CHAPTER XXVI
RETURNED EMPTY
The breeze freshened, and, as was to be expected, blew the fog-bank awaybefore sunset.
Sep Marvin had been an unwilling student all day. Like many of his clothand generation, Parson Marvin pinned all his faith on education. "Give aboy a good education," he said, a hundred times. "Make a gentleman ofhim, and you have done your duty by him."
"Make a gentleman of him--and the world will be glad to feed and clothehim," was the real thought in his mind, as it was in the mind of nearlyall his contemporaries. The wildest dreamer of those days neveranticipated that, in the passage of one brief generation, socialadvancement should be for the shrewdly ignorant rather than for thescholar; that it would be better for a man that his mind be stored withknowledge of the world than the wisdom of the classics; that thesuccessful grocer might find a kinder welcome in a palace than thescholar; that the manufacturer of kitchen utensils might feed with kingsand speak to them, without aspirates, between the courses.
Parson Marvin knew none of these things, however; nor suspected that theadvance of civilisation is not always progressive, but that she may takehands with vulgarity and dance down-hill, as she does to-day. His onescheme of life for Sep was that he should be sent to the ancient schoolwhere field-sports are cultivated to-day and English gentlemen turnedupon the world more ignorant than any other gentlemen in the universe.Then, of course, Sep must go to that College with which his father's lifehad been so closely allied. And if it please God to call him to theChurch, and the College should remember that it had given his father aliving, and do the same by him--for that reason and no other--then, ofcourse, Sep would be a made man.
And the making of Sep had been in progress during the winter day that afog-bank came in from the North Sea and clung tenaciously to the low,surfless coast. In the afternoon the sun broke through at last, wintryand pale. Sep, who, by some instinct--the instinct, it is to be supposed,of young animals--knew that he was destined to be of a generation thatshould cultivate ignorance out of doors, rather than learning by thefireside, threw aside his books and cried out that he could no longerbreathe in his father's study.
So Parson Marvin went off, alone, to visit a distant parishioner--one whowas dying by himself out on the marsh, in a cottage cut off from all theworld in a spring tide.
"Don't forget that it is high tide at five o'clock, and that there is nomoon, and that the dykes will be full. You will never find your wayacross the marsh after dark," said Sep--the learned in tides and thosepractical affairs of nature, which were as a closed book to the scholar.
Parson Marvin vaguely acknowledged the warning and went away, leaving Septo accompany Miriam on her daily errand to the simple shops inFarlingford, which would awake to life and business now that the sea-fogwas gone. For the men of Farlingford, like nearly all seafarers, aretimorous of bad weather on shore and sit indoors during its passage,while they treat storm and rain with a calm contempt at sea.
"Sail a-coming up the river, master," River Andrew said to Sep, who wasawaiting Miriam in the village street, and he walked on, without furthercomment, spade on shoulder, toward the church-yard, where he spent aportion of his day, without apparent effect.
So, when Miriam had done her shopping, it was only natural that theyshould turn their footsteps toward the quay and the river-wall. Or was itfate? So often is the natural nothing but the inevitable in holiday garb.
"That is no Farlingford boat," said Sep, versed in riverside knowledge,so soon as he saw the balance-lug moving along the line of theriver-wall, half a mile below the village.
They stood watching. Few coasters were at sea in these months of wildweather, and there was nothing moving on the quay. The moss-grownslip-way, where "The Last Hope" had been drawn up for repair, stood gauntand empty, half submerged by the flowing tide. Many Farlingford men wereengaged in the winter fisheries on the Dogger, and farther north, inLowestoft boats. In winter, Farlingford--thrust out into the North Sea,surrounded by marsh--is forgotten by the world.
The solitary boat came round the corner into the wider sheet of water,locally known as Quay Reach.
"A foreigner!" cried Sep, jumping, as was his wont, from one foot to theother with excitement. "It is like the boat that was brought up by thetide, with a dead man in it, long ago. And that was a Belgian boat."
Miriam was looking at the boat with a sudden brightness in her eyes, arush of colour to her cheeks, which were round and healthy and of thatsoft clear pink which marks a face swept constantly by mist and a saltyair. In flat countries, where men may see each other, unimpeded by hedgeor tree or hillock, across a space measured only by miles, the eye issoon trained--like the sailor's eye--to see and recognise at a greatdistance.
There was no mistaking the attitude of the solitary steersman of thisforeign boat stealing quietly up to Farlingford on the flood tide. It wasLoo Barebone sitting on the gunwale as he always sat, with one kneeraised on the thwart, to support his elbow, and his chin in the palm ofhis hand, so that he could glance up the head of the sail or ahead,without needing to change his position.
Sep turned and looked up at her.
"I thought you said he was never coming back," he said, reproachfully.
"So I did. I thought he was never coming back."
Sep looked at her again, and then at the boat. One never knows how muchchildren, and dogs--who live daily with human beings--understand.
"Your face is very red," he observed. "That comes from telling untruths."
"It comes from the cold wind," replied Miriam, with an odd, breathlesslaugh.
"If we do not go home, he will be there before us," said Sep, gravely."He will make one tack across to the other side, and then make the mouthof the creek."
They turned and walked, side by side, on the top of the sea-wall towardthe rectory. Their figures must have been outlined against the sky, forany watching from the river. The girl, tall and strong, walking with theease that comes from health and a steadfast mind; the eager, restless boyrunning and jumping by her side. Barebone must have seen them as soon asthey saw him. They were part of Farlingford, these two. He had a suddenfeeling of having been away for years, with this difference--that he cameback and found nothing changed. Whereas, in reality, he who returns aftera long absence usually finds no one awaiting him.
He did as Sep had foretold--crossing to the far side of the river, andthen gaining the mouth of the creek in one tack. Miriam and Sep hadreached the rectory garden first, and now stood waiting for him. He cameon in silence. Last time--on "The Last Hope"--he had come up the riversinging.
Sep waved his hand, and, in response, Barebone nodded his head, with oneeye peering ahead, for the breeze was fresh.
The old chain was still there, imperfectly fastened round a totteringpost at the foot of the tide-washed steps. It clinked as he made fast theboat. Miriam had not heard the sound of it since that night, long ago,when Loo had gone down the steps in the dark and cast off.
"I was given a passage home in a French fishing-boat, and borrowed theirdinghy to come ashore in," said Loo, as he came up the steps. He knewthat Farlingford would want some explanation, and that Sep would be proudto give it. An explanation is never the worse for a spice of truth.
"Miriam told me you were never coming home again," answered Sep, stillnourishing that grievance.
"Well, she was wrong, and here I am!" was Loo's reply, with his old,ready laugh. "And here is Farlingford--unchanged, and no harm done."
"Why should there be any harm done?" was Sep's prompt question.
Barebone was shaking hands with Miriam.
"Oh, I don't know," he answered. "Because there always is harm done, Isuppose."
Miriam was thinking that he had changed; that the man who had unmooredhis boat at these steps six months ago had departed for ever, and thatanother had come back in his place. A minute later, as he turned to closethe gate that shut off the rectory garden from the river-wall, chanceruled it that their eyes should meet for an
instant, and she knew that hehad not changed; that he might, perhaps, never change so long as helived. She turned abruptly and led the way to the house.
Sep had a hundred questions to ask, but only a few of them were personal.Children live in a world of their own, and are not slow to invite thosewhom they like to come into it, while to the others, they shut the doorwith a greater frankness than is permissible later in life.
"Father," he explained, "has gone to see old Doy, who is dying."
"Is he still dying? He will never die, I am sure; for he has been tryingto do it ever since I remember," laughed Barebone; who was interested, itseemed, in Sep's affairs, and never noticed that Miriam was walking morequickly than they were.
"And I am rather anxious about him," continued Sep, with the gravity thatcomes of a realised responsibility. "He moons along, you know, with hismind far away, and he doesn't know the path across the marsh a bit. He isbound to lose his way, and it is getting dark. Suppose I shall have to goand look for him."
"With a lantern," suggested Loo, darkly, without looking toward Miriam.
"Oh, yes!" replied Sep, with delight. "With a lantern, of course. Nobodybut a fool would go out on to the marshes after dark without a lantern.The weed on the water makes it the same as the grass, and that old womanwho was nearly drowned last winter, you know, she walked straight in, andthought it was dry land."
And Loo heard no more, for they were at the door; and Miriam, in thelighted hall, was waiting for them, with all the colour gone from herface.
"He is sure to be in in a few minutes," she said; for she had heard theend of their talk. She could scarcely have helped hearing Loo's weightysuggestion of a lantern, which had had the effect he must haveanticipated. Sep was already hurriedly searching for matches. It would bedifficult to dissuade him from his purpose. What boy would willingly giveup the prospect of an adventure on the marsh alone, with a bull's-eye?Miriam tried, and tried in vain. She gained time, however, and waslistening for Marvin's footstep on the gravel all the while.
Sep found the matches--and it chanced that there was a sufficiency of oilin his lantern. He lighted up and went away, leaving an abominable smellof untrimmed wick behind him.
It was tea-time, and, half a century ago, that meal was a matter ofgreater importance than it is to-day. A fire burned in the dining-room,glowing warmly on the mellow walls and gleaming furniture; but there wasno lamp, nor need of one, in a room with large windows facing the sunsetsky.
Miriam led the way into this room, and lifted the shining, old-fashionedkettle to the hob. She took a chair that stood near, and sat, with hershoulder turned toward him, looking into the fire.
"We will have tea as soon as they come in," she said, in that voice ofcamaraderie which speaks of a life-long friendship between a man and awoman--if such a friendship be possible. Is it?--who knows? "They willnot be long, I am sure. You will like tea, after having been so longabroad. It is one of the charms of coming home, or one of thealleviations. I don't know which. And now, tell me all that has happenedsince you went away--if you care to."
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