A child comes across a field from the pleasant pinewoods that grow near to the sandhills, running in his rude petticoats, a nosegay of flowers in his chubby fist. His rusticated feet stumble on a piece of broken bottle and he cries out piteously, then hops to the bank of the lane and sits with the blood of his gashed foot mingling with the petals of his apple-blossom sprays.
The old man stumbles towards him. Shudder, reader, for it is none other than Rupert Bigarstaff, and there is no one abroad in the lane but he and the little damaged lad.
‘Come unto me, all ye that are heavy laden,’ says Bigarstaff and, taking off his befluffed necktie he kneels on his cracking joints to help the boy.
He is not feigning concern. Those eyes brim with moisture and spill down his careworn cheeks.
‘Verily,’ he says, ‘you are sore wounded.’
Comforted, the child skips off and vanishes.
Can this be the Rupert Bigarstaff we used to know and fear? What miracle has wrought the change in him? That child could have breathed his last in that lane. And why is Bigarstaff not dead, stuck fast in that swamp of quicksand so many years before? To understand such a reclamation we must return to the past, to that dreadful moment when the sucking quicksands gave beneath his pounding feet.
CHAPTER 37
He shouted out, a great bellow of fear, and tried to fly out of the bog. But the more he struggled the more he sank, and finally, just as his mouth was on a level with the green slime, his threshing feet touched something. He stood there, hardly daring to breathe, afraid that what was under his boots would shift and he would be utterly lost. He did not doubt that what he perched on was the dead shoulders of the rascally Captain Trevelian. Or perhaps it was wretched, stabbed John Pearson.
Rupert did not pray. It was not in him to do so. But he murmured a line of a hymn that came back to him from his childhood days, and was stilled by it – ‘There is a happy land, far, far away.’
Over his head the clouds were black and heavy, and a few spots of rain began to fall, hitting the green surface of the swamp in front of his nose. He could hear shouts in the distance. He wondered if he would die standing up, the skin falling from his face and his skull bleaching under the fierce noonday sun that would continue to blaze in the heavens when he was no more but gone to that happy land. ‘You are doomed to hell eternal,’ whispered the wind in the trees. ‘There is no happy land for the likes of you.’
It was growing dark now, and as he peered ahead wraiths appeared on the edge of the swamp, holding out mocking arms. There was the young girl he had pushed into the murky waters of the Thames, her locks still streaming water, her face contorted with hatred of him. There was the sunny-haired sailor whom he had consigned to a watery grave so long ago, his knuckles still bright with blood from the cruel stamping against the stone. ‘Hell eternal,’ they echoed, and their voices rose to an eerie scream as the wind gathered gale force. Mercifully, Rupert Bigarstaff lost consciousness.
He had no idea how long it was he had been in a faint, and when he came to for a moment he feared he was indeed in hell. Jagged lightning zipped across the black sky, illuminating the jagged trees and vegetation, and booms of thunder rolled round his head. The very swamp seemed to be bubbling with unrest, as the rain fell in curtains across the island. He felt moisture lilting against his face, filling his ears. He screamed over and over. And then, suddenly, he found himself floating on his back, looking up at a scarlet flash. He was being carried along by some flood. Again he fainted.
When he woke up the second time he was on dry land, firm land, though soggy from the storm, and already dawn was lighting up the area in which he lay. He realised it was the sea that had flooded in pushed by the violence of the storm to cover the swamp and thus free him in a miraculous manner. He knelt and gave thanks to God, a penitent after all the awful years of sin, his heart full of appreciation to the merciful Lord.
A flash of silver caught his eye, somewhere on his left shoulder. He touched it – and it was his own hair, turned snow white in one ghastly night.
CHAPTER 38
He did not find it easy to be good. It was not all plain sailing. Two weeks after his salvation from death, the bodies of four sailors were washed up on the beach, their faces contorted with dire horror. Obviously they had tried to get away on some makeshift raft and had drowned in the storm. When he saw them he felt no pity for them and would have left them where they lay to rot, but then he could not sleep that night and had fearful dreams. He imagined he was again in the swamp, being pulled down, down, and woke with the sweat running into his scared eyes.
In the morning he dug a big hole and buried the sailors and stuck a branch on top of the mound and whispered some rough words over their burial. ‘Forgive me, Lord,’ he said. ‘I cannot turn over a new leaf in a few short weeks. Give me more time.’
Once, he saw a turtle struggling on its back in the heat, its short legs waving incompetently. After many hours it managed to right itself and begin to crawl away in a weakened condition. He was about to run forward and upturn it again when an inner voice warned him of his wrong thinking.
After about a year, or so he took it to be, for time went neither slow nor fast on the island and he had no Big Ben to toll the hours away with its booming notes, he was walking along the causeway when he heard a commotion in a thicket. When he went to investigate he saw a mongoose caught in a sort of trap made by an accidental creeper which had bound the beast to a tree. He was about to walk on and leave it to its long fate when he paused. Was this a test from the Lord? Carefully he unwound the thick creeper and released the mongoose which flapped off at once.
Afterwards, though he dared not admit it out loud, he felt he had been foolish. He should have killed it for fresh meat, if a bird is meat. Then two days later, when he was sitting by his lonely camp-fire, chewing the last of the tobacco which had remained in his pocket when he had first been shipwrecked, a shadow fell across the sand and he saw the mongoose sitting there, looking at him. He said nothing. He gave no sign that he saw the bird. When he lay down to sleep he knew that the thing was still there, eyeing him with bald eyes.
In the morning the bird had gone, and he felt sad. It returned that night and every night for years to come, and though they never spoke Rupert and he became friends, and it was a bad day when the mongoose finally died of old age and was buried under a banyan tree in the far corner of the island. Then he did weep, freely and without shame, and he sang a long hymn in memory of that faithful feathered comrade.
CHAPTER 39
Seven years passed before two brigs sailed towards the island. It was the oil men come to stake their claims and dig for the precious liquid. Fortunately all the oil was on one side of the island and Rupert Bigarstaff was able to avoid such unwanted company. He did not feel he was ready to join the land of the living and clung to his solitude.
Sometimes the oil men thought they glimpsed a shadowy figure watching them from a distance, but though they sent out search parties they never found anyone and the captains wrote in their logs that it was probably just a mirage they had seen.
Only once did Rupert Bigarstaff fall from grace. One night he heard the noise of roistering in the distance, and creeping forward on his belly spied the oil men round their camp-fire, drinking from brandy bottles. His mouth watered and his head swam. If only he could get hold of a drink. He waited till they had fallen into a stupor. Then, flitting like a bat, he swooped down and bore off a bottle in his nerveless fingers.
For two days and nights he drank, and his stomach revolted, for it was a long time since a drop had passed his lips. He was afraid he would shout out and caper in his drunkenness, and he bound his mouth with leaves, and tied himself by the foot to a tree when the bottle was empty. It was a ghastly time for him. He got the shudders and the wraiths of his past misdemeanours returned tenfold and danced round him jeering, pointing their skinny fingers and hinting of a devilish revenge.
When the drink had worn off he made a sole
mn vow, kneeling on the sand and clasping his trembling hands. ‘I will not touch the stuff again,’ he said. ‘By all that’s holy I am now cured.’ After twenty-one years he decided that the time had come for him to return to England. He wanted to die in the pleasant churchyard in which Old Andrew Ledwhistle had long been laid to rest. Accordingly, he gathered his belongings together and cleaned out the leafy bower which had been his home for so long, and lingering for one last moment at the graveside of the mongoose to murmur goodbye, he went across the island to the oil men.
They were very surprised to meet him, and at first thought he was mad because he spoke like the Bible, and had forgotten any other words. After a good wash and a haircut they put him on the next brig and despatched him homewards.
CHAPTER 40
Now, his long voyage was over and he was home. Secure in the knowledge that he had been kind to a fellow human being, even one so small and insignificant as the child with the bloody foot, Rupert Bigarstaff continued on his way down the lane towards the church.
The sun was declining, casting ruddy beams in long flakes on the slumbering graveyard. It was a Norman church, and he thought of those warring men who had come to foreign shores and vanquished the population. Along this quiet lane they had trod their marauding way, spears flashing in the moonlight, elk horns curved in their brutal helmets.
‘How long, O Lord,’ he murmured. ‘How long until men will learn to love each other and forsake their foolish ways?’ But answer came there none.
Old Andrew’s grave was covered all over with ivy. There was a statue of an angel with a broken wing poised in mid-flight over the puny stretch of tomb.
Rupert Bigarstaff was very tired. He had come a long distance, and the ways of men exhausted him. How easy it would be if he could give up the ghost now on this spot and return to his Maker. He knelt in the grass, his old soul swooning. A little breeze rustled the pine-trees. ‘Hell,’ they sighed. ‘Hell waits.’
‘No,’ he cried aloud. ‘I have paid for my sins. I demand heaven.’
And then a fearful pain grabbed his breast. He turned white and then blue. Was it all a trick? Was he to die cheated of his just reward? Had he sacrificed a life of enjoyment to the outworn story of a man on a cross?
He pitched forward, and as he did so the scarlet flames roared towards his proud soul. God is not mocked, reader! He knows what true repentance is, and what is not.
CHAPTER 41
Richard Soleway walked briskly down the little country lane. He was a heavier, more self-satisfied Richard – or no, perhaps that is being too harsh. Enough to say he was 75 years of age. Side-whiskers did not adorn his face, neither a growth of beard. His eyebrows, far from being bushy, were flat and scanty. A lifting of his bowler would have disclosed as bald a dome as any.
The evening was drawing to a close, and it was a time when darkness wrestled with dusk for the upper hand. It was a time too when country places seem to grow fanciful. Yes, that is the word, fanciful. The dark pines rustled darkly and, in the long rank grass, leaves whispered among themselves. As Richard turned a bend he seemed to go slower, and it was as if a weight was on his legs. Tap, tap, tap went the sharp pointed stick on the gravel, and St Carthage’s was before him. Rupert Bigarstaff had found the lonely graveyard vaguely beautiful, but now, as dark shadows played on the great stone walls, it gave an impression of age and faint terror. Through its trees Richard caught the glint of the sea, and the departing sun lying white and wan, after its golden splendour on the edge of it. Softly he trod the grass and entered the yard. He would have strode on but something seemed to arrest him. On he went to the porch and, scarcely breathing, lifted the iron ring on the church door. It swung open and Richard stepped inside. Oh, how desolate it was. The rows and rows of empty pews, the dark curtains drawn before the altar. The sun with its dying palpitation rested heavily on the edge of the window, but had not the strength to peep within. Clank, clank went Soleway’s footsteps. No scent of incense was on the air. No jewelled robe, no costly silver candle-holder was there, but God was here for all that and like a child Richard felt hushed and at peace. When the hollow notes of the vicar ring out, and the rows of people in their Sunday best listen with shut hearts, when one looks around to see what Mr Clarkson’s niece is wearing and when people walk with pompous steps into their family pew, then Soleway was a stranger to the Lord’s house. But now, when the clergyman is absent and no one’s chatter distracts him, when he can walk about and need not to his knees bend, then was Richard Soleway at home.
He gazed with clear eyes at the brass cross that swung above him, small and shining. Then, turning, he left and came into the burial ground. All among the ivy he wended his way. As he saw the blackened monument to Andrew Ledwhistle he became aware of the body of a man flung across it. He dropped to one knee as he feverishly turned the old man over. Somehow, even before he saw those eyes, Richard knew who it would be.
‘God,’ he whispered as he gazed at Rupert Bigarstaff. The white hair hung over the small ears in jagged sprays. The lips were bloodless and the eyes were wide open and oh so cold. Green and cold and dead. Dead and cold and green. With a shudder Richard let the lifeless old frame drop. Stumbling and cursing, he ran to the gate. Sobbing, he wrenched it open and ran down the road. Cold and Green and Dead. Dead … Cold. He reached the vicarage path.
When the Reverend Peter Whit opened his door, he was fallen upon almost savagely by Richard Soleway.
‘My dear man,’ cried Whit, as he was shaken by the lapels till the teeth shook in his head. He was a big man and he was a strong man, but he had to be a clever man to stem Soleway’s hysteria.
When he had succeeded in doing so, Soleway was drawn into the back parlour. Peter Whit was a bachelor, and he lived without any servants. Therefore his room was essentially mannish. A grate held a coal fire, which was crackling and spitting. A cover with a green border hung over the mantelpiece, while above it a three-cornered mirror was fixed. On either side of the grate, high up, was a shelf of books with curtains ready to draw. In front of this was an old armchair, and a desk stood in the corner. On the mantelpiece was a queerly carved group of tiny statues and several Toby jugs. A warm rug lay by the hearth edge, and worn lino covered the rest. Seated on the armchair was a large dog, with ponderous chops. She was evidently a bitch, for a litter of puppies rolled and squeaked over her.
‘Now what exactly has startled you, my dear sir?’ Whit asked, his keen eyes noting the old man’s prosperous appearance. He wondered rather ashamedly if this gentleman could be persuaded to subscribe for the annual school treat for the village boys.
‘Out there,’ whispered Richard, ‘out there.’ His hands clutched his coat hem and he shook uncontrollably. ‘There’s Bigarstaff and his eyes are cold and green out there.’
‘Out where, who’s out there?’
‘Rupert Bigarstaff, in the graveyard and he’s dead.’
Whit shot to his feet. ‘Where? Quick.’
But Soleway only moaned and cursed. Peter Whit ran out of the house. He did not wait to go round to the gate, but squeezed through the fence. His eyes caught a white face and he knew Richard Soleway had spoken the truth.
CHAPTER 42
Charles Coney held tight to the shoulder of his son Colin.
‘This,’ he said, ‘this is Ernest, son.’
Colin Coney put out his hand.
‘How do you do,’ he said embarrassedly.
Ernest Ledwhistle, the great-grandson of Andrew Ledwhistle, was not so shy. He was a well-built boy some 13 years of age and free from timidness. ‘Hallo,’ he said.
‘Well,’ stammered Charles, ‘take your cousin to his room, son.’
When the two had gone he turned to his wife. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘it is a shame, Sally. That boy is hiding his real feelings very well.’
Sally pushed a strand of wavy hair from off her brow. ‘I know,’ she said softly. ‘I only wish James could do the same. He’s broken-hearted. Not that I blame him. Elsie was
the best wife any man could have.’
Charles sat down and drew out a letter. ‘I got a letter from Robert Straffordson this morning,’ he said. Seeing his wife’s disinterested attitude, he went on: ‘You know, Sally, Victor Radenstone’s son. Surely you’ve heard of the great Opium hero?’
Sally put down her knitting. ‘What is this leading to, dear?’
Charles looked at her sharply. ‘It seems the old man wants me to get in touch with old Jane Ledwhistle.’
‘Whatever for?’ cried Sally, her hands for once idle in her lap. ‘How very comical. How’s he getting on in that tropical island of his?’
Charles smiled that slow, slow smile of his. ‘As far as I can make out, very well indeed. He’s not alone, though, for the miners’ families are with him. He was very cut up when Radenstone died. Must have been getting on for 89.’
Sally settled down to her work once more while her husband went outside to talk in the garden with James, his cousin, father of the young Ernest. The letter remained on the chair and Sally gently picked it up. Robert Straffordson, Jane Ledwhistle, Ernest, Old Andrew, Martin Andromikey – what a lot of suffering had been known in Charles’s family. His uncle’s partner’s ruthless ruin of the firm, whose downfall had been the tragic death of Old Andrew. Robert Straffordson, the legless old man who had been the son of the man who had helped to reunite Anna Mansall with her loved one. Jane, the one-time music player, now a silent old woman, sister of Francis, that drunkard and destitute man who ever came to call on Charles for money. Strange that one man could cause such suffering and death!
James came into the room. About 50, he was floridly handsome, and very grey. His face was lined and white, for the death of his wife had shocked him greatly.
‘Sorry, Sally,’ he said with an effort, as Charles’s wife jerked her head up in startled amazement. ‘What were you thinking about?’
Collected Stories Page 27