BEHIND THE FIDDLE.
IT is vain for any man to say that, in the deepest depths of woe, he
can receive no scrap of comfort from the tenderness of others. Words
may help him very little; commonplace exhortations are a weariness
to the worn-out soul; he lies at the bottom of his own distress, and
does not want it probed or touched. But gradually a little light and
warmth steal through the darkness, not direct from heaven alone, but
reflected from kind eyes and hearts. He is not alone in the world,
although he ever must be lonely; and the sense of other life than his
restores him slowly to his own.
After all the kindness shown me, and the good-will wholly undeserved, I
felt ashamed to be so swallowed up by my own sorrow. Some indulgence I
might claim from people of kindly nature, on the ground that it was not
sorrow only, but dark mystery and doubt, and even some sense of black
disgrace, which had robbed me of my proper vigour and due power of
manhood. And it is more than likely that the long and wasting illness,
from which I had not yet quite recovered, still impaired the force and
tone of mind as well as body. But I do not want to make excuses, as
people nearly always say in the very breath they make them with. Only I
was now resolved that no more should be needed.
On the Monday, I drove _Spanker_ home; which was a great delight to
him, and to me as well, for the world looked brighter, when my face
was set to fight it. Or rather I should say, to fight that vile and
wicked part of it, which had robbed me of my just claim to a happy
though humble place in it. In my breast-pocket I carried the book
containing my wife’s last words to me; for my good Aunt Parslow had
kindly stitched it in a white kid glove, or a pair of them, which had
been white in their early days. And in the pocket on the other side,
I carried fifty pounds in bank-notes, so as to be able to start well,
and procure better judgment than my own, if it should appear advisable.
But about that I was not sure as yet; being very loth to ask any other
man’s opinion, however old he might be, about my pretty Kitty.
It was now the longest day, which is the most excellent and perfect
time of year, in at least three years out of every four. Sometimes
there arises a strong hot June; but scarcely more than once in twenty
summers; and then, before the days come to their turn, leaves are
getting flabby, and the grass is over-ripe, and the petals of the wild
rose lie in the ditch, and the blossom of the wheat has dropped, its
little quivery bee’s-wing. More often there has been a black Pentecost,
a May of lowering skies and blight, with every animal’s coat put the
wrong way on his back; and then a June of shrink and shiver, without
a fair flower in the garden, and with the hedgerows full of black
caterpillars. And every man flaps himself with his arms, like a cock
when he springs up to crow; but the hedger and ditcher has nothing to
crow at, and is too hoarse to do it, if he had.
But now we had a very fair midsummer, neither too hot nor too cold; and
the air was not only fresh but soft, and full of sweet yet invigorating
smells. At the top of every hill, one seemed to sniff the rich calm of
the valley, and again in the valley to feel the crisp air of the hill
coming down for a change of mood; there was nothing to make much fuss
about in the way of striking scenery; but a pretty peep could be had
at almost every turn of travelling, where green leaves softened the
brilliant sky, and sheep and cattle, in quiet pastures, showed that
they accepted life, as if it were a blessing.
But I found my uncle regarding life from a very different point of
view. He had brought all his strawberry-pickers in at three o’clock
that morning, to make the great hit of the summer, as he hoped, in
the Monday forenoon market. At six a.m. he had sent off about five
hundredweight of prime fruit, all in pound punnets with dewy leaves,
as fresh as the daybreak, and as bright as the sun, before it leaves
off blushing. But ere he could put one upon his stand, one hundred
and twenty tons of French stuff, which had been discharged the night
before, were running, like a flood from some horse-knacker’s, in every
alley of the market. This refuse was offered, by the bucketful, at a
penny a pound, which was too much for it; a dumpy, and flabby, and
slimy mass, fit for children to make dirt pies of. Of course the good
buyers would not look at it, for no man could put it in his window. But
the British public could put it in their stomachs, which is not at all
a choice receptacle; and the mere fact of its presence took the shine
out of all fair English fruit. Uncle Corny’s choice _Presidents_, and
_Dr. Hoggs_, as good as if they leaped from stalk to lip, became jam
for the Juggernauth of free trade; and he was left lamenting, as well
as swearing very hard.
Whenever he had used strong language,—however well justified by
international law—he was apt to show less of true penitence, than of
anger with the world that had made him do it. Being a righteous man, he
always felt ashamed; but he never was known to retract an expression;
though he often declared that his words had been too weak, and he
wished he had said what he was charged with saying. But Selsey Bill
told me that he had been “just awful,” and they were expecting beer all
round, as a token of remorse. “Said a’ would sack every son of a gun of
us! Never knowed ’un say that, wi’out sending can out by-and-by. Ah,
he is a just man, Master Kit, if ever was one.”
“Glad to see you, Kit,” said my uncle, who was getting, with the aid
of a pipe, into his right mind. “You are looking ever so much better,
my boy. Can’t return the compliment, I fear. The fact is, I have been
a little put out; though I never lost my temper, as most people would
have done. Fearful smash this morning at the Garden. But all the poor
fellows did their very best, and it would not be fair to punish them.
They’ve been hard at it, ever since three o’clock. You might take the
four-gallon can, if you like, just to show them that you are come home
again. And I daresay you’ll be glad of a glass yourself, for the roads
are getting dusty. You can come and talk to me, when you’ve been round.
Only half a pint each for the women, mind. It would never do to get
them into bad habits. Unless any of them has a baby.”
When I had discharged that little duty, I told him of all that my aunt
had said, and showed him the message to me in the book, if indeed it
could be called a message. He shook his head very wisely over this, and
told me that he must think about it; for he could not at present see
the meaning of it. But I saw that it altered his opinion of the case.
“You have been up to the cottage already, I see,” he continued, as
I sat quietly, after vainly searching once more the columns of his
paper the _Standard_, as I daily did; “you will never find any notice
there, my boy, nor in any other paper. It is the blackest puzzle I ever
came across; and this only makes it the blacker. Mother Bull is come
back”—he should have said, “the Honourable Mrs. Bulwrag Fairthorn”—“I
was told so yesterday by that good woman, who came down when you were
so ill. You know the woman I mean—Mrs. Wilcox. She was down here
yesterday to ask for you, and was very sorry not to find you. She said
that if Mother Bull had not been away, she could have sworn that it was
all her doing. But now she doubts whether she knew anything about it;
for when she does a thing, she always does it by herself, and never
trusts any one with her wicked works. Mrs. Wilcox has not heard a word
from your wife, as I need not tell you; but she flies in a fury at the
smallest hint that there can be any fault on her part. She says that
poor Kitty could never plot anything, even if she wished it. Her mind
is too simple, and she could never carry out any plan requiring sharp
management. I asked her what she thought of it all, and she could think
of nothing at all worth speaking of. Only that there is something we
don’t know—which I could have told her, without walking a mile. But
I think it might do you good to go and see her; and it would comfort
you at any rate, for she holds all your own opinions. And she said
one thing which I thought right, and sharper of her than I expected,
for it never had occurred to me—that you should take in one of those
scientific journals, which give an account of discoveries and all that;
so as to find out, if you can, where Professor Fairthorn is.”
“How can that do any good.” I asked. “He had sailed at least ten days
before I was forsaken, and while we were down at Baycliff. The telegram
from Falmouth proved all that.”
“That is clear enough. And of course he cannot help us, while he is far
away at sea. But for all that, we are bound to let him know, if there
should be any chance. You would write to him, or write at him, if his
daughter was dead; and it is very much the same case now.”
“Uncle Corny, you have the most coldblooded way sometimes, though you
never mean it. Certainly I am bound to let him know, if I can; and I
ought to have thought of it before. But he has given us little of his
company. I will go and see Mrs. Wilcox to-morrow, if only to find out
what paper to get; for she will know what they used to take in. And I
shall find out what is going on up there; though I don’t see how it
will help me much.”
“When that dog was stolen from Miss Coldpepper,” said my uncle, without
meaning any harm, “by some big rogue in London, what did she do? Why,
she offered a reward at once, and sent posters right and left. And what
was the result? Why, the dog came back almost before she had time to
miss him.”
“But if he came back without any reward, what could the reward have to
do with it?”
“How do you know that no reward was paid?” My uncle seemed quite to
look suspicious; but perhaps it was my conscience that made him do it.
“We can’t tell what happened between them, up there.”
“Certainly not,” I replied with haste; “but I don’t like talking about
a dog, in the same breath with my Kitty.”
“I did not mean to annoy you, Kit,” he answered very humbly; “although
the poor lady may have felt it bitterly, in her little way. All that
I meant was, that we might have offered a large reward for any
information. It could have done no harm, you know. And it might have
come to Kitty’s ears, and inclined her to come back to us. Women are so
glad to save expense.”
“How can you understand such things? As if I could bear to fetch my
wife home, by jingling a purse before the world! If she won’t come back
without that, she had better—she had better almost stay away.”
“Very well. I can understand your feelings; and very likely I should
have the same. You are like me, Kit, in many things; although a deal
more obstinate.”
My uncle was fond of saying this; but it always took my breath away,
from the sublimity of his self-ignorance. It was like an oak-tree
bidding an osier not to be so gnarled and stiff.
“Now remember one thing,” he went on, as he saw me smiling just a
little; “in spite of your stubbornness, you shall obey me, or I will
know the reason why. You have tried what good hard work would do, and
it has done you more harm than good. Because your mind has not been in
it, and you have only been fretting at every stroke, though you stuck
to it, like a Briton. To-day you are twice the man, because you have
had a little change, and seen a little of a different life, and allowed
yourself to speak more freely of your sad affairs, instead of snapping
at every one who mentioned them. Henceforth you shall never do more
than eight hours’ work in these gardens in one day, I mean of course
all by yourself. For sixteen hours every day, you have avoided every
one, and carried on work, work, all alone, as if you never meant to
speak again. I am pretty tough; but it would have killed me, although I
am no chatterbox. And it has gone some way towards killing you. I left
you to your own foolish plan, because of your confounded obstinacy. But
now, I will try to be as stubborn myself. I will come after you, with
my supple-jack, unless you give me your word on this. And another thing
you must bear in mind. You have taken your good aunt’s money for a
particular purpose; and you will have had it on false pretences, if you
go on thus.”
“I intend to use it for what she meant. I would never have taken it
otherwise. You shall not complain of my sticking too close, but rather
of my absence. But I shall not draw my weekly money from you, unless I
have done a good week’s work. To-morrow I shall do very little, because
I am going to London. To-night I shall work for an hour or two,
because I have a job to finish. And I will look in, when you are having
your last pipe.”
There was every promise of a fruitful season, though not without plenty
to grumble at, for I never knew a season good all round, such as more
favoured countries have. After getting myself into working trim, I left
my lonely little dwelling, with the front door so arranged that any one
who knew the trick could enter without knocking. And in the kitchen
fireplace—for I never used the parlour now—I left a little coke alight,
so that it would smoulder on for hours, and could soon, with the aid
of wood and coal, be nursed into glow enough to boil the kettle, which
stood ready upon the hob. For I always fancied, when I went to work,
that I might find my wife, when I should come home, making it a home
for me once more, and listening to the singing of the kettle. And I
left the lane door unfastened too, that she might have no trouble to
get in.
Somehow or other, I seemed to feel that something strange would befall
me that night, but I went about my work as usual. I had a large
peach-tree to go over, for the second time that season, fetching every
shoot into place, checking or sometimes cutting out the over-coarse
and sappy growth, nipping every blistered leaf, removing the fruit,
where it grew too thick or had no chance of swelling, and offering the
many other small attentions, without which fine fruit may not be. And
outside the border on the gravel walk I had the garden engine full of
water for the nightly bath, which fruit and foliage in warm weather
love, as much as vermin hate it.
The sun had been down for an hour or more, and the dusk was deepening
into night, and I was just at the point of leaving off for fear of
hammering the wrong sort of nail—when I heard a little sound, like
the scraping of a twig, and turning my head, without any great hurry,
beheld, as distinctly as I see this paper, the face of a man looking
steadfastly at me. It was a large and solid face, as calm and unmoved
as the full moon appears rising out of the haze on a fine summer night.
I could see no hat above the face, nor any human figure below it, only
a face looking through a gap in a clipped _arbor vitæ_ tree, about
fifteen yards from where I stood. It was gazing at me quite serenely,
and as if I were hardly worth the trouble.
Through all the time of my long distress, I had wholly lost the sense
of fear—bodily fear I mean, and nervous trembling, such as brave men
have. This had surprised me more than once; things that used to make
me jump had not the least effect on me. The reason was simply that my
life was not of the smallest value to me. And I wondered that I was not
frightened now, because I knew that I ought to be.
Without even taking my hammer up, I leaped across the border, to seize
this fellow; but my foot caught in something, and down I went. A heavy
garden-line had been left, stretched along by one of our men, who had
been “making up the edge” that day. I knew it was there, but had not
thought of it in my hurry; and now I was lame in both knees for a
minute, for the shock had been very violent. At first I thought that my
left leg was broken; but after a bit of rubbing it got better, and I
hobbled towards the _Thuja_ tree, which had been clipped into the shape
of a fiddle by Bill Tompkins.
I dragged myself round it; but saw no one, nor even a footprint in the
waning of the light; neither was there any sound among the trees beyond
it. Wondering greatly, and very angry with the fellow who had left the
line there, I collected my tools with some difficulty, and was obliged
to leave the tree unsyringed. Then, as I went stiffly home, I thought
of the fuss my Kitty would have made, to see me in that bleeding
hobble; and if I was weak in body through it, I fear that I was weaker
still in mind.