“‘That depends upon how quick you are with the gaff,’ said I.’ Here comes my father.’
“My father returned empty-handed. Not one of the crew had been saved.
“‘You asked my name,’ said Robert Lovyes, turning to my mother. ‘It is Crudge — Jarvis Crudge.’ With that he went to his bed, but all night long I heard him pacing his room.
“The next morning he complained of his long immersion in the sea, and certainly when he told his story to Mr. and Mrs. Lovyes as they sat over their breakfast in the parlour at Merchant’s Point, he spoke with such huskiness as I never heard the like of. Mr. Lovyes took little heed to us, but went on eating his breakfast with only a sour comment here and there. I noticed, however, that Mrs. Lovyes, who sat over against us, bent her head forward and once or twice shook it as though she would unseat some ridiculous conviction. And after the story was told, she sat with no word of kindness for Mr. Crudge, and, what was yet more unlike her, no word of pity for the sailors who were lost. Then she rose and stood, steadying herself with the tips of her fingers upon the table. Finally she came swiftly across the room and peered into Mr. Crudge’s face.
“‘If you need help,’ she said, ‘I will gladly furnish it. No doubt you will be anxious to go from Tresco at the earliest. No doubt, no doubt you will,’ she repeated anxiously.
“‘Madame,’ he said, ‘I need no help, being by God’s leave a man’ — and he laid some stress upon the ‘man,’ but not boastfully — rather as though all women did, or might need help, by the mere circumstance of their sex— ‘and as for going hence, why yesterday I was bound for Africa. I sailed unexpectedly into a fog off Scilly. I was wrecked in a calm sea on the Golden Ball — I was thrown up on Tresco — no one on that ship escaped but myself. No sooner was I safe than the fog lifted—’
“‘You will stay?’ Mrs. Lovyes interrupted. ‘No?’
“‘Yes,’ said he, ‘Jarvis Grudge will stay.’
“And she turned thoughtfully away. But I caught a glimpse of her face as we went out, and it wore the saddest smile a man could see.
“Mr. Grudge and I walked for a while in silence.
“‘And what sort of a name has Mr. John Lovyes in these parts?’ he asked.
“‘An honest sort,’ said I emphatically— ‘the name of a man who loves his wife.’
“‘Or her money,’ he sneered. ‘Bah! a surly ill-conditioned dog, I’ll warrant, the curmudgeon!”
“‘You are marvellously recovered of your cold,’ said I.
“He stopped, and looked across the Sound. Then he said in a soft, musing voice: ‘I once knew just such another clever boy. He was so clever that men beat him with sticks and put on great sea-boots to kick him with, so that he lived a miserable life, and was subsequently hanged in great agony at Tyburn.’
“Mr. Grudge, as he styled himself, stayed with us for a week, during which time he sailed much with me about these islands; and I made a discovery. Though he knew these islands so well, he had never visited them before, and his knowledge was all hearsay. I did not mention my discovery to him, lest I should meet with another rebuff. But I was none the less sure of its truth, for he mistook Hanjague for Nornor, and Priglis Bay for Beady Pool, and made a number of suchlike mistakes. After a week he hired the cottage in which he now lives, bought his boat, leased from the steward the patch of ground in Dolphin Town, and set about building his house. He undertook the work, I am sure, for pure employment and distraction. He picked up the granite stones, fitted them together, panelled them, made the floors from the deck of a brigantine which came ashore on Annet, pegged down the thatch roof — in a word, he built the house from first to last with his own hands and he took fifteen months over the business, during which time he did not exchange a single word with Mrs. Lovyes, nor anything more than a short ‘Good-day’ with Mr. John. He worked, however, with no great regularity. For while now he laboured in a feverish haste, now he would sit a whole day idle on the headlands; or, again, he would of a sudden throw down his tools as though the work overtaxed him, and, leaping into his boat, set all sail and run with the wind. All that night you might see him sailing in the moonlight, and he would come home in the flush of the dawn.
“After he had built the house, he furnished it, crossing for that purpose backwards and forwards between Tresco and St. Mary’s. I remember that one day he brought back with him a large chest, and I offered to lend him a hand in carrying it. But he hoisted it on his back and took it no farther than the cottage in which he lived, where it remained locked with a padlock.
“Towards Christmas-time, then, the house was ready, but to our surprise he did not move into it. He seemed, indeed, of a sudden, to have lost all liking for it, and whether it was that he had no longer any work upon his hands, he took to following Mrs. Lovyes about, but in a way that was unnoticeable unless you had other reasons to suspect that his thoughts were following her.
“His conduct in this respect was particularly brought home to me on Christmas Day. The afternoon was warm and sunny, and I walked over the hill at Merchant’s Point, meaning to bathe in the little sequestered bay beyond. From the top of the hill I saw Mrs. Lovyes walking along the strip of beach alone, and as I descended the hill-side, which is very deep in fern and heather, I came plump upon Jarvis Grudge, stretched full-length on the ground. He was watching Mrs. Lovyes with so greedy a concentration of his senses that he did not remark my approach. I asked him when he meant to enter his new house.
“‘I do not know that I ever shall,’ he replied.
“‘Then why did you build it?’ I asked.
“‘Because I was a fool!’ and then he burst out in a passionate whisper. ‘But a fool I was to stay here, and a fool’s trick it was to build that house!’ He shook his fist in its direction. ‘Call it Grudge’s Folly, and there’s the name for it!’ and with that he turned him again to spying upon Mrs. Lovyes.
“After a while he spoke again, but slowly and with his eyes fixed upon the figure moving upon the beach.
“‘Do you remember the night I came ashore? You had caught a shark that day, and you told me of it. The great lilac shadow which rises from the depths and circles about the bait, and sinks again and rises again and takes — how long? — two years maybe before he snaps it.’
“‘But he does not carry it away,’ said I, taking his meaning.
“‘Sometimes — sometimes,” he snarled.
“‘That depends on how quick we are with the gaff.”
“‘You!’ he laughed, and taking me by the elbows, he shook me till I was giddy.
“‘I owe Mrs. Lovyes everything,’ I said. At that he let me go. The ferocity of his manner, however, confirmed me in my fears, and, with a boy’s extravagance, I carried from that day a big knife in my belt.
“‘The gaff, I suppose,’ said Mr. Grudge with a polite smile when first he remarked it. During the next week, however, he showed more contentment with his lot, and once I caught him rubbing his hands and chuckling, like a man well pleased; so that by New Year’s Eve I was wellnigh relieved of my anxiety on Mrs. Lovyes’ account.
“On that night, however, I went down to Grudge’s cottage, and peeping through the window on my way to the door, I saw a strange man in the room. His face was clean-shaven, his hair tied back and powdered; he was in his shirt-sleeves, with a satin waistcoat, a sword at his side, and shining buckles to his shoes. Then I saw that the big chest stood open. I opened the door and entered.
“‘Come in!’ said the man, and from his voice I knew him to be Mr.
Crudge. He took a candle in his hand and held it above his head.
“‘Tell me my name,’ he said. His face, shaved of its beard and no longer hidden by his hair, stood out distinct, unmistakable.
“‘Lovyes,’ I answered.
“‘Good boy,’ said he. ‘Robert Lovyes, brother to John.’
“‘Yet he did not know you,’ said I, though, indeed, I could not wonder.
“‘But she did,’ he cried, wit
h a savage exultation. ‘At the first glance, at the first word, she knew me.’ Then, quietly, ‘My coat is on the chair beside you.’
“I took it up. ‘What do you mean to do?’ I asked.
“‘It is New Year’s Eve,’ he said grimly. ‘The season of good wishes. It is only meet that I should wish my brother, who stole my wife, much happiness for the next twelve months.’
“He took the coat from my hands.
“‘You admire the coat? Ah! true, the colour is lilac.’ He held it out at arm’s length. Doubtless I had been staring at the coat, but I had not even given it a thought. ‘The lilac shadow!’ he went on, with a sneer. ‘Believe me, it is the purest coincidence.’ And as he prepared to slip his arm into the sleeve I flashed the knife out of my belt. He was too quick for me, however. He flung the coat over my head. I felt the knife twisted out of my hand; he stumbled over the chair; we both fell to the ground, and the next thing I know I was running over the bracken towards Merchant’s Point with Robert Lovyes hot upon my heels. He was of a heavy build, and forty years of age. I had the double advantage, and I ran till my chest cracked and the stars danced above me. I clanged at the bell and stumbled into the hall.
“‘Mrs. Lovyes!’ I choked the name out as she stepped from the parlour.
“‘Well?’ she asked. ‘What is it?’
“‘He is following — Robert Lovyes!’
“She sprang rigid, as though I had whipped her across the face. Then, ‘I knew it would come to this at the last,’ she said; and even as she spoke Robert Lovyes crossed the threshold.
“‘Molly,’ he said, and looked at her curiously. She stood singularly passive, twisting her fingers. ‘I hardly know you,’ he continued. ‘In the old days you were the wilfullest girl I ever clapped eyes on.’
“‘That was thirteen years ago,’ she said, with a queer little laugh at the recollection.
“He took her by the hand and led her into the parlour. I followed. Neither Mrs. Lovyes nor Robert remarked my presence, and as for John Lovyes, he rose from his chair as the pair approached him, stretched out a trembling hand, drew it in, stretched it out again, all without a word, and his face purple and ridged with the veins.
“‘Brother,’ said Robert, taking between his fingers half a gold coin, which was threaded on a chain about Mrs. Lovyes’ wrist, ‘where is the fellow to this? I gave it to you on the Gambia river, bidding you carry it to Molly as a sign that I would return.’
“I saw John’s face harden and set at the sound of his brother’s voice. He looked at his wife, and, since she now knew the truth, he took the bold course.
“‘I gave it to her,’ said he, ‘as a token of your death; and, by God! she was worth the lie!’
“The two men faced one another — Robert smoothing his chin, John with his arms folded, and each as white and ugly with passion as the other. Robert turned to Mrs. Lovyes, who stood like a stone.
“‘You promised to wait,’ he said in a constrained voice. ‘I escaped six years after my noble brother.’
“‘Six years?’ she asked. ‘Had you come back then you would have found me waiting.’
“‘I could not,’ he said. ‘A fortune equal to your own — that was what I promised to myself before I returned to marry you.’
“‘And much good it has done you,’ said John, and I think that he meant by the provocation to bring the matter to an immediate issue. ‘Pride, pride!’ and he wagged his head. ‘Sinful pride!’
“Robert sprang forward with an oath, and then, as though the movement had awakened her, Mrs. Lovyes stepped in between the two men, with an arm outstretched on either side to keep them apart.
“‘Wait!’ she said. ‘For what is it that you fight? Not, indeed, for me. To you, my husband, I will no more belong; to you, my lover, I cannot. My woman’s pride, my woman’s honour — those two things are mine to keep.’
“So she stood casting about for an issue, while the brothers glowered at one another across her. It was evident that if she left them alone they would fight, and fight to the death. She turned to Robert.
“‘You meant to live on Tresco here at my gates, unknown to me; but you could not.’
“‘I could not,’ he answered. ‘In the old days you had spoken so much of Scilly — every island reminded me — and I saw you every day.’
“I could read the thought passing through her mind. It would not serve for her to live beside them, visible to them each day. Sooner or later they would come to grips. And then her face flushed as the notion of her great sacrifice came to her.
“‘I see but the one way,’ she said. ‘I will go into the house that you, Robert, have built. Neither you nor John shall see me, but none the less, I shall live between you, holding you apart, as my hands do now. I give my life to you so truly that from this night no one shall see my face. You, John, shall live on here at Merchant’s Point. Robert, you at your cottage, and every day you will bring me food and water and leave it at my door.’
“The two men fell back shamefaced. They protested they would part and put the world between them; but she would not trust them. I think, too, the notion of her sacrifice grew on her as she thought of it. For women are tenacious of sacrifice even as men are of revenge. And in the end she had her way. That night Robert Lovyes nailed the boards across the windows, and brought the door-key back to her; and that night, twenty years ago, she crossed the threshold. No man has seen her since. But, none the less, for twenty years she has lived between the brothers, keeping them apart.”
This was the story which Mr. Wyeth told me as we sat over our pipes, and the next day I set off on my journey back to London. The conclusion of the affair I witnessed myself. For a year later we received a letter from Mr. Robert, asking that a large sum of money should be forwarded to him. Being curious to learn the reason for his demand, I carried the sum to Tresco myself. Mr. John Lovyes had died a month before, and I reached the island on Mr. Robert’s wedding-day. I was present at the ceremony. He was now dressed in a manner which befitted his station — an old man bent and bowed, but still handsome, and he bore upon his arm a tall woman, grey-haired and very pale, yet with the traces of great beauty. As the parson laid her hand in her husband’s, I heard her whisper to him, “Dust to Dust.”
KEEPER OF THE BISHOP.
FOR A FORTNIGHT out of every six weeks the little white faced man walked the garrison on St. Mary’s Island in a broadcloth frock-coat, a low waistcoat and a black riband of a tie fastened in a bow; and it gave him great pleasure to be mistaken for a commercial traveller. But during the other four weeks he was head-keeper of the lighthouse on the Bishop’s Rock, with thirty years of exemplary service to his credit. By what circumstances he had been brought to enlist under the Trinity flag I never knew. But now, at the age of forty-eight he was entirely occupied with a great horror of the sea and its hunger for the bodies of men; the frock-coat which he wore during his spells on shore was a protest against the sea; and he hated not only the sea but all things that were in the sea, especially rock lighthouses, and of all rock lighthouses especially the Bishop.
“The Atlantic’s as smooth as a ballroom floor,” said he. It was a clear, still day and we were sitting among the gorse on the top of the garrison, looking down the sea towards the west. Five miles from the Scillies, the thin column of the Bishop showed like a cord strung tight in the sky. “But out there all round the lighthouse there are eddies twisting and twisting, without any noise, and extraordinary quick, and every other second, now here, now there, you’ll notice the sea dimple, and you’ll hear a sound like a man hiccoughing, and all at once, there’s a wicked black whirlpool. The tide runs seven miles an hour past the Bishop. But in another year I have done with her.” To her Garstin nodded across from St. Mary’s to that grey finger post of the Atlantic. “One more winter, well, very likely during this one more winter the Bishop will go — on some night when a storm blows from west or west-nor’west and the Irish coast takes none of its strength.”
He
was only uttering the current belief of the islands. The first Bishop lighthouse had been swept away before its building was finished, and though the second stood, a fog bell weighing no less than a ton, and fixed ninety feet above the water, had been lifted from its fittings by a single wave, and tossed like a tennis-ball into the sea. I asked Garstin whether he had been stationed on the rock at the time.
“People talk of lightships plunging and tugging at their cables,” he returned. “Well, I’ve tried lightships, and what I say is, ships are built to plunge and tug at their cables. That’s their business. But it isn’t the business of one hundred and twenty upright feet of granite to quiver and tremble like a steel spring. No, I wasn’t on the Bishop when the bell went. But I was there when a wave climbed up from the base of the rock and smashed in the glass wall of the lantern, and put the light out. That was last spring at four o’clock in the morning. The day was breaking very cold and wild, and one could just see the waves below, a lashing tumble of grey and white water as far as the eye could reach. I was in the lantern reading ‘It’s never too late to mend.’ I had come to where the chaplain knocks down the warder, and I was thinking how I’d like to have a go at that warder myself, when all the guns in the world went off together in my ears. And there I was dripping wet, and fairly sliced with splinters of glass, and the wind blowing wet in my face, and the lamp out, and a bitter grey light of morning, as though there never, never had been any sun, and all the dead men in the sea shouting out for me one hundred feet below,” and Garstin shivered, and rose to his feet. “Well, I have only one more winter of it.”
“And then?” I asked.
“Then I get the North Foreland, and the trippers come out from Margate, and I live on shore with my wife and — By the way, I wanted to speak to you about my boy. He’s getting up in years. What shall I make of him? A linen-draper, eh? In the Midlands, what? or something in a Free Library, handing out Charles Reade’s books? He’s at home now. Come and see him!”
Complete Works of a E W Mason Page 766