Loe raamatut: «King of the Castle», lehekülg 23

Volume Three – Chapter Ten.
Coming Back on Friday

Chris found it a harder task than he had anticipated. “Give a dog a bad name, and then hang him,” says the old saw; and in his case Chris used to say bitterly to himself that he might as well have been hung out of his misery.

For Wimble’s shop had always been the fertile manure heap from which, fungus-like, scandals sprung, and their spores were carried away in all directions, to start into growth again and again in all directions. Often enough one scandal would grow, flourish, and then seem to die right away, but that was only the belief of the parties concerned. Just as they were hugging themselves upon the fact there had been a nine days’ wonder, and it had come to an end, a little round toadstool-like head would spring up in quite a different direction, and grow, and seed and spread itself more strongly than ever.

Even minor scandals died hard, if they died at all, in Danmouth; but, for the most part, they proved evergreen, and lived on long after the authors had been gathered to their fathers and forgotten.

This being the case with the lesser, it was not likely that one of the greatest ever known should drop away; and though weeks and months glided on, the story of the bottle found under the library window of the Fort was as fresh as ever, and people, after an easy shave, would ask quietly to see it, to have it taken with great show of secrecy from the drawer where it reposed, shaken so as to form globules of solution of chloral, and, if favoured customers, the cork might be removed and the contents smelt.

Wimble was quite right. That bottle proved to be the finest curiosity he possessed, and bade fair to become worth quite a hundred pounds to him, if not more.

As time went on, the ingenious idea occurred to him that it would be advisable to add to its attractions by giving the contents a perceptible odour, and this he did by introducing one single drop of patchouli, a scent not familiar to the lower orders of the little fishing port, and whose inhalation was thoroughly enjoyed by many a gaping idiot, who shook his Solon-like head, and said “Hah!” softly and mysteriously, before handing back the bottle and whispering, “’nuff to kill any man.”

The treasure might have had additional piquancy if Chris Lisle had been tried for murder and hanged; but as he was not, Wimble said he must make the best of things, and went on profiting by his possession; but as he felt that his declaration to the widow that night had not advanced his suit, he spent his spare time watching her house, and wondering how long it would be ere Chris Lisle realised the fact that, as public opinion let him exist, it was his duty to live somewhere else.

But Chris was as stubborn as public opinion, and, regardless of side-long glances, and the fact that he was regularly avoided, he went on just as of old, apparently living his old life, and waging war upon the salmon, trout, and fish that visited the mouth of the river; but they had an easy time.

Claude had left Danmouth, but she made no sign before she went away, and Chris was too stubbornly proud to make any advance.

“If she believes so ill of me, she may,” he used to say to himself. “A woman who can love like that is not worth a second thought from any man.”

He used to say that often, and tell himself that he could never tire. He could live it all down, and that some day he would enjoy a keen revenge on those who had doubted him. He was happy enough, he said, and the fools might think what they liked so long as they did not molest him.

The little mob of Danmouth had gone near this though once, when, soon after the news was spread, they found that no steps were taken to bring the crime home to the murderer. For Trevithick, though terribly exercised in spirit about that missing sum of money, felt himself bound to agree with the Doctor that no steps could be taken, and consequently Gartram was left in peace beneath the handsome granite obelisk cut from his own quarry.

So the wrath of those who would have liked to take the law in their own hands cooled down, and their enmity found its vent in scowls and avoidance, at which Chris laughed scornfully, or resented with looks as fierce in public; but there was a hard set of lines growing more marked about the corners of his mouth and his eyes, and there were times when he broke down in secret far up the glen, and told himself that life was not worth living. He would be better dead.

Claude went to recover her strength in the south of France, and Sarah Woodham was left in charge of the house, about which Reuben Brime sighed as he mowed the grass, and groaned as he drove in his spade; but Sarah did not heed, and he too used to think to himself that he might as well put out his pipe some night by taking a plunge off the end of the pier.

Glyddyr stayed on in the harbour till the day after Claude and Mary left, when the yacht glided slowly out, and Chris watched it till it disappeared beyond one of the headlands far away; and then the time seemed like years as he went on setting public opinion at defiance, wrestling with it still.

There were those in the place who would have met him on friendly terms, notably Asher; but Chris met all advances curtly, and went his way.

“They shall not tolerate me,” he said bitterly. “I will live in the full sunshine. Till I do, I can be content with the shade.”

There was one, though, whom he encountered from time to time when wandering listlessly whipping the streams, not very often, but on the rare occasions when she sought some solitary spot far away out on the rocky moorland to dream over the past.

The first time they met, Chris’s heart hounded, and his eyes flashed as he was about to speak.

“No,” he said, checking himself; “I shall not stoop. The advance shall come from her.”

A month passed, and again on a cold, windy day of winter he was aware of a dark-looking, thickly-wrapped figure going along the track, and his heart whispered to him, “You have only to go back a few dozen yards to speak to her, and hear the news for which, in spite of all you say, you are hungering.”

Chris nearly yielded, but the will was too stubborn yet, and he stood firm.

Then came a day in spring when the promise of the coming time of beauty was being given by swelling bud, green arum, and the tender blades of grass which peeped from among last year’s drab dry strands. It had been a cruel, stormy time for weeks, cruelly stormy, too, in Chris’s heart, for the load was more heavy than ever, and the young man’s heart was very sore.

He was going up the glen near where he had first told Claude of his love, and the time of year seemed to bring with it hope and a longing for human intercourse and sympathy; and though he would not own it, he would have given anything for news of the one who filled his thoughts.

She came upon him suddenly this time, and they were within half-a-dozen yards of each other before either was aware of the other’s presence.

“Ah, Sarah Woodham!” he said; and she stopped short to stand looking at him, with her fierce dark eyes softening, and the vestige of a smile about her thin parched lips. “Well,” he continued carelessly, though his heart beat fast, “hadn’t you better go on? You’ll lose caste if any one sees you talking to me.”

“Mr Lisle,” she said reproachfully.

“Well, am I not a murderer?”

“Oh!”

The woman shuddered, and looked at him wildly.

“Mr Lisle! Don’t talk like that!”

“Why not?”

“No one worth notice could think such a thing of you.”

“Not even your mistress!” he said, with boyish irritability; but only to feel as if he would have given all he possessed to recall it.

“Don’t say cruel things about her, sir. She has suffered deeply.”

“Yes, but – ”

He checked himself, and though Sarah Woodham remained silent and waiting, he did not speak.

“What changes and troubles we have seen, sir, since the happy old days when, quite a boy then, you used to come to the quarry with Miss Claude.”

“Bah! You never seemed to be very happy, Sarah. You were much brighter and happier before you were married.”

The woman glanced at him sharply, and then her eyes grew dreamy and thoughtful again.

“Woodham was a good, kind husband to me, sir,” she said gently.

“Yes; but see what a cold, stern, hard life you lived. He – ”

“Hush, sir, please,” said the woman gently; “he was a good, true man to me, and we all misjudge at times.”

“Is that meant for a cut at me, Sarah?” said Chris cynically.

“Yes, sir,” said the woman naïvely. “I don’t think you ought to be one to cast a stone – at the dead.”

He turned upon her angrily, but she met his sharp look with one so grave and calm that it disarmed him, and, led on by the fact that he had hardly spoken to a soul for weeks, he said —

“Few people have such cause to be bitter as I have.”

“We all think our fate the hardest, sir.”

“Going to preach at me, Sarah?”

“No, sir,” she said, with her eyes lighting up, and a pleasant look softening her face; “I only feel grieved and pained to see the bonnie, handsome boy, who I always thought would naturally be my dear Miss Claude’s husband, drifting away to wreck like one of the ships we often see.”

“Silence, woman!” cried Chris. “For God’s sake don’t talk like that!”

“I will not, sir, if you tell me not,” said Sarah quietly; “but I think you deal hard with poor Miss Claude for what she cannot help.”

“What?”

“She has tried to do her duty – that I know.”

“Yes,” he said bitterly; “every one seems to have tried to do his or her duty by me.”

There was a dead silence, during which the woman stood gazing at him wistfully, and more than once her lips moved, and her hand played restlessly about her shawl, as if she wanted to lay it upon his arm, and say something comforting to one who appeared so lonely and cast out.

“Miss Claude is coming home on Friday, sir,” she said at last; and she saw the fervour of hope and joy which beamed from the young man’s eyes – only to be clouded over directly, as he said bitterly —

“Well, she has a right to. What is it to me?”

“Mr Chris!”

“Oh, don’t talk to me!” he cried passionately. “The world has all gone wrong with me, and I am a cursed and bitter man. God knows that I am, or I could not speak as I do. They’ll find out some day that I am not a murderer and a thief. – I’m losing time, for the fish are rising fast.”

She stood looking after him wistfully as he strode along by the river side, and then walked away with the old dull, agonised look coming back into her face.

“Poor boy!” she said softly. “Poor boy!”

“Coming back on Friday – coming back on Friday!”

Sarah Woodham’s words kept repeating themselves in Chris Lisle’s ears as he walked on up the glen, waving his fishing-rod so that the line hissed and whistled through the air, and at every repetition of the words his heart bounded, and the young blood ran dancing through his veins.

“Coming back on Friday!”

It was as if new life were rushing through him; his step grew more elastic, his eyes brightened, and he leaped from rock to rock, where the brown water came flashing and foaming down.

“Coming back,” he muttered; “coming back.”

The past was going to be dead; the clouds were about to rise from about him, and there was once more going to be something worth living for.

“Bah!” he ejaculated, “I’ve been a morose, bitter, disappointed fool, too ready to give up; but that’s all past now. She is coming back, and all this time of misery and despair is at an end.”

It seemed to be another man who was hurrying along the margin of the river, in and out over the mighty water-worn stones, with the water rushing between, till he was brought up short by the whizzing sound made by his winch, for the hook had caught in a bush, and his rod was bent half double.

“I can’t fish to-day,” he said, turning back, and winding in till he could give the hook a sharp jerk and snap the gut bottom. “I must go home and think.”

He hurried back, with the feeling growing upon him that all the past trouble was at an end. For the moment he felt intoxicated with the new sense of elation which thrilled him, and it was as if all the young hope and joy which were natural to his age, and had been clouded now, had suddenly burst forth like so much sunshine. But this was short lived.

As he reached the bridge, a couple of fishermen whom he had known from boyhood were standing with their backs to the parapet, chatting and smoking, but as soon as they saw him approach they turned round, leaned over the side, and began to stare down at the river.

It was like a cold dark mist blown athwart him, but he strode on.

“Fools!” he muttered; and increasing his pace, he began to note more than ever now that his coming was the signal for people standing at their doors to go inside, and for the fishermen to turn their backs.

All this had occurred every time he had been out of late, but he had grown hardened to it, and laughed in his stubborn contempt; but this day, after the fit of elation he had passed through, – it all looked new, and he hurried on chilled to the heart; the bright, sunshiny day was clouded over again, and all was once more hopeless and blank.

So bitter was the feeling of despair which now sunk deep into his breast, that he shrank from Wimble, who was standing at his door in the act of saying good-day to a customer, both looking hard at him till he had entered the cottage.

Volume Three – Chapter Eleven.
Under the Cloud

“Better go away,” said Chris to himself.

But he stayed, and in contempt of the avoidance of those he met, he was constantly going to and fro during the next twenty-four hours.

Now he was down on the beach, close to the sea; now wandering high up on the moorland, and seeing, from each point of view, trifles which showed that the mistress of the Fort was coming home.

He called himself “idiot,” and asked mentally where his pride had gone, and determined to shut himself up with his books, but the determination was too weak, and he could not rest. It was something, if only to see the home that would soon again contain the woman who held him fast.

“She will meet me again,” he said, with his hopes rising once more toward the evening of the next day. “I’ll go up boldly like a man. My darling! And all this misery will be at an end. Nine weary months has she been away, and it has seemed like years. Why didn’t I write? Why didn’t I crush down all this foolish pride and obstinacy? I ought to have gone to her, instead of letting myself be maddened by that miserable scoundrel, believing she could listen to him, even if it was her father’s wish.”

He had strolled down the pier and lit a cigar, to stand gazing out to the west, where the sun was setting behind a golden bank of cloud which began to darken with purple as the plainly-marked rays spread out towards the zenith, while the calm sea gently heaved, and began to glow with ruby, topaz and emerald hues.

Far out beyond the shelter of the headland and the long low isle which acted like a breakwater to the bay, the sea was ruffled by the gentle evening breeze; and as Chris loitered, with his breast once more growing calm, he could see lugger after lugger, that had been tugged out with the large oars, hoisting sail to catch the soft gale and then glide slowly away, the tawny sails catching the reflected light, till all around was beautiful as some golden dream.

Chris turned and looked back at the Fort, to see that its windows were aglow, and the cliffs that rose behind and on either side were more lovely than ever.

“What a welcome home for her!” he said softly. “My darling! Oh, if she could see her old home now! if she would only come, and I could be the first to welcome her and take her by the hand.”

“Yes,” he said, as he turned and gazed out to sea and shore, heedless of the fact that a group of sailors were slowly coming down the pier. “I will be there to meet her and take her by the hand. She could not have believed it; and, now that the time of sorrow is at an end, she will – she shall listen to me. Heaven give me strength to master this bitter, cruel pride and foolish jealousy. I will hope.”

“Bet yer a gallon it is,” cried a voice behind him.

“Yah! Yer don’t know what yer talking about. Such gashly stuff!”

“Oh, you’re precious clever, you are. Think that there schooner lay here all those many months and I shouldn’t know her again? Here, let’s go up to the point, and get the coastie to lend us his glass.”

“I don’t want no glass,” said another voice. “My eyes are good enough for that. Jemmy Gadly’s right enough. I could swear to her.”

The speaker made a binocular of his two hands, and gazed out to sea, at where the white sails of a yacht came well into view from beyond the island.

Chris heard every word, but he did not turn. He stood gazing at the yacht, which with every stitch of canvas set, was running fast for the harbour, beautiful in the evening light – a picture in that gleaming sea.

“Ay,” said the man at last, as he dropped his hands and turned to Chris, who was gazing out to sea with a strange singing in his ears, and a sensation at his temples as if the blood was throbbing hard. “Ay, that’s Mr Glyddyr’s yacht, sure enough, and he’s come back o’ course to meet young Miss. Oh, it be you?”

This last as Chris turned round upon him with a ghastly face glaring at him wildly.

“Lor’! Look at that,” cried the man addressed as Gadly, and with an ugly grin overspreading his face as the love of baiting came uppermost. “Come away, Joe; he means mischief. Look out or there’ll be another murder done.”

Thud!

It was as quick as lightning. Chris Lisle’s left fist flashed out, caught the man full in the cheek, and he staggered back, tried to save himself, and then tripped over a rope and fell heavily upon the stones, while his assailant glared round seeking another victim as a low angry murmur rose.

“You coward!” he growled between his teeth.

“Ay, and sarve him gashly well right,” said the sturdy fisherman, who had had his hands up to his eyes, and had addressed Chris. “He is a coward to say that there. Howd off, my lads, and let him bide. There’s been quite enough o’ this gashly jaw. I don’t believe you did kill the old man, Mr Chris, sir, and there’s my hand on it.”

He thrust out his great brown hairy, horny paw, and it was like help held forth to a drowning man. Chris grasped the hand with both of his, and stood gazing full in the rough fellow’s eyes, his face working, his breast heaving, and a great struggle going on as he tried to speak, while the little group around looked on at the strange scene.

It was the first kindly word man seemed to have spoken to him all those weary months, and Chris, completely overcome, strove hard to utter his thanks, but for a time nothing would come. At last it was in a low, hoarse murmur that he said —

“God bless you for that, my man!” and hurried back to his room.

“And you call yourselves mates,” growled the fisherman, who had prudently kept in a reclining position, and who now slowly rose; “and you call yourselves mates. Why, you ought to ha’ chucked him off the wall.”

“And I felt so happy!” groaned Chris; “and I felt so happy!”

“How did he know she was coming back?” he cried suddenly, as he sprang up and caught a telescope from where it lay upon a row of books, adjusted it, and stood looking out of the open window.

“Yes, its his boat; and there he stands using a glass watching her home.”

He shrank away, with his eyes looking dull and sunken as he laid the glass upon the shelf.

“How did he know – how did he know?”

He sank down in a chair, and buried his face in his hands, as a flood of surmises rushed through his brain, every one full of agony, and all pointing to the idea that Claude must have been in communication with Glyddyr, or he never could have timed his return after all these months like that.

Half-an-hour had passed, and then he started from his chair, for there was a loud report.

He sank back in his seat again, with a mocking laugh.

“Beer!” he said bitterly. “Beer! What a world this is!”

And in imagination he saw the white smoke curling up from the mouth of the little cannon which stood by the flagstaff in front of the Harbour Inn, knowing, as he did, that the piece had been loaded in honour of Glyddyr’s return, and fired with the taproom poker, made red for the purpose.

Then there arose a boisterous burst of cheering, taken up again and again, as Glyddyr’s gig was rowed up to the steps, and he stepped out upon the pier.

“Yes, cheer away, you idiots,” cried Chris, rising from his seat in his jealous agony; “cheer and shout, and go down on the stones and grovel before him.”

Bang!

“That’s right! Again. Again. Down with you, and let him walk in triumph over your necks. The new man – the new master of the Fort.”

“They know it,” he groaned, as he dashed to the window, and then backed away, after seeing that he was right, and that Glyddyr was coming along the pier, scattering coins among the little crowd that had gathered round, while the sound of hurrying feet could be heard as men and boys, attracted by the gunfire, were running down to the harbour.

“Yes, they know it. The new lord of the Fort, and I stand here instead of joining them, and cheering too for the new king of the castle. My God, what a world it is!”

He stopped short, pale and ghastly, as the cheering came nearer, and just then, looking proud and elate, Parry Glyddyr passed the window on his way to the hotel.

“And leave him to triumph over my death!” muttered Chris, in a low fierce voice. “No,” he added, after a pause; “I’ve been too great a cur as it is. Not yet: it has not come quite to the worst.”

Chris was right. There had been communication between Claude and Glyddyr, and quiet pertinacity, mingled with the greatest show of gentle respect and consideration, had not been without result.

It was only a short run across to Ettreville, and one morning, during a walk with Mary, Glyddyr came up to salute Claude with grave, respectful courtesy.

They had just put in for a few hours, he said, and they sailed again that afternoon. He was so glad to see Miss Gartram again, and he was sure she was better for the change.

Only a few minutes’ conversation, and he was gone.

A fortnight later he was there again, and the stay was a little longer; but there was always the same shrinking show of respect for her, and even Mary could say nothing.

And so time wore on, till the coming of the yacht and a stay for at least a few days was no uncommon thing.

“No, I wouldn’t say a word,” said Gellow, in conference with his man. “Keep quiet, dear boy, till she gets back, even if it’s months yet, and then strike home.”

“But I’m getting sick of it.”

“Never mind, dear boy. It’s a very big stake, and I can’t understand, seeing what a darling she is, how you shy at her so. No other reason, have you?”

“No, no,” said Glyddyr hurriedly.

“But it looks as if you had, even when you say no. But there, it’s all right. Give her plenty of time. You have hooked her. If you are hasty now, she’ll break away, and never take the fly again. Wait till she goes back into her own quiet little groove. Then be quite ready; job the landing-net under her with a sure and steady hand, and though she’ll kick and struggle a bit, and try to leap back into deep water, the pretty little goldfish will be yours. And well earned, too.”

So Glyddyr waited his time, knew exactly when Claude would return home, and was ready to incite the fishermen and the workers at the quarry to get up a reception in her honour.

This was done, and as Chris Lisle stayed at home, gnawing his lips with agony, he knew that flags and banners were being strung across from house to house, that yachts’ guns were to be fired, and that the band from Toxeter was to be there.

It was short time for preparation, but enthusiasm was at high pressure, and the first dawning Chris had of the hour at which Claude would return was given by the band.

For a moment he hesitated. Jealousy said stay, but the old boyish love carried all before it, and, reckless of the lowering looks which greeted him, he hurried along the beach, and made for the Fort, so as to be one of the first to welcome its mistress back.

The bells in the little church began to ring musically, for Glyddyr had well done his work, and then the guns were fired, and as this was supplemented by the distant music, a fierce pang shot through Chris Lisle’s heart.

“Why did I not think to do all this?”

He went on, and joined the little crowd by the gateway of the Fort, where the school children were in front, ready with handkerchiefs and coloured ribbons, for there were no flowers to be had.

As he approached to take his stand by the gate, the children began to cheer, and he bit his lip angrily as he heard them rebuked and hushed into silence.

But he forgot all this directly, for fresh firing and the nearing of the band told that Claude must be close at hand – she for whom his heart yearned – she whom his eyes longed to see, and they grew dim in the excitement, as, forgetful of all past trouble, he strained them to catch her first glance.

Would she smile at him? Would she stop and stretch out her hands, and in spite of all those gathered around her, should he clasp her in his arms?

All excited thoughts, as there was the crashing sound of wheels, the loud cheering caught up now by the children as the carriage which had been to meet her rolled slowly up toward the gateway.

At last. Bending forward with her pale face flushed, her eyes humid, and her black gloved hand waving her white kerchief in answer to the bursts of cheers.

Chris strained forward, and was about to press up to the carriage-door as it came slowly into the gateway to avoid crushing those who flocked round.

“Three cheers for the Queen of the Castle!” cried a loud voice; and then to Chris Lisle it was as if heaven and earth had come together.

For the voice was the voice of Glyddyr, who had risen from his seat beside Claude, unseen till then; and as the answering chorus rang out, sick almost unto death, his brain swimming and a dull throbbing at his breast, Chris shrank away without encountering Claude Gartram’s eyes, veiled almost to blindness by her tears.