Complete works of hall c.., p.151
Complete Works of Hall Caine, page 151
Chalse, in his eagerness to be back, strode on some paces ahead in the darkness, and Jason and Greeba walked together.
“Who is it?” said Jason. “Do you know?”
“No,” said Greeba. “Chalse!” she cried, but the old man, with his face down, trudged along as one who heard nothing. She tripped up to him, and Jason walking behind heard the sound of muttered words between them, but caught nothing of what passed. Dropping back to Jason’s side, the girl said: “It’s a man whom nobody holds of much account, poor soul.”
“What is he?” said Jason.
“A smuggler, people say, or perhaps worse. His wife has been long years dead, and he has lived alone ever since, shunned by most folks, and by his own son among others. It was his son who sailed to Iceland to-night.”
“Iceland? Did you say Iceland?”
“Yes, Iceland. It is your own country, is it not? But he hadn’t lived with his father since he was a child. He was brought up by my own dear father. It was he who seemed to be so like to you.”
Jason stopped suddenly in the dark lane.
“What’s the name?” he asked, hoarsely.
“The son’s name? Michael.”
“Michael what?”
“Michael Sunlocks.”
Jason drew a long breath, and strode on without a word more. Very soon they were outside the little house in Port-y-Vullin.
Chalse was there before them, and he stood with the door ajar.
“Whist!” the old man whispered. “He’s ebbing fast. He’s going out with the tide. Listen!”
They crept in on tiptoe, but there was small need for quiet. The place was a scene of direful uproar and most gruesome spectacle. It was all but as thronged of people as it had been nineteen years before, on the day of Liza Killey’s wedding. On the table, the form, the three-legged stool, and in the chimney corner, they sat together cheek-by-jowl, with eyes full of awe, most of them silent or speaking low behind their hands. On the bed the injured man lay and tossed in a strong delirium. The wet clothes wherein he had passed through the sea had been torn off, his body wrapped in a gray blanket, and the wound on his head bandaged with a cloth. His lips were discolored, his cheeks were white, and his hair was damp with the sweat that ran in big drops to his face and neck. At his feet Nary Crowe stood, holding a horn cup of brandy, and by his head knelt Kane Wade, the Methodist, praying in a loud voice.
“God bring him to Thy repentance,” cried Kane Wade; “restore him to the joy of Thy salvation. The pains of hell have gotten hold of him. Hark how the devil is tearing him. He is like to the man with the unclean spirit, who had his dwelling among the tombs. The devil is gotten into him. But out wi’ thee, Satan, and no more two words about it! Thanks be unto God, we can wrestle with thee in prayer. Gloom at us, Satan, but never will we rise from our knees until God hath given us the victory over thee, lest our brother fall into the jaws of hell, and our own souls be not free from blood-guiltiness.”
In this strain he prayed, shouting at the full pitch of the vast bellows of his lungs, and loudest of all when the delirium of the sick man was strongest, until his voice failed him from sheer exhaustion, and then his lips still moved, and he mumbled hoarsely beneath his breath.
Jason stood in the middle of the floor and looked on in his great stature over the heads of the people about him, while Greeba, with quiet grace and gentle manners, thinned the little hut of some of the many with whom the dense air smoked and reeked. After that she lifted the poor restless, tumbling, wet head from its hard pillow, and put it to rest on her own soft arm, with her cool palm to the throbbing brow, and then she damped the lips with the brandy from Nary Crowe’s cup. This she did, and more than this, seeming to cast away from her in a moment all her lightness, her playfulness, her bounding happy spirits, and in the hour of need to find such tender offices come to her, as to all true women, like another sense.
And presently the delirium abated, the weary head lay still, the bleared eyes opened, the discolored lips parted, and the dying man tried to speak. But before ever a word could come, the change was seen by Kane Wade, who cried, “Thank God, he has found peace. Thank the Lord, who has given us the victory. Satan is driven out of him. Mercy there is for the vilest of sinners.” And on the top of that wild shout old Chalse struck up, without warning, and in the craziest screech that ever came from human throat, a rugged hymn of triumph, wherein all the lines were one line and all the notes one note, but telling how the Lord was King over death and hell and all the devils.
Again and again he sang a verse of it, going faster at every repetition, and the others joined him, struggling to keep pace with him: and all but Greeba, who tried by vain motions to stop the tumult, and Jason, who looked down at the strange scene with eyes full of wonder. At last the mad chorus of praise came to an end, and the sick man said, casting his weak eyes into the faces about him, “Has he come?”
“He is here,” whispered Greeba, and she motioned to Jason.
The lad pushed through to the bedside, and then for the first time he came face to face with Stephen Orry.
Did any voice, unheard of the others, cry in his ear at that moment, “Jason, Jason, this is he whom you have crossed the seas to slay, and he has sent for you to bless you, for the last sands of his life are running out?”
“Leave us alone together,” said Stephen Orry; and Greeba, after beating out his pillow and settling his head on it, was about to move away, when he whispered, “Not you,” and held her back.
Then with one accord the others called on to him not to tarry over carnal thoughts, for his soul was passing through dark waters, and he should never take rest until he had cast anchor after a troublous voyage.
“Get religion,” cried Kane Wade. “Lay hoult of a free salvation,” cried old Chalse. “All flesh is as grass,” cried Matt Mylechreest. “Pray without ceasing,” they all cried together, with much besides in the same wild strain.
“I cannot pray,” the sick man muttered.
“Then we’ll pray for you, mate,” shouted Kane Wade.
“Ah, pray, pray, pray,” mumbled Stephen Orry, “but it’s no good; it’s too late, too late.”
“Now is the ‘pointed time,” shouted Kane Wade. “The Lord can save to the uttermost the worst sinner of us all.”
“If I’m a sinner, let me not be a coward in my sins,” said Stephen Orry. “Have pity on me and leave me.”
But Kane Wade went on to tell the story of his own conversion: — It was on a Saturday night of the mackerel season down at Kinsale. The conviction had been borne in upon him that if he did not hear the pardoning voice before the clock struck twelve, he would be damned to all eternity. When the clock began to warn for midnight the hair of his flesh stood up, for he was still unsaved. But before it had finished striking the Saviour was his, and he was rejoicing in a blessed salvation.
“How can you torture a poor dying man?” muttered Stephen Orry.
“Call on the Lord, mate,” shouted Kane Wade, “‘Lord, I belave, help Thou my unbelafe.’”
“I’ve something to do, and the pains of death have hold of me,” muttered Stephen Orry.
“He parthoned the thafe on the cross,” cried old Chalse, “and he’s gotten parthon left for you.”
“Cruel, cruel! Have you no pity for a wretched dying man?” mumbled Stephen Orry.
“Ye’ve not lived a right life, brother,” cried Kane Wade, “and ye’ve been ever wake in yer intellects, so never take rest till ye’ve read your title clear.”
“You would scarce think they could have the heart, these people — you would scarce think it, would you?” said Stephen Orry, lifting his poor glassy eyes to Greeba’s face.
Then with the same quiet grace as before, the girl got up, and gently pushed the men out of the house one by one. “Come back in an hour,” she whispered.
It was a gruesome spectacle — the rude Methodists, with their loud voices and hot faces and eyes of flame, trying to do their duty by the soul of their fellow creature; the poor tortured sinner, who knew he had lived an evil life and saw no hope of pardon, and would not be so much a coward as to cry for mercy in his last hours; the young Icelander looking on in silence and surprise: and the girl moving hither and thither among them all, like a soft-voiced dove in a cage of hoarse jackdaws.
But when the little house was clear, and the Methodists, who started a hymn on the beach outside, had gone at last, and their singing had faded away, and there was only the low wail of the ebbing tide where there had been so loud a Babel of many tongues, Stephen Orry raised himself feebly on his elbow and asked for his coat. Jason found it on the hearth and lifted it up, still damp and stiff, from the puddle of water that lay under it. Then Stephen Orry told him to put his hand in the breast pocket and take out what he would find there. Jason did as he was bidden and drew forth the bag of money. “Here it is,” he said; “what shall I do with it?”
“It is yours,” said Stephen Orry.
“Mine?” said Jason.
“I meant it for my son,” said Stephen Orry. He spoke in his broken English, but let us take the words out of his mouth. “It’s yours now, my lad. Fourteen years I’ve been gathering it, meaning it for my son. Little I thought to part with it to a stranger, but it’s yours, for you’ve earned it.”
“No, no,” said Jason. “I’ve earned nothing.”
“You tried to save my life,” said Stephen Orry.
“I couldn’t help doing that,” said Jason, “and I want no pay.”
“But it’s two hundred pounds, my lad.”
“No matter.”
“Then how much have you got?”
“Nothing.”
“Has the wreck taken all?”
“Yes — no — that is, I never had anything.”
“Take the money; for God’s sake take it, and do what you like with it, or I’ll die in torture,” cried Stephen Orry, and with a groan he threw himself backward on the bed.
“I’ll keep it for your son,” said Jason. “His name is Michael Sunlocks, isn’t it? And he has sailed for Iceland, hasn’t he? That’s my country, and I may meet him some day.”
Then in a broken voice Stephen Orry said, “If you have a father he must be proud of you, my lad. Who is he?”
And Jason answered moodily, “I have no father — none I ever knew.”
“Did he die in your childhood?”
“No.”
“Before you were born?”
“No.”
“Is he alive?”
“Ay, for aught I know.”
Stephen Orry struggled to his elbow again. “Then he had wronged your mother?” he said with his breath coming quick.
“Ay, maybe so.”
“The villain! Yet who am I to rail at him? Is your mother still alive?”
“No.”
“Where is your father?”
“Don’t speak of him,” said Jason in an under-breath.
“But what’s your name, my lad?”
“Jason.”
With a long sigh of relief Stephen Orry dropped back and muttered to himself, “To think that such a father should never have known he had such a son.”
The power of life ebbed fast in him, but after a pause he said,
“My lad.”
“Well?” said Jason.
“I’ve done you a great wrong.”
“When did you do me a wrong?”
“To-night.”
“How?”
“No matter. There’s no undoing it now; God forgive me. But let me be your father, though I’m a dying man, for that will give you the right to keep my poor savings for yourself.”
“But they belong to your son,” said Jason.
“He’ll never touch them,” said Stephen Orry.
“Why not?” said Jason.
“Don’t ask me. Leave me alone. For mercy’s sake don’t torture a dying man,” cried Stephen Orry.
“That’s not what I meant to do,” said Jason, giving way; “and, if you wish it, I will keep the money.”
“Thank God,” said Stephen Orry.
Some moments thereafter he lay quiet, breathing fast and loud, while Greeba hovered about him. Then in a feebler voice he said, “Do you think, my lad, you’ll ever meet my son?”
“Maybe so,” said Jason. “I’ll go back when I’ve done what I came to do.”
“What is that?” Greeba whispered, but he went on without answering her.
“Though our country is big, our people are few. Where will he be?”
“I scarce can say. He has gone to look for someone. He’s a noble boy, I can tell you that. And it’s something for a father to think of when his time comes, isn’t it? He loves his father, too — that is, he did love me when he was a little chap. You must know he had no mother. Only think, I did everything for him, though I was a rough fellow. Yes, I nursed him and comforted him as any woman might. Ay, and the little man loved me then, for all he doesn’t bear his father’s name now.”
Jason glanced up inquiringly, first at Stephen Orry and then at Greeba. Stephen saw nothing. His eyes were dim, but full of tenderness, and his deep voice was very gentle, and he rambled on with many a break and between many a groan, for the power of life was low in him.
“You see I called him Sunlocks. That was because it was kind and close-like. He used to ride on my shoulder. We played together then, having no one else, and I was everything to him and he was all the world to me. Ah, that was long ago, Sunlocks! Little Sunlocks! My little Sunlocks! My own little — —”
At that point he laughed a little, and then seemed to weep like a child, though no tears came to his eyes, and the next moment, under the pain of joyful memories and the flow of blood upon the brain, his mind began to wander. It was very pitiful to look upon. His eyes were open, but it was clear that they did not see; his utterance grew thick and his words were confused and foolish; but his face was lit up with a surprising joy, and you knew that the years had rolled back, and the great rude fellow was alone with his boy, and doating on him. Sometimes he would seem to listen as if for the child’s answer, and then he would laugh as if at its artless prattle. Again he would seem to sing the little one to sleep, crooning very low a broken stave that ran a bar and then stopped. Again he would say very slowly what sounded like the words of some baby prayer, and while he did so his chin would be twisted into his breast and his arms would struggle to cross it, as though the child itself were once more back in his bosom.
At all this Greeba cried behind her hands, unable to look or listen any longer, and Jason, though he shed no tears, said, in a husky voice, “He cannot be altogether bad who loved his son so.”
The delirium grew stronger, the look of joy and the tender words gave place to glances of fear and some quick beseeching, and then Jason said in a tremulous whisper, “It must be something to know you have a father who loves you like that.”
But hardly had the words been spoken when he threw back his head and asked in a firm voice how far it was to Port Erin.
“About thirty miles,” said Greeba, looking up at the sudden question.
“Not more?” asked Jason.
“No. He has lived there,” she answered, with a motion of her head downwards towards the bed.
“He?”
“Yes, ever since his wife died. Before that they lived in this place with Michael Sunlocks. His wife met with a terrible death.”
“How?”
“She was murdered by some enemy of her husband. The man escaped, but left his name behind him. It was Patricksen.”
“Patricksen?”
“Yes. That must be fourteen years ago, and since then he has lived alone at Port Erin. Do you wish to go there?”
“Ay — that is, so I intended.”
“Why?”
“To look for someone.”
“Who is it?”
“My father.”
For a moment Greeba was silent, and then she said with her eyes down:
“Why look for him if he wronged your mother?”
“That’s why I meant to do so.”
She looked up into his face, and stammered, “But why?”
He did not appear to hear her: his eyes were fixed on the man on the bed; and hardly had she asked the question when she covered her ears with her hands as though to shut out his answer.
“Was that why you came?” she asked.
“Yes,” he answered. “If we had not been wrecked to-night I should have dropped overboard and deserted.”
“Strange,” she said. “It was just what he did, when he came to the island nineteen years ago.”
“Yes, nineteen years ago,” Jason repeated.
He spoke like a man in a sleep, and she began to tremble.
“What is the matter?” she said.
Within a few minutes his face had suddenly changed, and it was now awful to look upon. Not for an instant did he turn his eyes from the bed.
The delirium of the sick man had deepened by this time; the little, foolish, baby play-words in the poor broken English came from him no more, but he seemed to ask eager questions, in a tongue that Greeba did not understand.
“This man is an Icelander,” said Jason.
“Didn’t you know that before?” said Greeba.
“What is his name?” said Jason.
“Haven’t you heard it yet?”
“What is his name?”
Then for one quick instant he turned his face towards her face, and she seemed to read his thought.
“Oh God!” she cried, and she staggered back.
Just then there was a sound of footsteps on the shingle outside, and at the next moment Stean and Thurstan Fairbrother and old Davy Kerruish pushed open the door. They had come to fetch Greeba.
“The Methodee man tould us,” said Davy, standing by Jason’s side, “and, my gough, but it’s mortal cur’ous. What’s it saying, ‘Talk of the divil, and sure enough it was the big widda man hisself we were talking of, less nor a half hour afore we struck.”
“Come, my lass,” said Thurstan.
“No, no, I’ll stay here,” said Greeba.
