NEXT morning Done lingered below till the day was well advanced, but the
darkness and the heavy atmosphere 'tween decks drove him into the open.
It was a fair day, a big placid sun was shining, and the breeze followed
them with a crisp suggestion of glittering ice-fields far down in the
south. The sailors and passengers were grouped in small parties of six or
seven, lounging about the deck in lazy abandonment, leaning over the
side, smoking comfortably, and spitting with a certain dreamy
satisfaction into the sweet, clean sea, or sitting in rings on improvised
seats, alert, and loud in argument.
Jim's youthful face was even more than usually forbidding that morning as
he stepped amongst the men to his favourite position on one of the guns.
He feared an attempt to break through his reserve, some demonstration
arising out of last night's adventure, that might be taken advantage of
by the men to force their society and friendship upon him. He looked at
none of the faces turned curiously in his direction, and his expression
of stubborn enmity killed the cheer that sprang from a few of the
forecastle passengers, and it tailed into a feeble absurdity. Leaning
upon the old wooden gun-carriage, with his arms supporting his chin; he
stared at the cleavage of the green sea and the swelling foam, feeling at
his back all the time the cackle of criticism, like an irritation of the
spinal marrow, chafing fretfully at this further proof of the failure of
his long endeavour to school himself into complete indifference.
Absolute serenity in the teeth of public opinion--good, bad, or
indifferent--that was an ideal frame of mind, to the attainment of which
he had set himself when still a mere boy; but men and women remained
powerful to hurt and to auger him. He had acquired from his long moral
exercise a certain power of restraint up to the point at which his fierce
temper blazed; he reached the stage of ignition without those displays of
sparks and smoke that are usual preliminaries to a 'flare-up.' He had
learned, too, in the course of his schooling, to simulate an imposing
unconcern under commonplace trials and tribulations, when it so pleased
him, and between the satisfaction to be felt in being able successfully
to assume a given virtue and in having actual possession of that virtue
the distinction is too delicate for unregenerate minds.
The young man did not envelop himself in his spare skin of
imperturbability at this crisis, because he felt that some show of active
resentment was necessary to repel effusive admirers and maintain the
barrier he had set up between himself and his fellow-travellers. When Jim
Done set foot on board the Francis Cadman he was flying from an
intolerable life, seeking to escape from despair. This he did not admit
to himself, for he had the indomitable pride of a lonely man who gave to
thought the time that should have been gloriously wasted on boon
companions and young love.
Done was a sensitive man, who had been some thing of a pariah since his
knickerbocker period, and was first the butt and later the bane of the
narrow, convention-governed public of a small English village. A fierce
defiance of the people amongst whom he had lived his life kept him in his
native place till after his twenty-first birthday. He rebelled with all
his soul against the animal unreason of these men, women, and children,
puzzling over the fanatical stupidity of their prejudice, and, striving
to beat it down, intensified it and kept it active long years after all
might have been forgotten had he bowed meekly to 'the workings of
Providence,' as manifested in the thinkings and doings of the Godfearing
people of Chisley.
When James Done was five years old the only murder that had been
committed in Chisley district within the memory of the oldest inhabitant
was done by a member of little Jim's family. The murderer was tried,
found guilty, and sentenced accordingly.
The murder had a romantic plot and melodramatic tableaux, and was
incorporated in the history of Chisley--in fact, it was the history of
Chisley.
The murderer passed out, but his family remained, and upon them fell the
horror of his deed, the disgrace of his punishment. They became creatures
apart. With all Chisley understood of the terror in those dread words,
'Thou shalt not kill,' it invested the unhappy family, and they bowed as
if to the will of God.
Jim's mother, a thin, sensitive woman, with a patient face, put on a
black veil, and was never afterwards seen abroad without it. She helped
her boy a few weary miles along the road of life, and then one evening
went quietly to her room and died. Jim's sister, ten years older than
himself, took up the struggle where the mother dropped it, and sustained
it until the boy could go into the fields and earn a mean living for
himself, at which point she drowned herself, leaving a quaint note in
which she stated that life was too dreadful, but she hoped 'God and Jimmy
would forgive her--especially Jimmy.'
At this stage Chisley might have forgiven Jimmy, and condescended to
forget, and even indulge itself in some sentimental compassion for the
poor orphan, had the boy shown any disposition to accept these advances
kindly and with proper gratitude; but for years Jim had been reasoning
things out in a direct, childish way, and in his loneliness he was filled
with an inveterate hatred. He chose to live on as he had lived, accepting
no concessions, disguising nothing, and Chisley quite conscientiously
discovered in his sullen exclusiveness and his vicious dislike of worthy
men the workings of homicidal blood, and accepted him as an enemy of
society.
Early in his teens Jim recognised the value of brute strength and human
guile in his dealings with the youth of Chisley, and set himself to work
to cultivate his physical qualities. All that the pugilists and wrestlers
could teach him he picked up with extraordinary quickness, and to the
arts thus acquired he added cunning tricks of offence and defence of his
own contriving. He had a peculiar aptitude for wrestling and pugilism,
delighted secretly in his strength and swiftness, and would walk five
miles to plunge like a porpoise in the stormy sea.
He had submitted to much in his joyless youth, but now, conscious of his
strength and expertness in battle, he set himself deliberately to defy
his enemies and resent with force of arms every encroachment upon his
liberty, every insolence. There was a sudden epidemic of black eyes
amongst the youth of the village; cut faces, broken ribs, and noses of
abnormal size served the heirs of Chisley as stinging reminders of the
old shame and the new courage and power of Jim o' Mill End, that being
the name given to the boy in accordance with an awkward provincial custom
of identifying a man with his property, the situation of his residence,
or some peculiarity of manner.
On one occasion the lad fell upon a hobbledehoy who had just given a
highly diverting pantomime representing the hanging of a man, with
realistic details, and, having beaten him in fair fight, broke his
collar-bone with an atrocious fall. For this outrage Jim o' Mill End was
called upon to answer to the law, and, the answer he had to give being
considered wholly unsatisfactory, Jim was sent to gaol for a term of
days.
Chisley, if Slow to discover its mistakes, was not wholly imbecile; it
learned in time to respect the fists of Jim o' Mill End, and now hated
him quite heartily for the restraint imposed. But Jim derives little
satisfaction from his triumph; Chisley conquered him by stupid
submission. His physical superiority won him nothing but immunity from
open insult; the young men and their elders were careful to give him no
reasonable opportunity of asserting the rights of man in their teeth with
a dexterous left, and Jim was now beyond disputing with children. The
unhappy boy was not deceived by the new attitude his neighbours had
assumed towards him. He saw an increased dislike behind the stolid,
animal-like faces that met him everywhere, and felt that silence was
worse than insult, more galling than blows. He detected jeers under the
mask of dogged respect, and had passionate impulses to beat and tear,
finding himself still powerless against the brutal injustice that had
poisoned his life.
Baffled here, Jim o' Mill End turned greedily to the fount of wisdom
seeking justification for his deep contempt for his fellows,
corroboration of his opinions as to the stupidity, ignorance, and
vileness of mankind, He read greedily, finding justification everywhere.
Poets, philosophers, novelists, historians--they had all found man out,
just as he had done. Discovering an echo of his beliefs, he thrilled with
hot delight. He met allies amongst the poets, and adored them. It is
strange how sympathetic books drift to the hand of a reader possessed
with a consuming idea; how they gather around him, fall open to his eye,
and give up the thing he yearns to feed on. Without the knowledge
necessary to selection, Jim had an affinity for books of pessimistic
doctrine, and though both means and opportunities were limited, he
gathered together, in the course of two years, quite a library of
precious volumes, and he came forth from these an intellectual giant
refreshed. He saw Chisley on a plane far below him, a sink of ignorance,
and judged it like a god--or a boy. Whatever Chisley respected he found
excellent occasion to despise; whatever it revered he discovered to be
false and contemptible. His sense of superiority was magnificent; it gave
him a glorious exultation. A few hot words with the clerical caretaker of
the Chisley conscience over the question of Sabbath observance exposed
the young man--the gaol-bird--as an infidel and a scoffer. Jim was no
infidel, but communities like Chisley do not under stand subtle
distinctions in theology. Here was fresh occasion to fear and abhor Jim
o' Mill End; here was justification for many evil prophecies.
For a time Jim revelled in his great moral superiority and dreamed
dreams. But the gnawing impatience returned--the unrest, the craving for
something he could not define, but which always merged itself into his
great grievance. He lived alone. At his work--which he obtained readily,
for he was strong and efficient, and gave double value for his wages--he
had no mates. Girls he had seen grow up from babyhood developed into
beautiful creatures, with miraculous eyes, round limbs, and cheeks so
red, so tender, that their soft ripeness haunted his dreams. Under cover
and in secret he would watch them pass or at play with a throbbing heart
and a passionate hunger for companionship, and discover himself doing
this with something of a shock, ashamed of his interest in his enemies,
resentful of all emotions that ran counter to his cherished antipathies.
When the news of the discovery of fabulous gold deposits in far Australia
reached Chisley, Jim had thoughts of a new life in a new land: he craved
for a wide field and a wild life; nothing withheld him but pride, the
egotism that would not permit of his abandoning a struggle even with men
so contemptible as these ignorant villagers. But the hunger for humanity
filled him with visions of a new society in which he would be one with
his fellow-men, and then his enemies seemed so pitiful that he knew
himself for fool and blind to waste a care upon them. So he sold the
small property at Mill End, took up his few belongings, and left Chisley
quietly by night, eager to leave all the old life behind him, anxious for
the new.
Standing thus, looking out along the pathway of the Francis Cadman, Done
had reviewed his life almost daily, sometimes broadly and briefly, as
given here--sometimes going into excruciating details of suffering,
shame, terror, and hate; but his eyes were always turned forward.
Done meditated uninterruptedly for nearly an hour. Gradually the
conversation of the group behind him had drifted from his business and
the affair of the previous night to the great absorbing topic of the past
four months--Australia, the land of mad dreams, where the hills were
powdered with precious 'dust,' and the rivers purled over nuggets of pure
gold.
A hand fell upon the young man's shoulder; he turned sharply, angrily,
and beheld the bland face and trim figure of Captain Evan. With the
Captain was a handsome lady in black, who had already created in Jim's
mind a confused impression of massed raven hair and big, innocent dark
eyes that had a trick of floating up from under heavy lids and thick,
long lashes to their greatest magnitude, and then disappearing again like
revolving lights.
'All right after your plunge, my lad?' inquired the Captain heartily.
Done gave the expected reply, conscious of the eyes signalling
appreciation, and there was a pause.
'You do not inquire after the young lady, Done!'
'I've heard the men speaking of her, Captain. I understand she' pretty
well?'
'Still, a little gentlemanly attention, you know. She is most grateful.'
Done stiffened a trifle, and the line of brows asserted itself.
'I don't ape gentility,' he said quietly. 'I'm glad the young lady's well
again, but genteel formal ain't much in my line, I think.'
'Hem!' The Captain's eyes narrowed, his air of patronage lifted. He was
as gentlemanly an old sea-dog as ever bully-damned a ship from the gates
of hell on a blind night, and was proud of his first-cabin
accomplishments. 'This lady is Mrs. Donald Macdougal,' he said. 'Miss
Lucy Woodrow is Mrs. Macdougal's companion.'
Jim gathered his soft cap in a handful and bowed moderately; but the lady
held out dainty gloved fingers, and flashed her bright eyes upon him.
'We all think you quite a hero, Mr. Done,' she lisped--' quite!'
'Fact is,' said the Captain, 'the ladies and gentle men greatly admire
your noble conduct.'
'Most noble and brave,' added Mrs. Macdougal softly.
The young man had a presentiment of mischief, and fortified himself.
'And,' the Captain continued, 'they have held a little meeting to consider
the idea of--ah, expressing their appreciation in a--er----hem!--an
adequate and proper manner.'
The Captain was quoting the chief orator--himself. He paused with an
expectant air, but Done was apparently quite impassive; evidently the
fact that the ladies and gentlemen of the first class wished to put on
record their very proper respect for British pluck and the positive
virtues by giving the hero of the moment an inscribed watch or a gold
locket did not appeal to this young man.
The pause became uneasy. If Jim had betrayed some confusion--blushed
stammered, protested--all would have been well; but he waited calmly.
Captain Evan had only two manners--his polished, first-class maimer and
his ship manner, the manner with which he worked the Francis Cadman--and
it was a mere step from one to the other. For a moment he was perilously
near assuming his natural and most successful manner, blasting Done to
the depths for a high-stomached, adjectival swab, and commanding him out
of hand to accept the proposed honours and emoluments with proper respect
and gratitude, and be hanged to him.
'Of course,' said Mrs. Macdougal gracefully, 'only if you approve, Mr.
Done.' But the inference was that he could do nothing less with such eyes
openly beseeching him.
'I can't agree to this,' said Jim decisively, addressing himself to the
Captain.
'Oh, come, you must not be shy!' murmured the lady.
'I cannot agree to any demonstration or accept any gifts,' persisted Jim.
'You're very kind, I believe; but I'm reserved--I detest display.'
'Still, you know, my man, brave actions like yours cannot be totally
disregarded by feeling people.'
'To be sure!' from the lady.
'Captain Evan,' said the young man firmly, 'ever since I came on board
the Francis Cadman I've endeavoured to keep myself to myself. I asked
nothing from anybody on this ship, but simply to be left alone. That's
all I ask now. Perhaps I appear boorish to the lady, but the instincts of
a lifetime must be respected.' Jim spoke like an old man. The lady found
him very impressive.
'Very well, Done,' said the Captain, looking searchingly into Jim's
strong young face, 'we'll say no more about the matter.' He moved away,
but the lady extended the slim gloved fingers again, lowering her eyes
for an effective unveiling.
'I respect your feelings,' she said, as if making great concession.
Really, the boy was most interesting, so handsome, so unusual. She smiled
upon him like a guardian angel with exquisite teeth, and the scamp turned
again to the sea, apostrophizing in fo'c'sle idiom all interfering fools
and sentimental humbugs.