from his earliest babyhood.
Harry would be
one-and-thirty next July, he declared. Proper age to get married with a nic=
e,
sensible girl that could appreciate a good home. He was a very high-spirited
boy. High-spirited husbands were the easiest to manage. These mean, soft ch=
aps,
that you would think butter wouldn't melt in their mouths, were the ones to
make a woman thoroughly miserable. And there was nothing like a home--a
fireside--a good roof: no turning out of your warm bed in all sorts of weat=
her.
"Eh, my dear?"
Captain Hagberd h=
ad
been one of those sailors that pursue their calling within sight of land. O=
ne
of the many children of a bankrupt farmer, he had been apprenticed hurriedl=
y to
a coasting skipper, and had remained on the coast all his sea life. It must
have been a hard one at first: he had never taken to it; his affection turn=
ed
to the land, with its innumerable houses, with its quiet lives gathered rou=
nd
its firesides. Many sailors feel and profess a rational dislike for the sea,
but his was a profound and emotional animosity--as if the love of the stabl=
er element
had been bred into him through many generations.
"People did =
not
know what they let their boys in for when they let them go to sea," he
expounded to Bessie. "As soon make convicts of them at once." He =
did
not believe you ever got used to it. The weariness of such a life got worse=
as
you got older. What sort of trade was it in which more than half your time =
you
did not put your foot inside your house? Directly you got out to sea you ha=
d no
means of knowing what went on at home. One might have thought him weary of
distant voyages; and the longest he had ever made had lasted a fortnight, of
which the most part had been spent at anchor, sheltering from the weather. =
As
soon as his wife had inherited a house and enough to live on (from a bachel=
or
uncle who had made some money in the coal business) he threw up his command=
of an
East-coast collier with a feeling as though he had escaped from the galleys.
After all these years he might have counted on the fingers of his two hands=
all
the days he had been out of sight of England. He had never known what it wa=
s to
be out of soundings. "I have never been further than eighty fathoms fr=
om
the land," was one of his boasts.
Bessie Carvil hea=
rd
all these things. In front of their cottage grew an under-sized ash; and on
summer afternoons she would bring out a chair on the grass-plot and sit down
with her sewing. Captain Hagberd, in his canvas suit, leaned on a spade. He=
dug
every day in his front plot. He turned it over and over several times every
year, but was not going to plant anything "just at present."
To Bessie Carvil =
he
would state more explicitly: "Not till our Harry comes home
to-morrow." And she had heard this formula of hope so often that it on=
ly
awakened the vaguest pity in her heart for that hopeful old man.
Everything was put
off in that way, and everything was being prepared likewise for to-morrow.
There was a boxful of packets of various flower-seeds to choose from, for t=
he
front garden. "He will doubtless let you have your say about that, my =
dear,"
Captain Hagberd intimated to her across the railing.
Miss Bessie's head
remained bowed over her work. She had heard all this so many times. But now=
and
then she would rise, lay down her sewing, and come slowly to the fence. The=
re
was a charm in these gentle ravings. He was determined that his son should =
not
go away again for the want of a home all ready for him. He had been filling=
the
other cottage with all sorts of furniture. She imagined it all new, fresh w=
ith
varnish, piled up as in a warehouse. There would be tables wrapped up in
sacking; rolls of carpets thick and vertical like fragments of columns, the
gleam of white marble tops in the dimness of the drawn blinds. Captain Hagb=
erd always
described his purchases to her, carefully, as to a person having a legitima=
te
interest in them. The overgrown yard of his cottage could be laid over with
concrete... after to-morrow.
"We may just=
as
well do away with the fence. You could have your drying-line out, quite cle=
ar
of your flowers." He winked, and she would blush faintly.
This madness that=
had
entered her life through the kind impulses of her heart had reasonable deta=
ils.
What if some day his son returned? But she could not even be quite sure tha=
t he
ever had a son; and if he existed anywhere he had been too long away. When
Captain Hagberd got excited in his talk she would steady him by a pretence =
of
belief, laughing a little to salve her conscience.
Only once she had
tried pityingly to throw some doubt on that hope doomed to disappointment, =
but
the effect of her attempt had scared her very much. All at once over that m=
an's
face there came an expression of horror and incredulity, as though he had s=
een
a crack open out in the firmament.
"You--you--y=
ou
don't think he's drowned!"
For a moment he
seemed to her ready to go out of his mind, for in his ordinary state she
thought him more sane than people gave him credit for. On that occasion the
violence of the emotion was followed by a most paternal and complacent
recovery.
"Don't alarm
yourself, my dear," he said a little cunningly: "the sea can't ke=
ep
him. He does not belong to it. None of us Hagberds ever did belong to it. L=
ook
at me; I didn't get drowned. Moreover, he isn't a sailor at all; and if he =
is
not a sailor he's bound to come back. There's nothing to prevent him coming
back...."
His eyes began to
wander.
"To-morrow.&=
quot;
She never tried
again, for fear the man should go out of his mind on the spot. He depended =
on
her. She seemed the only sensible person in the town; and he would congratu=
late
himself frankly before her face on having secured such a levelheaded wife f=
or
his son. The rest of the town, he confided to her once, in a fit of temper,=
was
certainly queer. The way they looked at you--the way they talked to you! He=
had
never got on with any one in the place. Didn't like the people. He would not
have left his own country if it had not been clear that his son had taken a=
fancy
to Colebrook.
She humoured him =
in
silence, listening patiently by the fence; crocheting with downcast eyes.
Blushes came with difficulty on her dead-white complexion, under the
negligently twisted opulence of mahogany-coloured hair. Her father was fran=
kly
carroty.
She had a full
figure; a tired, unrefreshed face. When Captain Hagberd vaunted the necessi=
ty
and propriety of a home and the delights of one's own fireside, she smiled a
little, with her lips only. Her home delights had been confined to the nurs=
ing
of her father during the ten best years of her life.
A bestial roaring
coming out of an upstairs window would interrupt their talk. She would begi=
n at
once to roll up her crochet-work or fold her sewing, without the slightest =
sign
of haste. Meanwhile the howls and roars of her name would go on, making the
fishermen strolling upon the sea-wall on the other side of the road turn th=
eir
heads towards the cottages. She would go in slowly at the front door, and a
moment afterwards there would fall a profound silence. Presently she would =
reappear,
leading by the hand a man, gross and unwieldy like a hippopotamus, with a
bad-tempered, surly face.
He was a widowed
boat-builder, whom blindness had overtaken years before in the full flush of
business. He behaved to his daughter as if she had been responsible for its
incurable character. He had been heard to bellow at the top of his voice, a=
s if
to defy Heaven, that he did not care: he had made enough money to have ham =
and
eggs for his breakfast every morning. He thanked God for it, in a fiendish =
tone
as though he were cursing.
Captain Hagberd h=
ad
been so unfavourably impressed by his tenant, that once he told Miss Bessie,
"He is a very extravagant fellow, my dear."
She was knitting =
that
day, finishing a pair of socks for her father, who expected her to keep up =
the
supply dutifully. She hated knitting, and, as she was just at the heel part,
she had to keep her eyes on her needles.
"Of course it
isn't as if he had a son to provide for," Captain Hagberd went on a li=
ttle
vacantly. "Girls, of course, don't require so much--h'm-h'm. They don't
run away from home, my dear."
"No," s=
aid
Miss Bessie, quietly.
Captain Hagberd,
amongst the mounds of turned-up earth, chuckled. With his maritime rig, his
weather-beaten face, his beard of Father Neptune, he resembled a deposed
sea-god who had exchanged the trident for the spade.
"And he must=
look
upon you as already provided for, in a manner. That's the best of it with t=
he
girls. The husbands..." He winked. Miss Bessie, absorbed in her knitti=
ng,
coloured faintly.
"Bessie! my
hat!" old Carvil bellowed out suddenly. He had been sitting under the =
tree
mute and motionless, like an idol of some remarkably monstrous superstition=
. He
never opened his mouth but to howl for her, at her, sometimes about her; and
then he did not moderate the terms of his abuse. Her system was never to an=
swer
him at all; and he kept up his shouting till he got attended to--till she s=
hook
him by the arm, or thrust the mouthpiece of his pipe between his teeth. He =
was
one of the few blind people who smoke. When he felt the hat being put on his
head he stopped his noise at once. Then he rose, and they passed together t=
hrough
the gate.
He weighed heavil=
y on
her arm. During their slow, toilful walks she appeared to be dragging with =
her
for a penance the burden of that infirm bulk. Usually they crossed the road=
at
once (the cottages stood in the fields near the harbour, two hundred yards =
away
from the end of the street), and for a long, long time they would remain in
view, ascending imperceptibly the flight of wooden steps that led to the to=
p of
the sea-wall. It ran on from east to west, shutting out the Channel like a =
neglected
railway embankment, on which no train had ever rolled within memory of man.
Groups of sturdy fishermen would emerge upon the sky, walk along for a bit,=
and
sink without haste. Their brown nets, like the cobwebs of gigantic spiders,=
lay
on the shabby grass of the slope; and, looking up from the end of the stree=
t,
the people of the town would recognise the two Carvils by the creeping slow=
ness
of their gait. Captain Hagberd, pottering aimlessly about his cottages, wou=
ld
raise his head to see how they got on in their promenade.
He advertised sti=
ll
in the Sunday papers for Harry Hagberd. These sheets were read in foreign p=
arts
to the end of the world, he informed Bessie. At the same time he seemed to
think that his son was in England--so near to Colebrook that he would of co=
urse
turn up "to-morrow." Bessie, without committing herself to that
opinion in so many words, argued that in that case the expense of advertisi=
ng
was unnecessary; Captain Hagberd had better spend that weekly half-crown on
himself. She declared she did not know what he lived on. Her argumentation
would puzzle him and cast him down for a time. "They all do it," =
he
pointed out. There was a whole column devoted to appeals after missing
relatives. He would bring the newspaper to show her. He and his wife had
advertised for years; only she was an impatient woman. The news from Colebr=
ook
had arrived the very day after her funeral; if she had not been so impatient
she might have been here now, with no more than one day more to wait. "=
;You
are not an impatient woman, my dear."
"I've no
patience with you sometimes," she would say.
If he still
advertised for his son he did not offer rewards for information any more; f=
or,
with the muddled lucidity of a mental derangement he had reasoned himself i=
nto
a conviction as clear as daylight that he had already attained all that cou=
ld
be expected in that way. What more could he want? Colebrook was the place, =
and
there was no need to ask for more. Miss Carvil praised him for his good sen=
se,
and he was soothed by the part she took in his hope, which had become his d=
elusion;
in that idea which blinded his mind to truth and probability, just as the o=
ther
old man in the other cottage had been made blind, by another disease, to the
light and beauty of the world.
But anything he c=
ould
interpret as a doubt--any coldness of assent, or even a simple inattention =
to
the development of his projects of a home with his returned son and his son=
's
wife--would irritate him into flings and jerks and wicked side glances. He
would dash his spade into the ground and walk to and fro before it. Miss Be=
ssie
called it his tantrums. She shook her finger at him. Then, when she came out
again, after he had parted with her in anger, he would watch out of the cor=
ner of
his eyes for the least sign of encouragement to approach the iron railings =
and
resume his fatherly and patronising relations.
For all their
intimacy, which had lasted some years now, they had never talked without a
fence or a railing between them. He described to her all the splendours
accumulated for the setting-up of their housekeeping, but had never invited=
her
to an inspection. No human eye was to behold them till Harry had his first
look. In fact, nobody had ever been inside his cottage; he did his own
housework, and he guarded his son's privilege so jealously that the small
objects of domestic use he bought sometimes in the town were smuggled rapid=
ly
across the front garden under his canvas coat. Then, coming out, he would
remark apologetically, "It was only a small kettle, my dear."
And, if not too t=
ired
with her drudgery, or worried beyond endurance by her father, she would lau=
gh
at him with a blush, and say: "That's all right, Captain Hagberd; I am=
not
impatient."
"Well, my de=
ar,
you haven't long to wait now," he would answer with a sudden bashfulne=
ss,
and looking uneasily, as though he had suspected that there was something w=
rong
somewhere.
Every Monday she =
paid
him his rent over the railings. He clutched the shillings greedily. He grud=
ged
every penny he had to spend on his maintenance, and when he left her to make
his purchases his bearing changed as soon as he got into the street. Away f=
rom
the sanction of her pity, he felt himself exposed without defence. He brush=
ed
the walls with his shoulder. He mistrusted the queerness of the people; yet=
, by
then, even the town children had left off calling after him, and the trades=
men served
him without a word. The slightest allusion to his clothing had the power to
puzzle and frighten especially, as if it were something utterly unwarranted=
and
incomprehensible.
In the autumn, the
driving rain drummed on his sailcloth suit saturated almost to the stiffnes=
s of
sheet-iron, with its surface flowing with water. When the weather was too b=
ad,
he retreated under the tiny porch, and, standing close against the door, lo=
oked
at his spade left planted in the middle of the yard. The ground was so much=
dug
up all over, that as the season advanced it turned to a quagmire. When it f=
roze
hard, he was disconsolate. What would Harry say? And as he could not have so
much of Bessie's company at that time of the year, the roars of old Carvil,=
that
came muffled through the closed windows, calling her indoors, exasperated h=
im
greatly.
"Why don't t=
hat
extravagant fellow get you a servant?" he asked impatiently one mild
afternoon. She had thrown something over her head to run out for a while.
"I don't
know," said the pale Bessie, wearily, staring away with her heavy-lidd=
ed,
grey, and unexpectant glance. There were always smudgy shadows under her ey=
es,
and she did not seem able to see any change or any end to her life.
"You wait ti=
ll
you get married, my dear," said her only friend, drawing closer to the
fence. "Harry will get you one."
His hopeful craze
seemed to mock her own want of hope with so bitter an aptness that in her
nervous irritation she could have screamed at him outright. But she only sa=
id
in self-mockery, and speaking to him as though he had been sane, "Why,
Captain Hagberd, your son may not even want to look at me."
He flung his head
back and laughed his throaty affected cackle of anger.
"What! That =
boy?
Not want to look at the only sensible girl for miles around? What do you th=
ink
I am here for, my dear--my dear--my dear?... What? You wait. You just wait.
You'll see to-morrow. I'll soon--"
"Bessie! Bes=
sie!
Bessie!" howled old Carvil inside. "Bessie!--my pipe!" That =
fat
blind man had given himself up to a very lust of laziness. He would not lift
his hand to reach for the things she took care to leave at his very elbow. =
He
would not move a limb; he would not rise from his chair, he would not put o=
ne
foot before another, in that parlour (where he knew his way as well as if he
had his sight), without calling her to his side and hanging all his atrocio=
us weight
on her shoulder. He would not eat one single mouthful of food without her c=
lose
attendance. He had made himself helpless beyond his affliction, to enslave =
her
better. She stood still for a moment, setting her teeth in the dusk, then
turned and walked slowly indoors.
Captain Hagberd w=
ent
back to his spade. The shouting in Carvil's cottage stopped, and after a wh=
ile
the window of the parlour downstairs was lit up. A man coming from the end =
of
the street with a firm leisurely step passed on, but seemed to have caught
sight of Captain Hagberd, because he turned back a pace or two. A cold white
light lingered in the western sky. The man leaned over the gate in an
interested manner.
"You must be
Captain Hagberd," he said, with easy assurance.
The old man spun
round, pulling out his spade, startled by the strange voice.
"Yes, I
am," he answered nervously.
The other, smiling
straight at him, uttered very slowly: "You've been advertising for your
son, I believe?"
"My son
Harry," mumbled Captain Hagberd, off his guard for once. "He's co=
ming
home tomorrow."
"The devil he
is!" The stranger marvelled greatly, and then went on, with only a sli=
ght
change of tone: "You've grown a beard like Father Christmas himself.&q=
uot;
Captain Hagberd d=
rew
a little nearer, and leaned forward over his spade. "Go your way,"=
; he
said, resentfully and timidly at the same time, because he was always afrai=
d of
being laughed at. Every mental state, even madness, has its equilibrium bas=
ed
upon self-esteem. Its disturbance causes unhappiness; and Captain Hagberd l=
ived
amongst a scheme of settled notions which it pained him to feel disturbed b=
y people's
grins. Yes, people's grins were awful. They hinted at something wrong: but
what? He could not tell; and that stranger was obviously grinning--had come=
on
purpose to grin. It was bad enough on the streets, but he had never before =
been
outraged like this.
The stranger, una=
ware
how near he was of having his head laid open with a spade, said seriously:
"I am not trespassing where I stand, am I? I fancy there's something w=
rong
about your news. Suppose you let me come in."
"You come
in!" murmured old Hagberd, with inexpressible horror.
"I could give
you some real information about your son--the very latest tip, if you care =
to
hear."
"No,"
shouted Hagberd. He began to pace wildly to and fro, he shouldered his spad=
e,
he gesticulated with his other arm. "Here's a fellow--a grinning fello=
w,
who says there's something wrong. I've got more information than you're awa=
re
of. I've all the information I want. I've had it for years--for years--for
years--enough to last me till to-morrow. Let you come in, indeed! What would
Harry say?"
Bessie Carvil's
figure appeared in black silhouette on the parlour window; then, with the s=
ound
of an opening door, flitted out before the other cottage, all black, but wi=
th
something white over her head. These two voices beginning to talk suddenly
outside (she had heard them indoors) had given her such an emotion that she
could not utter a sound.
Captain Hagberd
seemed to be trying to find his way out of a cage. His feet squelched in the
puddles left by his industry. He stumbled in the holes of the ruined
grass-plot. He ran blindly against the fence.
"Here, stead=
y a
bit!" said the man at the gate, gravely stretching his arm over and
catching him by the sleeve. "Somebody's been trying to get at you. Hal=
lo!
what's this rig you've got on? Storm canvas, by George!" He had a big
laugh. "Well, you are a character!"
Captain Hagberd
jerked himself free, and began to back away shrinkingly. "For the
present," he muttered, in a crestfallen tone.
"What's the
matter with him?" The stranger addressed Bessie with the utmost
familiarity, in a deliberate, explanatory tone. "I didn't want to star=
tle
the old man." He lowered his voice as though he had known her for year=
s.
"I dropped into a barber's on my way, to get a twopenny shave, and they
told me there he was something of a character. The old man has been a chara=
cter
all his life."
Captain Hagberd,
daunted by the allusion to his clothing, had retreated inside, taking his s=
pade
with him; and the two at the gate, startled by the unexpected slamming of t=
he
door, heard the bolts being shot, the snapping of the lock, and the echo of=
an
affected gurgling laugh within.
"I didn't wa=
nt
to upset him," the man said, after a short silence. "What's the
meaning of all this? He isn't quite crazy."
"He has been
worrying a long time about his lost son," said Bessie, in a low,
apologetic tone.
"Well, I am =
his
son."
"Harry!"
she cried--and was profoundly silent.
"Know my nam=
e?
Friends with the old man, eh?"
"He's our
landlord," Bessie faltered out, catching hold of the iron railing.
"Owns both t=
hem
rabbit-hutches, does he?" commented young Hagberd, scornfully; "j=
ust
the thing he would be proud of. Can you tell me who's that chap coming
to-morrow? You must know something of it. I tell you, it's a swindle on the=
old
man--nothing else."
She did not answe=
r,
helpless before an insurmountable difficulty, appalled before the necessity,
the impossibility and the dread of an explanation in which she and madness
seemed involved together.
"Oh--I am so
sorry," she murmured.
"What's the
matter?" he said, with serenity. "You needn't be afraid of upsett=
ing
me. It's the other fellow that'll be upset when he least expects it. I don't
care a hang; but there will be some fun when he shows his mug to-morrow. I
don't care that for the old man's pieces, but right is right. You shall see=
me
put a head on that coon--whoever he is!"
He had come neare=
r,
and towered above her on the other side of the railings. He glanced at her
hands. He fancied she was trembling, and it occurred to him that she had her
part perhaps in that little game that was to be sprung on his old man
to-morrow. He had come just in time to spoil their sport. He was entertaine=
d by
the idea--scornful of the baffled plot. But all his life he had been full of
indulgence for all sorts of women's tricks. She really was trembling very m=
uch;
her wrap had slipped off her head. "Poor devil!" he thought.
"Never mind about that chap. I daresay he'll change his mind before
to-morrow. But what about me? I can't loaf about the gate til the
morning."
She burst out:
"It is you--you yourself that he's waiting for. It is you who come
to-morrow."
He murmured.
"Oh! It's me!" blankly, and they seemed to become breathless
together. Apparently he was pondering over what he had heard; then, without
irritation, but evidently perplexed, he said: "I don't understand. I
hadn't written or anything. It's my chum who saw the paper and told me--this
very morning.... Eh? what?"
He bent his ear; =
she
whispered rapidly, and he listened for a while, muttering the words
"yes" and "I see" at times. Then, "But why won't t=
oday
do?" he queried at last.
"You didn't
understand me!" she exclaimed, impatiently. The clear streak of light
under the clouds died out in the west. Again he stooped slightly to hear
better; and the deep night buried everything of the whispering woman and the
attentive man, except the familiar contiguity of their faces, with its air =
of
secrecy and caress.
He squared his
shoulders; the broad-brimmed shadow of a hat sat cavalierly on his head.
"Awkward this, eh?" he appealed to her. "To-morrow? Well, we=
ll!
Never heard tell of anything like this. It's all to-morrow, then, without a=
ny
sort of to-day, as far as I can see."
She remained still
and mute.
"And you have
been encouraging this funny notion," he said.
"I never
contradicted him."
"Why didn't
you?"
"What for sh=
ould
I?" she defended herself. "It would only have made him miserable.=
He
would have gone out of his mind."
"His mind!&q=
uot;
he muttered, and heard a short nervous laugh from her.
"Where was t=
he
harm? Was I to quarrel with the poor old man? It was easier to half believe=
it
myself."
"Aye, aye,&q=
uot;
he meditated, intelligently. "I suppose the old chap got around you
somehow with his soft talk. You are good-hearted."
Her hands moved u=
p in
the dark nervously. "And it might have been true. It was true. It has
come. Here it is. This is the to-morrow we have been waiting for."
She drew a breath,
and he said, good-humouredly: "Aye, with the door shut. I wouldn't care
if... And you think he could be brought round to recognise me... Eh? What?.=
..
You could do it? In a week you say? H'm, I daresay you could--but do you th=
ink
I could hold out a week in this dead-alive place? Not me! I want either hard
work, or an all-fired racket, or more space than there is in the whole of
England. I have been in this place, though, once before, and for more than a
week. The old man was advertising for me then, and a chum I had with me had=
a
notion of getting a couple quid out of him by writing a lot of silly nonsen=
se
in a letter. That lark did not come off, though. We had to clear out--and n=
one
too soon. But this time I've a chum waiting for me in London, and besides..=
."
Bessie Carvil was
breathing quickly.
"What if I t=
ried
a knock at the door?" he suggested.
"Try," =
she
said.
Captain Hagberd's
gate squeaked, and the shadow of the son moved on, then stopped with another
deep laugh in the throat, like the father's, only soft and gentle, thrillin=
g to
the woman's heart, awakening to her ears.
"He isn't
frisky--is he? I would be afraid to lay hold of him. The chaps are always
telling me I don't know my own strength."
"He's the mo=
st
harmless creature that ever lived," she interrupted.
"You wouldn't
say so if you had seen him chasing me upstairs with a hard leather strap,&q=
uot;
he said; "I haven't forgotten it in sixteen years."
She got warm from
head to foot under another soft, subdued laugh. At the rat-tat-tat of the
knocker her heart flew into her mouth.
"Hey, dad! L=
et
me in. I am Harry, I am. Straight! Come back home a day too soon."
One of the windows
upstairs ran up.
"A grinning,
information fellow," said the voice of old Hagberd, up in the darkness.
"Don't you have anything to do with him. It will spoil everything.&quo=
t;
She heard Harry
Hagberd say, "Hallo, dad," then a clanging clatter. The window
rumbled down, and he stood before her again.
"It's just l=
ike
old times. Nearly walloped the life out of me to stop me going away, and no=
w I
come back he throws a confounded shovel at my head to keep me out. It graze=
d my
shoulder."
She shuddered.
"I wouldn't
care," he began, "only I spent my last shillings on the railway f=
are
and my last twopence on a shave--out of respect for the old man."
"Are you rea=
lly
Harry Hagberd?" she asked. "Can you prove it?"
"Can I prove=
it?
Can any one else prove it?" he said jovially. "Prove with what? W=
hat
do I want to prove? There isn't a single corner in the world, barring Engla=
nd,
perhaps, where you could not find some man, or more likely woman, that would
remember me for Harry Hagberd. I am more like Harry Hagberd than any man al=
ive;
and I can prove it to you in a minute, if you will let me step inside your
gate."
"Come in,&qu=
ot;
she said.
He entered then t=
he
front garden of the Carvils. His tall shadow strode with a swagger; she tur=
ned
her back on the window and waited, watching the shape, of which the footfal=
ls
seemed the most material part. The light fell on a tilted hat; a powerful s=
houlder,
that seemed to cleave the darkness; on a leg stepping out. He swung about a=
nd
stood still, facing the illuminated parlour window at her back, turning his
head from side to side, laughing softly to himself.
"Just fancy,=
for
a minute, the old man's beard stuck on to my chin. Hey? Now say. I was the =
very
spit of him from a boy."
"It's
true," she murmured to herself.
"And that's
about as far as it goes. He was always one of your domestic characters. Why=
, I
remember how he used to go about looking very sick for three days before he=
had
to leave home on one of his trips to South Shields for coal. He had a stand=
ing
charter from the gas-works. You would think he was off on a whaling
cruise--three years and a tail. Ha, ha! Not a bit of it. Ten days on the
outside. The Skimmer of the Seas was a smart craft. Fine name, wasn't it?
Mother's uncle owned her...."
He interrupted
himself, and in a lowered voice, "Did he ever tell you what mother died
of?" he asked.
"Yes," =
said
Miss Bessie, bitterly; "from impatience."
He made no sound =
for
a while; then brusquely: "They were so afraid I would turn out badly t=
hat
they fairly drove me away. Mother nagged at me for being idle, and the old =
man
said he would cut my soul out of my body rather than let me go to sea. Well=
, it
looked as if he would do it too--so I went. It looks to me sometimes as if I
had been born to them by a mistake--in that other hutch of a house."
"Where ought=
you
to have been born by rights?" Bessie Carvil interrupted him, defiantly=
.
"In the open,
upon a beach, on a windy night," he said, quick as lightning. Then he
mused slowly. "They were characters, both of them, by George; and the =
old
man keeps it up well--don't he? A damned shovel on the--Hark! who's that ma=
king
that row? 'Bessie, Bessie.' It's in your house."
"It's for
me," she said, with indifference.
He stepped aside,=
out
of the streak of light. "Your husband?" he inquired, with the ton=
e of
a man accustomed to unlawful trysts. "Fine voice for a ship's deck in a
thundering squall."
"No; my fath=
er.
I am not married."
"You seem a =
fine
girl, Miss Bessie, dear," he said at once.
She turned her fa=
ce
away.
"Oh, I
say,--what's up? Who's murdering him?"
"He wants his
tea." She faced him, still and tall, with averted head, with her hands
hanging clasped before her.
"Hadn't you
better go in?" he suggested, after watching for a while the nape of her
neck, a patch of dazzling white skin and soft shadow above the sombre line =
of
her shoulders. Her wrap had slipped down to her elbows. "You'll have a=
ll
the town coming out presently. I'll wait here a bit."
Her wrap fell to =
the
ground, and he stooped to pick it up; she had vanished. He threw it over his
arm, and approaching the window squarely he saw a monstrous form of a fat m=
an
in an armchair, an unshaded lamp, the yawning of an enormous mouth in a big
flat face encircled by a ragged halo of hair--Miss Bessie's head and bust. =
The
shouting stopped; the blind ran down. He lost himself in thinking how awkwa=
rd
it was. Father mad; no getting into the house. No money to get back; a hung=
ry chum
in London who would begin to think he had been given the go-by. "Damn!=
"
he muttered. He could break the door in, certainly; but they would perhaps
bundle him into chokey for that without asking questions--no great matter, =
only
he was confoundedly afraid of being locked up, even in mistake. He turned c=
old
at the thought. He stamped his feet on the sodden grass.
"What are
you?--a sailor?" said an agitated voice.
She had flitted o=
ut,
a shadow herself, attracted by the reckless shadow waiting under the wall of
her home.
"Anything.
Enough of a sailor to be worth my salt before the mast. Came home that way =
this
time."
"Where do you
come from?" she asked.
"Right away =
from
a jolly good spree," he said, "by the London train--see? Ough! I =
hate
being shut up in a train. I don't mind a house so much."
"Ah," s=
he
said; "that's lucky."
"Because in a
house you can at any time open the blamed door and walk away straight before
you."
"And never c=
ome
back?"
"Not for six=
teen
years at least," he laughed. "To a rabbit hutch, and get a confou=
nded
old shovel..."
"A ship is n=
ot
so very big," she taunted.
"No, but the=
sea
is great."
She dropped her h=
ead,
and as if her ears had been opened to the voices of the world, she heard,
beyond the rampart of sea-wall, the swell of yesterday's gale breaking on t=
he
beach with monotonous and solemn vibrations, as if all the earth had been a
tolling bell.
"And then, w=
hy,
a ship's a ship. You love her and leave her; and a voyage isn't a
marriage." He quoted the sailor's saying lightly.
"It is not a
marriage," she whispered.
"I never too=
k a
false name, and I've never yet told a lie to a woman. What lie? Why, the li=
e--.
Take me or leave me, I say: and if you take me, then it is..." He humm=
ed a
snatch very low, leaning against the wall.
"Oh, ho, ho Rio! =
And fare th=
ee
well, My
bonnie young girl, We're bound=
to
Rio Grande."
"Capstan
song," he explained. Her teeth chattered.
"You are
cold," he said. "Here's that affair of yours I picked up." S=
he felt
his hands about her, wrapping her closely. "Hold the ends together in
front," he commanded.
"What did you
come here for?" she asked, repressing a shudder.
"Five
quid," he answered, promptly. "We let our spree go on a little to=
o long
and got hard up."
"You've been
drinking?" she said.
"Blind three
days; on purpose. I am not given that way--don't you think. There's nothing=
and
nobody that can get over me unless I like. I can be as steady as a rock. My
chum sees the paper this morning, and says he to me: 'Go on, Harry: loving
parent. That's five quid sure.' So we scraped all our pockets for the fare.
Devil of a lark!"
"You have a =
hard
heart, I am afraid," she sighed.
"What for? F=
or
running away? Why! he wanted to make a lawyer's clerk of me--just to please
himself. Master in his own house; and my poor mother egged him on--for my g=
ood,
I suppose. Well, then--so long; and I went. No, I tell you: the day I clear=
ed
out, I was all black and blue from his great fondness for me. Ah! he was al=
ways
a bit of a character. Look at that shovel now. Off his chump? Not much. Tha=
t's
just exactly like my dad. He wants me here just to have somebody to order
about. However, we two were hard up; and what's five quid to him--once in
sixteen hard years?"
"Oh, but I am
sorry for you. Did you never want to come back home?"
"Be a lawyer=
's
clerk and rot here--in some such place as this?" he cried in contempt.
"What! if the old man set me up in a home to-day, I would kick it down
about my ears--or else die there before the third day was out."
"And where e=
lse
is it that you hope to die?"
"In the bush somewhere; in the sea; on a blamed mountain-top for choice. At home? Yes! t= he world's my home; but I expect I'll die in a hospital some day. What of that? Any place is good enough, as long as I've lived; and I've been everything y= ou can think of almost but a tailor or a soldier. I've been a boundary rider; = I've sheared sheep; and humped my swag; and harpooned a whale. I've rigged ships, and prospected for gold, and skinned dead bullocks,--and turned my back on = more money than the old man would have scraped in his whole life. Ha, ha!"<= o:p>
He overwhelmed he=
r.
She pulled herself together and managed to utter, "Time to rest now.&q=
uot;
He straightened
himself up, away from the wall, and in a severe voice said, "Time to
go."
But he did not mo=
ve.
He leaned back again, and hummed thoughtfully a bar or two of an outlandish
tune.
She felt as if she
were about to cry. "That's another of your cruel songs," she said=
.
"Learned it =
in
Mexico--in Sonora." He talked easily. "It is the song of the
Gambucinos. You don't know? The song of restless men. Nothing could hold th=
em
in one place--not even a woman. You used to meet one of them now and again,=
in
the old days, on the edge of the gold country, away north there beyond the =
Rio
Gila. I've seen it. A prospecting engineer in Mazatlan took me along with h=
im
to help look after the waggons. A sailor's a handy chap to have about you
anyhow. It's all a desert: cracks in the earth that you can't see the bottom
of; and mountains--sheer rocks standing up high like walls and church spire=
s, only
a hundred times bigger. The valleys are full of boulders and black stones.
There's not a blade of grass to see; and the sun sets more red over that
country than I have seen it anywhere--blood-red and angry. It is fine."=
;
"You do not =
want
to go back there again?" she stammered out.
He laughed a litt=
le.
"No. That's the blamed gold country. It gave me the shivers sometimes =
to
look at it--and we were a big lot of men together, mind; but these Gambucin=
os
wandered alone. They knew that country before anybody had ever heard of it.
They had a sort of gift for prospecting, and the fever of it was on them to=
o;
and they did not seem to want the gold very much. They would find some rich
spot, and then turn their backs on it; pick up perhaps a little--enough for=
a
spree--and then be off again, looking for more. They never stopped long whe=
re
there were houses; they had no wife, no chick, no home, never a chum. You
couldn't be friends with a Gambucino; they were too restless--here to-day, =
and gone,
God knows where, to-morrow. They told no one of their finds, and there has
never been a Gambucino well off. It was not for the gold they cared; it was=
the
wandering about looking for it in the stony country that got into them and
wouldn't let them rest; so that no woman yet born could hold a Gambucino for
more than a week. That's what the song says. It's all about a pretty girl t=
hat
tried hard to keep hold of a Gambucino lover, so that he should bring her l=
ots
of gold. No fear! Off he went, and she never saw him again."
"What became=
of
her?" she breathed out.
"The song do=
n't
tell. Cried a bit, I daresay. They were the fellows: kiss and go. But it's =
the
looking for a thing--a something... Sometimes I think I am a sort of Gambuc=
ino
myself."
"No woman can
hold you, then," she began in a brazen voice, which quavered suddenly
before the end.
"No longer t=
han
a week," he joked, playing upon her very heartstrings with the gay, te=
nder
note of his laugh; "and yet I am fond of them all. Anything for a woma=
n of
the right sort. The scrapes they got me into, and the scrapes they got me o=
ut
of! I love them at first sight. I've fallen in love with you already,
Miss--Bessie's your name--eh?"
She backed away a=
little,
and with a trembling laugh:
"You haven't
seen my face yet."
He bent forward
gallantly. "A little pale: it suits some. But you are a fine figure of=
a
girl, Miss Bessie."
She was all in a
flutter. Nobody had ever said so much to her before.
His tone changed.
"I am getting middling hungry, though. Had no breakfast to-day. Couldn=
't
you scare up some bread from that tea for me, or--"
She was gone alre=
ady.
He had been on the point of asking her to let him come inside. No matter.
Anywhere would do. Devil of a fix! What would his chum think?
"I didn't ask
you as a beggar," he said, jestingly, taking a piece of bread-and-butt=
er
from the plate she held before him. "I asked as a friend. My dad is ri=
ch,
you know."
"He starves
himself for your sake."
"And I have
starved for his whim," he said, taking up another piece.
"All he has =
in
the world is for you," she pleaded.
"Yes, if I c=
ome
here to sit on it like a dam' toad in a hole. Thank you; and what about the
shovel, eh? He always had a queer way of showing his love."
"I could bri=
ng
him round in a week," she suggested, timidly.
He was too hungry=
to
answer her; and, holding the plate submissively to his hand, she began to
whisper up to him in a quick, panting voice. He listened, amazed, eating sl=
ower
and slower, till at last his jaws stopped altogether. "That's his game=
, is
it?" he said, in a rising tone of scathing contempt. An ungovernable
movement of his arm sent the plate flying out of her fingers. He shot out a
violent curse.
She shrank from h=
im,
putting her hand against the wall.
"No!" he
raged. "He expects! Expects me--for his rotten money!... Who wants his
home? Mad--not he! Don't you think. He wants his own way. He wanted to turn=
me
into a miserable lawyer's clerk, and now he wants to make of me a blamed ta=
me
rabbit in a cage. Of me! Of me!" His subdued angry laugh frightened her
now.
"The whole w=
orld
ain't a bit too big for me to spread my elbows in, I can tell you--what's y=
our
name--Bessie--let alone a dam' parlour in a hutch. Marry! He wants me to ma=
rry
and settle! And as likely as not he has looked out the girl too--dash my so=
ul!
And do you know the Judy, may I ask?"
She shook all over
with noiseless dry sobs; but he was fuming and fretting too much to notice =
her
distress. He bit his thumb with rage at the mere idea. A window rattled up.=
"A grinning,
information fellow," pronounced old Hagberd dogmatically, in measured
tones. And the sound of his voice seemed to Bessie to make the night itself
mad--to pour insanity and disaster on the earth. "Now I know what's wr=
ong
with the people here, my dear. Why, of course! With this mad chap going abo=
ut.
Don't you have anything to do with him, Bessie. Bessie, I say!"
They stood as if
dumb. The old man fidgeted and mumbled to himself at the window. Suddenly he
cried, piercingly: "Bessie--I see you. I'll tell Harry."
She made a moveme=
nt
as if to run away, but stopped and raised her hands to her temples. Young
Hagberd, shadowy and big, stirred no more than a man of bronze. Over their
heads the crazy night whimpered and scolded in an old man's voice.
"Send him aw=
ay,
my dear. He's only a vagabond. What you want is a good home of your own. Th=
at
chap has no home--he's not like Harry. He can't be Harry. Harry is coming
to-morrow. Do you hear? One day more," he babbled more excitedly;
"never you fear--Harry shall marry you."
His voice rose ve=
ry
shrill and mad against the regular deep soughing of the swell coiling heavi=
ly
about the outer face of the sea-wall.
"He will have
to. I shall make him, or if not"--he swore a great oath--"I'll cut
him off with a shilling to-morrow, and leave everything to you. I shall. To
you. Let him starve."
The window rattled
down.
Harry drew a deep
breath, and took one step toward Bessie. "So it's you--the girl,"=
he
said, in a lowered voice. She had not moved, and she remained half turned a=
way
from him, pressing her head in the palms of her hands. "My word!"=
he
continued, with an invisible half-smile on his lips. "I have a great m=
ind
to stop...."
Her elbows were
trembling violently.
"For a
week," he finished without a pause.
She clapped her h=
ands
to her face.
He came up quite close, and took hold of her wrists gently. She felt his breath on her ear.<= o:p>
"It's a scra=
pe I
am in--this, and it is you that must see me through." He was trying to
uncover her face. She resisted. He let her go then, and stepping back a lit=
tle,
"Have you got any money?" he asked. "I must be off now."=
;
She nodded quickly
her shamefaced head, and he waited, looking away from her, while, trembling=
all
over and bowing her neck, she tried to find the pocket of her dress.
"Here it
is!" she whispered. "Oh, go away! go away for God's sake! If I had
more--more--I would give it all to forget--to make you forget."
He extended his h=
and.
"No fear! I haven't forgotten a single one of you in the world. Some g=
ave
me more than money--but I am a beggar now--and you women always had to get =
me
out of my scrapes."
He swaggered up to
the parlour window, and in the dim light filtering through the blind, looke=
d at
the coin lying in his palm. It was a half-sovereign. He slipped it into his
pocket. She stood a little on one side, with her head drooping, as if wound=
ed;
with her arms hanging passive by her side, as if dead.
"You can't b=
uy
me in," he said, "and you can't buy yourself out."
He set his hat fi=
rmly
with a little tap, and next moment she felt herself lifted up in the powerf=
ul
embrace of his arms. Her feet lost the ground; her head hung back; he showe=
red
kisses on her face with a silent and over-mastering ardour, as if in haste =
to
get at her very soul. He kissed her pale cheeks, her hard forehead, her hea=
vy
eyelids, her faded lips; and the measured blows and sighs of the rising tide
accompanied the enfolding power of his arms, the overwhelming might of his
caresses. It was as if the sea, breaking down the wall protecting all the h=
omes
of the town, had sent a wave over her head. It passed on; she staggered bac=
kwards,
with her shoulders against the wall, exhausted, as if she had been stranded
there after a storm and a shipwreck.
She opened her ey=
es
after awhile; and listening to the firm, leisurely footsteps going away with
their conquest, began to gather her skirts, staring all the time before her.
Suddenly she darted through the open gate into the dark and deserted street=
.
"Stop!"=
she
shouted. "Don't go!"
And listening wit=
h an
attentive poise of the head, she could not tell whether it was the beat of =
the
swell or his fateful tread that seemed to fall cruelly upon her heart.
Presently every sound grew fainter, as though she were slowly turning into
stone. A fear of this awful silence came to her--worse than the fear of dea=
th.
She called upon her ebbing strength for the final appeal:
"Harry!"=
;
Not even the dying
echo of a footstep. Nothing. The thundering of the surf, the voice of the
restless sea itself, seemed stopped. There was not a sound--no whisper of l=
ife,
as though she were alone and lost in that stony country of which she had he=
ard,
where madmen go looking for gold and spurn the find.
Captain Hagberd,
inside his dark house, had kept on the alert. A window ran up; and in the
silence of the stony country a voice spoke above her head, high up in the b=
lack
air--the voice of madness, lies and despair--the voice of inextinguishable
hope. "Is he gone yet--that information fellow? Do you hear him about,=
my
dear?"
She burst into te=
ars.
"No! no! no! I don't hear him any more," she sobbed.
He began to chuck=
le
up there triumphantly. "You frightened him away. Good girl. Now we sha=
ll
be all right. Don't you be impatient, my dear. One day more."
In the other house
old Carvil, wallowing regally in his arm-chair, with a globe lamp burning by
his side on the table, yelled for her, in a fiendish voice: "Bessie!
Bessie! you Bessie!"
She heard him at
last, and, as if overcome by fate, began to totter silently back toward her
stuffy little inferno of a cottage. It had no lofty portal, no terrific
inscription of forfeited hopes--she did not understand wherein she had sinn=
ed.
Captain Hagberd h=
ad
gradually worked himself into a state of noisy happiness up there.
"Go in! Keep
quiet!" she turned upon him tearfully, from the doorstep below.
He rebelled again=
st
her authority in his great joy at having got rid at last of that
"something wrong." It was as if all the hopeful madness of the wo=
rld
had broken out to bring terror upon her heart, with the voice of that old m=
an
shouting of his trust in an everlasting to-morrow.