Complete works of hall c.., p.115
Complete Works of Hall Caine, page 115
“Yes, yes, our Ewan is dead,” he repeated in a murmur that came up from his heart. “The truest friend, the fondest brother, the whitest soul, the dearest, bravest, purest, noblest — O God! O God! dead, dead! Worse, a hundredfold worse — Mona, he is murdered.”
At that she raised herself up, and a bewildered look was in her eyes.
“Murdered? No, that is not possible. He was beloved by all. There is no one who would kill him — there is no one alive with a heart so black.”
“Yes, Mona, but there is,” he said; “there is one man with a heart so black.”
“Who is he?”
“Who! He is the foulest creature on God’s earth. Oh, God in heaven! why was he born?”
“Who is he?”
He bowed his head where he stood before her and beads of sweat started from his brow.
“Cursed be the hour when that man was born!” he said in an awful whisper.
Then Mona’s despair came upon her like a torrent, and she wept long. In the bitterness of her heart she cried:
“Cursed indeed, cursed forever! Dan, Dan, you must kill him — you must kill that man!”
But at the sound of that word from her own lips the spirit of revenge left her on the instant, and she cried, “No, no, not that.” Then she went down on her knees and made a short and piteous prayer for forgiveness for her thought. “O Father,” she prayed, “forgive me. I did not know what I said. But Ewan is dead! O Father, our dear Ewan is murdered. Some black-hearted man has killed him. Vengeance is Thine. Yes, I know that. O Father, forgive me. But to think that Ewan is gone forever, and that base soul lives on. Vengeance is Thine; but, O Father, let thy vengeance fall upon him. If it is Thy will, let Thy hand be on him. Follow him, Father; follow him with Thy vengeance—”
She had flung herself on her knees by the settle, her upturned eyes wide open, and her two trembling hands held above her head. Dan stood beside her, and as she prayed a deep groan came up from his heart, his breast swelled, and his throat seemed to choke. At last he clutched her by the shoulders and interrupted her prayer, and cried, “Mona, Mona, what are you saying — what are you saying? Stop, stop!”
She rose to her feet. “I have done wrong,” she said, more quietly. “He is in God’s hands. Yes, it is for God to punish him.”
Then Dan said, in a heart-rending voice:
“Mona, he did not mean to kill Ewan — they fought — it was all in the heat of blood.”
Once more he tried to avoid her gaze, and once more, pale and immovable, she watched his face.
“Who is he?” she asked, with an awful calmness.
“Mona, turn your face away from me, and I will tell you,” he said.
Then everything swam about her, and her pale lips grew ashy.
“Don’t you know?” he asked in a whisper.
She did not turn her face, and he was compelled to look at her now. His glaring eyes were fixed upon her.
“Don’t you know?” he whispered again, and then, in a scarcely audible voice, he said, “It was I, Mona.”
At that she grew cold with horror. Her features became changed beyond recognition. She recoiled from him, stretched her trembling hands before her as if to keep him off.
“Oh, horror! Do not touch me!” she cried, faintly, through the breath that came so hard.
“Do not spare me, Mona,” he said in a great sob. “Do not spare me. You do right not to spare me. I have stained my hands with your blood.”
Then she sank to the settle, and held her head, while he stood by her and told her all — all the bitter, blundering truth — and bit by bit she grasped the tangled tale, and realized the blind passion and pain that had brought them to such a pass, and saw her own unwitting share in it.
And he on his part saw the product of his headstrong wrath, and the pitiful grounds for it, so small and so absurd as such grounds oftenest are. And together these shipwrecked voyagers on the waters of life sat and wept, and wondered what evil could be in hell itself if man in his blindness could find the world so full of it.
And Dan cursed himself and said:
“Oh, the madness of thinking that if either were gone the other could ever again know one hour’s happiness with you, Mona. Ay, though the crime lay hidden, yet would it wither and blast every hour. And now, behold, at the first moment, I am bringing my burden of sin, too heavy for myself, to you. I am a coward — yes, I am a coward. You will turn your back upon me, Mona, and then I shall be alone.”
She looked at him with infinite compassion, and her heart surged within her as she listened to his voice of great agony.
“Ah me! and I asked God to curse you,” she said. “Oh, how wicked that prayer was! Will God hear it? Merciful Father, do not hear it. I did not know what I said. I am a blind, ignorant creature, but Thou seest and knowest best. Pity him, and forgive him. Oh, no, God will not hear my wicked prayer.”
Thus in fitful outbursts she talked and prayed. It was as if a tempest had torn up every tie of her soul. Dan listened, and he looked at her with swimming eyes.
“And do you pray for me, Mona?” he said.
“Who will pray for you if I do not? In all the world there will not be one left to speak kindly of you if I speak ill. Oh, Dan, it will become known, and every one will be against you.”
“And can you think well of him who killed your brother?”
“But you are in such sorrow; you are so miserable.”
Then Dan’s great frame shook wofully, and he cried in his pain— “Mercy, mercy, have mercy! What have I lost? What love have I lost?”
At that Mona’s weeping ceased; she looked at Dan through her lashes, still wet, and said in another tone:
“Dan, do not think me unmaidenly. If you had done well, if you had realized my hopes of you, if you had grown to be the good and great man I longed to see you, then, though I might have yearned for you, I would rather have died with my secret than speak of it. But now, now that all this is not so, now that it is a lost faith, now that by God’s will you are to be abased before the whole world — oh, do not think me unmaidenly, now I tell you, Dan, that I love you, and have always loved you.”
“Mona!” he cried, in a low, passionate tone, and took one step toward her and held out his hands. There was an unspeakable language in her face.
“Yes; and that where you go I must go also, though it were to disgrace and shame—”
She had turned toward him lovingly, yearningly, with heaving breast. With a great cry he flung his arms about her, and the world of pain and sorrow was for that instant blotted out.
But all the bitter flood came rushing back upon them. He put her from him with a strong shudder.
“We are clasping hands over a tomb, Mona. Our love is known too late. We are mariners cast on a rock within a cable’s length of harbor, but cut off from it by a cruel sea that may never be passed. We are hopeless within sight of hope. Our love is known in vain. It is a vision of what might have been in the days that are lost forever. We can never clasp hands, for, O God! a cold hand is between us, and lies in the hand of both.”
Then again she fell to weeping, but suddenly she arose as if struck by a sudden idea.
“You will be taken,” she said; “how can I have forgotten it so long? You must fly from the island. You must get away to-night. To-morrow all will be discovered.”
“I will not leave the island,” said Dan, firmly. “Can you drive me from you?” he said, with a suppliant look. “Yes, you do well to drive me away.”
“My love, I do not drive you from me. I would have you here forever. But you will be taken. Quick, the world is wide.”
“There is no world for me save here, Mona. To go from you now is to go forever, and I would rather die by my own hand than face such banishment.”
“No, no, not that; never, never that. That would imperil your soul, and then we should be divided forever.”
“It is so already, Mona,” said Dan, with solemnity. “We are divided forever — as the blessed are divided from the damned.”
“Don’t say that, don’t say that.”
“Yes, Mona,” he said, with a fearful calmness, “we have thought of my crime as against Ewan, as against you, myself, the world, and its law. But it is a crime against God also, and surely it is the unpardonable sin.”
“Don’t say that, Dan. There is one great anchor of hope.”
“What is that, Mona?”
“Ewan is with God. At this moment, while we stand here together, Ewan sees God.”
“Ah!”
Dan dropped to his knees with awe at that thought, and drew off the cap which he had worn until then, and bent his head.
“Yes, he died in anger and in strife,” said Mona; “but God is merciful. He knows the feebleness of His creatures, and has pity. Yes, our dear Ewan is with God; now he knows what you suffer, my poor Dan; and he is taking blame to himself and pleading for you.”
“No, no; I did it all, Mona. He would not have fought. He would have made peace at the last, but I drove him on. ‘I can not fight, Dan,’ he said. I can see him saying it, and the sun was setting. No, it was not fight, it was murder. And God will punish me, my poor girl. Death is my just punishment — everlasting death.”
“Wait. I know what is to be done.”
“What, Mona?”
“You must make atonement.”
“How?”
“You must give yourself up to justice and take the punishment of the law. And so you will be redeemed, and God will forgive you.”
He listened, and then said:
“And such is to be the end of our love, Mona, born in the hour of its death. You, even you, give me up to justice.”
“Don’t say that. You will be redeemed by atonement. When Ewan was killed it was woe enough, but that you are under God’s wrath is worse than if we were all, all slain.”
“Then we must bid farewell. The penalty of my crime is death.”
“No, no; not that.”
“I must die, Mona. This, then, is to be our last parting.”
“And even if so, it is best. You must make your peace with God.”
“And you, my last refuge, even you send me to my death. Well, it is right, it is just, it is well. Farewell, my poor girl; this is a sad parting.”
“Farewell.”
“You will remember me, Mona?”
“Remember you? When the tears I shed for Ewan are dry, I shall still weep for you.”
There was a faint cry at that moment.
“Hush!” said Mona, and she lifted one hand.
“It is the child,” she added. “Come, look at it.”
She turned, and walked toward the bedroom. Dan followed her with drooping head. The little one had again been restless in her sleep, but now, with a long breath, she settled herself in sweet repose.
At sight of the child the great trembling shook Dan’s frame again. “Mona, Mona, why did you bring me here?” he said.
The sense of his crime came with a yet keener agony when he looked down at the child’s unconscious face. The thought flashed upon him that he had made this innocent babe fatherless, and that all the unprotected years were before her wherein she must realize her loss.
He fell to his knees beside the cot, and his tears rained down upon it.
Mona had lifted the candle from the table, and she held it above the kneeling man and the sleeping child.
It was the blind woman’s vision realized.
When Dan rose to his feet he was a stronger man.
“Mona,” he said, resolutely, “you are right. This sin must be wiped out.”
She had put down the candle and was now trying to take his hand.
“Don’t touch me,” he said, “don’t touch me.”
He returned to the other room, and threw open the window. His face was turned toward the distant sea, whose low moan came up through the dark night.
“Dan,” she murmured, “do you think we shall meet again?”
“Perhaps we are speaking for the last time, Mona,” he answered.
“Oh, my heart will break!” she said. “Dan,” she murmured again, and tried to grasp his hand.
“Don’t touch me. Not until later — not until — until then.”
Their eyes met. The longing, yearning look in hers answered to the wild light in his. She felt as if this were the last she was ever to see of Dan in this weary world. He loved her with all his great, broken, bleeding heart. He had sinned for her sake. She caught both his hands with a passionate grasp. Her lips quivered, and the brave, fearless, stainless girl put her quivering lips to his.
To Dan that touch was as fire. With a passionate cry he flung his arms about her. For an instant her head lay on his breast.
“Now go,” she whispered, and broke from his embrace. Dan tore himself away, with heart and brain aflame. Were they ever to meet again? Yes. At one great moment they were yet to stand face to face.
The night was dark, but Dan felt the darkness not at all, for the night was heavier within him. He went down toward the creek. To-morrow he would give himself up to the Deemster; but to-night was for himself — himself and it.
He went by the church. A noisy company were just then trooping out of the porch into the churchyard. There they gathered in little knots, lit lanterns, laughed, and drank healths from bottles that were brought out of their pockets.
It was the breaking up of the Oiel Verree.
CHAPTER XXII
ALONE, ALONE — ALL, ALL ALONE!
When Dan got down to the creek the little shed was full of the fisher-fellows. There were Quilleash, Teare, Crennell, and the lad Davy. The men wore their oilskins, as if they had just stepped out of the dingey on the beach, and on the floor were three baskets of cod and ray, as if they had just set them down. The fire of gorse was crackling on the hearth, and Davy sat beside it, looking pale and ill. He had watched Dan away from the shed, and then, trembling with fear, but girding up his young heart to conquer it, he had crept back and kept guard by the body.
“I couldn’t give myself liberty to lave it,” he said, half fearfully, lifting his eyes to Dan’s as Dan entered. Then the men, who in the first moment of horror had asked Davy fifty questions, and got never an answer to any of them, seemed to understand everything at once. They made way for Dan, and he strode through them, and looked down at the body, for it was still lying where he had left it. He said not a word.
When the men had time to comprehend in its awful fulness what had occurred, they stood together and whispered, cast side looks at Dan, and then long, searching looks at the body. The certainty that Ewan was dead did not at first take hold of them. There was no mark of violence on the body except the wound above the wrist, and suddenly, while the men stood and looked down, the wound bled afresh. Then old Quilleash, who was reputed to possess a charm to stop blood, knelt beside Ewan, and while all looked on and none spoke, he whispered his spell in the deaf ear.
“A few good words can do no harm,” said Crennell, the cook, who was a Quaker.
Old Quilleash whispered again in the dead ear, and then he made a wild command to the blood to cease flowing, in the name of the three godly men who came to Rome — Christ, Peter, and Paul.
There was a minute of silence, and the blood seemed to stop. The men trembled; Davy, the lad, grew more pale than before, and Dan stood as if in a stupor, looking down and seeing all, yet seeing nothing.
Then the old man lifted his tawny face. “Cha marroo as clagh,” he said, in another hoarse whisper. “He is dead as a stone.”
There was a deep groan from the throats of the men; they dropped aside, and awe fell upon them. None of them spoke to Dan, and none questioned the lad again; but all seemed to understand everything in some vague way. Billy Quilleash sat on a block of a tree-trunk that stood at one side, and there was silence for a space. Then the old man turned his face to his mates and said, “I’m for a man sticking up for a frien’, I am.”
At that there was an uneasy movement among the others.
“Aw, yes, though, a man should stick to his frien’, he should, alow or aloft, up or down,” continued Billy; and after some twisting and muttering among the other fisher-fellows he went on: “You have to summer and winter a man before you know him, and lave it to us to know Mastha Dan. We’ve shared meat, shared work with him, and d —— me sowl! nothing will hould me, but I’ll stand up for him now, sink or swim.”
Then one of the fellows said “Ay,” and another said “Ay,” and a third — it was Crennell — said, “A friend in need was more preciouser nor goold;” and then old Billy half twisted his head toward Dan, but never once lifted his eyes to Dan’s face, and speaking at him but not to him, said they were rough chaps maybe, and couldn’t put out no talk at all, never being used of it, but if there was somethin’ wrong, as was plain to see, and keepin’ a quiet tongue in your head was the way it was goin’, and buckin’ up for them as was afther buckin’ up for his chums, why, a frien’ was a frien’, and they meant to stand by it.
At that, these rough sea-dogs, with the big hearts in their broad breasts, took hold of each other’s hard hands in a circle about the body of Ewan, whose white face looked up at them in its stony stare, and there in the little lonely shed by the sea they made their mutual pledge.
All that time Dan had stood and looked on in silence, and Davy, sitting by the spluttering fire, sobbed audibly while Uncle Billy spoke.
“We must put it away,” said old Billy, in a low tone, with his eyes on the body.
“Ay,” said Ned Teare.
“What’s o’clock?”
“A piece past twelve.”
“Half-flood. It will be near the turn of the ebb at three,” said Quilleash.
Not another word of explanation was needed, all understanding that they must take the body of Ewan out to sea, and bury it there after three o’clock next morning, so that, if it stirred after it was sent down to its long home, it must be swept away over the Channel.
“Heise,” said one, as he put his hand down to lift the body.
