Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman

by Stanley J Weyman

  “Why, Budgen,” she said lightly. “I seldom see you idle. What are you looking at?” But she had no sooner spoken than she repented of her tone. She had forgotten his share in the calamity, and she saw, now that she was close to him, that the man was changed. He had a three days’ beard on his chin, and he looked ill and sallow and shrunken. His answer matched his looks.

  “I’m taking my leave, taking my leave,” he said, dully, his tone lifeless. He did not look at her.

  “My good man!” Charlotte remonstrated. “What do you mean?”

  “Mean? I’ll tell ye. Why not? Why not?” he repeated in the same dreary tone. “D’you see that shed as I as good as built with my own hands? And as I’ve laboured most part of my life in? And the slips as I’ve launched boats from these thirty years? And the house as my grandfather built and I’ve lived in since I could crawl through the door and play wi’ the old shot as kept it open? And the garden and the cots? I built more than half of ‘em! And the cranny here as holds all snug — so snug as I could call it all my own as far as I could see?”

  His hopeless tone moved her as much as his words. Here was another change as odd as that in the Rector! She had known Budgen long, and she had never known him anything but churlish and thorny and sharp-tongued, set in a crabbed independence. She had never known him like this. But she had to answer him, and “Yes, I see them, Budgen,” she said patiently. “What of them?”

  “They ain’t mine, they ain’t mine no longer. And I wish I were dead! I come here of a morning, where I can see ‘em all of a piece — and how many mornings more’ll I see ‘em?” A sound like a groan burst from him, the first sign of feeling that he had betrayed. “Not many more I’ll see ‘em. They’re his, and he’ll take ‘em, next week or the week after! He’ll take ‘em, though they’ve been my home for sixty years!

  Sixty years!” he repeated drearily. “Summer and winter, rain and shine!”

  Charlotte knew his story, and though she recognized his selfishness in the face of greater griefs than his, she pitied him. “But Joe mayn’t be dead!” she said briskly. “We don’t know yet, Budgen. You’re crying out before you’re hurt, man.”

  “He’s dead!” he said. “He’s dead, for sure.”

  “But you cannot know!” Charlotte objected. “There must be some alive. We know there are. It is not as bad as that, Budgen.”

  “He’s dead,” he repeated darkly. “There’s things are settled for us — settled for us. If there’s one dead it’s him. And it’s my work, my work,” he continued in a tone that made Charlotte very uncomfortable. “I might ha’ known how ’twould be. I might ha’ known there’s them as makes the score even, though I didn’t think it.”

  “Come, come, Budgen,” she protested. “You mustn’t talk like that. If the worst comes to the worst and Joe’s gone — but you can’t know it and no one knows it — you must talk to the Rector. I don’t think he’ll be hard on you. I don’t indeed,” Charlotte repeated with a confidence that she would not have expressed a month before.

  Something more of feeling — but it was a bitter black feeling — showed in Budgen’s face. “The Rector!” he said. And in a low voice, but with exceeding venom, and regardless of her presence, he cursed him, using terrible words, words not the less terrible for the restraint that he put upon his voice.

  “Man!” Charlotte cried in horror. “You are very wicked!”

  “That’s all by,” he rejoined, his eyes on the white house. “All by, now. Done and to be paid for.” He had not met her eyes, even for a moment.

  She went away from him, rather unhappy than shocked. Things seemed to be all wrong, all awry; the world was full of sorrow and disappointment. She wished that she had not seen him, that she had not spoken to him. As she climbed wearily up the path to the cottage she saw nothing of the airy grace of the gulls as they swung and poised in the ether below her, of their buoyancy and balance as they rode the incoming waves, but her ears were filled with the sadness of their wailing. She had to stand and compose herself before she could go into Peggy, and greet her with the cheerful words and the smiling face that were needed.

  CHAPTER XXXIV

  THE days stole on, and brought to the little port no certain tidings. From Sir Albery Wyke came two letters, one addressed to the Rector, and one, framed in more cautious terms and written for Peggy’s eye, to Miss Bicester. He had paid two visits to the Admiralty without learning more than was known at Beremouth; Whitehall had no information, indeed, beyond that which had appeared in the Moniteur. But his inquiries had been listened to and noted, he had penetrated to Lord St. Vincent himself, and his reception by the autocratic First Lord, the terror of the Channel Squadron, had been all that he could wish. The Service, though jealous of its interests and apt to look with no friendly eye on Letters of Marque, had still approved of the Peggy’s exploit; the service that she had performed was deemed of value, and the matter was receiving attention. More than this could not be expected.

  In the later of his two epistles Wyke spoke of a visit to Paris — from an English point of view a bloodstained city of gloomy fame — as a step that influence and patience might render feasible. The overtures that later led to the Peace of Amiens were in the making, agents, more or less accredited, were, it was rumoured, passing to and fro, and it might not be impossible under cover of their movements to obtain a safe-conduct and perhaps a letter to some one in power. There were courtesies that policy rendered advisable, and the intention which Sir Albery had vaguely conceived when he travelled up to town was taking a clearer shape.

  “Oh, but he is a friend!” Peggy cried, with tears in her eyes. And she pressed the precious letter to her breast. “He is a friend!”

  “He is very loyal,” Charlotte replied gravely.

  “To do so much! So much for us! I can never, never thank him enough.”

  Charlotte remembered Augusta’s prediction and wondered if it were already in process of fulfilment. “No, perhaps not,” she agreed, and she turned away quickly to fetch the glass of port that her patient took at noon. No man in those days doubted the sovereign virtues of port.

  Peggy, who was still weak and frail, seldom said as much as this, and some might have thought her apathetic. But Charlotte’s devotion saw through the mask. The improvement that others, deceived by appearances, took for granted, did not blind her. Because Peggy did not give way to open lamentations, because in her bed, or later sitting up in a chair, she bore the suspense with seeming patience, and when her father or her sister visited her was gentle and passive, they fancied that all was well. It was possible, even, that they congratulated themselves on the change, and thought but slightingly of the love that could so patiently endure the absence of the loved one. But Charlotte, who was always with the young wife, saw more clearly. Now and again, surprising Peggy’s eyes, she read in them the dumb suffering, the mute question that sought yet flinched from an answer — the faith that still held dread at bay. And she feared for the issue. She felt at such types that the life still trembled in Peggy like a bird about to take wing. She dreaded the moment when the truth must be known and the last spark of hope extinguished.

  For to hope, though a wavering hope, she was sure that Peggy still clung; of that, Charlotte had had one moment of clear vision. The Rector had suggested that Peggy should be removed to the Rectory. Ho had this at heart, and he had pressed it with something of his old authority. He had pointed out how much more comfortable she could be made there, how much more easily nursed. “And it will free Charlotte, too,” he had added with a flicker of natural jealousy. “We must not trespass too far on her, and I fear we are doing so.” Peggy had resisted, but she had said little. Weak and distrusting her self-control, she had let her father go under the impression that in a few days, when she had accustomed herself to the thought, she would consent.

  But when he had left them Peggy had broken down. She had shown her heart to Charlotte. Trembling, shaken by uncontrollable agitation, and so hysterical that the oth
er had feared for her, she had clung to her friend, crying again and again that she could not go, that she should die if they moved her! That if he came, if he came and did not find her where he had placed her, in the home sacred to him — if he did not find her there, but thought that she had forsaken him!

  With difficulty Charlotte had soothed her, promised that she should not go, sworn that there should be an end of it, and with laughter and tears, that only over her body, “And I am very strong, my dear!” should Peggy be taken away. Even so it had been with much trouble that she had restored the other to something like calmness.

  But enlightened by this Charlotte was in no danger of being misled. She knew with what she had to deal, and felt no surprise that as the days passed and grew into weeks Peggy’s progress was slow. Lady Bicester complained, and became even obstreperous. “Was she to lose her daughter altogether, and see her dwindle to a nobody, living in that poky place out of the way of everybody?” she scolded. But she scolded in vain, Charlotte was firmly undutiful. She had a trust who had confided it to her she did not say — and she was going through with it. My lady in high displeasure declared that the Rectory was very well, and so far good; but to be swallowed up by one family never answered. One never got to the top of the ladder by standing on one rung.

  Meantime her daughter aggravated the offence by going round in her spare hours visiting Jael Cruddas and the like, in whose houses Lady Bicester was sure that fevers and small-pox were rampant. Charlotte listened to the women’s tearful complaints, and inspired hopes which she had much ado to feel,’ and did not feel as soon as she had turned her back on the tear-stained faces. The truth was, that she found in these visits a relief. She was faithful to her task, but there were times when the dumb question in Peggy’s eyes was too much for her, when Peggy’s very stillness, the stillness of one ever listening for a footstep, a sound, a something, tried her beyond bearing. Often, and more often of late, she was tempted to put an end to it; tempted to tell her how little sanguine she was herself, and how vain she thought this never-ceasing hope — or was it a make-believe of hope? Peggy must know sometime, Charlotte thought, averting her eyes that the other might not read her despair. She must know sometime — why keep her longer on the rack? And as Peggy climbed slowly back to life, and began to move about the room, and at length on one sunny morning passed through the wicket-gate and stood on the path looking down on the shimmering, winking sea, so bright, so dazzling, so smiling, and so cruel — at length it seemed to Charlotte that even in mercy the time had come to tell her; to explain on what a slender thread the hope they clung to hung, and to confess that if the scanty information they had was true — and more might never be obtained — her husband had died in his duty on that May day a month and more before.

  Time, indeed, and the absence of news had exhausted Charlotte’s hopes. And though Wyke was still absent and the final word was not spoken, it seemed to her to be cruel to persist in the deceit. But, with the confession hovering on her lips — she was of all women the most impulsive — she forbore. “Not here,” she thought. “I must tell her, if I tell her, in the house.”

  Little dreaming what was in her companion’s mind, Peggy, drinking in the air and the sunshine, drew her gently down the path. “I would not go that way,” Charlotte objected. “You will have to climb the hill again, dear.”

  “I must — just a little way,” Peggy prayed. Movement and the wind had brought a faint colour to her cheeks, and she went creeping on on Charlotte’s arm until the two could look down into the Cove and see Budgen’s house, the idle slips, the old weed-clad hulk and the wavelets creaming on the warm beach.

  “There is the stone,” Peggy murmured.

  “What stone, dear?”

  “The stone that he — he stepped into the boat from.”

  Charlotte choked. “Oh, my dear!” she exclaimed, not knowing whether she meant to laugh or cry. But the thought of telling Peggy was gone, wiped from her mind. It seemed a terrible thing now, to tell her; a thing to tremble at, that she could not face alone. Her father must tell her, or — or Sir Albery. She could think of no one else. She only knew that she could not do it, that the very thought of doing it sapped her courage. For a minute she could not speak. Then “We had better go back, now, Peggy,” she urged.

  But Peggy prayed that she might stay a little longer. “ It is so peaceful here,” she murmured, hanging in pensive contemplation on the other’s arm. For the time she seemed to have put off her fears, to have escaped from the ever-present terror, to have ceased to listen and watch. Under the influence of the sun-shine and the gentle wind that caressed her she rested in a happy dream of hope. And Charlotte was tempted to think this mood worse than the other: to wonder afresh if it were not cruel to let her hope to foster the confidence that had no basis, and was as deceitful as the smiling sea that in an hour might change its face and show itself remorseless and cruel.

  Peaceful now,” she muttered, echoing Peggy’s words, and uncertain how far she meant to go. “But not always peaceful, as we know. It can change and — and be very terrible.”

  “Yes, I know,” Peggy said, and Charlotte felt her stiffen herself, and knew without looking at her that her colour had faded. “I think I am tired,” Peggy admitted in an altered tone. “Perhaps we had better go back.”

  Too late the other’s heart smote her, and she could have cursed her folly. Why spoil this first change to warmth and sunshine, to the freshness and buoyancy of the open world? But aloud “Yes, dear,” she said, lean on me and we shall be back in a twinkling. Don’t be afraid, dear, I am as strong as a horse. I could pick you up and carry you if necessary.” Then, as the one turn in the path that they had to wind round disclosed a figure standing before the Cottage door, Oh, dear, dear!” Charlotte exclaimed. “There’s my mother, and I am in for a scolding! And she has not seen you yet, and will have a world to say. When we get there, do you go in, dear, and leave her to me. I will keep her at bay while you lie down.”

  Peggy shared her dismay. They were still some distance from the stout figure that was making dabs at them with a fluttering handkerchief, but it was plain that Lady Bicester had recognized them. “Don’t you think that I could stay here?” Peggy suggested. “While you go on?”

  “No,” Charlotte replied. “Certainly not. I don’t stir a step from you until you are in the house. Do you go straight in when we get there, and I’ll dispose of my lady.”

  It was easy to say this, but Peggy was weak, and began to feel her fatigue. Before they had covered half the distance, ascending the more slowly for what was before them, Charlotte spoke again. “Oh, dear,” she said, in a tone of disgust. “If there aren’t more of them! And this morning of all mornings! When I don’t believe a soul passed yesterday.”

  Peggy saw what awaited her, faltered and stopped. For beyond Lady Bicester, and about as far from her as they were themselves, two persons were coming down the path. As Peggy caught sight of them, they stopped very much as if they had that moment seen Lady Bicester and had no mind to overtake her. In the act of stopping, one tinned his back on them. He seemed to be arguing with his companion.

  “It’s only the Captain,” Charlotte said, reassured. “I can see his peg.”

  “But who is the other one?” Peggy asked, as she and Charlotte moved slowly on, their eyes on the couple. She had all an invalid’s distaste for strange faces.

  “I think it is your father,” Charlotte said at a venture. “Bother them! We shall have them all upon us at once.”

  “You don’t — you don’t think that they are quarrelling?” Peggy faltered. The thought of a meeting between her father and the old man frightened her.

  “Why should they? And it does not matter,” Charlotte said. “You must get in, my dear, that’s all that matters.” Then, with a gurgle of laughter, “I believe they are no more eager to meet my lady than we are,” she added. “But I want to see you lying down.”

  They had no time for more. As Charlotte spoke, Lady Bice
ster, her patience exhausted, came sailing down upon them, waving her hands in protest. “Heavens!” she cried, “you ought not to be out, my dear! And the wind treacherous, and you no more than a shadow! Much use Charlotte is if she has no more sense than to let you! She thinks everyone is as strong as herself. Come in — come in! You could have knocked me down with a feather when I saw you gadding out.”

  Peggy smiled faintly. “But I — I am really much better,” she protested. “And Charlotte lent me her arm.”

  “If you had lent her your head, my dear, it would have been better! You wouldn’t have been out here then, I’ll be bound! But Charlotte was always like that. Leap first and look afterwards!”