Complete works of hall c.., p.634
Complete Works of Hall Caine, page 634
Laughter was the good genie that drew their assundered hearts together. It broke down the barrier that divided them; it melted the frozen places where love might not pass. They could not resist it. Their anger fled before it like evil creatures of the night.
At the first sound of Davy’s laughter something in Nelly’s bosom seemed to whisper “He loves me still;” and at the first note of Nelly’s, something clamored in Davy’s breast, “She’s mine, she’s mine!” They turned toward each other in the darkness with a yearning cry.
“Nelly!” cried Davy, and he opened his arms to her.
“Davy!” cried Nelly, and she leaped to his embrace.
And so ended in laughter and kisses their little foolish comedy of love.
As soon as Davy had recovered his breath he said, with what gravity he could command, “Seems to me, Nelly Vauch, begging your pardon, darling, that we’ve been a couple of fools.”
“Whoever could have believed it?” said Nelly.
“What does it mane at all, said Davy.
“It means,” said Nelly, “that our good friends knew each other, and that he told her, and she told him, and that to bring us together again they played a trick on our jealousy.”
“Then we were jealous?” said Davy.
“Why else are we here?” said Nelly.
“So you did come to see a man, after all?” said Davy.
“And you came to see a woman,” said Nelly.
They had began to laugh again, and to walk to and fro about the lawn, arm-inarm and waist-to-waist, vowing that they would never part — no, never, never, never — and that nothing on earth should separate them, when they heard a step on the grass behind.
“Who’s there?” said Davy.
And a voice from the darkness answered, “It’s Willie Quarrie, Capt’n.”
Davy caught his breath. “Lord-a-massy me!” said he. “I’d clane forgotten.”
“So had I,” said Nelly, with alarm.
“I was to have started back for Cajlao by the Belfast packet.”
“And I was to have gone home by carriage.”
“If you plaze, Capt’n,” said Willie Quarrie, coming up. “I’ve been looking for you high and low — the pacquet’s gone.”
Davy drew a long breath of relief. “Good luck to her,” said he, with a shout.
“And, if you plaze,” said Willie, “Mr. Lovibond is gone with her.”
“Good luck to him,” said Davy.
“And Miss Crows has gone, too,” said Willie.
“Good luck to her as well,” said Davy; and Nelly whispered at his side, “There — what did I tell you?”
“And if you plaze, Capt’n,” said Willie Quarrie, stammering nervously, “Mr. Lovibond, sir, he has borrowed our — our tickets and — and taken them away with him.”
“He’s welcome, boy, he’s welcome,” cried Davy, promptly. “We’re going home instead. Home!” he said again — this time to Nelly, and in a tone of delight, as if the word rolled on his tongue like a lozenge— “that sounds better, doesn’t it? Middling tidy, isn’t it. Not so dusty, eh?”
“We’ll never leave it again,” said Nelly.
“Never!” said Davy. “Not for a Dempster’s palace. Just a piece of a croft and a bit of a thatch cottage on the lea of ould Orrisdale, and we’ll lie ashore and take the sun like the goats.”
“That reminds me of something,” whispered Nelly. “Listen! I’ve had a letter from father. It made me cry this morning, but it’s all right now — Ballamooar is to let!”
“Ballamooar!” repeated Davy, but in another voice. “Aw, no, woman, no! And that reminds me of something.”
“What is it,” said Nelly.
“I should have been telling you first,” said Davy, with downcast head, and in a tone of humiliation.
“Then what?” whispered Nelly.
“There’s never no money at a dirty ould swiper that drinks and gambles everything. I’m on the ebby tide, Nelly, and my boat is on the rocks like a taypot. I’m broke, woman, I’m broke.”
Nelly laughed lightly. “Do you say so?” she said with mock solemnity.
“It’s only an ould shirt I’m bringing you to patch, Nelly,” said Davy; “but here I am, what’s left of me, to take me or lave me, and not much choice either ways.”
“Then I take you, sir,” said Nelly. “And as for the money,” she whispered in a meaning voice, “I’ll take Ballamooar myself and give you trust.”
With a cry of joy Davy caught her to his breast and held her there as in a vice. “Then kiss me on it again and swear to it,” he cried, “Again! Again! Don’t be in a hurry woman! Aw, kissing is mortal hasty work! Take your time, girl! Once more! Shocking, is it? It’s like the bags of the bees that we were stealing when we were boys! Another! Then half a one, and I’m done!”
Since they had spoken to Willie Quarrie they had given no further thought to him, when he stepped forward and said out of the darkness: “If you plaze, capt’n, Mr. Lovibond was telling me to give you this lether and this other thing,” giving a letter and a book to Davy.
“Hould hard, though; what’s doing now?” said Davy, turning them over in his hand.
“Let us go into the house and look,” said Nelly.
But Davy had brought out his matchbox, and was striking a light. “Hould up my billycock, boy,” said he; and in another moment Willie Quarrie was holding Davy’s hat on end to shield from the breeze the burning match which Nelly held inside of it. Then Davy, bareheaded, proceeded to examine what Lovibond had sent him.
“A book tied up in a red tape, eh?” said Davy. “Must be the one he was writing in constant, morning and evening, telling hisself and God A’mighty what he was doing and wasn’t doing, and where he was going to and when he was going to go. Aw, yes, he always kep’ a diarrhea.”
“A diary, Davy,” said Nelly.
“Have it as you like, Vauch, and don’t burn your little fingers,” said Davy; and then he opened the letter, and with many interjections proceeded to read it.
“‘Dear Captain. How can I ask you to forgive me for the trick I have played upon you? ‘(Forgive, is it?)’ I have never had an appointment with the Manx lady; I have never had an intention of carrying her off from her husband; I have never seen her in church, and the story I have told you has been a lie from beginning to end.’”
Davy lifted his head and laughed.
“Another match, Willie,” he cried. And while the boy was striking a fresh one Davy stamped out the burning end that Nelly dropped on to the grass, and said: “A lie! Well, it was an’ it wasn’t. A sort of a scriptural parable, eh?”
“Go on, Davy,” said Nelly, impatiently, and Davy began again:
“‘You know the object of that trick by this time’ (Wouldn’t trust), ‘but you have been the victim of another’ (Holy sailor!), ‘to which I must also confess. In the gambling by which I won a large part of your money’ (True for you!) ‘I was not playing for my own hand. It was for one who wished to save you from yourself.’ (Lord a massy!) ‘That person was your wife’ (Goodness me!), ‘and all my earnings belong to her.’ (Good thing, too!) ‘They are deposited at Dumbell’s in her name’ (Right!), ‘and—’”
“There — that will do,” said Nelly, nervously.
“‘And I send you the bank-book, together with the dock bonds,... which you transferred for Mrs. Quiggin’s benefit... to the name... of her friend...’”
Davy’s lusty voice died off to a whisper.
“What is that?” said Nelly, eagerly.
“Nothin’,” said Davy, very thick about the throat; and he rammed the letter into his breeches’ pocket and grabbed at his hat. As he did so, a paper slipped to the ground. Nelly caught it up and held it on the breezy side of the flickering match.
It was a note from Jenny Crow: “‘You dear old goosy; your jealous little heart found out who the Manx sailor was, but your wise little poll never once suspected that Mr. Lovibond could be anything to anybody, although I must have told you twenty times in the old days of the sweetheart from whom I parted. Good thing, too. Glad you were so stupid, my dear, for by helping you to make up your quarrel we have contrived to patch up our own. Good-by! What lovely stories I told you! And how you liked them! We have borrowed your husband’s berths for the Pacific steamer, and are going to have an Irish marriage tomorrow morning at Belfast—’”
“So they’re a Co. consarn already,” said Davy.
“‘Good-by! Give your Manx sailor one kiss for me—’”
“Do it!” cried Davy. “Do it! What you’ve got to do only once you ought to do it well.”
Then they became conscious that a smaller and dumpier figure was standing in the darkness by the side of Willie. It was Peggy Quine.
“Are you longing, Peggy?” Willie was saying in a voice of melancholy sympathy.
And Peggy was answering in a doleful tone, “Aw, yes, though — longing mortal.”
Becoming conscious that the eyes of her mistress were on her, Peggy stepped out and said, “If you plaze, ma’am, the carriage is waiting this half-hour.”
“Then send it away again,” said Davy.
“But the boxes is packed, sir — —”
“Send it away,” repeated Davy.
“No, no,” said Nelly; “we must go home to-night.”
“To-morrow morning,” shouted Davy, with a stamp of his foot and a laugh.
“But I have paid the bill,” said Nelly, “and everything is arranged, and we are all ready.”
“To-morrow morning,” thundered Davy, with another stamp of the foot and a peal of laughter.
And Davy had his way.
THE END
THE BLIND MOTHER
I
The Vale of Newlands lay green in the morning sunlight; the river that ran through its lowest bed sparkled with purple and amber; the leaves prattled low in the light breeze that soughed through the rushes and the long grass; the hills rose sheer and white to the smooth blue lake of the sky, where only one fleecy cloud floated languidly across from peak to peak. Out of unseen places came the bleating of sheep and the rumble of distant cataracts, and above the dull thud of tumbling waters far away was the thin caroling of birds overhead.
But the air was alive with yet sweeter sounds. On the breast of the fell that lies over against Cat Bell a procession of children walked, and sang, and chattered, and laughed. It was St. Peter’s Day, and they were rush-bearing; little ones of all ages, from the comely girl of fourteen, just ripening into maidenhood, who walked last, to the sweet boy of four in the pinafore braided with epaulets, who strode along gallantly in front. Most of the little hands carried rushes, but some were filled with ferns, and mosses, and flowers. They had assembled at the schoolhouse, and now, on their way to the church, they were making the circuit of the dale.
They passed over the road that crosses the river at the head of Newlands, and turned down into the path that follows the bed of the valley. At that angle there stands a little group of cottages deliciously cool in their whitewash, nestling together under the heavy purple crag from which the waters of a ghyll fall into a deep basin that reaches to their walls. The last of the group is a cottage with its end to the road, and its open porch facing a garden shaped like a wedge. As the children passed this house an old man, gray and thin and much bent, stood by the gate, leaning on a staff. A collie, with the sheep’s dog wooden bar suspended from its shaggy neck, lay at his feet. The hum of voices brought a young woman into the porch. She was bareheaded and wore a light print gown. Her face was pale and marked with lines. She walked cautiously, stretching one hand before her with an uncertain motion, and grasping a trailing tendril of honeysuckle that swept downward from the roof. Her eyes, which were partly inclined upward and partly turned toward the procession, had a vague light in their bleached pupils. She was blind. At her side, and tugging at her other hand, was a child of a year and a half — a chubby, sunny little fellow with ruddy cheeks, blue eyes, and fair curly hair. Prattling, laughing, singing snatches, and waving their rushes and ferns above their happy, thoughtless heads, the children rattled past. When they were gone the air was empty, as it is when the lark stops in its song.
After the procession of children had passed the little cottage at the angle of the roads, the old man who leaned on his staff at the gate turned about and stepped to the porch.
“Did the boy see them? — did he see the children?” said the young woman who held the child by the hand.
“I mak’ na doot,” said the old man.
He stooped to the little one and held out one long withered finger. The soft baby hand closed on it instantly.
“Did he laugh? I thought he laughed,” said the young woman.
A bright smile played on her lips.
“Maybe so, lass.”
“Ralphie has never seen the children before, father. Didn’t he look frightened — just a little bit frightened — at first, you know? I thought he crept behind my gown.”
“Maybe, maybe.”
The little one had dropped the hand of his young mother, and, still holding the bony finger of his grandfather, he toddled beside him into the house.
Very cool and sweet was the kitchen, with white-washed walls and hard earthen floor. A table and a settle stood by the window, and a dresser that was an armory of bright pewter dishes, trenchers, and piggins, crossed the opposite wall.
“Nay, but sista here, laal lad,” said the old man, and he dived into a great pocket at his side.
“Have you brought it? Is it the kitten? Oh, dear, let the boy see it!”
A kitten came out of the old man’s pocket, and was set down on the rug at the hearth. The timid creature sat dazed, then raised itself on its hind legs and mewed.
“Where’s Ralphie? Is he watching it, father? What is he doing?”
The little one had dropped on hands and knees before the kitten, and was gazing up into its face.
The mother leaned over him with a face that would have beamed with sunshine if the sun of sight had not been missing.
“Is he looking? Doesn’t he want to coddle it?”
The little chap had pushed his nose close to the nose of the kitten, and was prattling to it in various inarticulate noises.
“Boo — loo — lal-la — mama.”
“Isn’t he a darling, father?”
“It’s a winsome wee thing,” said the old man, still standing, with drooping head, over the group on the hearth.
The mother’s face saddened, and she turned away. Then from the opposite side of the kitchen, where she was making pretense to take plates from a plate-rack, there came the sound of suppressed weeping. The old man’s eyes followed her.
“Nay, lass; let’s have a sup of broth,” he said, in a tone that carried another message.
The young woman put plates and a bowl of broth on the table.
“To think that I can never see my own child, and everybody else can see him!” she said, and then there was another bout of tears.
The charcoal-burner supped at his broth in silence. A glistening bead rolled slowly down his wizened cheek: and the interview on the hearth went on without interruption:
“Mew — mew — mew. Boo — loo — lal-la — mama.”
The child made efforts to drag himself to his feet by laying hold of the old man’s trousers.
“Nay, laddie,” said the old man, “mind my claes — they’ll dirty thy bran-new brat for thee.”
“Is he growing, father?” said the girl.
“Growing? — amain.”
“And his eyes — are they changing color? — going brown? Children’s eyes do, you know.”
“Maybe — I’ll not be for saying nay.”
“Is he — is he very like me, father?”
“Nay — well — nay — I’s fancying I see summat of the stranger in the laal chap at whiles.”
The young mother turned her head aside.
* * * * *
The old man’s name was Matthew Fisher; but the folks of the countryside called him Laird Fisher. This dubious dignity came of the circumstance that he had been the holder of an absolute royalty in a few acres of land under Hindscarth. The royalty had been many generations in his family. His grandfather had set store by it. When the Lord of the Manor had worked the copper pits at the foot of the Eal Crags, he had tried to possess himself of the royalties of the Fishers. But the present families resisted the aristocrat. Luke Fisher believed there was a fortune under his feet, and he meant to try his luck on his holding some day. That day never came. His son, Mark Fisher, carried on the tradition, but made no effort to unearth the fortune. They were a cool, silent, slow, and stubborn race. Matthew Fisher followed his father and his grandfather, and inherited the family pride. All these years the tenders of the Lord of the Manor were ignored, and the Fishers enjoyed their title of courtesy or badinage. Matthew married, and had one daughter called Mercy. He farmed his few acres with poor results. The ground was good enough, but Matthew was living under the shadow of the family tradition. One day — it was Sunday morning, and the sun shone brightly — he was rambling by the Po Bett that rises on Hindscarth, and passed through his land, when his eyes glanced over a glittering stone that lay among the pebbles at the bottom of the stream. It was ore, good full ore, and on the very surface. Then the Laird sank a shaft, and all his earnings with it, in an attempt to procure iron or copper. The dalespeople derided him, but he held silently on his way.
“How dusta find the cobbles to-day — any softer?” they would say in passing.
“As soft as the hearts of most folk,” he would answer; and then add in a murmur, “and maybe a vast harder nor their heads.”
The undeceiving came at length, and then the Laird Fisher was old and poor. His wife died broken-hearted. After that the Laird never rallied. The shaft was left unworked, and the holding lay fallow. Laird Fisher took wage from the Lord of the Manor to burn charcoal in the wood. The breezy irony of the dalesfolk did not spare the old man’s bent head. There was a rime current in the vale which ran:
