Chris found it a harder task than he had anticipated. "Give a dog a bad
name, and then hang him," says the old saw; and in his case Chris used
to say bitterly to himself that he might as well have been hung out of
his misery.
For Wimble's shop had always been the fertile manure heap from which,
fungus-like, scandals sprung, and their spores were carried away in all
directions, to start into growth again and again in all directions.
Often enough one scandal would grow, flourish, and then seem to die
right away, but that was only the belief of the parties concerned. Just
as they were hugging themselves upon the fact there had been a nine
days' wonder, and it had come to an end, a little round toadstool-like
head would spring up in quite a different direction, and grow, and seed
and spread itself more strongly than ever.
Even minor scandals died hard, if they died at all, in Danmouth; but,
for the most part, they proved evergreen, and lived on long after the
authors had been gathered to their fathers and forgotten.
This being the case with the lesser, it was not likely that one of the
greatest ever known should drop away; and though weeks and months glided
on, the story of the bottle found under the library window of the Fort
was as fresh as ever, and people, after an easy shave, would ask quietly
to see it, to have it taken with great show of secrecy from the drawer
where it reposed, shaken so as to form globules of solution of chloral,
and, if favoured customers, the cork might be removed and the contents
smelt.
Wimble was quite right. That bottle proved to be the finest curiosity
he possessed, and bade fair to become worth quite a hundred pounds to
him, if not more.
As time went on, the ingenious idea occurred to him that it would be
advisable to add to its attractions by giving the contents a perceptible
odour, and this he did by introducing one single drop of patchouli, a
scent not familiar to the lower orders of the little fishing port, and
whose inhalation was thoroughly enjoyed by many a gaping idiot, who
shook his Solon-like head, and said "Hah!" softly and mysteriously,
before handing back the bottle and whispering, "'nuff to kill any man."
The treasure might have had additional piquancy if Chris Lisle had been
tried for murder and hanged; but as he was not, Wimble said he must make
the best of things, and went on profiting by his possession; but as he
felt that his declaration to the widow that night had not advanced his
suit, he spent his spare time watching her house, and wondering how long
it would be ere Chris Lisle realised the fact that, as public opinion
let him exist, it was his duty to live somewhere else.
But Chris was as stubborn as public opinion, and, regardless of
side-long glances, and the fact that he was regularly avoided, he went
on just as of old, apparently living his old life, and waging war upon
the salmon, trout, and fish that visited the mouth of the river; but
they had an easy time.
Claude had left Danmouth, but she made no sign before she went away, and
Chris was too stubbornly proud to make any advance.
"If she believes so ill of me, she may," he used to say to himself. "A
woman who can love like that is not worth a second thought from any
man."
He used to say that often, and tell himself that he could never tire.
He could live it all down, and that some day he would enjoy a keen
revenge on those who had doubted him. He was happy enough, he said, and
the fools might think what they liked so long as they did not molest
him.
The little mob of Danmouth had gone near this though once, when, soon
after the news was spread, they found that no steps were taken to bring
the crime home to the murderer. For Trevithick, though terribly
exercised in spirit about that missing sum of money, felt himself bound
to agree with the Doctor that no steps could be taken, and consequently
Gartram was left in peace beneath the handsome granite obelisk cut from
his own quarry.
So the wrath of those who would have liked to take the law in their own
hands cooled down, and their enmity found its vent in scowls and
avoidance, at which Chris laughed scornfully, or resented with looks as
fierce in public; but there was a hard set of lines growing more marked
about the corners of his mouth and his eyes, and there were times when
he broke down in secret far up the glen, and told himself that life was
not worth living. He would be better dead.
Claude went to recover her strength in the south of France, and Sarah
Woodham was left in charge of the house, about which Reuben Brime sighed
as he mowed the grass, and groaned as he drove in his spade; but Sarah
did not heed, and he too used to think to himself that he might as well
put out his pipe some night by taking a plunge off the end of the pier.
Glyddyr stayed on in the harbour till the day after Claude and Mary
left, when the yacht glided slowly out, and Chris watched it till it
disappeared beyond one of the headlands far away; and then the time
seemed like years as he went on setting public opinion at defiance,
wrestling with it still.
There were those in the place who would have met him on friendly terms,
notably Asher; but Chris met all advances curtly, and went his way.
"They shall not tolerate me," he said bitterly. "I will live in the
full sunshine. Till I do, I can be content with the shade."
There was one, though, whom he encountered from time to time when
wandering listlessly whipping the streams, not very often, but on the
rare occasions when she sought some solitary spot far away out on the
rocky moorland to dream over the past.
The first time they met, Chris's heart hounded, and his eyes flashed as
he was about to speak.
"No," he said, checking himself; "I shall not stoop. The advance shall
come from her."
A month passed, and again on a cold, windy day of winter he was aware of
a dark-looking, thickly-wrapped figure going along the track, and his
heart whispered to him, "You have only to go back a few dozen yards to
speak to her, and hear the news for which, in spite of all you say, you
are hungering."
Chris nearly yielded, but the will was too stubborn yet, and he stood
firm.
Then came a day in spring when the promise of the coming time of beauty
was being given by swelling bud, green arum, and the tender blades of
grass which peeped from among last year's drab dry strands. It had been
a cruel, stormy time for weeks, cruelly stormy, too, in Chris's heart,
for the load was more heavy than ever, and the young man's heart was
very sore.
He was going up the glen near where he had first told Claude of his
love, and the time of year seemed to bring with it hope and a longing
for human intercourse and sympathy; and though he would not own it, he
would have given anything for news of the one who filled his thoughts.
She came upon him suddenly this time, and they were within half-a-dozen
yards of each other before either was aware of the other's presence.
"Ah, Sarah Woodham!" he said; and she stopped short to stand looking at
him, with her fierce dark eyes softening, and the vestige of a smile
about her thin parched lips. "Well," he continued carelessly, though
his heart beat fast, "hadn't you better go on? You'll lose caste if any
one sees you talking to me."
"Mr Lisle," she said reproachfully.
"Well, am I not a murderer?"
"Oh!"
The woman shuddered, and looked at him wildly.
"Mr Lisle! Don't talk like that!"
"Why not?"
"No one worth notice could think such a thing of you."
"Not even your mistress!" he said, with boyish irritability; but only to
feel as if he would have given all he possessed to recall it.
"Don't say cruel things about her, sir. She has suffered deeply."
"Yes, but--"
He checked himself, and though Sarah Woodham remained silent and
waiting, he did not speak.
"What changes and troubles we have seen, sir, since the happy old days
when, quite a boy then, you used to come to the quarry with Miss
Claude."
"Bah! You never seemed to be very happy, Sarah. You were much brighter
and happier before you were married."
The woman glanced at him sharply, and then her eyes grew dreamy and
thoughtful again.
"Woodham was a good, kind husband to me, sir," she said gently.
"Yes; but see what a cold, stern, hard life you lived. He--"
"Hush, sir, please," said the woman gently; "he was a good, true man to
me, and we all misjudge at times."
"Is that meant for a cut at me, Sarah?" said Chris cynically.
"Yes, sir," said the woman naively. "I don't think you ought to be one
to cast a stone--at the dead."
He turned upon her angrily, but she met his sharp look with one so grave
and calm that it disarmed him, and, led on by the fact that he had
hardly spoken to a soul for weeks, he said--
"Few people have such cause to be bitter as I have."
"We all think our fate the hardest, sir."
"Going to preach at me, Sarah?"
"No, sir," she said, with her eyes lighting up, and a pleasant look
softening her face; "I only feel grieved and pained to see the bonnie,
handsome boy, who I always thought would naturally be my dear Miss
Claude's husband, drifting away to wreck like one of the ships we often
see."
"Silence, woman!" cried Chris. "For God's sake don't talk like that!"
"I will not, sir, if you tell me not," said Sarah quietly; "but I think
you deal hard with poor Miss Claude for what she cannot help."
"What?"
"She has tried to do her duty--that I know."
"Yes," he said bitterly; "every one seems to have tried to do his or her
duty by me."
There was a dead silence, during which the woman stood gazing at him
wistfully, and more than once her lips moved, and her hand played
restlessly about her shawl, as if she wanted to lay it upon his arm, and
say something comforting to one who appeared so lonely and cast out.
"Miss Claude is coming home on Friday, sir," she said at last; and she
saw the fervour of hope and joy which beamed from the young man's eyes--
only to be clouded over directly, as he said bitterly--
"Well, she has a right to. What is it to me?"
"Mr Chris!"
"Oh, don't talk to me!" he cried passionately. "The world has all gone
wrong with me, and I am a cursed and bitter man. God knows that I am,
or I could not speak as I do. They'll find out some day that I am not a
murderer and a thief.--I'm losing time, for the fish are rising fast."
She stood looking after him wistfully as he strode along by the river
side, and then walked away with the old dull, agonised look coming back
into her face.
"Poor boy!" she said softly. "Poor boy!"
"Coming back on Friday--coming back on Friday!"
Sarah Woodham's words kept repeating themselves in Chris Lisle's ears as
he walked on up the glen, waving his fishing-rod so that the line hissed
and whistled through the air, and at every repetition of the words his
heart bounded, and the young blood ran dancing through his veins.
"Coming back on Friday!"
It was as if new life were rushing through him; his step grew more
elastic, his eyes brightened, and he leaped from rock to rock, where the
brown water came flashing and foaming down.
"Coming back," he muttered; "coming back."
The past was going to be dead; the clouds were about to rise from about
him, and there was once more going to be something worth living for.
"Bah!" he ejaculated, "I've been a morose, bitter, disappointed fool,
too ready to give up; but that's all past now. She is coming back, and
all this time of misery and despair is at an end."
It seemed to be another man who was hurrying along the margin of the
river, in and out over the mighty water-worn stones, with the water
rushing between, till he was brought up short by the whizzing sound made
by his winch, for the hook had caught in a bush, and his rod was bent
half double.
"I can't fish to-day," he said, turning back, and winding in till he
could give the hook a sharp jerk and snap the gut bottom. "I must go
home and think."
He hurried back, with the feeling growing upon him that all the past
trouble was at an end. For the moment he felt intoxicated with the new
sense of elation which thrilled him, and it was as if all the young hope
and joy which were natural to his age, and had been clouded now, had
suddenly burst forth like so much sunshine. But this was short lived.
As he reached the bridge, a couple of fishermen whom he had known from
boyhood were standing with their backs to the parapet, chatting and
smoking, but as soon as they saw him approach they turned round, leaned
over the side, and began to stare down at the river.
It was like a cold dark mist blown athwart him, but he strode on.
"Fools!" he muttered; and increasing his pace, he began to note more
than ever now that his coming was the signal for people standing at
their doors to go inside, and for the fishermen to turn their backs.
All this had occurred every time he had been out of late, but he had
grown hardened to it, and laughed in his stubborn contempt; but this
day, after the fit of elation he had passed through,--it all looked new,
and he hurried on chilled to the heart; the bright, sunshiny day was
clouded over again, and all was once more hopeless and blank.
So bitter was the feeling of despair which now sunk deep into his
breast, that he shrank from Wimble, who was standing at his door in the
act of saying good-day to a customer, both looking hard at him till he
had entered the cottage.
Volume Three, Chapter XI.