"DEATH'S ALTAR, BY THE LONE SHORE."
A fortnight had slipped away since Hubert Dorrien's disappearance, and
still the stranger stayed on at "The Silver Fleece," in Battisford.
Those who had at first marvelled what attraction their dull little town
had for one of his stamp had quite ceased speculating as to his pursuits
and identity. As to the former, they had come to the conclusion that he
was an antiquary of some sort--a professor most likely, and a member of
some learned society--who was engaged on a work on the curiosities and
antiquities of the neighbourhood, which he spent long days in exploring,
asking many questions about it, and when not thus employed, he would
shut himself up and sit for hours writing. As to the latter, well, it
didn't signify. Anyone could see that he was a gentleman born, and sure
enough, didn't he pay his way, and wasn't he pleasant-spoken and
friendly with everybody? So "The Silver Fleece" was right glad of its
guest, and would fain keep him as long as he chose to stay. He got his
letters, too, quite regularly, addressed to Robert Durnford, Esq, and
now and then a learned looking pamphlet. What more could Battisford
desire in the way of vouchers for his respectability?
In Battisford, sooner than in Wandsborough, Hubert Dorrien's sad fate
ceased to be a nine days' wonder. It was talked of occasionally on
market days by farmers assembled at their one o'clock dinner in the
coffee-room at "The Silver Fleece," and in the evening sometimes the
loquacious waiter would entertain a batch of newly arrived
"commercials," over their hot spirits and water, with a highly graphic
narrative of the event, to which the accompaniment of the supernatural
lent unusual spice. Sometimes in these conversations the stranger would
join, putting in a careless remark or two, or asking a question, but
never by any chance would he attempt avoidance of the subject.
And what was Roland Dorrien's real frame of mind, having committed a
ruthless and what the world might call a cowardly murder! It is a
strange thing to have to record, but the fact is he felt no great
compunction. He had spent some of the most impressionable years of his
life in the Far West, where human life was held at the lowest possible
valuation, and he had known of at least a dozen instances where men had
been shot dead upon far less provocation than he had received. Besides,
he had not particularly meant to kill the other; unfortunately, the
mouth of the fissure had been inconveniently close.
But he whom he had slain was his brother--his own mother's son. Well,
what of that? Relationship was a mere accident, in his case an accident
in no sense to his advantage, and all the twaddle written and talked
about blood being thicker than water, and family affection and so on,
but the "thinnest" of cant. And had not this precious brother of his,
not content with supplanting him in his inheritance, taken advantage of
his downfall to blacken his name, so that she whom he loved and who had
loved him as he felt persuaded she would never again love, even she had,
in all probability, brought herself to regard his memory as a loathsome
thing; something to be put far from her? Then, to crown all, those
insulting words. Yes--whatever had occurred, the other had brought upon
himself and had richly deserved, and now, as it happened, it was perhaps
as well that the popular verdict should be one of accidental death.
And had this man no conscience? Since there was no chance of his being
brought to the bar of human justice, had he no fear of the great
Hereafter? He had none. He could meet it, whatever it was, without
flinching. If he did not altogether disbelieve in a future existence,
he was at any rate firmly convinced that for himself it could hold no
worse state of things than did the present. That was impossible, for he
was utterly without hope in the world.
And now he had made up his mind to leave Battisford. He had remained
there long enough to avoid the suspicion that would inevitably have
attached to a casual stranger coming and going coincidently with the
fatality--now he would go. He had not seen Olive Ingelow since the
brief glimpse he had obtained of her in the lamp-lit street that fateful
evening, and it was better so. He was hard as adamant now, cold,
stony--all his natural impulses petrified at their source. One glance
into those sweet eyes: one pitiful, tender tone of the dear voice, and
all might be undone. He would soften again, melt for the time, and his
overthrow would be complete. No, he would not behold her face again,
but he would once more, and for the last time, revisit Wandsborough,
arriving towards nightfall, and then the next day he would leave the
scene of his wrecked life for ever.
There are some men whom one is constrained to believe were sent into the
world to enjoy prosperity, if only for the reason that they are so
woefully and completely unfitted to sustain adversity. We must fall
foul of another popular cant in asserting that adversity does not
strengthen them, neither does it bring out sterling qualities which
otherwise would never have seen the light. In no way does it benefit
them; on the contrary, they succumb to it and sink down, down, lower and
lower, till their ruin is complete. In some occult way this may be a
Providential dispensation; we are told that everything is; but, if so,
why then to the observer of human nature is it of all things the most
marvellous?
Just such a man as this was Roland Dorrien. His rightful place in
society he would have filled with credit--it is even probable that under
favourable circumstances he would have adorned it; for he had plenty of
good qualities, which, in their proper sphere, would have shone out to
the advantage of himself and of those who came within his influence.
But he was the last person in the world who should have been marked out
for adversity, and with his natural temperament and the fatal way in
which he had been brought up, or rather left to grow, it was no wonder
that he succumbed.
What man but one who had temporarily taken leave of his better
judgment--not to say his senses--would have mapped out for himself such
a plan as that which he now proposed? To revisit the scenes of his
former prosperity; to wander morbidly over the paths consecrated to his
memory by the tenderest associations of love and happiness and bright
hopes, knowing perfectly well that the joys of past days must ever be to
him as the turned-down page of a sealed book--could mania itself carry a
man to greater, to more unreasoning lengths? Yet this is what he
deliberately resolved to do.
He would walk along the beach to Wandsborough. The tide was low in the
afternoon, and he would be less likely to meet anybody that way. So,
arming himself with an overcoat and umbrella, for the day was cloudy and
lowering, he sallied forth.
A group of men were standing round the door of the taproom as he passed.
Of them he took no notice at first, till a voice arrested his
attention--a voice saying in a strong Scotch accent:
"--And I tell ye what it is, Williams. Ye just won't see the young
Squire back again. The General hates him wurrse than hell, and 'd
sooner burrn the place down than see him in it, even nouw."
For the life of him Roland could not resist turning his head, and his
eyes met those of Johnston, the Cranston gardener. Then he kept on his
way. Had the other recognised him? he wondered. Their glances had met
full. The Scot was a shrewd fellow, and his gaze might have penetrated
even this inimitable disguise. If so, why, the sooner he disappeared
from Battisford the better, for if it was in Johnston's power to work
him mischief he would certainly do so--and it was. But it would not do
to look round again, and, after all, why should he care?
He walked rapidly forward, and soon the town was left out of sight
behind. A few sheep browsing the short grass on the turfy down
scampered off a little distance and stood watching him as he made his
way to the beach; but not a soul did he meet, and at length, as he
reached the shore, it seemed to him that he stood in the world alone.
He walked on, a great seething, tumbling plain on his left, the white,
curling billows chasing each other obedient to the propulsion of a
strong and freshening breeze, their foam-crests leaping to the misty
sky. A flying scud partly hid the tall cliffs, and then passed, and the
crescent-like bays and looming promontories of the iron coastline stood
clear above the restless, leaden-hued waters. A scene of wild, solitary
grandeur. The cold salt breeze played upon his face; the roll and hiss
of the white waves breaking on the beach seemed full of voices speaking
from that happier Past as the exile wended his way along the lone shore;
and in the tones of the rising gale he could hear in a far-off, dreamy
way the voice as he had heard it when they walked together over this
very ground.
All the deepest chords in the man's wretched, storm-tossed soul were
harrowed and unstrung. This wild reach of roaring surf, and looming
cliffs, and pebbly shingle, with the strong, chill winds resisting his
advance, was to him as hallowed ground--to be trodden reverently, and to
be lingered on as one is loth to leave the last haven. His head was
bent low to resist the fury of the sudden gust which met him as he
staggered round a projecting arm of the cliff, and his thoughts were
given up to the free play of wildest fancy.
"God or demon--whoever you are that makes such a wretched muddle of the
affairs of poor mortals," he murmured in his despair, "take my soul--my
life--anything--and plunge it in torments untold for all the ages if you
will. Only bring _her_ to me--here--let me see her here for one short
half-hour!"
He was hardly conscious of having spoken aloud. It seemed to him but
one among many unuttered wishes; and now, as he looked up, his face
became ashy and his eyes were fixed, staring and dilated, while he stood
rooted to the spot, unable to stir a limb. For not twenty yards off,
alone in this remote spot, in the misty twilight of the darkening
afternoon, stood the figure of a woman. She was leaning lightly upon a
low rock, with one small, shapely hand, gazing out to sea. Her delicate
profile was towards him, but there was a mournfulness in the sweet, sad
face, and the repose of the mouth was that of one who had well-nigh
forgotten how to laugh. A tress or two of soft, dark hair had escaped,
and with this the wind was playing wild havoc. Yet she was heedless of
it and of all around, and stood there calm and undisturbed, like a
beautiful goddess of the wild stormy coast.
His invocation had been answered.
"Olive?"
His voice came harsh and inarticulate. She turned, startled at the
strange sound, though not catching the name, and her face paled. Who
could this intruder be? She was alone with him and at his mercy, and he
looked so wild and queer. She was very frightened, and for a moment all
manner of horrid conjecture flashed through her brain. She felt sickly
and faint. An escaped lunatic, was one of her first thoughts, having
dismissed the tramp theory--and she noticed that he was tall and strong
of build, and well-dressed, withal. And he was approaching her.
"Have you lost your way?" she began gently, striving hard to repress the
apprehensive tremor in her voice.
"Olive! Don't _you_ know me?"
With a low cry she sank down on the rock, and sat gazing wildly at him
with a white, scared face.
"It is _his_ voice--Roland!"
The spell was broken. He was beside her, and his arms were round her
while he poured into her ears passionate words of tender reassurance.
And it would be difficult to determine which of the two was most
startled by the unexpected meeting.
"My love--my love! Why did you leave me all this long time?" she
murmured at last.
Not an intonation of reproach towards himself on her account, only on
his own, as if she had said, "Why did you leave me--your haven of refuge
when the storm came upon you? Why did you leave me, who would have
cleaved to you in adversity--who would have clung to you through evil
report a hundred times closer than through good?"
"Yes--why did I?"
He had removed his glasses, and stood before her his old self--but such
a shadow of it! She was horrified.
"What have you been doing with yourself?" she said. "Have you been
trying to die?"
Then he laughed--a harsh, bitter laugh. It rang back from the cliffs in
weird, mocking echo.
"Oh, no. The Fates are not so kind. Why did I leave you, you say?
Everything was against us. Your father would not listen to me, even
when I had my head above water--how could I expect him to when it was
below, with no prospect of ever rising to the surface again? You,
yourself, would never have acted contrary to his wishes, even if I had
been in a position to urge you to--and for this I should be the last to
blame you, understand that, well. But for me, an utterly ruined man, to
hold you bound to me for life, was just the one thing I could not do."
"Go on."
"Well, we never saw each other again after that informal parting in
Wandsborough street," he went on. "I hoped--I mean I tried to hope--you
would forget me and be happy again. After all, why should you not?
Only three or four short months--a summer dream."
His voice was harsh and grating. At times it seemed that he would
choke.
"A summer dream! My whole life was lived within that summer dream," she
whispered, more to herself than to him. "Roland, you will not leave me
again!"
His haggard eyes devoured the sweet face which was bent down upon his
hands, and he felt that if hell itself opened to receive him its
torments would be rest compared with what he was undergoing at that
moment. The pleading voice, the little hands imprisoning his own as she
leant upon him, giving herself to him as it were in all the rich fulness
of her love--this for which he had hungered and agonised, sleeping and
waking, during the long weary period of his hopeless exile, and which,
now that he had obtained it, he must deliberately forego. In one short
hour, in fact, he would be apart from her, in bitter loneliness once
more. No--there was no hope. His pride was a part of himself.
Penniless and an outcast, how could he keep for himself and wear this
priceless jewel? And now he was something more--he bore a burden that
not all the untold wealth of ages could take from him. And yet at this
moment he felt as if he could imbrue his hands in the most pitiless of
crimes, to obtain the wealth which should save them both.
"My darling, you will not leave me again!"
Not the scud in the dark, lowering sky above--not the wild waves
plunging and careering before the shrieking wind, to hurl themselves
madly upon yonder sharp rocks--not the whirl of air and water and
vaporous cloud, was more storm-tossed and chaotic than the thoughts
which surged through the man's soul, and flashed with well-nigh the
fires of mania in his overwrought brain. His reply came--hoarse and
labouring.
"I must."
The sweet, sad face sank down upon his hands, which her own were
grasping with an almost convulsive clutch, and a shiver like a great
choking sob ran through her. She had found him--the wanderer whom
everybody else had lost sight of. She had found him, as was her right,
for he belonged to her. She had found him--how then could she let him
wander from her again, away into the outer darkness of the cold, wide
world! All too lightly had she valued those days in the by-gone past,
until they had fled, never to return.
O fairest summer, with thy many-hued glories of rich verdure, and
heathery-crimson and golden-tinted hills keeping watch above an azure
sea! O halcyon time, of vows whispered amid the radiance of a passing
glow from Heaven's bright plains, as the westering sun drove his great
amber-wheeled chariot down to his rest, shedding back an ethereal lustre
upon a love-dawn which should lend a hundredfold more of beauty to a
beauteous world--where are you now? Gone. And you--leaden waves,
tossing wildly to the misty wrack above--storm-blast howling o'er the
watery waste--cliffs spectral and grey, throwing back with hollow echo
the surges' tone--to you it is given, in mocking fitness, to behold the
anguish of two breaking hearts, here on the lone seashore!
"It was never intended we should part again," she murmured without
looking up. "Oh! why should you have been brought here to-day? I never
visit this place now, and to-day it must have been something more than
chance that made me do so."
"I don't believe in your Heaven, or why should it delight to torture any
living creature as it is torturing us, here, to-day," broke jerkily from
his set, dry lips. "Listen, Olive--darling, and you will understand why
I must leave you again. I am destitute at this moment, utterly
destitute; one who has gone down beneath the weight of what some might
call a curse--but I don't believe in such things. And above and beside
all this there is--there is--a barrier between us--a barrier of my own
raising, and with its shadow I would never cloud your dear life."
"Oh, Roland. What is it?"
"Ah! If I were to tell you, you would shrink from me, now and for ever.
You would even rush into yonder sea to escape from the horror wherewith
my presence would inspire you. Why, even your love would turn to
repugnance. Yet why should it?--except that the trammelled imagination
of a canting world reads crime into what is no crime at all."
"You are quite wrong. I would do none of all this," she answered
bravely. A horrid suspicion that the rumours she had heard about him
might be true flashed through her mind. What if he had done in a moment
of weak desperation that which nothing but death could undo?
"I had never expected to look upon your dear face again," he went on in
the same tones of heart-wrung misery. "I set out this day to visit for
the last time the scenes we had looked upon together, and to break my
heart over the memories that they would evoke. Then, as I trod these
stones which your feet had trodden, as on holy ground, I invoked the aid
of the demon who rules the universe--offering my life and limitless
future of eternity, if such there be--for one glimpse of you. And I was
answered. I looked up and there you stood. Now I care nothing for what
may happen. I can face it without fear--for my prayer was answered."
Her tears were falling like rain, and for some time she could not
speak--could only cling to him all the firmer.
"You shall not go," she said at length. "You belong to me. A hundred
times more than when all things went well with you. Oh, my darling, do
not leave me. I claim you now, for you belong to me!" she reiterated
passionately.
It may be that to some lives comes a period such as that which these two
had to undergo at this moment; it cannot be that it comes to many. But
even while she spoke, another had claimed them both--ay, and had already
made good his claim. With swift, remorseless subtlety the dark waves
came sweeping in. The King of Terrors was about to exact the fulfilment
of his awful bargain--and to exact it with interest.
"Olive, come. We must go, and go quickly."
She gazed at him in surprise. His tone had changed to one of calmness,
almost indifference, except for a quick anxiety, which her ear detected.
"It will be all we can do to turn the corner over there before the water
is even knee-deep."
She followed his glance, and her face paled slightly. Nearly a mile of
beach lay between them and the jutting headland, whose base even now was
all but hidden by the inflowing tide. As the waves receded, a few yards
of ground were left visible, but the next roller or two swept over it
completely, breaking into angry foam against the rock. Full well she
knew--full well both of them knew--the perilous nature of the coast, for
every year added its quota to the list of victims of the treacherous
tides.
"We shall never do it, Roland."
"We must try. Come along."
He hurried her forward, and, with the aid of his strong right arm, she
had no difficulty in keeping pace with him. But the beach was pebbly
and yielding, and before they had gone a hundred yards the consciousness
broke upon them that the desired point would be ten or twelve feet under
water by the time they should reach it.
"Can't be done. We must give it up," he said anxiously, coming to a
halt. "Our only chance is to try back. The beach is not so narrow on
the Battisford side. We must look sharp, too, or the point behind us
will be covered."
The treacherous waves were creeping up to the promontory he had come
round. To remain where they were was hopeless, for in less than an hour
the whole of the bay would be completely swept by the sea, which would
be breaking against the cliffs many feet higher than their heads as they
then stood.
"Now, Olive! It is our only chance."
Breathless and panting from the pace at which she had come over the
heavy yielding ground, Olive resigned herself with a shiver to be half
dragged, half carried through the belt of milky surf which barred their
passage round the rocky promontory, and it was all her companion could
do to support her and keep his own footing amid the powerful wash and
swirl of the receding waves, for he had been obliged to watch his
opportunity and make a dash through between the inflowing waves, and,
being knee-deep in water, with the pebbly ground beneath his feet,
uncertain and shifting in the treacherous "undertow," the wonder is that
both were not carried away there and then. Yet it was only putting off
the evil hour. Two minutes later and they stood within the next bay.
A quick, despairing ejaculation escaped Roland's lips. He had
miscalculated his distance, and now the strip of beach by which he had
reckoned they would be able to effect their escape was a mass of great
rolling breakers. To retrace their steps was impossible, even were it
of any use. There was no more means of exit from this bay than from the
one they had just left. They had but exchanged one death-trap for
another.
Then they stood still and stole a furtive look at each other, and all
hope died away within their hearts. To the mind of each there came the
same thought. The man's wild prayer and desperate vow had been heard
and answered. The King of Terrors was about to exact the fulfilment of
the awful bargain--and to exact it with interest--and the great, cruel
sea, which alone had witnessed and registered the reckless vow, was now
lending itself and its rage a willing instrument for the pitiless
fulfilment of that vow.