BRUNTSEA DEFIANT
Thus at last--by no direct exertion of my own, but by turn after turn
of things to which I blindly gave my little help--the mystery of my life
was solved. Many things yet remained to be fetched up to focus and seen
round; but the point of points was settled.
Of all concerned, my father alone stood blameless and heroic. What tears
of shame and pride I shed, for ever having doubted him!--not doubting
his innocence of the crime itself, but his motives for taking it upon
him. I had been mean enough to dream that my dear father outraged
justice to conceal his own base birth!
That ever such thought should have entered my mind may not make me
charitable to the wicked thoughts of the world at large, but, at any
rate, it ought to do so. And the man in question, my own father, who
had starved himself to save me! Better had I been the most illegal child
ever issued into this cold world, than dare to think so of my father,
and then find him the model of every thing.
To hide the perjury, avarice, and cowardice of his father, and to
appease the bitter wrong, he had even bowed to take the dark suspicion
on himself, until his wronged and half-sane brother (to whom, moreover,
he owed his life) should have time to fly from England. No doubt he
blamed himself as much as he condemned the wretched criminal, because
he had left his father so long unwarned and so unguarded, and had
thoughtlessly used light words about him, which fell not lightly on a
stern, distempered mind. Hence, perhaps, the exclamation which had told
against him so.
And then when he broke jail--which also told against him terribly--to
revisit his shattered home, it is likely enough that he meant after that
to declare the truth, and stand his trial as a man should do. But his
wife, perhaps, in her poor weak state, could not endure the thought of
it, knowing how often jury is injury, and seeing all the weight against
him. She naturally pledged him to pursue his flight, “for her sake,”
until she should be better able to endure his trial, and until he should
have more than his own pure word and character to show. And probably
if he had then been tried, with so many things against him, and no
production of that poor brother, his tale would have seemed but a flimsy
invention, and “Guilty” would have been the verdict. And they could not
know that, in such case, the guilty man would have come forward, as we
shall see that he meant to do.
When my father heard of his dear wife's death, and believed, no doubt,
that I was buried with the rest, the gloom of a broken and fated man,
like polar night, settled down on him. What matter to him about public
opinion or any thing else in the world just now? The sins of his father
were on his head; let them rest there, rather than be trumpeted by him.
He had nothing to care for; let him wander about. And so he did for
several years, until I became a treasure to him--for parental is not
intrinsic value--and then, for my sake, as now appeared, he betook us
both to a large kind land.
Revolving these things sadly, and a great many more which need not be
told, I thought it my duty to go as soon as possible to Bruntsea, and
tell my good and faithful friends what I was loath to write about.
There, moreover, I could obtain what I wanted to confirm me--the opinion
of an upright, law-abiding, honorable man about the course I proposed
to take. And there I might hear something more as to a thing which
had troubled me much in the deepest of my own troubles--the melancholy
plight of dear Uncle Sam. Wild, and absurd as it may appear to people of
no gratitude, my heart was set upon faring forth in search of the noble
Sawyer, if only it could be reconciled with my duty here in England.
That such a proceeding would avail but little, seemed now, alas! too
manifest; but a plea of that kind generally means that we have no mind
to do a thing.
Be that as it will, I made what my dear Yankees--to use the Major's
impertinent phrase--call “straight tracks” for that ancient and obsolete
town, rejuvenized now by its Signor. The cause of my good friend's
silence--not to use that affected word “reticence”--was quite unknown to
me, and disturbed my spirit with futile guesses.
Resolute, therefore, to pierce the bottom of every surviving mystery,
I made claim upon “Mr. Stixon, junior”--as “Stixon's boy” had now
vindicated his right to be called, up to supper-time--and he with high
chivalry responded. Not yet was he wedded to Miss Polly Hopkins, the
daughter of the pickled-pork man; otherwise would he or could he have
made telegraphic blush at the word “Bruntsea?” And would he have been
quite so eager to come?
Such things are trifling, compared to our own, which naturally fill the
universe. I was bound to be a great lady now, and patronize and regulate
and drill all the doings of nature. So I durst not even ask, though
desiring much to do so, how young Mr. Stixon was getting on with his
delightful Polly. And his father, as soon as he found me turned into
the mistress, and “his lady” (as he would have me called thenceforth,
whether or no on my part), not another word would he tell me of the
household sentiments, politics, or romances. It would have been thought
a thing beneath me to put any nice little questions now, and I was
obliged to take up the tone which others used toward me. But all the
while I longed for freedom, Uncle Sam, Suan Isco, and even Martin of the
Mill.
Law business, however, and other hinderances, kept me from starting at
once for Bruntsea, impatient as I was to do so. Indeed, it was not until
the morning of the last Saturday in November that I was able to get
away. The weather had turned to much rain, I remember, with two or three
tempestuous nights, and the woods were almost bare of leaves, and the
Thames looked brown and violent.
In the fly from Newport to Bruntsea I heard great rollers thundering
heavily upon the steep bar of shingle, and such a lake of water shone in
the old bed of the river that I quite believed at first that the Major
had carried out his grand idea, and brought the river back again. But
the flyman shook his head, and looked very serious, and told me that
he feared bad times were coming. What I saw was the work of the Lord in
heaven, and no man could prevail against it. He had always said, though
no concern of his--for he belonged to Newport--that even a British
officer could not fly in the face of the Almighty. He himself had a
brother on the works, regular employed, and drawing good money, and
proud enough about it; and the times he had told him across a pint of
ale--howsomever, our place was to hope for the best; but the top of the
springs was not come yet, and a pilot out of Newport told him the water
was making uncommon strong; but he did hope the wind had nigh blowed
itself out; if not, they would have to look blessed sharp tomorrow. He
had heard say that in time of Queen Elizabeth sixscore of houses was
washed clean away, and the river itself knocked right into the sea; and
a thing as had been once might just come to pass again, though folk was
all so clever now they thought they wor above it. But, for all that,
their grandfathers' goggles might fit them. But here we was in Bruntsea
town, and, bless his old eyes--yes! If I pleased to look along his whip,
I might see ancient pilot come, he did believe, to warn of them!
Following his guidance, I descried a stout old man, in a sailor's
dress, weather-proof hat, and long boots, standing on a low seawall, and
holding vehement converse with some Bruntsea boatmen and fishermen who
were sprawling on the stones as usual.
“Driver, you know him. Take the lower road,” I said, “and ask what his
opinion is.”
“No need to ask him,” the flyman answered; “old Banks would never
be here, miss, if he was of two opinions. He hath come to fetch his
daughter out of harm, I doubt, the wife of that there Bishop Jim, they
call him--the chap with two nails to his thumb, you know. Would you like
to hear how they all take it, miss?”
With these words he turned to the right, and drove into Major Hockin's
“Sea Parade.” There we stopped to hear what was going on, and it proved
to be well worth our attention. The old pilot perhaps had exhausted
reason, and now was beginning to give way to wrath. The afternoon was
deepening fast, with heavy gray clouds lowering, showing no definite
edge, but streaked with hazy lines, and spotted by some little murky
blurs or blots, like tar pots, carried slowly.
“Hath Noah's Ark ever told a lie?” the ancient pilot shouted, pointing
with one hand at these, and with a clinched fist at the sea, whence came
puffs of sullen air, and turned his gray locks backward. “Mackerel sky
when the sun got up, mermaiden's eggs at noon, and now afore sunset
Noah's Arks! Any of them breweth a gale of wind, and the three of them
bodes a tempest. And the top of the springs of the year to-morrow.
Are ye daft, or all gone upon the spree, my men? Your fathers would 'a
knowed what the new moon meant. Is this all that cometh out of larning
to read?”
“Have a pinch of 'bacco, old man,” said one, “to help you off with that
stiff reel. What consarn can he be of yourn?”
“Don't you be put out, mate,” cried another. “Never came sea as could
top that bar, and never will in our time. Go and calk your old leaky
craft, Master Banks.”
“We have rode out a good many gales without seeking prophet from
Newport--a place never heerd on when this old town was made.”
“Come and wet your old whistle at the 'Hockin Arms,' Banks. You must
want it, after that long pipe.”
“'Hockin Arms,' indeed!” the pilot answered, turning away in a rage from
them. “What Hockin Arms will there be this time to-morrow? Hockin legs
wanted, more likely, and Hockin wings. And you poor grinning ninnies,
as ought to have four legs, ye'll be praying that ye had them to-morrow.
However, ye've had warning, and ye can't blame me. The power of the Lord
is in the air and sea. Is this the sort of stuff ye trust in?”
He set one foot against our Major's wall--an action scarcely honest
while it was so green--and, coming from a hale and very thickset man,
the contemptuous push sent a fathom of it outward. Rattle, rattle went
the new patent concrete, starting up the lazy-pated fellows down below.
“You'll try the walls of a jail,” cried one. “You go to Noah's Ark,”
shouted another. The rest bade him go to a place much worse; but he
buttoned his jacket in disdain, and marched away, without spoiling the
effect by any more weak words.
“Right you are,” cried my flyman--“right you are, Master Banks. Them
lubbers will sing another song to-morrow. Gee up, old hoss, then!”
All this, and the ominous scowl of the sky and menacing roar of the sea
(already crowding with black rollers), disturbed me so that I could
say nothing, until, at the corner of the grand new hotel, we met Major
Hockin himself, attired in a workman's loose jacket, and carrying a
shovel. He was covered with mud and dried flakes of froth, and even his
short white whiskers were incrusted with sparkles of brine; but his face
was ruddy and smiling, and his manner as hearty as ever.
“You here, Erema! Oh, I beg pardon--Baroness Castlewood, if you please.
My dear, again I congratulate you.”
“You have as little cause to do that as I fear I can find in your case.
You have no news for me from America? How sad! But what a poor plight
you yourself are in!”
“Not a bit of it. At first sight you might think so; and we certainly
have had a very busy time. Send back the fly. Leave your bag at our
hotel. Porter, be quick with Lady Castlewood's luggage. One piece of
luck befalls me--to receive so often this beautiful hand. What a lot of
young fellows now would die of envy--”
“I am glad that you still can talk nonsense,” I said; “for I truly was
frightened at this great lake, and so many of your houses even standing
in the water.”
“It will do them good. It will settle the foundations and crystallize
the mortar. They will look twice as well when they come out again,
and never have rats or black beetles. We were foolish enough to be
frightened at first; and there may have been danger a fortnight ago. But
since that tide we have worked day and night, and every thing is now so
stable that fear is simply ridiculous. On the whole, it has been a most
excellent thing--quite the making, in fact, of Bruntsea.”
“Then Bruntsea must be made of water,” I replied, gazing sadly at the
gulf which parted us from the Sea Parade, the Lyceum, and Baths, the
Bastion Promenade, and so on; beyond all which the streaky turmoil and
misty scud of the waves were seen.
“Made of beer, more likely,” he retorted, with a laugh. “If my fellows
worked like horses--which they did--they also drank like fishes. Their
mouths were so dry with the pickle, they said. But the total abstainers
were the worst, being out of practice with the can. However, let us
make no complaints. We ought to be truly thankful; and I shall miss
the exercise. That is why you have heard so little from me. You see the
position at a glance. I have never been to Paris at all, Erema. I have
not rubbed up my parleywoo, with a blast from Mr. Bellows. I was stopped
by a telegram about this job--acrior illum. I had some Latin once, quite
enough for the House of Commons, but it all oozed out at my elbows; and
to ladies (by some superstition) it is rude--though they treat us to bad
French enough. Never mind. What I want to say is this, that I have done
nothing, but respected your sad trouble; for you took a wild fancy to
that poor bedridden, who never did you a stroke of good except about
Cosmopolitan Jack, and whose removal has come at the very nick of time.
For what could you have done for money, with the Yankees cutting each
other's throats, and your nugget quite sure to be annexed, or, at the
very best, squared up in greenbacks?”
“You ought not to speak so, Major Hockin. If all your plans were not
under water, I should be quite put out with you. My cousin was not
bedridden; neither was he at all incapable, as you have called him once
or twice. He was an infinitely superior man to--to what one generally
sees; and when you have heard what I have to tell, in his place
you would have done just as he did. And as for money, and 'happy
release'--as the people who never want it for themselves express
it--such words simply sicken me; at great times they are so sordid.”
“What is there in this world that is not sordid--to the young in one
sense, and to the old in another?”
Major Hockin so seldom spoke in this didactic way, and I was so unable
to make it out, that, having expected some tiff on his part at my
juvenile arrogance, I was just in the mould for a deep impression from
sudden stamp of philosophy. I had nothing to say in reply, and he went
up in my opinion greatly.
He knew it; and he said, with touching kindness, “Erema, come and see
your dear aunt Mary. She has had an attack of rheumatic gout in her
thimble-finger, and her maids have worried her out of her life, and
by far the most brilliant of her cocks (worth 20 pounds they tell me)
breathed his last on Sunday night, with gapes, or croup, or something.
This is why you have not heard again from her. I have been in the
trenches day and night, stoning out the sea with his own stones, by a
new form of concrete discovered by myself. And unless I am very much
mistaken--in fact, I do not hesitate to say--But such things are not
in your line at all. Let us go up to the house. Our job is done, and I
think Master Neptune may pound away in vain. I have got a new range in
the kitchen now, partly of my own invention; you can roast, or bake, or
steam, or stew, or frizzle kabobs--all by turning a screw. And not only
that, but you can keep things hot, piping hot, and ripening, as it were,
better than when they first were done. Instead of any burned iron taste,
or scum on the gravy, or clottiness, they mellow by waiting, and make
their own sauce. If I ever have time I shall patent this invention; why,
you may burn brick-dust in it, Bath-brick, hearth-stone, or potsherds!
At any hour of the day or night, while the sea is in this condition, I
may want my dinner; and there we have it. We say grace immediately,
and down we sit. Let us take it by surprise, if it can be taken so. Up
through my chief drive, instanter! I think that I scarcely ever felt
more hungry. The thought of that range always sets me off. And one of
its countless beauties is the noble juicy fragrance.”
Major Hockin certainly possessed the art--so meritorious in a host--of
making people hungry; and we mounted the hill with alacrity, after
passing his letter-box, which reminded me of the mysterious lady. He
pointed to “Desolate Hole,” as he called it, and said that he believed
she was there still, though she never came out now to watch their house.
And a man of dark and repelling aspect had been seen once or twice by
his workmen, during the time of their night relays, rapidly walking
toward Desolate Hole. How any one could live in such a place, with the
roar and the spray of the sea, as it had been, at the very door, and
through the windows, some people might understand, but not the Major.
Good Mrs. Hockin received me with her usual warmth and kindness, and
scolded me for having failed to write more to her, as all people seem
to do when conscious of having neglected that duty themselves. Then she
showed me her thimble-finger, which certainly was a little swollen;
and then she poured forth her gratitude for her many blessings, as she
always did after any little piece of grumbling. And I told her that
if at her age I were only a quarter as pleasant and sweet of temper, I
should consider myself a blessing to any man.
After dinner my host produced the locket, which he had kept for the
purpose of showing it to the artist's son in Paris, and which he admired
so intensely that I wished it were mine to bestow on him. Then I told
him that, through a thing wholly unexpected--the confession of the
criminal himself--no journey to Paris was needful now. I repeated that
strange and gloomy tale, to the loud accompaniment of a rising wind and
roaring sea, while both my friends listened intently.
“Now what can have led him so to come to you?” they asked; “and what do
you mean to do about it?”
“He came to me, no doubt, to propose some bargain, which could not be
made in my cousin's lifetime. But the telling of his tale made him feel
so strange that he really could not remember what it was. As to what
I am to do, I must beg for your opinion; such a case is beyond my
decision.” Mrs. Hockin began to reply, but stopped, looking dutifully at
her lord.
“There is no doubt what you are bound to do, at least in one way,” the
Major said. “You are a British subject, I suppose, and you must obey
the laws of the country. A man has confessed to you a murder--no matter
whether it was committed twenty years ago or two minutes; no matter
whether it was a savage, cold-blooded, premeditated crime, or whether
there were things to palliate it. Your course is the same; you must hand
him over. In fact, you ought never to have let him go.”
“How could I help it?” I pleaded, with surprise. “It was impossible for
me to hold him.”
“Then you should have shot him with his own pistol. He offered it to
you. You should have grasped it, pointed it at his heart, and told him
that he was a dead man if he stirred.”
“Aunt Mary, would you have done that?” I asked. “It is so easy to talk
of fine things! But in the first place, I had no wish to stop him; and
in the next, I could not if I had.”
“My dear,” Mrs. Hockin replied, perceiving my distress at this view of
the subject, “I should have done exactly what you did. If the laws
of this country ordain that women are to carry them out against great
strong men, who, after all, have been sadly injured, why, it proves that
women ought to make the laws, which to my mind is simply ridiculous.”