Complete works of hall c.., p.148
Complete Works of Hall Caine, page 148
The sudden question recalled the lad from a painful reverie. He had been thinking of his own position, and that even his father’s name, which an hour ago he had been ashamed to bear, was not his own to claim. But Stephen Orry had never once thought of this, or that the dead woman who stood between him and Rachel also stood between Rachel and her son.
“Promise me, promise me,” he cried, seeing one thing only — that Michael was his son, that his son was as himself, and that the woman who was dead had been as a curse to both of them.
But Michael Sunlocks made him no answer.
“I’ve gone from bad to worse — I know that, Michael. I’ve done in cold blood what I’d have trembled at when she was by me. Maybe I was thinking sometimes of my boy even then, and saying to myself how some day he’d go back for me to my own country, when I had made the money to send him.”
Michael trembled visibly.
“And how he’d look for her, and find her, and save her, if she was alive. And if she wasn’t — if she was dead, poor girl, with all her troubles over, how he’d look for the child that was to come when I left her — my child, and hers — and find it where it would surely be, in want and dirt and misery, and then save it for its mother’s sake and mine. Michael, will you go?”
But still Michael Sunlocks made him no answer.
“It’s fourteen years since God spared your life to me; just fourteen years to-night, Michael. I remembered it, and that’s why we are here now. When I brought you back in my arms she was there at my feet, lying dead, who had been my rod and punishment. Then I vowed, as I should answer to the Lord at the last day, that if I could not go back, you should.”
Michael covered his face with hands.
“My son, my son — Michael, my little Sunlocks, I want to keep my vow. Will you go?”
“Yes, yes,” cried Michael, rising suddenly. His doubt and pride and shame were gone. He felt only a great tenderness now for the big rude man, who had sinned deeply and suffered much and found that all he could do alone would avail him nothing.
“Father, where is she?”
“I left her at Reykjavik, but I don’t know where she is now.”
“No matter, I will hunt the world over until I find her, and when I have found her I will be as a son to her, and she shall be as a mother to me.”
“My boy, my boy,” cried Stephen.
“If she should die, and we should never meet, I will hunt the world over until I find her child, and when I have found it I will be as a brother to it for my father’s sake.”
“My son, my son,” cried Stephen. And in the exultation of that moment, when he tried to speak but no words would come, and only his rugged cheeks glistened and his red eyes shone, it seemed to Stephen Orry that the burden of twenty heavy years had been lifted away.
CHAPTER VIII.
The Going of Sunlocks.
It was then past noon. The Irish brig was in the harbor taking in Manx cloth and potatoes, a few cattle and a drove of sheep. At the flow of the tide it was to go out into the bay and anchor there, waiting for the mails, and at nine o’clock it was to sail. In the meantime Michael was to arrange for his passage, and at half-past eight he was to meet his father on the quay.
But he had also to see Greeba, and that was not easy to do. The family at Lague had heard the great news of his going, and had secretly rejoiced at it, but they refused to see him there, even for the shortest leave-taking at the longest parting. And at the bare mention of the bargain that Greeba had made with him, to bid him farewell on the eve of his departure, all the Fairbrothers were up in arms. So he had been sorely put to it to devise a means of meeting Greeba, if he could do so without drawing suspicion down on her; for come what might of risk or danger to himself he meant to see her again before ever he set foot on the ship. The expedient he could not hit on did not long elude a woman’s wit, and Greeba found the way by which they were to meet.
A few of last year’s heifers were grazing on Barrule and at nightfall somebody went up for them and brought them home. She would go that night, and return by the glen, so that at the bridge by the turn of the river and the low road to Lague, where it was quiet enough sometimes, she could meet anybody about dusk and nobody be the wiser. She contrived a means to tell Michael of this, and he was prompt to her appointment.
The day had been fair but close, with a sky that hung low, and with not a breath of wind, and in the evening when the mist came down from the mountain a fog came up from the sea, so that the air was empty and every noise went through it as if it had been a speaking-trumpet. Standing alone on the bridge under the quiet elms, Michael could hear the rattle of chains and the whistling of horns, and by that he knew that the brig had dropped anchor in the bay. But he strained his ears for other sounds, and they came at last; the thud of the many feet of the heifers, the flapping of their tails, the cattle-call in a girl’s clear voice, and the swish of a twig that she carried in her hand.
Greeba came along behind the cattle, swinging her body to a jaunty gait, her whole person radiant with health and happiness, her long gown, close at the back and loose over her bosom, showing well her tall lithe form and firm bearing. She wore no bonnet, but a white silk handkerchief was tied about her head, half covering her mouth, and leaving visible in the twilight only the tip of her nose, a curl of her hair, and her bright dark eyes, with their long bright lashes. She was singing to herself as she came up to the bridge, with an unconcerned and unconscious air. At sight of Michael she made a start and a little nervous cry, so that he thought, poor lad, not knowing the ways of women, that for all the pains she had been at to fetch him she had somehow not expected him to be there.
She looked him over from head to foot, and her eyes gleamed from the white kerchief.
“So you are going, after all,” she said, and her voice seemed to him the sweetest music he had ever heard. “I never believed you would,” she added.
“Why not?” he asked.
“Oh, I don’t know,” she said, and laughed a little. “But I suppose there are girls enough in Iceland,” and then she laughed outright. “Only they can’t be of much account up there.”
“But I’ve heard they are very fine girls,” he answered; “and it’s a fine country, too.”
She tossed her head and laughed and swung her switch.
“Fine country! The idea! Fine company, fine people and a good time. That’s what a girl wants if she’s worth anything.”
“Then I suppose you will go back to London some day,” he said.
“That doesn’t follow,” she answered. “There’s father, you see; and, oh, what a pity he can’t live at Lague!”
“Do you like it so much?” he said.
“Like it?” she said, her eyes full of laughter. “Six big hungry brothers coming home three times a day and eating up everything in the house — it’s delightful!”
She seemed to him magnificently beautiful.
“I dare say they’ll spoil you before I come back,” he said, “or somebody else will.”
She gave him a deliberate glance from her dark eyes, and then threw back her head and laughed. He could see the heaving of her breast. She laughed again — a fresh, merry laugh — and then he tried to laugh too, thinking of the foolish thing he had said.
“But if there are plenty of girls up there,” she said, slyly glancing under her long lashes, “and they’re so very wonderful, maybe you’ll be getting married before you come home again?”
“Maybe so,” he said quietly, and looked vacantly aside.
There was a pause. Then a sharp snap or two broke the silence and recalled him to the maiden by his side. She was only breaking up the twig she had carried.
There was another pause, in which he could hear the rippling of the river and the leaping of a fish. The heifers were munching the grass by the roadside a little ahead.
“I must go now,” she said, coldly, “or they’ll be out seeking me.”
“I’ll walk with you as far as Lague — it’s dark,” he said.
“No, no, you must not!” she cried, and fumbling the loose fold about her throat she turned to go.
But he laid hold of her arm.
“Why not?” he asked.
“Only think of my brothers. Your very life would be in danger.”
“If all six of them were ranged across the other end of this bridge, and you had to walk the rest of the road alone, I would go through them,” he said.
She saw the high lift of his neck and she smiled proudly. Then they walked on some distance. He was gazing at her in silence. There was a conscious delight of her beauty in the swing of her step and the untamed glance of her eyes.
“Since the country is so fine I suppose you’ll stay a long while there?” she said in her sweetest tone.
“No longer than I must,” he answered.
“Why not?”
“I don’t know.”
“But why not?” she said again, looking at him sideways with a gleam of a smile.
He did not answer, and she laughed merrily.
“What a girl you are for laughing,” he said. “It may be very laughable to you that I’m going away — —”
“But isn’t it to you? Eh?” she said, as fast as a flash of quicksilver.
He had no answer, so he tried to laugh also, and to take her hand at the same time. She was too quick for him, and swung half a pace aside. They were then at the gate of Lague, where long years before Stephen Orry first saw the light through the elms. A late rook was still cawing overhead; the heifers had gone on towards the courtyard.
“You must go now, so good-bye,” she said, softly.
“Greeba,” he said.
“Well? Only speak lower,” she whispered, coming closer. He could feel the warm glow of her body.
“Do you think, now, if I should be a long time away — years it may be, perhaps many years — we should ever forget each other, we two?”
“Forget? No, not to say forget, you know,” she answered.
“But should we remember?”
“Remember? You silly, silly boy, if we should not forget how ever could we fail to remember?”
“Don’t laugh at me, Greeba; and promise me one thing,” and then he whispered in her ear.
She sprang away and laughed once more, and started to run down the path. But in three strides he had her again.
“That will not do for me, Greeba,” he said breathing fast. “Promise me that you will wait for me.”
“Well,” she said softly, her dark eyes full of merriment, “I’ll promise that while you are away no one else shall spoil me. There! Good-bye!”
She was tearing herself out of his hands.
“First give me a token,” he said.
Daffodils lined the path, though in the dusk he could not see them. But she knew they were there, and stopped and plucked two, blew upon both, gave one to him, and put the other into the folds at her bosom.
“Good-bye! Good-bye!” she said in an under-breath.
“Good-bye!” he answered.
She ran a few steps, but he could not let her go yet, and in an instant he sprang abreast of her. He threw one arm about her waist and the other about her neck, tipped up her chin, and kissed her on the lips. A gurgling laugh came up to him.
“Remember!” he whispered over the upturned face in the white kerchief.
At the next instant he was gone. Then, standing under the dark elms alone, she heard the porch door opening, a heavy foot treading on the gravel, and a deep voice saying: “Here are the heifers home, but where’s the little lass?”
It was her eldest brother, Asher, and she walked up to him and said quite calmly: —
“Oh! what a bad hasp that gate has — it takes such a time to open and close.”
Michael Sunlocks reached the harbor at the time appointed. As he crossed the quay some fishermen were lounging there with pipes between their teeth. A few of them came up to him to bid him Godspeed in their queer way.
Stephen Orry was standing apart by the head of the harbor steps, and at the bottom of them his boat, a yawl, was lying moored. They got into it and Stephen sculled out of the harbor. It was still very thick over the town, but they could see the lights of the Irish brig in the bay. Outside the pier the air was fresher, and there was something of a swell on the water.
“The fog is lifting,” said Stephen Orry. “There’ll be a taste of a breeze before long.”
He seemed as if he had something to say but did not know how to begin. His eye caught the light on Point of Ayre.
“When are they to build the lighthouse?” he asked.
“After the spring tides,” said Michael.
They were about midway between the pier and the brig when Stephen rested his scull under his arm and drew something from one of his pockets.
“This is the money,” he said, and he held out a bag towards Michael Sunlocks.
“No,” said Michael, and he drew quickly back.
There was a moment’s silence, and then Michael added, more softly: —
“I mean, father, that I have enough already. Mr. Fairbrother gave me some. It was fifty pounds.”
Stephen Orry turned his head aside and looked over the dark water. Then he said: —
“I suppose that was so that you wouldn’t need to touch money same as mine.”
Michael’s heart smote him. “Father,” he said, “how much is it?”
“A matter of two hundred pounds,” said Stephen.
“How long has it taken you to earn — to get it?”
“Fourteen years.”
“And have you been saving it up for me?”
“Ay.”
“To take me to Iceland?”
“Ay.”
“How much more have you?”
“Not a great deal.”
“But how much?”
“I don’t know — scarcely.”
“Have you any more?”
Stephen made no answer.
“Have you any more, father?”
“No.”
Michael Sunlocks felt his face flush deep in the darkness.
“Father,” he said, and his voice broke, “we are parting, you and I, and we may not meet again soon; indeed, we may never meet again. I have made you a solemn promise. Will you not make me one?”
“What is it, sir?”
“That you will never, never try to get more by the same means.”
“There’ll be no occasion now.”
“But will you promise me?”
“Ay.”
“Then give me the money.”
Stephen handed the bag to Michael.
“It’s fourteen years of your life, is it not?”
“So to say.”
“And now it’s mine, isn’t it, to do as I like with it?”
“No, sir, but to do as you ought with it.”
“Then I ought to give it back to you. Come, take it. But wait! Remember your promise, father. Don’t forget — I’ve bought every hour of your life that’s left.”
Father and son parted at the ship’s side in silence, with throats too full for speech. Many small boats, pulled by men and boys, were lying about the ladder, and there was a good deal of shouting and swearing and noisy laughter there. Some of the boatmen recognized Michael Sunlocks and bellowed their farewells to him. “Dy banne Jee oo?”
“God bless you! God bless you!” they said, and then among themselves they seemed to discuss the reason of his going. “Well, what’s it saying?” said one; “the crab that lies always in its hole is never fat.”
The air had freshened, the swell of the sea had risen, and a sharp breeze was coming up from the east. Stephen Orry stepped to his mast, hoisted mainsail and mizzen, and stood out to sea. He had scarcely got clear away when he heard the brig weigh its anchor and beat down behind him. They were making towards the Point of Ayre, and when they came by the light Stephen Orry slackened off, and watched the ship go by him in the darkness.
He felt as if that were the last he was ever to see of his son in this world. And he loved him with all the strength of his great broken, bleeding heart. At that thought the outcast man laid his head in his hands, where he sat crouching at the tiller, and sobbed. There were none to hear him there; he was alone; and the low moan of the sea came up through the night from where his son was sailing away.
How long he sat there he did not know; he was thinking of his past, of his bad life in Iceland, and his long expiation in the Isle of Man. In the multitude of his sensations it seemed impossible to his dazed mind to know which of these two had been the worst, or the most foolish. Together they had left him a wreck. In the one he had thrown away the wife who loved him, in the other he had given up the son whom he loved. What was left to him? Nothing. He was a waif, despised and downtrodden. He thought of what might have happened to him if the chances of life had been different, and in that first hour of his last bereavement all the softening influences of nineteen years, the uplooking and upworking, and the struggle towards atonement, were as much gone from him as if they had never been. Then he thought of the money, and told himself that it was not now that he lost his son for the first time; he had lost him fourteen years ago, when he parted with him to the Governor. Since then their relations had been reversed. His little Sunlocks was his little Sunlocks no longer. He felt humiliated, he felt hardened, and by a strange impulse, whereof he understood but little, he cursed in his heart his sufferings more than his sins. They had been useless, they had been wasted, and he had been a fool not to live for himself. But in that moment, when the devil seemed to make havoc of good and evil together, God himself was not doing nothing.
Stephen Orry was drifting with the tide, when all at once he became conscious of the lapping of the water on stones near at hand, and of a bright light shed over the sea. Then he saw that he had drifted close to low ground off the Point of Ayre. He bore hard aport and beat out to sea again. Very soon the white water way was behind him; nothing was visible save the dark hull of the vessel going off towards the north, and nothing audible save the cry of a few gulls that were fishing by the light of the flare. It had been the work of three minutes only, but in that time one vivid impression had fixed itself on Stephen’s preoccupied mind. The end of the old sandstone pier had been battered down by a recent storm; the box that once held the light had gone down with it, a pole had been thrust out at an angle from the overthrown stones, and from the end of this pole the light swung by a rope. No idea connected itself with this impression, which lay low down behind other thoughts.
