FOUL PLAY
When Christian Vellacott passed out of the drawing-room window in answer
to what he naturally supposed to be a signal-whistle from Hilda or
Sidney, he turned down the narrow, winding pathway that led to the moat.
The extreme darkness, contrasting suddenly with the warm light of the
room he had just left, caused him to walk slowly with outstretched
hands. Floating cobwebs broke across his face, and frequently he stopped
to brush the clinging fibre away. The intense darkness was somewhat
relieved when he reached the edge of the moat, and the clear sky was
overhead instead of interlocked branches. He could just discern that
Hilda was not at her usual seat upon the rustic bench farther towards
the end of the moat, and he stopped short, with a sudden misgiving, at
the spot where the path met, at right angles, the broader stone walk
extending the full length of the water.
He was on the point of whistling softly the familiar refrain, when there
was a rustle in the bushes behind him. A rush, a sudden shock, and a
pair of muscular hands were closed round his throat, dragging him
backwards. But Christian stood like a rock. Quick as thought he seized
the two wrists, which were small and flat, and wrenched them apart.
Then, stepping back with one foot in order to obtain surer leverage, he
lifted his assailant from the ground, swung him round, and literally let
him fly into the moat--with a devout hope that it might be Signor Bruno.
The man hurtled through the darkness, without a cry or sound, and fell
face foremost into the water, five yards from the edge, throwing into
the air a shower of spray.
Christian Vellacott was one of those men whose litheness is greater than
their actual muscular force; but a lithe man possesses greater powers of
endurance than a powerful fellow whose muscles are more highly
developed. The exertion of lifting his assailant and swinging him away
into the darkness was great, although the man's weight was nothing very
formidable, and Christian staggered back a few paces without, however,
actually losing his balance. At this moment two men sprang upon him from
behind and dragged him to the ground. He felt at once that this was a
very different matter. Either of these two could have overpowered him
singly. Their thick arms encompassed him like the coils of a snake, and
there was about their heavy woollen clothing a faint odour of salt
water. He knew that they were sailors. Recognising that it was of no
avail, he still fought on, as Englishmen do. One of the men had wound a
large woollen scarf round his mouth, the other was slowly but very
surely succeeding in pinioning his arms. Then a third assailant came,
and Christian knew by the wet hand (for he used one arm only) that it
was the smallest of the three, who had suffered for his temerity.
“Quick, quick!” this man whispered in French. With his uninjured hand he
twisted the scarf tighter and tighter until Christian gasped for breath.
Still the Englishman struggled and writhed upon the ground, while the
hard breathing of the two sailors testified that it was no mean
resistance. Suddenly the one-armed man loosened the scarf, but before
Christian could recover his breath a handkerchief was pressed over his
lips, and a sweet, pungent odour filled his nostrils.
“Three to one,” he gasped, and quite suddenly his head fell forward,
while his clutch relaxed.
“He is a brave man,” said the dripping leader of the attack, as he stood
upright and touched his damaged shoulder gently and tentatively. “Now
quick to the carriage with him. You have not managed this well, my
friends, not at all well.”
The speaker raised his cold hand to his forehead, which was wet, less
perhaps from past exertion than from the agony he was enduring.
“But, monsieur,” grumbled one of the sailors in humble self-defence, “he
is made of steel!”
* * * * *
The pale light of a grey dawn was stealing slowly up into the riven sky,
lighting up the clouds which were flying eastward on the shoulder of a
boisterous wind. The heavy grey sea, heaving, surging, and hissing,
threw itself upwards into broken spray, which flew to leeward at a sharp
angle, blown from the summit of the wave like froth from an over-filled
tankard. After a night of squally restlessness, accompanied by a driving
rain that tasted brackish, things had settled down with the dawn into a
steady, roaring gale of wind. In the growing light sea-gulls rose
triumphantly with smooth breasts bravely facing the wind.
In the midst of this a dripping vessel laboured sorely. The green water
rushed from side to side over her slippery, filthy deck as she rolled,
and carried with it a tangled mass of ropes, a wooden bucket, a capstan
bar, and--ominous sign--a soaking, limp fur cap. The huge boom, reaching
nearly the whole length of the little vessel, swung wildly from side to
side as the yawl dipped her bulwarks to the receding wave. It was
certain death for a man to attempt to stand upright upon the sopping
deck, for the huge spar swung shoulder high. The steersman, crouching
low by his strong tiller, was doing his best to avoid a clean sweep, but
only a small jib and the mizzen were standing with straining clews and
gleaming seams. Crouching beneath the weather bulwarks, with their feet
wedged against the low combing of the hatch, three men were vainly
endeavouring to secure the boom, and to disentangle the clogged ropes.
Two were huge fellows with tawny, washed-out beards innocent of brush or
comb, their faces were half hidden by rough sou'-westers, and they were
enveloped from head to foot in oilskins from which the water ran in
little rills. The third was Christian Vellacott, who looked very wet
indeed. The water was dripping from his cuffs and running down his face.
His black dress-clothes were clinging to him with a soppy hindrance,
while the feet firmly planted against the combing of the hatch were
encased in immaculate patent-leather shoes, and the salt water ran off
silk socks. It would have been very funny if it were not that Fortune
invariably mingles her strokes of humour most heedlessly with sadder
things. Christian Vellacott was apparently unconscious of the humour of
the situation. He was working patiently and steadily, as men must needs
work when fighting Nature, and his half-forgotten sea-craft was already
coming back. Beneath his steady hands something akin to order was slowly
being achieved; he was coiling and disentangling the treacherous rope,
of which the breaking had cast the boom adrift, laying low a good
seaman.
Farther forward upon the hatch lay the limp body of a very big man. His
matted head was bare, and the dead, brown face, turned upward to its
Maker, jerked from side to side as the vessel heaved. The stalwart legs
were encased in greasy sea-boots, deeply wrinkled, and the coils of a
huge scarf of faded purple lay upon his broad breast, where they had
been dragged down by a hasty hand in order to see more clearly the still
features.
At the dead man's side knelt upon the deck a small, spare figure clad in
black and wearing his left arm in a sling. With his right hand he held a
crucifix to the blue lips that would never breathe a prayer to the
Virgin again. The small mouth and refined features of the praying man
were strangely out of keeping with his tempestuous surroundings.
Unmindful, however, of wind and waves alike, he knelt and prayed
audibly. Each lurch of the vessel threw him forward, so that, in order
to save himself from falling, he was obliged to press heavily upon the
dead man's throat and breast; but this he heeded not. His girlish blue
eyes were half closed in an ecstasy of religious fervour, and the pale,
narrow face wore a light that was not reflected from sea or sky. This
was the man who had unhesitatingly attacked Vellacott, had dared to pit
his small strength, more of nerve than of muscle, against the young
Englishman's hardened sinews. Violence in itself was most abhorrent to
him; it had no part in his nature; and consequently, by the strange
tenets of Ignatius Loyola's disciples, he was condemned to a course of
it. Any objectionable duty, such as this removal of Vellacott, was
immediately assigned to him in the futile endeavour of subjecting the
soul to the brain. A true Jesuit must have no nature of his own and no
individuality. He is simply a machine, with likes and dislikes,
conscience and soul subject to the will of his superior, whose mind is
also under the same arbitrary control; and so on to the top. If at the
head there were God, it would be well; but man is there, and consequently
the whole society is a gigantic mistake. To be a sincere member of it, a
man must be a half-witted fool, a religious fanatic, or a rogue for whom
no duplicity is too scurrilous, even though it amount to blasphemy.
René Drucquer, the man kneeling on the slimy deck, was as nearly a
religious fanatic as his soft, sweet nature would allow. With greater
bodily strength and attendant greater passions, he would have been a
simple monomaniac. In him the passion for self-devotion was singularly
strong, and contact with men had cooled it down into an unusually deep
sense of duty.
Personally courageous, his bravery was of a high order, if the spirit of
self-devotion called it into existence. In this his courage was more
akin to that of women than of men. If duty drove him he would go where
the devil drags most people, and René Drucquer was not by any means the
first man or woman whose life has been wrecked, wasted, and utterly
misled by a blind devotion to duty.
When throwing himself upon Christian Vellacott, no thought of possible
danger to his own person had restrained or caused him a moment's
hesitation. His blind faith in the righteousness of his cause was,
however, on the wane. This disciple of St. Ignatius might have lived a
true and manly life three hundred years earlier when his master trod the
earth, but the march of intellect had trodden down the “Constitutions”
years before René Drucquer came to study them. An ignoramus and a zealot
who lived nearly four centuries ago can be no guide or help to men of
the present day, and this young priest was overshadowed by the saddest
doubt that comes to men on earth--the doubt of his own Creed.
While Christian Vellacott was assisting the sailors he glanced
occasionally towards the kneeling priest, and on the narrow, intelligent
face he read a truth that never was forgotten. He saw that René Drucquer
was unconscious of his surroundings--unmindful of the fact that he was
on board a disabled vessel at the mercy of the wild wind. His whole
being was absorbed in prayer: this priest remembered only that the soul
of the great, rough, disfigured man was winging its serene way to the
land where no clouds are. Christian was not an impressionable
man--journalism had killed all that--nor, it is to be feared, did he
devote much thought to religion; but he recognised goodness when he met
it. The young journalist's interest was aroused, and in that trifling
incident lay the salvation of the priest. From that small beginning came
the gleam of light that was to illuminate gloriously the darkness of a
mistaken life.
Chance had capriciously ruled that the hand that had dislocated the
Abbé's arm should set it again, and the dead sailor lying on the sticky,
tarred hatch-cover had helped. The “patron” of the boat, for he it was
whose head had been smashed by the spar, had held the priest's
trembling, swollen shoulder while Christian's steady hands gave the
painful jerk required to slip the joint back into its socket. The great,
coarse lips which had trembled a little, with a true Frenchman's
sympathy for suffering, were now blue and drawn; the stout, tender hands
were nerveless.
The priest prayed on, while the men worked near at hand seeking to
restore order, and to repair the damages made by sea and wind. They had
got over their sullen, native shyness on finding that Christian could
speak French like the Abbé and was almost as good a sailor as
themselves. One offered him a rough blue jersey, while another placed a
gold-embroidered Sunday waistcoat at his disposal, with a visible
struggle between kindness of heart and economy. The first was accepted,
but the waistcoat was given back with a kind laugh and an assurance that
the jersey was sufficient.
The Englishman knew too well with whom he was dealing to harbour any
ill-feeling against the ignorant fishermen or even towards the Abbé
Drucquer for the rough treatment he had received. The former were poor,
and money never was beaten by a scruple in open combat yet. The latter,
he rightly presumed, was only obeying a mandate he dared not dispute.
The authority was to him Divine, the command came from one whom he had
sworn to look up to and obey as the earthly representative of his
Master.
At length the deck was cleared, and order reigned on board, though the
mainsail could not be set until the weather moderated.
Then Hoel Grall came up to the young Englishman and said:
“Monsieur, let us carry the 'patron' down below. It is not right for the
dead to lie there in this wind and storm.”
“I am willing,” answered Christian, looking towards the spot where the
dead man lay.
“Then, perhaps--Monsieur,” began the Breton with some hesitation.
“Yes,” answered Christian encouragingly, “what is it?”
“Perhaps Monsieur will speak to--to the Abbé. It is that we do not like
to disturb him in prayer.”
The young Englishman bowed his head with characteristic decision.
“I will do so,” he said gravely. Then he crawled across the deck and
touched René Drucquer's shoulder. The priest did not look up until the
touch had been repeated.
“Yes,” he murmured; “yes. What do you want?”
Christian, guessed at the words, for in the tumult of the gale he could
not hear them.
“Is it not better to take him below?” he shouted.
Then for the first time did the priest appear to remember that this was
not one of the sailors.
“I beg your pardon,” he said, rising from his knees. “You are right; it
is better. But I am afraid the men will not assist me. They are afraid
of touching the dead when they are afloat.”
“I will help you,” said Christian simply, “and that man also, I think,
because he proposed it.”
With a motion of the head he indicated Hoel Grall, upon whom the command
of the little vessel had now devolved. The man was better educated than
his companions, and spoke French fluently, but in the Breton character
superstition is so deeply rooted that generations of education will
scarcely eradicate it.
The priest looked into the Englishman's face with a gentle wonder in his
eyes, which were shadowy with the fervour of his recent devotions. The
two men were crouching low upon the deck, grasping the black rail with
their left hands; the water washed backwards and forwards around their
feet.
It was the first time they had seen each other face to face in open
daylight, and their eyes met quietly and searchingly as they swayed from
side to side with the heavy lurching of the ship. The Englishman spoke
first.
“You must leave it to us,” he said calmly. “You could do nothing in this
heavy sea with your one arm!”
The gentle blue eyes were again filled with wonder, and presently the
priest's intellectual face relaxed into a shadowy smile, which did not
affect his thin red lips.
“You are very good,” he murmured simply.
Christian did not hear this remark. He had turned away to call Grall
towards him, and was about to move towards the body lying on the hatch,
when the priest called him back.
“Monsieur,” he said.
“Yes.”
“Tell me,” continued René Drucquer quickly, as if in doubt, “are you
Christian Vellacott?”
“Of course!”
The priest looked relieved, and at the same time he appeared to be
making an effort to restrain himself, as if he had been betrayed into a
greater show of feeling than was desirable. When he at length spoke in
reply to the Englishman's obvious desire for some explanation of the
strange question, his voice was singularly cold, and modulated in such a
manner as to deprive it of any expression, while his eyes were fixed on
the deck.
“You are not such as I expected,” he said.
Christian looked down at him with straightforward keenness, and he saw
the priest's eyelids move uneasily beneath his gaze. Mixing with many
men as he had done, he had acquired a certain mental sureness of touch,
like that of an artist with his brush when he has handled many subjects
and many effects. He divined that René Drucquer had been led to expect a
violent, head strong man, and he could not restrain a smile as he turned
away. Before going, however, he said:
“At present it is a matter of saving the ship, and our lives. My own
affairs can wait, but when this gale is over you may rest assured they
shall have my attention.”