Complete works of hall c.., p.49
Complete Works of Hall Caine, page 49
They strained their eyes to watch it until it became a speck in the twilight of the dawn, and could be seen no more.
Nor had the marvel ended yet. A great luminous line arose and stretched from their quarter toward the land, white as a moon’s water-way, but with no moon to make it. Flashing along the sea’s surface for several seconds, it seemed to the men like the finger of God marking the body’s path on the waters.
The phenomenon will be understood by those only who have marked closely what has been said of the varying weather of this fearful night, and can interpret aright its many signs. To the crew of the “Ben-my-Chree” it had but one awful explanation.
CHAPTER XVII
“OH, ABSALOM, MY SON, MY SON”
As Mona stood at the angle of the mountain-path and the road leading to the door of Kisseck’s cottage, she saw four men pass her and run into the house. She recognized Danny and his uncle, but not Christian. Perhaps the darkness deceived her, but she thought the other two were Corteen and Killip. After a few minutes she heard loud voices from the cottage, mingled with terrific oaths. If the police returned suddenly, and were made witnesses of this turmoil, discovery and conviction were certain. Mona crept up, meaning to warn the men and get them to put out to sea. She knocked, and had no answer. She tried the door, and it was barred. Still the loud quarreling continued. Among other voices, she recognized Kisseck’s and Danny’s. Christian’s voice she could not hear, but in her perturbation and the angry tumult any voice might escape her. Then came the pistol-shot, the cry, the fall, and a long silence. She knocked again, and yet again. She called on Christian. She had no reply. She called on Kisseck. Then came the words, “Bill is gone to bed.” Somehow, she knew not why, the words chilled her to the heart’s core. Fearful, distraught, in the agony of uncertainty she fled away to the town. Christian, where was he? Had he indeed passed her among the rest? Was he in that house when that shot was fired? At whom? by whom? wherefore? The suspense was more terrible than the reality could have been.
Through Peel and on to Balladhoo Mona ran with shuddering heart. She asked for Christian first. How well her fears told her that he was not there. She asked for the gardener. Jemmy Quark Balladhoo, like Tommy-Bill-beg, was away at the waits. Something must be done, for something terrible had occurred. The hour was late, but Mylrea Balladhoo would certainly be awake, and waiting the return of Kerruish Kinvig with intelligence of the expected capture.
“Tell Mr. Mylrea I wish to speak with him at once and alone,” said Mona.
In another moment Mylrea Balladhoo came to the door with a lamp held above his head, to catch sight of his late visitor.
“Ah, the young woman from Kinvig. Come in, my girl; come in, come in.”
Mona followed the old gentleman into the house. Her face in the lamplight was ashy pale, the pupils of her eyes were dilated, her lips quivered, her fingers trembled and were intertwined.
“Is Mr. Christian at home, sir?” said Mona.
Mylrea Balladhoo glanced up under his spectacles. What Kerruish Kinvig had once said of Christian and this young woman flashed across his mind at that instant. “No, my girl, no. Christian is helping the Castle Rushen men to lay hands on that gang of scoundrels, you know.”
“He is not with them, sir,” said Mona, with a fearful effort.
“Oh, yes, though; I sent Jemmy after him to instruct him. But he’ll be home soon; I expect him every minute. I hope they’ve captured the vagabonds.”
It was terrible to go on. Mona lifted up her whole soul in prayer for this old man, whose hour of utmost need had now come. And she herself was to deal the blow that must shatter his happiness. “God help him,” she muttered, passionately, and the involuntary prayer was made audible.
Mylrea Balladhoo rose stiffly to his feet. He looked for an instant and in silence into the pale face before him.
“What is it?” he faltered, with an affrighted stare. “What news? Is Christian — Where is Christian? Have the scoundrels — injured him?”
“He was one of themselves,” said Mona, and dropped to her knees in the depth of her agony.
Then slowly, disjointedly, inconsequentially, repeating incident after incident, beginning again and again, explaining, excusing, praying for pardon, and clasping the old man’s knees in the tempest of her passion, Mona told the whole story as she knew it: how she had heard too late that Christian had gone out in Kisseck’s boat; how she tried to compass his rescue; how, at the very crown and top of what she mistook for her success, the hand of Fate itself seemed to have been thrust in, to the ruin of all. She finished with the story of the flight of the four men to Kisseck’s cottage, the quarreling there, the pistol shot, and the strange answer to her knock.
Mylrea Balladhoo stood still with the stupid, bewildered look of one who has been dealt an unexpected and dreadful blow. The world seemed to be crumbling under him. At that first instant there was something like a ghastly smile playing over his pallid face. Then the truth came rolling over his soul. The sight was fearful to look upon. He fell back with a low moan. But the good God sent the stricken old man the gift of tears. He wept aloud, and cried that he could better have borne poverty than such disgrace. “Oh, my son, my son! how have you shortened my days; how you have clothed me with shame; oh, my son, my son!” But love was uppermost even in that bitter hour.
It was not for this that Mona had made her way to Balladhoo. She wanted help. She must find where Christian was, and whether in truth he had been one of the four who passed her on the mountain-path.
Together she and Mylrea Balladhoo set off for Kisseck’s cottage. How the old father tottered on the way! How low his head was bent, as if the darkness itself had eyes to peer into his darkened soul!
When they reached the cottage in the quarry the door was wide open. All was silent now. No one was within. A candle burned low on the table. The fire was out. A soft seaman’s cap lay near the porch. Mona picked it up. It was Danny Fayle’s. They stepped into the kitchen. A shallow pool was in the middle of the floor, and the light from the candle flickered in it. It was a pool of blood.
“My son, my son!” cried Mylrea Balladhoo. His knees failed him, and he sank to the floor. Tortured by suspense, bewildered, distracted, in an agony of doubt, he had jumped to the conclusion that this was Christian’s blood, and that he had been murdered. No protest from Mona, no argument, no entreaty, prevailed to disturb that instant inference.
“He is dead, he is dead!” he cried; “now is my heart smitten and withered like grass.” Then, rising to his feet, and gazing through his poor blurred eyes into Mona’s face with a look of reproach, “Young woman,” he said, “why would you torture an old man with words of hope? Christian is dead. My son is dead. Dead? Can it be true? Yes, dead. Lord, Lord, now let me eat ashes for bread, and mingle my drink with weeping.”
And so he poured out his soul in a torrent of wild laments. Debts were as trifles to this. Disgrace was but as a dream to this dread reality. “Oh, my son, my son. Would to God I had died for thee. Oh, my son, my son!”
Mona stood by, and saw the unassuageable grief shake him to the soul. Then she took his hand in silence, and together they stepped again into the night. Out of that chamber of death Mylrea went forth a shattered man. He would not return to Balladhoo. Side by side they tramped up and down the harbor quay the long night through. Up and down, up and down, through darkness and rain, and then under moonlight and the stars, until the day dawned and the cheerless sun rose over the sleeping town.
Very pitiful was it to see how the old man’s soul struggled with a vain effort to glean comfort from his faith. Every text that rose to his heart seemed to wound it afresh.
“As arrows are in the hand of a mighty man, so are children of the youth.... They shall not be ashamed.... Oh, Absalom, my son, my son.... For thy sake I have borne reproach; shame hath covered my face.... I am poor and needy; make haste unto me, O God.... Hide not Thy face from Thy servant, for I am in trouble.... Set thine house in order.... Oh, God, Thou knowest my foolishness.... The waters have overwhelmed me, the streams have gone over my soul, the proud waters have gone over my soul.”
Thus hour after hour, tottering feebly at Mona’s side, leaning sometimes on the girl’s arm, the old man poured forth his grief. At one moment, as they stood by the ruined end of the pier, and Danny’s gorse fire glowed red over the Lockjaw Creek, and the moon broke through a black rain-cloud over the town, the sorrowing man turned calmly to Mona and said, with a strange resignation: “I will be quiet. Christian is dead. Surely I shall quiet myself as a child that is weaned of its mother. Yes, my soul is even as a weaned child.”
Just then two of the police who had been on the cliff-head came up and spoke.
“They have escaped us so far, sir,” he said, “but we are certain to have them. The fire yonder was lit to warn them. Your fishing-boat, the “Ben-my-Chree,” has been taken out to sea. Every man that is in her must be captured. Don’t trouble to stay longer, sir. We are posted everywhere about. They are doomed men. Make your mind easy, sir, and go off to your bed. Good-night.”
Mona felt the old man’s arm tremble as it lay on hers.
The day dawned, and they parted. Mylrea Balladhoo said he would go home now, and away he started along the shore. With the coming of daylight his sorrow bled afresh, and he cried piteously.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
Mona turned in the opposite direction. She, on her part, had not given up hope of Christian. She could not forget that she had not recognized him among the men who ran past her into Kisseck’s house. Christian was still alive, but who was it that was dead?
Mona stopped. The seaman’s cap which she had picked up at the porch of the deserted cottage in the quarry she had carried all night in her hand. At that instant she looked at it again, and seeing it for the first time in the daylight she saw that it was stained with spots of blood. It was Danny Fayle’s cap. Then it must be Danny who was dead. The inference in her case was as swift as in the case of Mylrea Balladhoo. And as little would argument or entreaty have prevailed to disturb it.
Danny was dead, and it was she who had sent him to his death. His great little heart that had been broken for love of her, had also died for her sake.
And now the anguish of the girl was not less than that of the old man himself. Where was Christian? Did he know what Kisseck had done? It must have been Kisseck. But God would punish him. Had Christian gone out to sea?
Mona set off for the Lockjaw Creek, thinking that some trace of Christian might perhaps be found there.
She took the high path. The sun had risen, and the gorse fire burned blue. When she came by the mouth of the old mine she was thinking both of Danny and of Christian. “He will be cold now; he will be in heaven,” she muttered to herself.
Then it was that, half-buried in the pit, she saw the pallid, deep-plowed face of Christian himself. She could not suppress a cry. Then she heard the creak and the fall of the timbers under him. For a moment she lost consciousness, and in another moment she was in Christian’s arms.
Hardly had the bewildered senses of these two regained an instant’s composure when a man came running toward them from the town. In disjointed words he told them that some fearful thing had washed ashore in the bay, and that Mylrea Balladhoo was there, raving over it like one mad. This is what had happened.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
As Balladhoo turned along the shore toward his home, bemoaning what he believed to be the death of Christian, his dazed eyes caught sight of a curious object some distance out at sea. It might be a gig with a sail, but it looked too small. It might be a diver or a solan goose with outspread wings, but it looked too large. What it was mattered little to him. The world had lost its light. The sun that shone above him entered not into his soul. His days henceforth were to be but as a shadow that passeth away.
Balladhoo walked on, moaning and crying aloud. As he approached his house every step awoke a new grief; every stone, every hedge, was sacred to some memory. Here he had seen the lad playing with other lads. Here, laughing and calling, he had seen him ride the rough colt his father gave him. As he opened the gate he could almost imagine he saw a fair-haired boy running to meet him, a whip in one hand and a toy horse tumbling behind. Balladhoo lifted his head to brush away the blinding tears. As he did so his eyes fell on a window in the gable half-hidden by the leafless boughs of an old rose-tree. That awoke the bitterest and oldest memory of all. It was of a fair young woman’s form, with joy in the blue eyes and laughter on the red lips. In her arms was a child, and she cried to it “Look,” as the little one, plunging and leaping, called “Papa, papa,” and clapped its tiny hands.
The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed....
No, Mylrea Balladhoo could not enter his house. It was full of too many spectres.
He turned back. It was to be anywhere; he knew not where. Jemmy, the gardener, who had been awake all night in amazement and distress at his master’s absence, saw him now approach the house, went up to his side, tried to speak to him, and, failing to get a word in reply, walked in silence by his side.
He returned along the shore. And now the white thing which he had seen before was within fifty yards of the beach, and was sailing due to land. What could it be? In a minute it drifted to Balladhoo’s feet, and then he saw that it was a human body which had been bound in canvas for burial at sea, and had come ashore in this strange way. He gave it but one glance. He did not look to see whose body it was. He concluded at once that it must be the body of Christian. Had he not heard that the men had put out to sea? They had taken the body of his murdered son with them, and tried to bury it there and hide their crime forever. It was all so terribly plain to Balladhoo’s bewildered mind. Then he cried aloud in a tempest of agony that nothing could restrain. His religion seemed to desert him. At least it gave no comfort. His face became suddenly and awfully discolored and stern, and, standing by the dread thing on the sand, the tottering old man lifted his clenched fist to the sky in silent imprecation of Heaven.
Jemmy Quark left him, and, rushing to the town, cried out that something horrible had washed ashore. One of those who heard him had seen Mona and Balladhoo part on the quay. This man went in pursuit of the young woman, who had been seen to take the path over Contrary.
And now Christian and Mona, with a group of others, hastened to the bay. There — seeing nothing but the dread thing lying on the shore — was Mylrea Balladhoo. He was crying aloud that if Heaven had spared his boy Hell might have taken all else he had.
“Oh, my son, my son, would to God I had died for you! Oh, my son, my son!”
Then the stricken father went down on his knees, and stretched out a feeble, trembling hand to draw aside the canvas that hid the face.
As he did so Mona and Christian came up. Christian stood opposite his father on the other side of the corpse; the old man on his knees, the son on his feet, the dead man between them.
The others stood around. None spoke. Then Mona, motioning Christian to silence, stepped up to Balladhoo and knelt beside him. It was better that he should realize the truth by degrees and not too suddenly. He would see the face, and know that it was not the face of his son. Mona, on her part, knew it would be Danny’s face. And the boy was dead. The beating of her heart fell low.
There was a moment of unutterable suspense. Then, with rapid, audible breath, the old man stretched out a half-palsied hand and drew off the loose canvas.
They saw the face of Kisseck.
Balladhoo got up with great wide eyes. There before him, face to face with him, was Christian himself.
CHAPTER XVIII
SHE’S ALL THE WORLD TO ME
When the crew of the “Ben-my-Chree” had recovered from their first consternation on seeing the body of Kisseck rise to the surface and shoot away like a spectre boat, they hoisted sail and stood once more out to sea. The gentle breeze filled the canvas, and for half an hour the jib lay over the side, while the fishing-boat scudded along like a startled bird.
The sun rose over the land, a thin gauze obscuring it. The red light flashed and died away as if the wind were the sunshine. The haggard faces of the men caught at moments a lurid glow from it. In the west a mass of bluish cloud rested a little while on the horizon, and then passed into a nimbus of gray rain-cloud that floated above it. Such was the dawn and sunrise of a fateful day.
They were sailing north; they had no haven in their view. But Peel was behind them. Think what home is to the fisherman who goes down into the great deep. Then know that to them home could be all this no longer. The silvery voices of girls, the innocent prattle of little children, the welcome of wife, the glowing hearth — these were theirs no more. Then belly out, brave sail, and back off with a noise like thunder; let the blocks creak, and the ropes strain. Anywhere, anywhere, away from the withering reproach of the crime of one and the guilt of all.
But they were standing only two miles off Jurby Point when once more the wind fell to a dead calm. The men looked into each other’s faces. Here was the work of fate. There was to be no flying away; God meant them to die on these waters. The sail flapped idly; they furled it, and the boat drifted south.
Then one after one sat down on the deck, helpless and hopeless. Hours went by. The day wore on. A passing breath sometimes stirred the waters, and again all around was dumb, dead, pulseless peace. Hearing only the faint flap of the rippling tide, they drifted, drifted, drifted.
Then they thought of home once more, and now with other feelings. Death was before them — slow, sure, relentless death. There was to be no jugglery. Let it be death at home rather than death on this desert sea. Anything, anything but this blind end — this dumb end; this dying bit by bit on still waters. To see the darkness come again and the sun rise afresh, and once more the sun sink and the darkness deepen, and still to lie there with nothing around but the changeless sea, and nothing above but the empty sky, and only the eye of God upon them, while the winds and the waters lay in His avenging hand. Let it rather be death — swift death, just death — there where their crime was attempted, and one black deed was done.
