The Gentian Hill parson matched the service. No one could have called Parson Ash a spiritual looking man. He was short and fat, with a round, pink, and exceedingly shrewd face, twinkling black boot-button eyes and a rollicking laugh and smile. He rode to hounds with a verve astonishing in a man nearer seventy than sixty, and was a good shot. He was a bachelor, and as the younger son of an aristocratic family, who had put him into the church because they did not know what else to do with him, was well off. He was hospitable, kept an excellent table and a good cellar. He could carry his drink well, and tell a good story. He performed his duty, as he saw it, excellently, never forgetting a christening, wedding, or funeral, and getting through the ceremony in record time. He saw to it that his church was clean, his churchyard tidy, his clerk and choir punctual. He himself was always well-dressed in well-brushed clerical black with white bands, an old-fashioned white cauliflower wig, and a jaunty black shovel hat. He did not personally visit the sick, for fear of infection, nor the bereaved because grief depressed him, but he sent them soup and port wine by the hand of his house-keeper, and if he caught little boys thieving, he beat them good and hard. The village was proud of him and liked him. He minded his own business, let them mind theirs, and never preached a long sermon.
In fact, he never really preached a sermon at all, he read it out of a useful little book containing a couple of short homilies for each Sunday in the year, with Christmas thrown in extra, and read it so fast that no one could hear a word. Not that anyone wanted to. The sermon gave them a chance of a nap after the musical exertions that had preceded it. Parson Ash had no objection to his congregation going to Sleep-he’d have done the same in their place-in fact, he always obligingly woke up his clerk, Job Stanberry, himself, leaning over the edge of the pulpit and slapping him on his bald nodding head with the book of sermons.
The last hymn before the sermon ended with a crash, the blowers and sawers of bugle, trombone, clarionet, trumpet, flute, fiddle, and bass viol expending their last ounce of breath and strength upon the final deafening chord, and everyone sank back exhausted, yet smiling with a sense of duty done. job Stanberry, the clerk, folded his arms and closed his eyes, and Parson Ash in the pulpit cleared his throat, adjusted his spectacles, and with his book held close to his nose, began to read rapidly. Dr. Crane was thankful to doze off but Zachary, in spite of only a few hours sleep, was wakeful, his hitherto muddled mind suddenly most miraculously clear. He lifted his straw-filled hassock to the seat and sat on it, and thus elevated he could look over the top of the Crane pew to the Weekaborough pew across the aisle. He could just see the top of Father Sprigg’s bald head, and Mother Sprigg’s gray bonnet, but nothing at all of Stella. But he could picture her sitting there between them, her small feet side by side on the hassock, her mittened hands folded inside her muff, her pointed elfin face very serious inside the white-frilled green bonnet. What was she thinking about? The yew tree or Bowerly Hill, perhaps, its darkness lit by the small red lamps of its berries, as his rage last night had been lit by those queer gleams of triumph.
That rage had been the first real rage of his gentle life, and he realized now that it had been against malignant power that he had flung it, the evil thing that pursued men so ruthlessly through their mortal days, striking at them with whatever weapon came to hand, with pestilence, famine, or storm, sparing "neither rich nor poor, old nor young." Last night he had fought that malignancy in the person of the storm, in defense of those men broken on the rocks and drowned in the sea, but now it was personified for him by that vast army assembled across the channel, sons of the men of the Terror who had murdered his father and his mother. He had said that he did not hate the French, and he did not, for their blood was in his veins and he was not capable of hatred, but at this moment the rage that was still in him was spending itself against the power of that army, even as it had dashed itself against the power of the storm last night; and this time it was not a ship’s crew of men unknown to him who were in danger, but Stella.
"In defense of everything that is dear to you .... " It was there that the triumph lay, in the fact of love. That company of men on the beach last night, of whom he had been one, had loved their human kind enough to risk their lives to save them, even as the monks of Torre had done in that first ship-wreck, and the girl in the doctor’s story. And he loved Stella enough to go back to the hell he had left to try to keep her safe. It would probably not be of the slightest use. He was not such a fool as to think that the return of one midshipman to his duty was going to hold back that vast army. Over and over again, the dark power submerged the small lit lamps of love. Yet in a flash of vision he saw them, as each was submerged, lighting another, and knew that while one still shone total darkness, the ultimate triumph of malignancy, would not descend.
"Voluntarily to come forward." He knew now how one managed it. Enduring unwillingly on board that vile ship he had been broken. Acceptance at the mill had somehow brought him to the doctor. What had Hamlet said? "The readiness is all." He hoisted himself off the hassock, which was most uncomfortable, settled himself in the corner of the pew, and went to sleep.
3
The two young officers whom the doctor had brought back from the wreck slept until the aroma of three o’clock Sunday dinner penetrated their slumbers, when they arose starving, donned the uniforms that Tom Pearse had dried and pressed for them, and descended precipitately to the dining parlor. They were in the resilient state of very young and very healthy men whose spirits leap only the higher for having been somewhat dashed. And they found themselves very much alive after having been very nearly dead, and confronting in the dining parlor the most varied and appetizing meal they had seen for weeks.
Tom had made a rabbit pie and roasted a round of beef.He had borrowed a succulent ham from the Parson’s house-keeper, and pigs’ trotters in brawn from the Church House Inn. He knew, of course, that in the houses of the aristocracy, men of quality never sat down to a dinner of less than fourteen meat dishes, or a supper of less than seven, but on this occasion four was all he could manage at such short notice. But he had cooked innumerable vegetables, made a superb syllabub, and polished the dishful of rosy apples from the Weekaborough orchard. He had also brought up port and claret from the cellar, and burgling the key of the doctor’s medicine cupboard from his pocket while he slept, had laid hands upon the smuggled French brandy, which he had always suspected to be just where it was-between the chamomile and the castor oil, and labeled "Linseed Tea." He had lighted all the candles he could find and waited himself at table with a face so red and beaming that it quite outshone them all.
Conversation was not fluent at first, they were all too busy eating, but over the apples and wine it flourished exceedingly. Tom Pearse, who should have withdrawn at this point in the proceedings, remained where he was, all ears behind the doctor’s chair, throwing in an eager word now and again. The two young men were both keen seamen, one of them the son of a Post Captain and the grandson of an Admiral, and were delighted to find the doctor and Tom of their fraternity, and talk of naval affairs was eager and informed.
Only Zachary was silent, but the doctor noticed that there was no strain about his silence. He sat listening to the talk as though he liked it, sitting easily and gracefully, his long fingers slowly and lovingly peeling one of the apples from Stella’s beloved Duke of Marlborough. His dark eyes shone in the candlelight, and suddenly he smiled delightedly. It was when the talk had turned to Admiral Nelson, and one of the young men had spoken of the Admiral’s belief in his "radiant orb." No one knew exactly what he meant by it, but it seemed that in some hour of dereliction and despair in his youth some sort of star had seemed to rise in his darkness, beckoning him on to glory in the service of his country. That was the sort of thing that appealed to Zachary, and several times after that he looked up and smiled at the young men with an easy comradeship that delighted the doctor. It had grieved him that during the past weeks "his son" had seemed to shrink from contact with me
n of his own rank, almost as though he felt himself branded in some way. The painful shrinking had vanished now, and that fugitive air of distinction that was always his had deepened for the moment into the peaceful yet challenging distinction of men whose ease has been won by the discipline of strife. There was something about him tonight that could not be silenced by his silence, and it caught the attention of the two young men, especially one of them, the Post Captain’s son, Rupert Hounslow. They turned to him more and more frequently, as though charmed by his smile, anxious to make him talk to them. At last Rupert, not more than five years his senior, spoke to him directly.
"You did a good job` of work last night. I saw you when I was helping to get one of our poor fellows into your boat. You handled your oar as we do in the navy."
"Yes, Sir," said Zachary quietly.
"Are you in the service?"
The doctor’s fingers tensed so suddenly on the delicate stem of his wine glass that it snapped. Mercifully the glass was empty. In the twinkling of an eye Tom had replaced it with another and filled it to the brim. Through the slight confusion of the moment he heard Zachary’s voice replying with equal steadiness, "I used to be in the navy."
"Invalided out?"
"No, Sir. I deserted."
In the pause that followed, the two young men flushed with embarrassment, but the doctor drained his glass as though he drank a toast, and Tom cleared his throat with a loud rasping crescendo as triumphant as a trumpet blast. Zachary let the peel from his apple, unbroken from start to finish, fall delicately upon his plate, wiped his fingers upon his napkin, squared his shoulders, and met Rupert Hounslow’s eyes unflinchingly.
"I would like to go back, Sir. I can take whatever punishment is just and right. But I do not know what I should do to get back. What should I do, Sir?"
Rupert leaned forward, his arms on the table, intent upon the boy. The doctor, looking at his sensible freckled face, liked him. He and Zachary talked now as though they were alone together.
"Was it a bad ship?"
“No, Sir," lied Zachary.
"Then why did you desert?"
A pulse twitched in Zachary’s cheek. "I hated the sea."
"What’s your name? Dr. Crane told me, I think, but I’ve forgotten. Was it Moon?"
"No, Sir. Anthony Louis Mary O’Connell."
Zachary gave it in full, with a childish simplicity, almost as Stella would have done with her emphasis upon the importance of names. The doctor, listening intently, knew that by his steady recitation he was deliberately wringing the neck of Zachary Moon-at what cost only he himself knew.
"I know a Captain O’Connell by reputation. An Irish Catholic. He bears the name of Mary too. Any relation?"
"Yes, Sir. He is my uncle."
"Were you on his ship?"
“Yes, Sir."
"Then you lied when you said it was not a bad ship."
"Could you help me to get back to it, Sir?" was Zachary’s only reply to this.
“No, I couldn’t. But I’ll help you get another ship. I’ve got to get another ship myself. I must catch the next coach to London. Will you come with me?"
Zachary looked at the doctor. His face was set like a mask now, and his eyes that had been bright were suddenly opaque and dull.
"Yes, Anthony," said the doctor. "The mail coach, Mr. Hounslow, leaves the Crown and Anchor at Torquay at ten o’clock on Tuesday morning. That's the day after tomorrow.
You should be in London in twenty-four hours. If you have finished your wine, gentlemen, we will adjourn to the study."
CHAPTER XII
1
Zachary had been brought up to believe that those who do right are happy. He found next morning that this is not necessarily the case. In church, his decision made, a sort of peace had descended upon him, and had carried him through the evening. When they had gone to bed that night, after a discussion on ways and means with the two officers in the study, Dr. Crane had come with Zachary to his room. He had said practically nothing but his immense pride and delight in his son had been so heart-warming that Zachary had gone to bed almost happy and had slept well. But on Monday morning he awoke in the small hours to a cold desperate misery, worse than anything he had known yet, and rolling over and burrowing his head in the pillow, he cursed himself for a damn fool.
He was going back to the life of the sea that he hated, to war and wounds and death, from which he shrank with such loathing and horror, and most of all, he was cutting himself off perhaps forever from a life that he loved, from a father whom he loved, and from Stella who was the other half of himself. And he was doing it himself, by his own act. This lunacy had not been forced upon him, he had deliberately chosen it. He could not now remember the various steps, the chain of reasoning, that had brought him to this crowning disaster, he only knew he was the biggest fool God ever made. Yet throughout that abysmal hour he did not once consider turning back. He had taken one of those steps from which, for a gentleman, there is no turning back .... Tom Pearse banged on his door and he rolled out of bed to wash himself in a basin of cold water, get dressed, have his early and solitary breakfast, and start off in the half-dark for his last day’s work at Weekaborough Farm.
Lifting the latch of the kitchen door, clumping in in his heavy boots into the warm, fire-lit friendliness of the beloved old room, he hoped for the first time that Stella would not be there this morning. In fairness, he must tell Father and Mother Sprigg at once that he was leaving them, but it would be easier for Stella if he could tell her alone. Luck favored him. They were all there finishing their breakfast except Stella, who had run out to have a word with Daniel and the stable cats.
"Mornin’, lad," said Father Sprigg jovially but thickly, one cheek being much distended by a huge mouthful of bread and jam.
"Mornin’, Zachary," chorused Mother Sprigg, Madge, and Sol. They were all fond of him, and their welcome this morning seemed even warmer than usual. Hodge came and leaned his head against his knee, and Zachary steadied himself by a hand on the dog’s warm head. Bluntly he told them what he was going to do tomorrow. There was a moment of stunned astonishment, and then Father Sprigg brought his great hand down with a crash on the table.
"Good for you, lad!" he roared triumphantly, good patriot that he was. "Going for a sailor, is it? That’s the style, lad! That’s the style! Poor old Bony, it’s like to be his death blow."
Madge clapped her hands, her round cheeks flushing a deeper crimson as she tasted already all the delightful emotions of the woman who sends a man, whom she does not really care about as much as she thinks she does, to a war of whose horrors she is completely ignorant. But Mother Sprigg, that born mother, was grave, seeing the anxiety in the boy’s eyes. And as for Sol, his old face went gray and his mouth shook. He knew suddenly that he would not plough again.
When the time came for the spring sowing, there would be no strong young man swinging along beside him, no clear voice singing that chant that alone gave him strength to follow the plough. For the first time the shadow of death fell upon him, and he bowed his head upon his chest. Zachary went to him and stood behind him, gripping his shoulder.
"I’ll be back for the spring sowing, Sol.
“I’ll be back by the spring."
But old Sol shook his head. Then he fumbled in his pockets and took out his bull-roarer. "Take it, lad," he muttered hoarsely. "I’ve had it, man an’ boy, an’ my father afore me I b’lieve, but I’d like ee to have it. It’ll likely cheer ee up in foreign parts."
Zachary hated the bull-roarer almost as much as Stella did. Its uncanny din always made the hair rise on the back of his neck and caused him to look uneasily over his shoulder, but he could not refuse the old man’s gift.
"Thank you, Sol," he said, and pocketed the thing with the gloomiest foreboding.
"Who’s to tell Stella?" asked Mother Sprigg. "lt had best be me."
"I’ll tell her," said Zachary, with such decision that Mother Sprigg had to yield. "I’ll be on Bowerly
Hill at noon. I’ve a load of sea sand to cart to the clover field. Please, Mother Sprigg, will you let her bring my nummet to me there?"
"Ay, lad," said Mother Sprigg gently.
"After that, you’d best get home," said Father Sprigg.
"There’ll be plenty to see to. I’ll miss you on the farm, lad." He looked up. "And remember, boy, when you’re away, that whenever you come back Weekaborough Farm will have a right good welcome for you. Remember that."
Zachary turned on his heel precipitately, his boots making a great clatter on the flagstones, and left the room, banging the door.
"Seems as though he don’t want to fight Bony after all," said Madge wonderingly.
"Hold your vlother, girl," said Mother Sprigg with most unusual irritation.
2
The clover field, on the far slope of Bowerly Hill, had borne such fine crops that it had exhausted itself, and Father Sprigg had decreed a thorough manuring. Zachary spent a blissful day on the shore with Father Sprigg and Stella, filling the panniers of the pack horses, Shem and Ham, with the fine sea sand formed of the fragments of broken shells, and carting it back to the farm. Now, mixed with dung, it stood in a heap in the yard ready to be loaded into the panniers again and carted to Bowerly Hill. Using Shem, the dun colored packhorse, Zachary worked like a fury all the morning, thankful for the hard labor, thankful to Father Sprigg and Sol for their understanding that left him to do it alone, thankful to Mother Sprigg for keeping Stella busy indoors. But hard though he tried to drug himself with work, the familiar sights and sounds and sensations refused to be banished from his consciousness s, they came pressing upon him as though trying to burn themselves into his memory. The sheep white against the green grass. The pricked ears and alert head of beautiful little Shem, toiling uphill so gallantly with his loaded panniers. The cattle with their coats of clear dark red, their fine horns, and deer like faces. The spring of the turf beneath his feet. The feel of Hodge’s rough head against his hand. For a little he fought against his awareness of these things, then he yielded. He might be glad, presently, to remember it all again.