Complete works of hall c.., p.113
Complete Works of Hall Caine, page 113
“Go away, and never come back to either of us,” cried Ewan, stamping his foot.
Dan paused, and there was a painful silence.
“Why should I go away?” he said, with an effort at quietness.
“Because you are a scoundrel — the basest scoundrel on God’s earth — the foulest traitor — the blackest-hearted monster—”
Dan’s sunburnt face whitened under his tawny skin.
“Easy, easy, man veen, easy,” he said, struggling visibly for self-command, while he interrupted Ewan’s torrent of reproaches.
“You are a disgrace and a by-word. Only the riff-raff of the island are your friends and associates.”
“That’s true enough, Ewan,” said Dan, and his head fell between his hands, his elbows resting on his knees.
“What are you doing? Drinking, gambling, roistering, cheating — yes—”
Dan got on his feet uneasily and took a step to and fro about the little place; then sat again, and buried his head in his hands as before.
“I’ve been a reckless, self-willed, mad fool, Ewan, but no worse than that. And if you could see me as God sees me, and know how I suffer for my follies and curse them, for all I seem to make so light of them, and how I am driven to them one on the head of another, perhaps — perhaps — perhaps — you would have pity — ay, pity.”
“Pity? Pity for you? You who have brought your father to shame? He is the ruin of the man he was. You have impoverished him; you have spent his substance and wasted it. Ay, and you have made his gray head a mark for reproach. ‘Set your own house in order’ — that’s what the world says to the man of God whose son is a child of the—”
“Stop!” cried Dan.
He had leapt to his feet, his fist clenched, his knuckles showing like nuts of steel.
But Ewan went on, standing there with a face that was ashy white above his black coat. “Your heart is as dead as your honor. And that is not all, but you must outrage the honor of another.”
Now, when Ewan said this, Dan thought of his forged signature, and of the censure and suspension to which Ewan was thereby made liable.
“Go away,” Ewan cried again, motioning Dan off with his trembling hand.
Dan lifted his eyes. “And what if I refuse?” he said in a resolute way.
“Then take the consequences.”
“You mean the consequences of that — that — that forgery?”
At this Ewan realized the thought in Dan’s mind, and perceived that Dan conceived him capable of playing upon his fears by holding over his head the penalty of an offense which he had already taken upon himself. “God in heaven!” he thought, “and this is the pitiful creature whom I have all these years taken to my heart.”
“Is that what your loyalty comes to?” said Dan, and his lip curled.
“Loyalty!” cried Ewan, in white wrath. “Loyalty, and you talk to me of loyalty — you who have outraged the honor of my sister—”
“Mona!”
“I have said it at last, though the word blisters my tongue. Go away from the island forever, and let me never see your face again.”
Dan rose to his feet with rigid limbs. He looked about him for a moment in a dazed silence, and put his hand to his forehead as if he had lost himself.
“Do you believe that?” he said, in a slow whisper.
“Don’t deny it — don’t let me know you for a liar as well,” Ewan said, eagerly; and then added in another tone, “I have had her own confession.”
“Her confession?”
“Yes, and the witness of another.”
“The witness of another!”
Dan echoed Ewan’s words in a vague, half-conscious way.
Then, in a torrent of hot words that seemed to blister and sting the man who spoke them no less than the man who heard them, Ewan told all, and Dan listened like one in a stupor.
There was silence, and then Ewan spoke again in a tone of agony. “Dan, there was a time when in spite of yourself I loved you — yes, though I’m ashamed to say it, for it was against God’s own leading; still I loved you, Dan. But let us part forever now, and each go his own way, and perhaps, though we can never forget the wrong that you have done us, we may yet think more kindly of you, and time may help us to forgive—”
But Dan had awakened from his stupor, and he flung aside.
“Damn your forgiveness!” he said, hotly, and then, with teeth set and lips drawn hard and eyes aflame, he turned upon Ewan and strode up to him, and they stood together face to face.
“You said just now that there was not room enough in the island for you and me,” he said, in a hushed whisper. “You were right, but I shall mend your words: if you believe what you have said — by Heaven, I’ll not deny it for you! — there is not room enough for both of us in the world.”
“It was my own thought,” said Ewan, and then for an instant each looked into the other’s eyes and read the other’s purpose.
The horror of that moment of silence was broken by the lifting of the latch. Davy Fayle came shambling into the tent on some pretended errand. He took off his militia belt with the dagger in the sheath attached to it, and hung it on a long rusty nail driven into an upright timber at one corner. Then he picked up from among some ling on the floor a waterproof coat and put it on. He was going out, with furtive glances at Dan and Ewan, who said not a word in his presence, and were bearing themselves toward each other with a painful constraint, when his glance fell on the hatchet which lay a few feet from the door. Davy picked it up and carried it out, muttering to himself, “Strange, strange, uncommon!”
Hardly had the boy dropped the latch of the door from without than Ewan took the militia belt from the nail and buckled it about his waist. Dan understood his thought; he was still wearing his own militia belt and dagger. There was now not an instant’s paltering between them — not a word of explanation.
“We must get rid of the lad,” said Dan.
Ewan bowed his head. It had come to him to reflect that when all was over Mona might hear of what had been done. What they had to do was to be done for her honor, or for what seemed to be her honor in that blind tangle of passion and circumstance. But none the less, though she loved both of them now, would she loathe that one who returned to her with the blood of the other upon him.
“She must never know,” he said. “Send the boy away. Then we must go to where this work can be done between you and me alone.”
Dan had followed his thought in silence, and was stepping toward the door to call to Davy, when the lad came back, carrying a log of driftwood for the fire. There were some small flakes of snow on his waterproof coat.
“Go up to the shambles, Davy,” said Dan, speaking with an effort at composure, “and tell Jemmy Curghey to keep me the ox-horns.”
Davy looked up in a vacant way, and his lip lagged low. “Aw, and didn’t you tell Jemmy yourself, and terrible partic’lar, too?”
“Do you say so, Davy?”
“Sarten sure.”
“Then just slip away and fetch them.”
Davy fixed the log on the fire, tapped it into the flame, glanced anxiously at Dan and Ewan, and then in a lingering way went out. His simple face looked sad under its vacant expression.
The men listened while the lad’s footsteps could be heard on the shingle, above the deep murmur of the sea. Then Dan stepped to the door and threw it open.
“Now,” he said.
It was rapidly growing dark. The wind blew strongly into the shed. Dan stepped out, and Ewan followed him.
They walked in silence through the gully that led from the creek to the cliff head. The snow that had begun to fall was swirled about in the wind that came from over the sea, and spinning in the air, it sometimes beat against their faces.
Ewan went along like a man condemned to death. He had begun to doubt, though he did not know it, and would have shut his mind to the idea if it had occurred to him. But once, when Dan seemed to stop as if only half resolved, and partly turn his face toward him, Ewan mistook his intention. “He is going to tell me that there is some hideous error,” he thought. He was burning for that word. But no, Dan went plodding on again, and never after shifted his steadfast gaze, never spoke, and gave no sign. At length he stopped, and Ewan stopped with him. They were standing on the summit of Orris Head.
It was a sad, a lonesome, and a desolate place, in sight of a wide waste of common land, without a house, and with never a tree rising above the purple gorse and tussocks of long grass. The sky hung very low over it; the steep red cliffs, with their patches of green in ledges, swept down from it to the shingle and the sharp shelves of slate covered with seaweed. The ground swell came up from below with a very mournful noise, but the air seemed to be empty, and every beat of the foot on the soft turf sounded near and large. Above their heads the sea-fowl kept up a wild clamor, and far out, where sea and sky seemed to meet in the gathering darkness, the sea’s steady blow on the bare rocks of the naze sent up a deep, hoarse boom.
Dan unbuckled his belt, and threw off his coat and vest. Ewan did the same, and they stood there face to face in the thin flakes of snow, Dan in his red shirt, Ewan in his white shirt open at the neck, these two men whose souls had been knit together as the soul of Jonathan was knit to the soul of David, and each ready to lift his hand against his heart’s best brother. Then all at once a startled cry came from near at hand.
It was Davy Fayle’s voice. The lad had not gone to the shambles. Realizing in some vague way that the errand was a subterfuge and that mischief was about, he had hidden himself at a little distance, and had seen when Dan and Ewan came out of the tent together. Creeping through the ling, and partly hidden by the dusk, he had followed the men until they had stopped on the Head. Then Davy had dropped to his knees. His ideas were obscure, he scarcely knew what was going on before his eyes, but he held his breath and watched and listened. At length, when the men threw off their clothes, the truth dawned on Davy; and though he tried to smother an exclamation, a cry of terror burst from his husky throat.
Dan and Ewan exchanged glances, and each seemed in one moment to read the other’s thoughts. In another instant, at three quick strides, Dan had taken Davy by the shoulders.
“Promise,” he said, “that you will never tell what you have seen.”
Davy struggled to free himself, but his frantic efforts were useless. In Dan’s grip he was held as in a vice.
“Let me go, Mastha Dan,” the lad cried.
“Promise to hold your tongue,” said Dan; “promise it, promise it.”
“Let me go, will you? let me go,” the lad shouted sullenly.
“Be quiet,” said Dan.
“I won’t be quiet,” was the stubborn answer. “Help! help! help!” and the lad screamed lustily.
“Hold your tongue, or by G—”
Dan held Davy by one of his great hands hitched into the lad’s guernsey, and he lifted the other hand threateningly.
“Help! help! help!” Davy screamed still louder, and struggled yet more fiercely, until his strength was spent, and his breath was gone, and then there was a moment’s silence.
The desolate place was still as desolate as before. Not a sign of life around; not an answering cry.
“There’s nobody to help you,” said Dan. “You have got to promise never to tell what you have seen to man, woman, or child.”
“I won’t promise, and I won’t hould my tongue,” said the lad, stoutly. “You are goin’ to fight, you and Mastha Ewan, and—”
Dan stopped him. “Hearken here. If you are to live another hour, you will promise—”
But Davy had regained both strength and voice.
“I don’t care — help! help! help!” he shouted.
Dan put his hand over the lad’s mouth, and dragged him to the cliff head. Below was the brant steep, dark and jagged, and quivering in the deepening gloom, and the sea-birds were darting through the mid-air like bats in the dark.
“Look,” said Dan, “you’ve got to swear never to tell what you have seen to-night, so help you God!”
The lad, held tightly by the breast and throat, and gripping the arms that held him with fingers that clung like claws, took one horrified glance down into the darkness. He struggled no longer. His face was very pitiful to see.
“I can not promise,” he said, in a voice like a cry.
At that answer Dan drew Davy back from the cliff edge, and loosed his hold of him. He was abashed and ashamed. He felt himself a little man by the side of this half-daft fisher-lad.
All this time Ewan had stood aside looking on while Dan demanded the promise, and saying nothing. Now he went up to Davy, and said, in a quiet voice:
“Davy, if you should ever tell any one what you have seen, Dan will be a lost man all his life hereafter.”
“Then let him pitch me over the cliff,” said Davy, in a smothered cry.
“Listen to me, Davy,” Ewan went on; “you’re a brave lad, and I know what’s in your head, but—”
“Then what for do you want to fight him?” Davy broke out. The lad’s throat was dry and husky, and his eyes were growing dim.
Ewan paused. Half his passion was spent. Davy’s poor dense head had found him a question that he could not answer.
“Davy, if you don’t promise, you will ruin Dan — yes, it will be you who will ruin him, you, remember that. He will be a lost man, and my sister, my good sister Mona, she will be a broken-hearted woman.”
Then Davy broke down utterly, and big tears filled his eyes, and ran down his cheeks.
“I promise,” he sobbed.
“Good lad — now go.”
Davy turned about and went away, at first running, and then dragging slowly, then running again, and then again lingering.
What followed was a very pitiful conflict of emotion. Nature, who looks down pitilessly on man and his big, little passions, that clamor so loud but never touch her at all — even Nature played her part in this tragedy.
When Davy Fayle was gone, Dan and Ewan stood face to face as before, Dan with his back to the cliff, Ewan with his face to the sea. Then, without a word, each turned aside and picked up his militia belt.
The snowflakes had thickened during the last few moments, but now they seemed to cease and the sky to lighten. Suddenly in the west the sky was cloven as though by the sweep of a sword, and under a black bar of cloud and above a silvered water-line the sun came through very red and hazy in its setting, and with its ragged streamers around it.
Ewan was buckling the belt about his waist when the setting sun rose upon them, and all at once there came to him the Scripture that says, “Let not the sun go down on your wrath.” If God’s hand had appeared in the heavens, the effect on Ewan could not have been greater. Already his passion was more than half gone, and now it melted entirely away.
“Dan,” he cried, and his voice was a sob, “Dan, I can not fight — right or wrong I can not,” and he flung himself down, and the tears filled his eyes.
Then Dan, whose face was afire, laughed loud and bitterly. “Coward,” he said, “coward and poltroon!”
At that word all the evil passion came back to Ewan and he leapt to his feet.
“That is enough,” he said; “the belts — buckle them together.”
Dan understood Ewan’s purpose. At the next breath the belt about Dan’s waist was buckled to the belt about the waist of Ewan, and the two men stood strapped together. Then they drew the daggers, and an awful struggle followed.
With breast to breast until their flesh all but touched, and with thighs entwined, they reeled and swayed, the right hand of each held up for thrust, the left for guard and parry. What Dan gained in strength Ewan made up in rage, and the fight was fierce and terrible, Dan still with his back to the cliff, Ewan still with his face to the sea.
At one instant Dan, by his great stature, had reached over Ewan’s shoulder to thrust from behind, and at the next instant Ewan had wrenched his lithe body backward and had taken the blow in his lifted arm, which forthwith spouted blood above the wrist. In that encounter they reeled about, changing places, and Ewan’s back was henceforward toward the cliff, and Dan fought with his face toward the sea.
It was a hideous and savage fight. The sun had gone down, the cleft in the heavens had closed again, once more the thin flakes of snow were falling, and the world had dropped back to its dark mood. A stormy petrel came up from the cliff and swirled above the men as they fought, and made its direful scream over them.
Up and down, to and fro, embracing closely, clutching, guarding, and meantime panting hoarsely, and drawing hard breath, the two men fought in their deadly hate. At last they had backed and swayed to within three yards of the cliff, and then Ewan, with the gasp of a drowning man, flung his weapon into the air, and Dan ripped his dagger’s edge across the belts that bound them together, and at the next breath the belts were cut, and the two were divided, and Ewan, separated from Dan, and leaning heavily backward, was reeling, by force of his own weight, toward the cliff.
Then Dan stood as one transfixed with uplifted hand, and a deep groan came from his throat. Passion and pain were gone from him in that awful moment, and the world itself seemed to be blotted out. When he came to himself, he was standing on the cliff head alone.
The clock in the old church was striking. How the bell echoed on that lonely height! One — two — three — four — five. Five o’clock! Everything else was silent as death. The day was gone. The snow began to fall in thick, large flakes. It fell heavily on Dan’s hot cheeks and bare neck. His heart seemed to stand still, and the very silence itself was awful. His terror stupefied him. “What have I done?” he asked himself. He could not think. He covered his eyes with his hands, and strode up and down the cliff head, up and down, up and down. Then in a bewildered state of semi-consciousness he looked out to sea, and there far off, a league away, he saw a black thing looming large against the darkening sky. He recognized that it was a sail, and then perceived that it was a lugger, and quite mechanically he tried to divide the mainmast and mizzen, the mainsail and yawlsail, and to note if the boat were fetching to leeward or beating down the Channel.
