At the water front I engaged a boat for the night and we set off for Dawlish. We passed close under the bows of the sloop. She lay dark upon the water; her rigging swayed gently against the clear night sky. I looked up at her and told myself that I should sail in her tomorrow, if there proved to be no other course. By tomorrow evening William would be again in Mary’s arms, and he could take her ‘home to Marblehead’ – that ‘sweet town’ of which he could remember so little, but of which he always spoke so fondly.
‘There are trees there,’ he told me once. ‘A great many trees, and the houses are of wood. ’Tis not like your fishing towns, that have no trees and are built of stone, – at Torhaven a man might be already at sea when he walks in the streets. But at Marblehead you may smell the earth and the trees. The land there smells stronger than the sea.’
My resolve filled me with exaltation, as though I had cast off fetters which had strangled me. I almost longed to sail in that ship, – to slip away from Pronto, who must be sleeping unawares in his snug bed at Dover Street, since he raised no word of protest. Hardship, exertion, rough usage, had no terrors for me. I believed myself equal to them all. William and Mary had been happy as I should never be; the best that I could do must be to preserve that felicity for them.
It was an exquisite moonlight night, with just such a gentle breeze as took us swiftly towards Dawlish. The lights of Exmouth, which had twinkled in the water, faded in the distance, but the riding light of the sloop stood out for a long time, as if beckoning to me.
We rounded Dawlish Head and came upon the town. It was growing so late that few lights were burning there. I leapt ashore, bade the people in the boat await my return, and hurried off to find an inn. A drowsy ostler saddled me a horse and gave me the direction to Millstock House, where the judge lived.
Now that I was fully resolved how to act, and certain of saving William in any event, I had grown much calmer. All did not depend upon my getting the writ, although I was determined to get it if I could. I was able to consider what I should say, and was less afraid of saying too much; I felt that I should cut a better figure with the judge than I had with the Sheriff. I rather hoped, however, that I might find him in bed and too sleepy to ask many questions.
Millstock House lay some two miles from Dawlish. I observed, as I rode up, that there were still lights in the lower rooms, as though the household had not yet retired. I hitched my horse to a ring by the door and rang the bell. Some time elapsed before it was answered, and I could hear a kind of clamour within, as though several people were shouting or singing. At length a servant appeared, none too sober, to whom I gave my card and explained my errand. When I asked to be taken to his master directly he looked doubtful, but he admitted me into the hall, where I waited while he went into an adjoining room, whence all the noise and singing came. There was plainly a drinking bout in progress. Some person was endeavouring to bawl a ballad whilst others were shouting him down. Presently the servant returned and said that he was very sorry, – his lordship was unable to attend to me.
‘But he must do so!’ I cried. ‘Here is a case of false imprisonment. The laws of this country oblige him to attend to it.’
‘I am afraid, sir—’
‘Does he know that I am a Member of Parliament?’
‘If you will please to come in the morning, sir—’
‘That will be too late. Take me to him instantly, or it will be the worse for you! British Justice must not be denied in this manner!’
Shrugging his shoulders, he opened the dining-room door and stood aside to let me pass.
My eyes were dazzled by a blaze of candles, my ears confused by a babel of raucous voices, and my nose assailed by the nasty stench of a debauch. Five or six voices were shouting out a song, but were unable to compete in volume with another which continually bellowed for a jordan. When my vision cleared I could see a number of men sprawling about a table. One of them had risen and was staring at me.
‘Here’s Pronto!’ he exclaimed.
I knew him slightly, – a very dissolute young fellow called Wortley, whom I had met once or twice with Crockett. He had but lately come into a fortune and was getting through it as fast as he could. When sober he would scarcely have had the assurance to call me Pronto, but he now turned to the others and informed them that I was his particular friend.
I asked for his lordship and was greeted by a yell from the entire company:
‘Down among the dead men!’
It was but too true. At the head of the table there was an empty chair and under it was the master of the house. Two or three of his guests were with him.
I looked to see if anybody there was sober enough to understand me, and addressed myself to an old fellow who still seemed able to pour his liquor into his glass rather than down his waistcoat. To him I explained the situation, imploring him to help me in bringing our host to his senses, but he must have been drunker than he seemed, for he answered not a word and continued to stare pensively at the candle flames, as though he had not heard. The rest meanwhile were demanding a song from me, for Wortley had informed them that I was a capital singer. I turned to the servant and assured him that his master would incur the most frightful penalties if he were not sufficiently revived to attend to me within the hour. I think that my manner really alarmed the man. He promised to do what he could, and staggered off in search of a colleague. Presently the two of them returned with a bucket of cold water, which they threw over his lordship without disturbing his slumbers in the least.
Much against my will, I was obliged to sing for the company and drink with them, for they were growing unfriendly. In a short time I was almost as drunk as they were. I did not take much, but I was exhausted with fatigue, hunger and anxiety. I lost all sense of time and do not know how often we tried, vainly, to revive the judge. We poured several gallons of water over him, hoisted him into his chair, and slapped his face; but he remained completely insensible and slipped to the floor again as soon as we let him go.
At one time all the company appeared to be ardently interested in my cause. They were as determined to rouse him as I was, and repeatedly cried that:
‘He mush do Brish Jushtish elsh why do we pay th’ old shod?’
I must have told them some part of the story, for I can remember Wortley drinking a toast to Mary Hawker and howling a maudlin song about her:
‘Remember the vows that you made to poor Mary!
Remember the bower where you promised to be true!’
And I recollect that I was weeping and telling them that we might all be happy if we could go home to Marblehead, because there were so many trees there. I can hear my own voice, sobbing this out, in a room which had grown more silent, since most of my company had passed into oblivion. At last I must have joined them.
I wakened with a start. The candle flames were guttering out and the grey of early daylight struggled through the windows. All my companions were now upon the floor amid swimming water, wine, broken glass and vomit.
I rose and reeled round the table to take a last look at the judge, in case he might show signs of coming to. He lay upon his face. I touched his hand and thought it uncommonly cold, though, to be sure, he had been drenched in water several times. Trying to pull him over, I found him stiff. He must have been dead for some hours. I suppose he had had some kind of seizure, and had probably been dead when we set him up in the chair and slapped him.
This discovery completely sobered me. I tried to summon the servants, but neither shouts nor tugs at the bell-rope had any effect. They must have been sleeping off the night’s carouse in some distant part of the house.
The day was breaking fast and I was in haste to return to Exmouth. I thought that I might leave them to make the discovery in their own time, since there was nothing to be done for the old man save carry him from that pig-sty and shroud him decently. I could not risk any further delay. I let myself out into the cold dawn, mounted my horse, and fled from Millstock House.
&nb
sp; The sky was turning red as I reached Dawlish. I paid for the horse and got back to my boat. My thoughts were clear and decided, and my head ached. I intended to take William’s place, though I felt none of the exultation which had sustained me the night before. I did not fear the fate before me. No quarters could be more disgusting, no company worse, than those in which I had spent the night. But I had no hope, either for myself or for any other human being. The happiness which I had pictured for my friends now appeared to be an illusion, – insubstantial as the rosy clouds of dawn which had glimmered for a short time, and then sunk into the greyness of a rainy morning. I could not feel that it signified very much whether I stayed or went. But I had made a promise and I intended to keep it.
The wind was up and the sea grew choppy as we rounded the head. A great mass of rain clouds had come down over Exmouth and obscured the wide gap of the river estuary. The little boats at anchor in the bay were bobbing up and down. I looked about me for the sloop and could not find her.
I thought that I must have been mistaken about her position. I could not believe that she was gone until I landed at Exmouth and was assured by the people there that she had sailed at dawn.
Newsome
I WAS HALF-WAY back to Ullacombe before I discovered that I had, during the night’s debauch, lost the letter which William had entrusted to me for Mary.
This circumstance gave me more pain than anything else, – a greater sense of failure. I had not even done what he asked me to do, which was far less than what I had promised. And I could not remember half his directions about the farm.
It was dark when I reached the Parsonage, for I had been obliged to sleep for a little at an inn at Exmouth, before setting out. Kitty and Newsome hurried to meet me and saw, by my face, that I brought no good news. I asked at once for Mary and learnt that she had returned to Gulley’s Cove, for her children were there and she could not leave them for long. Almost mechanically I began to mount my horse again, meaning to go to her, but Kitty prevented me.
‘You cannot go tonight,’ she said. ‘’Tis past ten o’clock. Mary won’t expect you. And you are wet to the skin.’
‘I must not leave her waiting through another night.’
‘If you had good news there might be some sense in your going on. What you have to tell may keep.’
So I came in and sat by a fire that they had lighted, for they expected me to come home cold and wet. They brought me food and mulled wine. Presently I began to feel warm again. Kitty’s eyes were red, as though she had been crying, and, when she left the room to warm my bed, I asked Newsome if anything was amiss.
‘Nothing,’ said he, ‘except this business of poor Mary Hawker. She has been crying over it for two days. She went to Gulley’s Cove yesterday; I am afraid that poor woman quite believes that a Member of Parliament may do anything. Kitty tried to warn her that you might fail, but she refused to believe it.’
Kitty returned just then, and I was so much moved that I rose and kissed her. I loved my sister very much for her kind heart. She burst into fresh tears. Her disapproval of the Hawkers was all forgotten; she could think of nothing but Mary’s grief. I gave them a brief account of my efforts, suppressing the fact that I had intended to sail in William’s stead, for I knew that they would think it extravagant.
‘As to disposing of the farm,’ said Kitty, ‘we will help her with that. It will give her a little money in hand. But I think that she had better get out of this neighbourhood; there is such a strong prejudice against the Hawkers. Yet she must not go wandering off among strangers. She should be near friends who will read William’s letters to her and advise her. If we could but get her to Bramfield! My mother would care for her. In the old days the Chadwicks would have found some cottage – but one cannot hope that from Mrs. Ned. Perhaps we might get her a place as lodge-keeper at some great house. You must keep your eyes open, Miles, for something of that kind, among your grand friends.’
‘I cannot think so far ahead,’ I replied. ‘What am I to say to her tomorrow? How am I to tell her?’
‘You had better let me come with you. She will need another woman about her at such a moment.’
‘Kitty! Could you bear to come?’
‘To be sure I shall come. And so will Boo.’
She, also, refuses to call Newsome Augustus. Why he should be Boo I know not, but she vows that it exactly suits him. He said that he should certainly come. I realised that, in their quiet way, they were both as indignant as I was, and as shocked by Lockesley’s vindictive abuse of power. I went to bed a little comforted, and in the morning we all rode over to Gulley’s Cove.
Where the lane turned down to the farm, Kitty dismounted. She said that she would walk to the cottage and that we were to wait for half an hour before joining her. She went off, looking very pale. I realised that she was going to tell Mary before we came and that the worst was to be spared me.
Newsome and I sat upon our horses and gazed out over the sea. I told him that I was resolved to go to Portsmouth. I thought that I might still make some effort on William’s behalf. Henry Dawson, who had been Caroline’s husband, was at Portsmouth. He was now a Captain, and had lately married again, but we still saw something of him, for Caroline’s little boy remained in my mother’s care at Bramfield. I thought that Dawson might be able to tell me if there was anything further to be done.
‘Not a bad idea,’ agreed Newsome, ‘but I should say nothing of it to Mary, if I were you. It would be cruel to raise her hopes, unless something comes of it.’
I said that I should not, and sat silent for some time, wondering if I should tell him my real reason for going to Portsmouth. I had not now very much hope of getting William out of the Navy, but I was resolved to join it myself. His look was hard to forget, – the look which he gave me when I asked him why he should fight my battles. To return to Pronto and Dover Street, after these scenes, was impossible. If such men as William were to be forced into the fighting, I should know no peace until I had joined them. That appeared to be the only kind of amends which I could offer to Mary. In all else, especially in the matter of practical help and advice, Newsome and Kitty were worth ten of me. They led useful, happy and contented lives. My own, just then, struck me as being singularly worthless.
I looked at Newsome and thought how little he had altered since I first made his acquaintance, at thirteen years old, and he had laughed when I asked if his father did not consider himself a gentleman. The men we were to become might already have been discerned. I was still wondering how to consider myself, while he had never wasted two thoughts upon such a topic.
Words were not easy in which to tell him of my intention. I knew that he would think it foolish. As a sort of preparation I gave him fuller particulars of the scene at Millstock House than I had thought fit to mention when Kitty was by. I described the drunken debauch and then asked Newsome whether he did not think the life of a bluejacket infinitely preferable to that led by some gentlemen.
‘Sailors can get as drunk as gentlemen,’ said he, ‘and can be quite as nasty. Pray don’t begin to think all sailors heroes because Hawker has been pressed.’
This was so near to the knuckle that I was silenced. His next remark, therefore, surprised me:
‘Though I have sometimes thought it a pity that you did not enter the Service yourself. I believe that it would have suited you very well.’
‘Do you indeed?’ I cried.
‘Why yes. I think an active life would have suited you. Your father thought you a scholar, but you are not, you know. You have no strong bent and you are inclined to mope. You would not do so, if you lived amidst danger and exertion.’
‘I am inclined to agree with you,’ said I. ‘And I don’t see that it is too late to change.’
I would have said more, but he remarked that half an hour was gone and that we should proceed to the cottage.
We descended the hill and tethered our animals by the gate. Before entering the house Newsome surprised me by drawi
ng on, beneath his hose, a pair of red flannel knee-caps, explaining that he always did so, by Kitty’s desire, when visiting people in trouble. He was inclined to rheumatism in the knees and Kitty believed that this malady might be aggravated by prolonged kneeling upon cold stone floors.
‘And very often it is damp as well,’ he said. ‘Poor people will scrub their floors before the Parson comes.’
I asked if he meant to pray for Mary, feeling a lively repugnance at the thought of witnessing such a scene.
‘I might have occasion to do so.’
‘If she should ask for it, you mean?’
‘I don’t always wait to be asked. I must judge for myself. The solemnity of prayer often has a calming effect upon people who are distracted by grief. The mere repeating of familiar words will recall them a little to themselves. But when the sufferer is perfectly composed I try to acquaint myself with his state of mind before offering the consolations of religion.’
The cottage door was open and Kitty’s voice called to us to enter. She had flung off her bonnet and was seated upon the hearth-settle with her arm round Mary’s waist. The two little children were in a kind of pen which William had made to keep them out of the way of the fire; they stood unsteadily, holding to the rails of this pen, and watched the scene with solemn eyes.
Mary lifted her head from Kitty’s shoulder and looked at me. There was no reproach in her eyes. I had dreaded that above all things, but there was none, and I immediately wished that there had been. Resentment is a protection; it shields some part of our minds, so that we are not entirely exposed to the full blow of calamity. When we can blame this or that person, we are not feeling the worst pain. But I saw that she had forgotten my rash promises. She was aware of nothing save her loss.
She was deathly pale and she looked very much surprised, as though she beheld something which she could not completely credit. I have, since then, caught sight of this pale astonishment upon other faces. I pass it in the street continually. Despair, mute and surprised, goes quietly about its business, unrecognised, save by those who have once been obliged to scan it fully. They must see it for ever. It dogs them all their lives, with a promise of what we must expect when we meet at compt.
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