CLEM IS LOST TO MYRA.
The post of 'Mistress' to the Widows' Houses was a somewhat singular one.
The hospital itself had been founded in 1634 by an ancestor of Sir George
Dinham's, and dedicated to St. Peter, as a retreat for eleven poor women,
widows of husbands drowned at sea. From a narrow cobbled lane, behind the
parish church and in the shadow of its tower, you passed into a
quadrangle, two sides of which were formed by the lodgings, twelve in
number (the twelfth occupied by the caretaker, or Mistress), the other two
by the wash-house and store-buildings. In the centre of this courtyard
stood a leaden pump, approached by four pebbled paths between radiating
beds of flowers--Provence roses, Madonna lilies, and old perennials and
biennials such as honesty, sweet-william, snapdragon, the pink and white
everlasting pea, with bushes of fuchsia, southernwood, and rosemary.
Along the first floor of the alms-buildings ran a deep open gallery, or
upstairs cloister, where in warm weather the old women sat and knitted or
gossiped in the shade.
The rule restricting admission to the widows of drowned mariners had been
gradually relaxed during the last fifty years, and was now a dead letter;
aged spinsters even, such as Aunt Butson, being received in default of
applicants with better title. Also Sir George's father, having once on a
time been called upon to depose a caretaker for ill-using the inmates, had
replaced her by a gentlewoman; and thinking to safeguard them in future by
increasing the dignity of the post, had rebuilt and enlarged the new
Mistress's lodgings, and increased her salary by endowment to eighty
pounds per annum.
All this Sir George explained very delicately to Hester, on the morning of
Nicky Vro's funeral, having called at the school to seek an interview on
his way back from the churchyard.
"But I am not a decayed gentlewoman," Hester objected; "at least, not yet.
I shall be standing in the way of someone who really wants this post,
while I am strong and able to earn my living. Also--please do not think
me ungrateful or conceited--to teach is my calling, and I take a pride in
it."
"From all I hear, you have a right to take pride in it. But may I say
that these objections occurred to me and that I have a scheme for removing
them--a very happy scheme, if you will help. Now, in the first place,
will you put the personal question out of sight and consider my scheme on
its merits? And next, will you, in advising me, take account of my
ignorance?"
Hester smiled. "I know," she said, "that kindness can be cunning.
I am going to be on my guard."
"Well, but listen at any rate," he pleaded, with an eager stammer.
"Won't you agree with me that the education you give these children here
is dreadfully wasteful?"
She glanced at him keenly. "If you are taking the ordinary ratepayer's
view--" she began.
"I am not taking the ordinary ratepayer's view, except to this extent--
that I think the ratepayers' and taxpayers' money should be spent to the
best advantage. But is it?--either here or in any parish in England?"
"No, it is not."
"Will you tell me why, Miss Marvin?"
"Because," answered Hester, "we do a little good and then refuse to follow
it up. If we were to take a child and say, 'You shall be a farm
labourer,' or 'You shall be a domestic servant, and in due time marry a
labourer and rear his family; 'and if, content with this, we were to teach
these children just enough for their fate--the boy to plough and work a
threshing machine and touch his cap to his betters, the girl to cook and
sew and keep house on sixteen shillings a week--why, then there might be
something to say for us. We have not the heart to do this, and yet in
effect we do more cruelly. We are not tyrants enough to take a child of
eight and label him for life: we start him on a kind of education which
seems to offer him a chance; and then, just as the prospect should be
opening, we suddenly lose interest in him, wash our hands of him, turn him
adrift. Some few--a very few--have the grit to push on, unhelped by us,
and grasp their opportunity. But for one of these a thousand and more
fall back on their fate, and of our teaching the one thing they keep is
discontent. We have built a porch, to nowhere. We invest millions; and
just as our investment begins to repay us splendidly, we sell out, share
by share. That is why I think sometimes, Sir George, in my bitterness,
that education in England must be the most wasteful thing in the world."
"If, in this corner of England, someone were to set himself to fight this
waste, would you help?"
"As Mistress of the Widows' Houses?"
Sir George laughed. "As Mistress of the Widows' Houses--and of a school
attached. I am thinking of a Charterhouse or a Christ's Hospital in a
small way; a foundation, that is, to include the old charity and a new and
efficient school; modern education worked on lines of the old collegiate
mediaeval systems--eh, Miss Marvin? To me, a high Tory, those old
foundations are still our best models."
"Three or four of them have survived," said Hester gravely, and with as
little of irony as she could contrive. "Forgive me, Sir George--once more
I am going to speak ungratefully--but though neglect be our chief curse
just now, a worse may follow when rich folks wake up and endow education
in a hurry."
"You condemn me offhand for a faddist?"
"If you would only see that these things need an apprenticeship!
Take this very combination of school and hospital. Three or four have
survived, and are lodged in picturesque buildings, where they keep
picturesque old customs, and seem to you very noble and venerable.
So indeed they are. But what of the hundreds that have perished?
And of these survivors can you tell me one in which either the school or
the alms-house has not gone to the wall? The school, we will say, grows
into an expensive one for the sons of rich men; the almshouse dwindles
from a college for poor gentlemen down to a home into which wealthy men
job their retired servants. I grant you that our modern attempts to
combine almsgiving with teaching are not much better as a rule--are,
perhaps, even a little worse. If you have ever walked through one of our
public orphanages, for instance--"
Sir George's face fell. "I have never visited one, Miss Marvin, and I
subscribe perhaps to half a dozen--out of sheer laziness, and because to
subscribe comes easier than to say 'No.' Yes; I am an incurable amateur,
and you are right, no doubt, in laughing at my scheme and refusing to look
at it."
"But I don't, Sir George. I even think it may succeed, as it deserves,
and reward your kindness. Yes, and I have been arguing against myself as
much as against you, to warn myself against hoping too much. For there
must be disappointments."
"What disappointments?"
"Well, to begin with, you rich folks are impatient; you expect your money
to buy success at once and of itself. And then you expect gratitude."
"I do not," Sir George asserted stoutly.
"At least," said Hester, "it is only too plain that you are not getting
it." She dropped him a small deprecatory curtsey and laughed.
"And yet I _am_ grateful."
"Yes," he answered gravely; "I understand. But since you do not quite
despise my scheme, will you come and discuss it with me, believing only
that I am in earnest?"
So it was arranged that Hester should call on him next evening and go
through the plans he had been preparing for a week past. That such an
interview defied convention scarcely crossed her mind or his, Sir George
being one of those men who can neglect convention because their essential
honour stands above question. He received her in his library, and for an
hour they talked as might two men of business in friendly committee for
some public good.
"By the way," said he, glancing up from his papers, "you were talking
yesterday of public orphanages. Have you heard that your little friend
Clem--the blind child--has been packed off to one?"
"To an orphanage?" Hester echoed. "The children were not at school
to-day, but I had not heard a sound of this."
"It is true; for I happened to call in at the station this morning, and
there on the platform I met Rosewarne with the child. The man was taking
his ticket to Paddington--a single ticket half-fare; and overhearing this
as we stood together by the booking-office, I made bold to ask him a few
questions. The child was to travel alone, in charge of the guard; to be
met at the journey's end, I suppose, by an official, and taken out to the
orphanage--I forget its name--an institution for the blind somewhere out
in the south-eastern suburbs."
"Poor Myra!"
"'Poor Clem!' I should rather say. He was not crying over it, but he
looked pretty forlorn and white, and his blindness made it pitiable.
I call it brutal; the man at least might have travelled up for company.
A journey of three hundred miles!"
Nevertheless, Hester chiefly pitied Myra. As for Clem, the news relieved
her mind in part; since after witnessing Mr. Sam's outburst, she had more
than once shivered at the thought of child and uncle continuing to live
under one roof.
Poor Myra had spent the day pacing up and down her room like a caged
beast. The fate decreed and overhanging Clem had been concealed from her.
Had it been less incredible, instinct surely would have wakened her
suspicions before the last moment. At the last moment Susannah, having to
dress the child for his journey, met inquiries with the half-hearted lie
that he was bound on a trip to Plymouth with his uncle, to meet Aunt
Hannah, and return after a day or two in the _Virtuous Lady_. Susannah--
weak soul--had furthered the conspiracy because she too had begun to fear
for Clem, and wished him well clear of his uncle's roof. She acted
'for the best,' but broke down in the act of tearing the children asunder,
and told her lie shamefacedly. The result was that Mr. Sam, hearing
Myra's screams overhead as he paced the hall, had rushed upstairs, caught
her by both wrists as she clung to her brother, forced her into her own
bedroom, and turned and pocketed the key.
Four times since, in that interminable day of anguish, Susannah had come
pleading and whimpering to the door with food. Mr. Sam, on returning from
the station, had given her the key with instructions to release the girl
on a promise of good behaviour.
"Be sensible, Miss Myra--now, do! 'Tis to a home he's gone, where he'll be
looked after and taught and tended, and you'll see him every holidays.
A fine building, sure 'nough! Look, I've brought you a picture of it!"
Susannah, defying instructions, had unlocked and opened the door.
Myra snatched the paper from her--it was, in fact, a prospectus of the
institution--crumpled it up and thrust it in her pocket. With that, the
last gust of her passion seemed to spend itself. She turned, and walking
straight to the window-seat, coiled herself among the cushions with face
averted and chin upon hand. To Susannah the traitress she deigned no
word.
Thrice again Susannah came pleading, each time with a tray and something
to tempt Myra's appetite. Myra did not turn her head. Departing for the
fourth time, Susannah left the door ajar. The siege, then, was raised,
the imprisonment over. Myra listened to her footsteps descending the
stairs, walked to the door, shifted the key from the outer to the inner
keyhole, and locked herself in. By this time the wintry dusk had begun to
fall. Resuming her seat by the window, she fell to watching the courtyard
again, her body motionless, her small brain working.
Dusk had deepened to darkness in the courtyard when she heard a footfall
she recognised. It was Archelaus Libby's, on his way home from school to
his loft, to deposit his books there and wash before seeking his tea in
the kitchen.
Myra straightened her body, and opened the window softly.
"Archelaus!" she called as loudly as she dared.
"Miss Myra?" The footsteps halted.
"Hush, Archelaus, and come nearer. I want you to do something for me."
"Yes, Miss Myra."
"It may get you into trouble. I want you to fetch the short ladder from
under the linhay, and fix it against the window here, without making a
noise."
For a moment he made no answer. But he had understood; for she heard him
walking away toward the linhay, and by and by he returned panting, and
sloped the ladder against the sill as she bade him. By this time Myra had
found a plateful of biscuits, and crammed her pocket full, and was ready
to descend.
"But what is the meaning of it?" asked Archelaus, as she clambered down to
him.
"They have stolen away Clem, and this morning they locked me in. Now take
the ladder back and hang it in its place, and I will thank you for ever
and ever."
"But I don't understand!" protested Archelaus. "Stolen away Master Clem?
Who has stolen him? And what are you going to do?"
"I am going to find him--that's all," said Myra, and ran off into the
darkness.
She could reckon on two friends in the world--Mr. Benny and Tom
Trevarthen. Aunt Hannah was far away, and Miss Marvin (though now
forgiven, and indeed worshipped for having interfered to protect Clem from
his flogging) could not be counted on for effective help.
Tom Trevarthen and Mr. Benny--it was on Tom that she pinned her hope; for
Tom (she had heard) was shipped on board the _One-and-All_ schooner; and
the _One-and-All_ was ready to sail for London; and somewhere near
London--so the paper in her pocket had told her--lay the dreadful place in
which Clem was hidden. She could find the vessel; the _One-and-All_ was
moored--or had been moored last night--at the buoy under the hill, ready
for sea. But to find the vessel and to find Tom Trevarthen were two very
different things. To begin with, Tom would be useless unless she
contrived to speak with him alone; to row straight to the schooner and
hail her would spoil all. Moreover, on the night before sailing he would,
most likely, be enjoying himself ashore. But where? Peter Benny might be
able to tell. Peter Benny had a wonderful knack of knowing the movements
of every seaman in the port.
She ran down the dark street to the alley over which poor Nicky Vro's
signboard yet glimmered in the light of the oil lamp at the entrance.
The cottage still lacked a tenant, and it had been nobody's business to
take the board down. On the frape at the alley's end his ferryboat lay
moored as he had left it. Myra tugged at the rope and drew the boat in.
As it drew alongside out of the darkness she leapt on board and cast off.
The paddles, as she laboriously shipped them between the thole-pins, were
unconscionably heavy; she knew little of rowing, and nothing of
double-sculling. But the tide helped her. By pulling now one paddle, now
another, she worked the boat across and down towards the ladder and the
quay-door at the end of Mr. Benny's yard.
Nearing it, she found herself in slack water, and the boat became more
manageable, giving her time between the strokes to glance over her
shoulder and scan the dark shadow under the longshore wall, where each
garden and alley-way had its quay-door and its ladder reaching down into
the tide. Now the most of these quay-doors were painted green or blue,
but Mr. Benny's a light grey, which in the darkness should have made it
easily discernible. Yet for some while she could not find it.
Suddenly, as she threaded her way along, scarcely using her paddles now
except to fend off the boats which, lying peaceably at their moorings,
seemed to crowd around with intent to impede her, a schooner's masts and
spars loomed up before her high against the inky night. Then she
understood. The vessel--her name, the _One-and-All_, in white letters on
her forward bulwarks, glimmered into sight as Myra passed--lay warped
alongside the wall, with her foreyard braced aslant to avoid chafing the
roof of Mr. Benny's office, and her mainmast and standing rigging all but
entirely hiding Mr. Benny's quay-door, the approach to which she
completely obstructed. A little above her forestay a small window,
uncurtained and brightly lit, broke the long stretch of featureless black
wall. This was the window of Mr. Benny's inner office, and within, as she
checked her way, catching at the gunwale of one among the tethered boats,
Myra could see the upper half of a hanging lamp and the shadow of its
reflector on the smoky ceiling.
Mr. Benny would be seated under that lamp, no doubt. But how could she
reach him?
The _One-and-All_ lay head-to-stream, and so deep in the water that the
tide all but washed her bulwarks, still grey with the dust of china-stone
as she had come from her loading. Nowadays no British ship so
scandalously overladen would be allowed to put to sea; but the
Plimsoll-mark had not yet been invented to save seamen from their
employers.
She lay so low that Myra, peering into the darkness, could almost see
across decks to the farther bulwarks; and the decks were deserted.
She mounted no riding-lamp, and no glimmer of light showed from hatchway,
deckhouse, or galley.
Minutes passed, and, as still no sign of life appeared on board, Myra grew
bolder and pushed across for a nearer view. Yes; the deck was deserted,
and only the deck intervened between her and Mr. Benny's quay-door, by the
sill of which the tide ran lapping and sucking at the crevices of the
wall. She hardened her heart. Even if her footstep gave the alarm below,
she could dash across and through the doorway before being seized or even
detected. She laid both hands on the clay-dusted bulwarks and hoisted
herself gently. The boat--she had done with it--slipped away noiselessly
from under her and away into darkness.
She had meant to clear the ship with a rush; but as her feet touched the
deck her courage failed her, and she tiptoed forward stealthily, gaining
the shadow of the deckhouse and pausing there.
And there, in the act of crouching to spring across the few remaining
yards, she drew back, crouching lower yet; for, noiseless as she, the dark
form of a man had stepped forward and framed itself in the grey glimmering
doorway.
For an instant she made sure that he was about to step on board. But many
seconds passed, and still he waited there--as it seemed to her, in the
attitude of a man listening; though to what he listened she could not
guess. She herself heard no sound but the lapping of the tide.
By and by, gripping the ladder-rail and setting one foot against the
_One-and-All's_ bulwarks to steady himself, the man leaned outboard and
sideways until a faint edge of light from the office window fell on his
upturned face.
It was the face of her uncle.
Fascinated by terror, following his gaze--by instinct seeking for help, if
any might be found--Myra lifted her face to the window. That too was
darkened for the instant by a man's form; and as he crossed the room to
the chair beside the desk, she recognised Tom Trevarthen.