Give him heedful note;
For I mine eyes will rivet to his face,
And after we will both our judgments join.
Thou wouldst not think how ill all's here about my heart: but it is no
matter.
You must needs have heard, how I am punish'd
With sore distraction. What I have done
I here proclaim was madness.--_Hamlet._
|IT was very generally thought that it was a fortunate circumstance
for Mr. Oswin Markham that there chanced to be in the fore-cabin of
the steamer an enterprising American speculator who was taking out
some hundred dozens of ready-made garments for disposal to the diamond
miners--and an equal quantity of less durable clothing, in which he had
been induced to invest some money with a view to the ultimate adoption
of clothing by the Kafir nation. He explained how he had secured the
services of a hard-working missionary whom he had sent as agent in
advance to endeavour to convince the natives that if they ever wished
to gain a footing among great nations, the auxiliary of clothing towards
the effecting of their object was worth taking into consideration. When
the market for these garments would thus be created, the speculator
hoped to arrive on the scene and make a tolerable sum of money. In rear
of his missionary, he had scoured most of the islands of the Pacific
with very satisfactory results; and he said he felt that, if he could
but prevail upon his missionary in advance to keep steady, a large work
of evangelisation could be done in South Africa.
By the aid of this enterprising person, Mr. Markham was able to clothe
himself without borrowing from any of the passengers. But about the
payment for his purchases there seemed likely to be some difficulty. The
bank order for four hundred pounds was once again in the possession of
Mr. Markham, but it was payable in England, and how then could he effect
the transfer of the few pounds he owed the American speculator, when he
was to leave the vessel at St. Helena? There was no agency of the bank
at this island, though there was one at the Cape, and thus the question
of payment became somewhat difficult to solve.
“Do you want to leave the craft at St. Helena, mister?” asked the
American, stroking his chin thoughtfully.
“I do,” said Mr. Markham. “I must leave at the island and take the first
ship to England.”
“It's the awkwardest place on God's footstool, this St. Helena, isn't
it?” said the American.
“I don't see that it is; why do you say so?”
“Only that I don't see why you want so partickler to land thar, mister.
Maybe you'll change yer mind, eh?”
“I have said that I must part from this ship there,” exclaimed Mr.
Markham almost impatiently. “I must get this order reduced to money
somehow.”
“Wal, I reckon that's about the point, mister.” said the speculator.
“But you see if you want to fly it as you say, you'll not breeze about
that it's needful for you to cut the craft before you come to the Cape.
I'd half a mind to try and trade with you for that bit of paper ten
minutes ago, but I reckon that's not what's the matter with me now. No,
_sir_; if you want to get rid of that paper without much trouble, just
you give out that you don't care if you do go on to the Cape; maybe a
nibble will come from that.”
“I don't know what you mean, my good fellow,” said Markham; “but I can
only repeat that I will not go on to the Cape. I shall get the money
somehow and pay you before I leave, for surely the order is as good as
money to any one living in the midst of civilisation. I don't suppose a
savage would understand it, but I can't see what objection any one in
business could make to receiving it at its full value.”
The American screwed up his mouth in a peculiar fashion, and smiled in
a still more peculiar fashion. He rather fancied he had a small piece
of tobacco in his waistcoat pocket, nor did the result of a search show
that he was mistaken; he extracted the succulent morsel and put it into
his mouth. Then he winked at Mr. Markham, put his hands in his pockets,
and walked slowly away without a word.
Markham looked after him with a puzzled expression. He did not know
what the man meant to convey by his nods and his becks and his wreathed
smiles. But just at this moment Mr. Harwood came up; he had of course
previously made the acquaintance of Markham.
“I suppose we shall soon be losing you?” said Harwood, offering him a
cigar. “You said, I think, that you would be leaving us at St. Helena?”
“Yes, I leave at St. Helena, and we shall be there in a few days. You
see, I am now nearly as strong as ever, thanks to Campion, and it is
important for me to get to England at once.”
“No doubt,” said Harwood; “your relatives will be very anxious if they
hear of the loss of the vessel you were in.”
Markham gave a little laugh, as he said, “I have no relatives; and as
for friends--well, I suppose I shall have a number now.”
“Now?”
“Yes; the fact is I was on my way home from Australia to take up a
certain property which my father left to me in England. He died six
months ago, and the solicitors for the estate sent me out a considerable
sum of money in case I should need it in Australia--this order for four
hundred pounds is what remains of it.”
“I can now easily understand your desire to be at home and settled
down,” said Harwood.
“I don't mean to settle down,” replied Markham. “There are a good many
places to be seen in the world, small as it is.”
“A man who has knocked about in the Colonies is generally glad to settle
down at home,” remarked Harwood.
“No doubt that is the rule, but I fear I am all awry so far as rules
are concerned. I haven't allowed my life to be subject to many rules,
hitherto. Would to God I had! It is not a pleasant recollection for a
son to go through life with, Harwood, that his father has died without
becoming reconciled to him--especially when he knows that his father has
died leaving him a couple of thousands a year.”
“And you----”
“I am such a son,” said Markham, turning round suddenly. “I did all that
I could to make my father's life miserable till--a climax came, and I
found myself in Australia three years ago with an allowance sufficient
to keep me from ever being in want. But I forget, I'm not a modern
Ancient Mariner, wandering about boring people with my sad story.”
“No,” said Harwood, “you are not, I should hope. Nor am I so pressed for
time just now as the wedding guest. You did not go in for a sheep-run in
Australia?”
“Nothing of the sort,” laughed the other. “The only thing I went in for
was getting through my allowance, until that letter came that sobered
me--that letter telling me that my father was dead, and that every penny
he had possessed was mine. Harwood, you have heard of people's hair
turning white in a few hours, but you have not often heard of natures
changing from black to white in a short space; believe me it was so with
me. The idea that theologians used to have long ago about souls passing
from earth to heaven in a moment might well be believed by me, knowing
as I do how my soul was transformed by that letter. I cast my old life
behind me, though I did not tell any one about me what had happened. I
left my companions and said to them that I was going up country. I did
go up country, but I returned in a few days and got aboard the first
ship that was sailing for England, and--here I am.”
“And you mean to renew your life of wandering when you reach England?”
said Harwood, after a pause.
“It is all that there is left for me,” said the man bitterly, though a
change in his tone would have made his words seem very pitiful. “I am
not such a fool as to fancy that a man can sow tares and reap wheat. The
spring of my life is over, and also the summer, the seed-time and the
ripening; shall the harvest be delayed then? No, I am not such a fool.”
“I cannot see that you might not rest at home,” said Harwood. “Surely
you have some associations in England.”
“Not one that is not wretched.”
“But a man of good family with some money is always certain to make new
associations for himself, no matter what his life has been. Marriage,
for instance; it is, I think, an exceedingly sure way of squaring a
fellow up in life.”
“A very sure way indeed,” laughed Markham. “Never mind; in another week
I shall be away from this society which has already become so pleasant
to me. Perhaps I shall knock up against you in some of the strange
places of the earth, Harwood.”
“I heartily hope so,” said the other. “But I still cannot see why you
should not come on with us to the Cape. The voyage will completely
restore you, you can get your money changed there, and a steamer of this
company's will take you away two days after you land.”
“I cannot remain aboard this steamer,” said Markham quickly. “I must
leave at St. Helena.” Then he walked away with that shortness of
ceremony which steamer voyagers get into a habit of showing to each
other without giving offence.
“Poor beggar!” muttered Harwood. “Wrecked in sight of the haven--a
pleasant haven--yes, if he is not an uncommonly good actor.” He turned
round from where he was leaning over the ship's side smoking, and saw
the man with whom he had been talking seated in his chair by the side
of Daireen Gerald. He watched them for some time--for a long time--until
his cigar was smoked to the very end. He looked over the side
thoughtfully as he dropped the remnant and heard its little hiss in
the water; then he repeated his words, “a wreck.” Once more he glanced
astern, and then he added thoughtfully, “Yes, he is right; he had much
better part at St. Helena--very much better.”
Mr. Markham seemed quite naturally to have found his place in Mrs.
Crawford's set, exclusive though it was; for somehow aboard ship a man
amalgamates only with that society for which he is suited; a man is
seldom to be found out of place on account of certain considerations
such as one meets on shore. Not even Mr. Glaston could raise any protest
against Mr. Markham's right to take a place in the midst of the elect
of the cabin. But the young lady in whose birthday book Mr. Markham had
inscribed his name upon the first day of his appearance at the table,
thought it very unkind of him to join the band who had failed to
appreciate her toilet splendours.
During the day on which he gave Harwood his brief autobiographical
outline, Mr. Oswin Markham was frequently by the side of Miss Gerald and
Mrs. Crawford. But towards night the major felt that it would be
unjust to allow him to be defrauded of the due amount of narratory
entertainment so necessary for his comfort; and with these excellent
intentions drew him away from the others of the set, and, sitting on the
secluded bridge, brought forth from the abundant resources of his memory
a few well-defined anecdotes of that lively Arradambad station. But
all the while the major was narrating the stories he could see that
Markham's soul was otherwhere, and he began to be disappointed in Mr.
Markham.
“I mustn't bore you, Markham, my boy,” he said as he rose, after having
whiled away about two hours of the night in this agreeable occupation.
“No, I mustn't bore you, and you look, upon my soul, as if you had been
suffering.”
“No, no, I assure you, I never enjoyed anything more than that story
of--of--the Surgeon-General and the wife of--of--the Commissary.”
“The Adjutant-General, you mean,” interrupted the major.
“Of course, yes, the Adjutant; a deucedly good story!”
“Ah, not bad, is it? But there goes six bells; I must think about
turning in. Come and join me in a glass of brandy-and-water.”
“No, no; not to-night--not to-night. The fact is I feel--I feel queer.”
“You're not quite set on your feet yet, my boy,” said the major
critically. “Take care of yourself.” And he walked away, wondering if it
was possible that he had been deceived in his estimate of the nature of
Mr. Markham.
But Mr. Markham continued sitting alone in the silence of the deserted
deck. His thoughts were truly otherwhere. He lay back upon his seat and
kept his eyes fixed upon the sky--the sky of stars towards which he had
looked in agony for those four nights when nothing ever broke in
upon the dread loneliness of the barren sea but those starlights. The
terrible recollection of every moment he had passed returned to him.
Then he thought how he had heard of men becoming, through sufferings
such as his, oblivious of everything of their past life--men who were
thus enabled to begin life anew without being racked by any dread
memories, the agony that they had endured being acknowledged by Heaven
as expiation of their past deeds. That was justice, he felt, and if this
justice had been done to these men, why had it been withheld from him?
“Could God Himself have added to what I endured?” he said, in passionate
bitterness. “God! did I not suffer until my agony had overshot its
mark by destroying in me the power of feeling agony--my agony consumed
itself; I was dead--dead; and yet I am denied the power of beginning my
new life under the conditions which are my due. What more can God want
of man than his life? have I not paid that debt daily for four days?” He
rose from his chair and stood upright upon the deck with clenched hands
and lips. “It is past,” he said, after a long pause. “From this hour
I throw the past beneath my feet. It is my right to forget all, and--I
have forgotten all--all.”
Mr. Harwood had truly reason to feel surprised when, on the following
day, Oswin Markham came up to him, and said quietly:
“I believe you are right, Harwood: after all, it would be foolish for me
to part from the ship at St. Helena. I have decided to take your advice
and run on to the Cape.”
Harwood looked at him for a few moments before he answered slowly:
“Ah, you have decided.”
“Yes; you see I am amenable to reason: I acknowledge the wisdom of my
counsellors.” But Harwood made no answer, only continued with his
eyes fixed upon his face. “Hang it all,” exclaimed Markham, “can't
you congratulate me upon my return to the side of reason? Can't you
acknowledge that you have been mistaken in me--that you find I am not so
pig-headed as you supposed?”
“Yes,” said Harwood; “you are not pig-headed.” And, taking all things
into consideration, it can hardly be denied that Mr. Oswin Markham's
claim to be exempted from the class of persons called pig-headed was
well founded.