THE CHILD GHOST IN THE HOUSE
After the coroner, Quayle the Gyke, had gone through one part of his
dual functions at Ballamona, and thereby discovered that the body of
Ewan had been wrapped in a sailcloth of the "Ben-my-Chree," he set out
on the other part of his duty, to find the berth of the fishing-boat,
and, if need be, to arrest the crew. He was in the act of leaving
Ballamona when, at the gate of the highroad, he came upon the women and
children of the families of the crew he was in search of, and there, at
the moment when the Bishop arrived for the funeral, he heard that the
men had been at sea since the middle of the previous day. Confirmed in
his suspicions, but concealing them, he returned to the village with the
terrified women, and on the way he made his own sinister efforts to
comfort them when they mourned as if their husbands had been lost. "Aw,
no, no, no, never fear; we'll see them again soon enough, I'll go bail,"
he said, and in their guileless blindness the women were nothing loth to
take cheer from the fellow's dubious smile.
His confidence was not misplaced, for hardly had he got back to the
village, and stepped into the houses one after one, making his own
covert investigations while he sandwiched his shrewd questions with
solace, when the fishermen themselves, old Quilleash, Crennell, Teare,
and Corkell, and the lad Davy Fayle, came tramping up the street. Then
there was wild joy among the children, who clung to the men's legs, and
some sharp nagging among the women, who were by wifely duty bound to
conceal their satisfaction under a proper appearance of wrath. "And what
for had they been away all night?" and "Didn't they take shame at
treating a woman like dirt?" and "Just like a man, just, not caring a
ha'p'orth, and a woman up all night, and taking notions about drowning,
and more fool for it."
And when at length there came a cessation of such questions, and the
fishermen sat down with an awkward silence, or grunted something in an
evasive way about "Women preaching mortal," and "Never no reason in
them," then the coroner began his more searching inquiries. When did
they run in with the cod and ling that was found lying in the tent? Was
there a real good "strike" on, that they went out again at half-flood
last night? Doing much outside? No? He wouldn't trust but they were
lying off the Mooragh, eh? Yes, you say? Coorse, coorse. And good
ground, too. And where was the capt'n? Out with them? He thought so.
Everything the coroner asked save the one thing on which his mind was
set, but at mention of the Mooragh the women forgot their own trouble in
the greater trouble that was over the parish, and blurted out, with many
an expletive, the story of the coming to shore of the body of Ewan. And
hadn't they heard the jeel? Aw, shocking, shocking! And the young pazon
had sailed in their boat, so he had! Aw, ter'ble, ter'ble!
The coroner kept his eyes fixed on the men's faces, and marked their
confusion with content. They on their part tried all their powers of
dissembling. First came a fine show of ferocity. Where were their
priddhas and herrings? Bad cess to the women, the idle shoulderin'
craythurs, did they think a man didn't want never a taste of nothin'
comin' in off the say, afther workin' for them day and night same as
haythen naygroes, and no thanks for it?
It would not do, and the men themselves were the first to be conscious
that they could not strike fire. One after another slunk out of his
house until they were all five on the street in a group, holding their
heads together and muttering. And when at length the coroner came out of
old Quilleash's house, and leaned against the trammon at the porch, and
looked toward them in the darkness, but said not a word, their
self-possession left them on the instant, and straightway they took to
their heels.
"Let's away at a slant over the Head and give warning to Mastha Dan,"
they whispered; and this was the excuse they made to themselves for
their flight, just to preserve a little ray of self-respect.
But the coroner understood them, and he set his face back toward the
churchyard, knowing that the Deemster would be there by that time.
The Bishop had gone through the ceremony at the graveside with
composure, though his voice when he spoke was full of tears, and the
hair of his uncovered head seemed to have passed from iron-gray to
white. His grand, calm face was steadfast, and his prayer was of faith
and hope. Only beneath this white quiet as of a glacier the red riot of
a great sorrow was rife within him.
It was then for the first time in its fulness that--undisturbed in that
solemn hour by coarser fears--he realized the depth of his grief for the
loss of Ewan. That saintly soul came back to his memory in its beauty
and tenderness alone, and its heat and uncontrollable unreason were
forgotten. When he touched on the mystery of Ewan's death his large wan
face quivered slightly and he paused; but when he spoke of the hope of
an everlasting reunion, and how all that was dark would be made plain
and the Judge of all the earth would do right, his voice grew bold as
with a surety of a brave resignation.
The Deemster listened to the short night-service with alternate
restlessness--tramping to and fro by the side of the grave--and cold
self-possession, and with a constant hardness and bitterness of mind,
breaking out sometimes into a light trill of laughter, or again into a
hoarse gurgle, as if in scorn of the Bishop's misplaced confidence. But
the crowds that were gathered around held their breath in awe of the
mystery, and when they sang it was with such an expression of emotion
and fear that no man knew the sound of his own voice.
More than once the Deemster stopped in his uneasy perambulations, and
cried "What's that?" as if arrested by sounds that did not break on the
ears of others. But nothing occurred to disturb the ceremony until it
had reached the point of its close, and while the Bishop was pronouncing
a benediction the company was suddenly thrown into a great tumult.
It was then that the coroner arrived, panting, after a long run. He
pushed his way through the crowd, and burst in at the graveside between
the Bishop and the Deemster.
"They've come ashore," he said, eagerly; "the boat's in harbor and the
men are here."
Twenty voices at once cried "Who?" but the Deemster asked no
explanation. "Take them," he said, "arrest them;" and his voice was a
bitter laugh, and his face in the light of the torches was full of
malice and uncharity.
Jarvis Kerruish stepped out. "Where are they?" he asked.
"They've run across the Head in the line of the Cross Vein," the coroner
answered; "but six of us will follow them."
And without more ado he twisted about and impressed the five men nearest
to him into service as constables.
"How many of them are there?" said Jarvis Kerruish.
"Five, sir," said the coroner, "Quilleash, Teare, Corkell, Crennell, and
the lad Davy."
"Then is he not with them?" cried the Deemster, in a tone that went to
the Bishop's heart like iron.
The coroner glanced uneasily at the Bishop, and said, "He was with them,
and he is still somewhere about."
"Then away with you; arrest them, quick," the Deemster cried in another
tone.
"But what of the warrant, sir?" said the coroner.
"Simpleton, are you waiting for that?" the Deemster shouted, with a
contemptuous sweep of the hand. "Where have you been, that you don't
know that your own warrant is enough? Arrest the scoundrels, and you
shall have warrant enough when you come back."
But as the six men were pushing their way through the people, and
leaping the cobble wall of the churchyard, the Deemster picked from the
ground a piece of slate-stone that had come up from the vault, and
scraped his initials upon it with a pebble.
"Take this token, and go after them," he said to Jarvis Kerruish, and
instantly Jarvis was following the coroner and his constables, with the
Deemster's legal warranty for their proceedings.
It was the work of a moment, and the crowd that had stood with drooping
heads about the Bishop had now broken up in confusion. The Bishop
himself had not spoken; a shade of bodily pain had passed over his pale
face, and a cold damp had started from his forehead. But hardly had the
coroner gone, or the people recovered from their bewilderment, when the
Bishop lifted one hand to bespeak silence, and then said, in a tone
impossible to describe: "Can any man say of his own knowledge that my
son was on the 'Ben-my-Chree' last night?"
The Deemster snorted contemptuously, but none made answer to the
Bishop's question.
At that moment there came the sound of a horse's hoofs on the road, and
immediately the old archdeacon drew up. He had been preaching the
Christmas sermons at Peeltown that day, and there he had heard of the
death of his grandson, and of the suspicions that were in the air
concerning it. The dour spirit of the disappointed man had never gone
out with too much warmth to the Bishop, but had always been ready enough
to cast contempt on the "moonstruck ways" of the man who had "usurped"
his own place of preferment; and now, without contrition or pity, he was
ready to strike his blow at the stricken man.
"I hear that the 'Ben-my-Chree' has put into Peel harbor," he said, and
as he spoke he leaned across his saddle-bow, with his russet face toward
where the Bishop stood.
"Well, well, well?" cried the Deemster, rapping out at the same time his
oath of impatience as fast as a hen might have pecked.
"And that the crew are not likely to show their faces soon," the
archdeacon continued.
"Then you're wrong," said the Deemster imperiously, "for they've done as
much already. But what about their owner? Was he with them? Have you
seen him? Quick, let us hear what you have to say."
The archdeacon did not shift his gaze from the Bishop's face, but he
answered the Deemster nevertheless.
"Their owner was with them," he said, "and woe be to him. I had as lief
that a millstone were hung about my neck as that I stood before God as
the father of that man."
And with such charity of comfort the old archdeacon alighted and walked
away with the Deemster, at the horse's head. The good man had preached
with unwonted fervor that day from the Scripture which says, "With what
measure ye mete, it shall be measured to you again."
In another instant the Bishop was no longer the same man. Conviction of
Dan's guilt had taken hold of him. Thus far he had borne up against all
evil shown by the strength of his great faith in his Maker to bring out
all things well. But at length that faith was shattered. When the
Deemster and the archdeacon went away together, leaving him in the midst
of the people, he stood there, while all eyes were upon him, with the
stupid bewildered look of one who has been dealt an unexpected and
dreadful blow. The world itself was crumbling under him. At that first
instant there was something like a ghastly smile playing over his pale
face. Then the truth came rolling over him. The sight was terrible to
look upon. He tottered backward with a low moan. When his faith went
down his manhood went down with it.
"Oh, my son, my son!" he cried again, "how have you shortened my days!
How have you clothed me with shame! Oh, my son, my son!"
But love was uppermost even in that bitter hour, and the good God sent
the stricken man the gift of tears. "He is dead, he is dead!" he cried;
"now is my heart smitten and withered like grass. Ewan is dead. My son
is dead. Can it be true? Yes, dead, and worse than dead. Lord, Lord, now
let me eat ashes for bread and mingle my drink with weeping."
And so he poured out his broken spirit in a torrent of wild laments. The
disgrace that had bent his head heretofore was but a dream to this
deadly reality. "Oh, my son, my son! Would God I had died before I saw
this day!"
The people stood by while the unassuageable grief shook the Bishop to
the soul. Then one of them--it was Thormod Mylechreest, the bastard son
of the rich man who had left his offspring to public charity--took the
old man by the hand, and the crowd parted for them. Together they passed
out of the churchyard, and out of the hard glare of the torchlight, and
set off for Bishop's Court. It was a pitiful thing to see. How the old
father, stricken into age by sorrow rather than years, tottered feebly
on the way. How low his white head was bent, as if the darkness itself
had eyes to peer into his darkened soul.
And yet more pitiful was it to see how the old man's broken spirit, reft
of its great bulwark, which lay beneath it like an idol that was broken,
did yet struggle with a vain effort to glean comfort from its fallen
faith. But every stray text that rose to his heart seemed to wound it
afresh. "As arrows 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.... O God, thou knowest my foolishness....
And Eli said, It is the Lord, let him do as seemeth him good.... The
waters have overwhelmed me, the streams have gone over my soul; the
proud waters have gone over my soul."
Thus tottering feebly at the side of Mylechreest and leaning on his arm,
the Bishop went his way, and thus the poor dead soul of the man, whose
faith was gone, poured forth its barren grief. The way was long, but
they reached Bishop's Court at last, and at sight of it a sudden change
seemed to come over the Bishop. He stopped and turned to Mylechreest,
and said, with a strange resignation:
"I will be quiet. Ewan is dead, and Dan 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."
And with the simple calmness of a little child he held out his hand to
Mylechreest to bid him farewell, and when Mylechreest, with swimming
eyes and a throat too full for speech, bent over the old man's hand and
put his lips to it, the Bishop placed the other hand on his head, as if
he had asked for a blessing, and blessed him.
"Good-night, my son," he said simply, but Mylechreest could answer
nothing.
The Bishop was turning into his house when the memory that had gone from
him for one instant of blessed respite returned, and his sorrow bled
afresh, and he cried piteously. The inanimate old place was in a moment
full of spectres. For that night Bishop's Court had gone back ten full
years, and if it was not now musical with children's voices, the spirit
of one happy boy still lived in it.
Passing his people in the hall and on the stairs, where, tortured by
suspense, bewildered, distracted, they put their doubts and rumors
together, the Bishop went up to the little room above the library that
had once been little Danny's room. The door was locked, but the key was
where it had been for many a day--though Dan in his headstrong
waywardness had known nothing of that--it was in the Bishop's pocket.
Inside the muggy odor was of a chamber long shut up. The little bed was
still in the corner, and its quilted counterpane lay thick in dust. Dust
covered the walls, and the floor also, and the table under the window
was heavy with it. Shutting himself in this dusty crib, the Bishop drew
from under the bed a glass-covered case, and opened it, and lifted out
one by one the things it contained. They were a child's playthings--a
whip, a glass marble, a whistle, an old Manx penny, a tomtit's mossy
nest with three speckled blue eggs in it, some pearly shells, and a bit
of shriveled seaweed. And each poor relic as it came up awoke a new
memory and a new grief, and the fingers trembled that held them. The
sense of a boy's sport and a boy's high spirits, long dumb and dead,
touched the old man to the quick within these heavy walls.
The Bishop replaced the glass-covered case, locked the room, and went
down to his library. But the child ghost that lived in that gaunt old
house did not keep to the crib upstairs. Into this book-clad room it
followed the Bishop, with blue eyes and laughter on the red lips; with a
hop, skip, and a jump, and a pair of spectacles perched insecurely on
the diminutive nose.
Ten years had rolled back for the broken-hearted father that night, and
Dan, who was lost to him in life, lived in his remembrance only as a
beautiful, bright, happy, spirited, innocent child that could never grow
older, but must be a child forever.
The Bishop could endure the old house no longer. It was too full of
spectres. He would go out and tramp the roads the long night through. Up
and down, up and down, through snow or rain, under the moonlight or the
stars until the day dawned, and the pitiless sun should rise again over
the heedless sleeping world.