JEREMY’S IDEA OF A SHAKING
Two months or so after Ernest’s flight there came a letter from him to
Mr. Cardus in answer to the one sent by his uncle. He thanked his uncle
warmly for his kindness, and more especially for not joining in the hue
and cry against him. As regarded money, he hoped to be able to make a
living for himself, but if he wanted any he would draw. The letter,
which was short, ended thus:
“Thank Doll and Jeremy for their letters. I would answer them, but I am
too down on my luck to write much; writing stirs up so many painful
memories, and makes me think of all the dear folks at home more than is
good for me. The fact is, my dear uncle, what between one thing and
another, I never was so miserable in my life, and as for loneliness I
never knew what it meant before. Sometimes I wish that my cousin had
hit me instead of my hitting him, and that I was dead and buried, clean
out of the way. Alston, who was my second in that unhappy affair, and
with whom I am going up-country shooting, has been most kind to me, and
has introduced me to a good many people here. They are very
hospitable—everybody is hospitable in a colony; but somehow a hundred
new faces cannot make up for one old one, and I should think old
Atterleigh a cheerful companion beside the best of them. What is more,
I feel myself an impostor intruding myself on them under an assumed
name. Good-bye, my dear uncle. It would be difficult for me to explain
how grateful I am for your goodness to me. Love to dear Doll and
Jeremy.
“Ever your affectionate nephew, E. K.”
All the party at Dum’s Ness were much touched by this letter, more
especially Dorothy, who could not bear to think of Ernest all alone out
there in that strange far-off land. Her tender little heart grew alive
with love and sorrow as she lay awake at night and thought of him
travelling over the great African plains. She got all the books that
were to be had about South Africa and read them, so that she might be
the better able to follow his life in her thoughts. One day when
Florence came to see her she read her part of Ernest’s letter, and when
she had finished was astonished to see a tear in her visitor’s keen
eyes. She liked Florence the better for that tear. Could she have seen
the conflict that was raging in the fierce heart of the woman before
her, she would have started from her as though she had been a poisonous
snake. The letter touched Florence—touched her to the quick. The tale
of Ernest’s loneliness almost overcame her resolution, for she alone
knew why he was so utterly lonely, and what it was that crushed him.
Had Ernest alone been concerned, it is probable that she would then and
there have thrown up her cruel game; but he was not alone concerned.
There was her sister who had robbed her of her lover—her sister whose
loveliness was a standing affront to her as her sweetness was a
standing reproach. She was sorry for Ernest, and would have been glad
to make him happier, but as that could only be done by foregoing her
revenge upon her sister, Ernest must continue to suffer. And after all
why should he not suffer? she argued. Did not she suffer?
When Florence got home she told Eva about the letter from her lover,
but she said nothing of his evident distress. He was making friends, he
expected great pleasure from his shooting—altogether he was getting on
well.
Eva listened, hardened her heart, and went out district visiting with
Mr. Plowden.
Time went on, and no letters came from Ernest. One month, two months,
six months passed, and there was no intelligence of him. Dorothy grew
very anxious, and so did Mr. Cardus, but they did not speak of the
matter much, except to remark that the reason no doubt was that he was
away on his shooting excursion.
Jeremy also, in his slow way, grew intensely preoccupied with the fact
that they never heard from Ernest now, and that life was consequently a
blank. He sat upon the stool in his uncle’s outer office and made
pretence to copy deeds and drafts, but in reality he occupied his time
in assiduously polishing his nails and thinking. As for the deeds and
drafts, he gave them to his grandfather to copy. “It kept the old
gentleman employed,” he would explain to Dorothy, “and from indulging
in bad thoughts about the devil.”
But it was one night out duck-shooting that his great inspiration came.
It was a bitter night, a night on which no sane creature except Jeremy
would ever have dreamed of going to shoot ducks or anything else. The
marshes were partially frozen, and a fierce east wind was blowing
across them; but utterly regardless of the cold, there sat Jeremy under
the lee of a dike bank, listening for the sound of the ducks’ wings as
they passed to their feeding-grounds, and occasionally getting a shot
at them as they crossed the moon above him. There were not many ducks,
and the solitude and silence were inductive to contemplation. Ernest
did not write. Was he dead? Not probable, or they would have heard of
it. Where was he, then? Impossible to say, impossible to discover. Was
it impossible? “_Swish, swish, bang!_” and down came a mallard at his
feet. A quick shot, that! Yes, it was impossible; they had no means of
inquiry here. The inquiry, if any, must be made there, on the other
side of the water. But who was to make it? Ah! an idea struck him. Why
should not he, Jeremy, make that inquiry? Why should he not go to South
Africa and look for Ernest? A flight of duck passed over his head
unheeded. What did he care for duck? He had solved the problem which
had been troubling him all these months. He would go to South Africa
and look for Ernest. If Mr. Cardus would not give him the money, he
would work his way out. Anyhow he would go. He could bear the suspense
no longer.
Jeremy rose in the new-found strength of his purpose, and gathering up
the slain—there were only three—whistled to his retriever, and made his
way back to Dum’s Ness.
He found Mr. Cardus and Dorothy by the fire in the sitting-room.
Hard-riding Atterleigh was there too, in his place in the ingle-nook, a
riding-whip in his ink-stained hand, with which he was tapping his
top-boot. They turned as he entered, except his grandfather, who did
not hear him.
“What sport have you had, Jeremy?” asked his sister, with a sad little
smile. Her face had grown very sad of late.
“Three ducks,” he answered shortly, advancing his powerful form out of
the shadows into the firelight. “I came home just as they were
beginning to fly.”
“You found it cold, I suppose?” said Mr. Cardus, absently. They had
been talking of Ernest, and he was still thinking of him.
“No, I did not think of the cold. I came home because I had an idea.”
Both his hearers looked up surprised. Ideas were not very common to
Jeremy, or if they were he kept them to himself.
“Well, Jeremy?” said Dorothy, inquiringly.
“Well, it is this. I cannot stand it about Ernest any longer, and I am
going to look for him. If you won’t give me the money,” he went on,
addressing Mr. Cardus almost fiercely, “I will work my way out. It is
no credit to me,” he added; “I lead a dog’s life while I don’t know
where he is.”
Dorothy flushed a pale pink with pleasure. Rising, she went up to her
great strong brother, and standing on tip-toe, managed to kiss him on
the chin.
“That is like you, Jeremy dear,” she said, softly.
Mr. Cardus looked up too, and after his fashion let his eyes wander
round Jeremy before he spoke.
“You shall have as much money as you like, Jeremy,” he said presently;
“and if you bring Ernest back safe, I will leave you twenty thousand
pounds;” and he struck his hand down upon his knee, an evidence of
excitement which it was unusual for him to display.
“I don’t want your twenty thousand pounds—I want Ernest,” answered the
young man, gruffly.
“No, I know you don’t, my lad; I know you don’t. But find him and keep
him safe, and you shall have it. Money is not to be sneezed at, let me
tell you. I say keep him, for I forgot you cannot bring him back till
this accursed business has blown over. When will you go?”
“By the next mail, of course. They leave every Friday; I will not waste
a day. To-day is Saturday; I will sail next Friday.”
“That is right: you shall go at once. I will give you a cheque for £500
to-morrow, and mind, Jeremy, you are not to spare money. If he has gone
to the Zambesi, you must follow him. Never think of the money; I will
think of that.”
Jeremy soon made his preparations. They consisted chiefly of rifles. He
was to leave Dum’s Ness early on the Thursday. On the Wednesday
afternoon it occurred to him that he might as well tell Eva Ceswick
that he was going in search of Ernest, and ask if she had any message.
Jeremy was the only person, or thought that he was the only person, in
the secret of Ernest’s affection for Eva. Ernest had asked him to keep
it secret, and he had kept it as secret as the dead, never breathing a
word of it, even to his sister.
It was about five o’clock on a windy March afternoon when he set out
for the Cottage. On the edge of the hamlet of Kesterwick, some three
hundred yards from the cliff, stood two or three little hovels, turning
their naked faces to the full fury of the sea-blast. He was drawing
near to these when he came to a stile which gave passage over a sod
wall that ran to the edge of the cliff, marking the limits of the
village common. As he approached the stile the wind brought him the
sound of voices—a man’s and a woman’s—engaged apparently in angry
dispute on the farther side of the wall. Instead of getting over the
stile, he stepped to the right and looked over the wall, and saw the
new clergyman, Mr. Plowden, standing with his back towards him, and,
apparently very much against her will, holding Eva Ceswick by the hand.
Jeremy was too far off to overhear his words, but from his voice it was
clear that Plowden was talking in an excited, masterful tone. Just then
Eva turned her head a little, and he did hear what she said, her voice
being so much clearer:
“No, Mr. Plowden, no! Let go my hand. Ah! why will you not take an
answer?”
Just at that moment she succeeded in wrenching her imprisoned hand from
his strong grasp, and without waiting for any more words, set off
towards Kesterwick almost at a run.
Jeremy was a man of slow mind, though when once his mind was made up,
it was of a singularly determined nature. At first he did not quite
take in the full significance of the scene, but when he did a great red
flush spread over his honest face, and the big gray eyes sparkled
dangerously. Presently Mr. Plowden turned and saw him. Jeremy noticed
that the “sign of the cross” was remarkably visible on his forehead,
and that his face wore an expression by no means pleasant to
behold—anything but Christian, in short.
“Hullo!” he said to Jeremy; “what are you doing there?”
Before answering, Jeremy put his hand on the top of the sod wall, and
vaulting over, walked straight up to the clergyman.
“I was watching you,” he said, looking him straight in the eyes.
“Indeed!—an honourable employment; eavesdropping I think it is
generally called.”
Whatever had passed between Mr. Plowden and Eva Ceswick, it had clearly
not improved the former’s temper.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean what I say.”
“Well, Mr. Plowden, I may as well tell you what _I_ mean; I am not good
at talking, but I know that I shall be able to make you understand. I
saw you just now assaulting Miss Ceswick.”
“It is a lie!”
“That is not a gentlemanlike word, Mr. Plowden, but as you are not a
gentleman I will overlook it.” Jeremy, after the dangerous fashion of
the Anglo-Saxon race, always got wonderfully cool as a row thickened.
“I repeat that I saw you holding her, notwithstanding her struggles to
get away.”
“And what is that to you, confound you!” said Mr. Plowden, shaking with
fury, and raising a thick stick he held in his hand in a suggestive
manner.
“Don’t lose your temper, and you shall hear. Miss Eva Ceswick is
engaged to my friend Ernest Kershaw, or something very like it, and, as
he is not here to look after his own interests, I must look after them
for him.”
“Ah, yes,” answered Mr. Plowden, with a ghastly smile, “I have heard of
that. The murderer, yon mean?”
“I recommend you, Mr. Plowden, in your own interest, “to be a little
more careful in your terms.”
“And supposing that there has been something between your—your friend—”
“Much better term, Mr. Plowden.”
“And Miss Eva Ceswick, what, I should like to know, is there to prevent
her having changed her mind?”
Jeremy laughed aloud, it must be admitted rather insolently, and in a
way calculated to irritate people of meeker mind than Mr. Plowden.
“To any one, Mr. Plowden, who has the privilege of your acquaintance,
and who also knows Ernest Kershaw, your question would seem absurd. You
see, there are some people between whom there can be no comparison. It
is not possible that, after caring for Ernest, any woman could care for
you;” and Jeremy laughed again.
Mr. Plowden’s thick lips turned quite pale, the veinous cross upon his
forehead throbbed until Jeremy thought that it would burst, and his
eyes shone with the concentrated light of hate. His vanity was his
weakest point. He controlled himself with an effort, however; though if
there had been any deadly weapon at hand it might have gone hard with
Jeremy.
“Perhaps you will explain the meaning of your interference and your
insolence, and let me go on?”
“Oh, with pleasure,” answered Jeremy, with refreshing cheerfulness. “It
is just this; if I catch you at any such tricks again, you shall suffer
for it. One can’t thrash a clergyman, and one can’t fight him, because
he won’t fight; but look here, one can _shake him,_ for that leaves no
marks; and if you go on with these games, so sure as my name is Jeremy
Jones, I will shake your teeth down your throat! Good-night!” and
Jeremy turned to go.
It is not wise to turn one’s back upon an infuriated animal, and at
that moment Mr. Plowden was nothing more. Even as he turned, Jeremy
remembered this, and gave himself a slew to one side. It was fortunate
for him that he did so, for at that moment Mr. Plowden’s heavy
blackthorn stick, directed downwards with ail the strength of Mr.
Plowden’s powerful arm, passed within a few inches of his head, out of
which, had he not turned, it would have probably knocked the brains. As
it was, it struck the ground with such force that the jar sent it
flying out of its owner’s hands.
“Ah, you would!” was Jeremy’s reflection as he sprang at his assailant.
Now Mr. Plowden was a very powerful man, but he was no match for
Jeremy, who in after days came to be known as the strongest man in the
east of England, and so he was destined to find out. Once Jeremy got a
grip of him—for his respect for the Church prevented him from trying to
knock him down—he seemed to crumple up like a piece of paper in his
iron grasp. Jeremy could easily have thrown him, but he would not; he
had his own ends in view. So he just held the Reverend James tight
enough to prevent him from doing him any serious injury, and let him
struggle frantically till he thought he was sufficiently exhausted for
his purpose. Then Jeremy suddenly gave him a violent twist, got behind
him, and set to work with a will to fulfil his promise of a shaking. O,
what a shake that was! First of all he shook him backwards and forwards
for Ernest’s sake, then he alternated the motion and shook him from
side to side for his own sake, and finally he shook him every possible
way for the sake of Eva Ceswick.
It was a wonderful sight to see the great burly clergyman, his hat off,
his white tie undone, and his coat-tails waving like streamers,
bounding and gambolling on the breezy cliffs, his head, legs, and arms
jerking in every possible direction, like those of a galvanised frog;
while behind him, his legs slightly apart to get a better grip of the
ground, and his teeth firmly clinched, Jeremy shook away with the
fixity of Fate.
At last, getting exhausted, he stopped, and, holding Mr. Plowden still,
gave him a drop-kick—only one. But Jeremy’s leg was very strong, and he
always wore thick boots, and the result was startling. Mr. Plowden rose
some inches off the ground, and went on his face into a furze-bush.
[Illustration: “The result was startling.”]
“He will hardly like to show _that_ honourable wound,” reflected
Jeremy, as he wiped the perspiration from his brow with every sign of
satisfaction.
Then he went and picked his fallen enemy out of the bush, where he had
nearly fainted, smoothed his clothes, tied the white tie as neatly as
he could, and put the wide hat on the dishevelled hair. Then he sat him
down on the furze to recover himself.
“Good-night, Mr. Plowden, good-night. Next time you wish to hit a man
with a big stick, do not wait till his back is turned. Ah, I daresay
your head aches. I should advise you to go home and have a nice sleep.”
And Jeremy departed on his way, filled with a fearful joy.
When he reached the Cottage he found everything in a state of
confusion. Miss Ceswick, it appeared, had been suddenly taken very
seriously ill; indeed, it was feared that she had got a stroke of
apoplexy. He managed, however, to send up a message to Eva to say that
he wished to speak to her for a minute. Presently she came down,
crying.
“O, my poor aunt is so dreadfully ill,” she said. “We think that she is
dying!”
Jeremy offered some awkward condolences, and indeed was much
distressed. He liked old Miss Ceswick.
“I am going to South Africa to-morrow. Miss Eva,” he said.
She started violently, and blushed up to her hair.
“Going to South Africa! What for?”
“I am going to look for Ernest. We are afraid that something must have
happened to him.”
“O, don’t say that!” she said. “Perhaps he has—amusements which prevent
his writing.”
“I may as well tell you that I saw something of what passed between you
and Mr. Plowden.”
Again Eva blushed.
“Mr. Plowden was very rude,” she said.
“So I thought; but I think that he is sorry for it now!”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that I nearly shook his ugly head off for him.”
“O, how could you?” Eva asked, severely; but there was no severity on
her face.
Just then Florence’s voice was heard calling imperatively.
“I must go,” said Eva.
“Have you any message for Ernest, if I find him?”
Eva hesitated.
“I know all about it,” said Jeremy, considerately turning his head.
“O no, I have no message—that is—O, tell him _that I love him dearly!_”
and she turned and fled upstairs.