CHAPTER XVIII
EDDY IN LOVE'S CURRENT
The next morning shone bright and clear, if ever a March morningdid. The beguiling month was coming in like a lamb, with whateverstorms it might go raging out. It was long since Philip had tastedthe freshness of the early air on the shore, or in the country, ashis employment at the shop detained him in Monkshaven till theevening. And as he turned down the quays (or staithes) on the northside of the river, towards the shore, and met the fresh sea-breezeblowing right in his face, it was impossible not to feel bright andelastic. With his knapsack slung over his shoulder, he was preparedfor a good stretch towards Hartlepool, whence a coach would take himto Newcastle before night. For seven or eight miles the level sandswere as short and far more agreeable a road than the up and downland-ways. Philip walked on pretty briskly, unconsciously enjoyingthe sunny landscape before him; the crisp curling waves rushingalmost up to his feet, on his right hand, and then swishing backover the fine small pebbles into the great swelling sea. To his leftwere the cliffs rising one behind another, having deep gullies hereand there between, with long green slopes upward from the land, andthen sudden falls of brown and red soil or rock deepening to a yetgreater richness of colour at their base towards the blue oceanbefore him. The loud, monotonous murmur of the advancing andreceding waters lulled him into dreaminess; the sunny look ofeverything tinged his day-dreams with hope. So he trudged merrilyover the first mile or so; not an obstacle to his measured pace onthe hard, level pavement; not a creature to be seen since he hadleft the little gathering of bare-legged urchins dabbling in thesea-pools near Monkshaven. The cares of land were shut out by theglorious barrier of rocks before him. There were some great massesthat had been detached by the action of the weather, and lay halfembedded in the sand, draperied over by the heavy pendentolive-green seaweed. The waves were nearer at this point; theadvancing sea came up with a mighty distant length of roar; here andthere the smooth swell was lashed by the fret against unseen rocksinto white breakers; but otherwise the waves came up from the GermanOcean upon that English shore with a long steady roll that mighthave taken its first impetus far away, in the haunt of thesea-serpent on the coast of 'Norroway over the foam.' The air wassoft as May; right overhead the sky was blue, but it deadened intogray near the sea lines. Flocks of seagulls hovered about the edgeof the waves, slowly rising and turning their white under-plumage toglimmer in the sunlight as Philip approached. The whole scene was sopeaceful, so soothing, that it dispelled the cares and fears (toowell founded in fact) which had weighed down on his heart during thedark hours of the past night.
There was Haytersbank gully opening down its green entrance amongthe warm brown bases of the cliffs. Below, in the shelteredbrushwood, among the last year's withered leaves, some primrosesmight be found. He half thought of gathering Sylvia a posy of them,and rushing up to the farm to make a little farewell peace-offering.But on looking at his watch, he put all thoughts of such an actionout of his head; it was above an hour later than he had supposed,and he must make all haste on to Hartlepool. Just as he wasapproaching this gully, a man came dashing down, and ran out someway upon the sand with the very force of his descent; then he turnedto the left and took the direction of Hartlepool a hundred yards orso in advance of Philip. He never stayed to look round him, but wentswiftly and steadily on his way. By the peculiar lurch in hiswalk--by everything--Philip knew it was the specksioneer, Kinraid.
Now the road up Haytersbank gully led to the farm, and nowhere else.Still any one wishing to descend to the shore might do so by firstgoing up to the Robsons' house, and skirting the walls till theycame to the little slender path down to the shore. But by the farm,by the very house-door they must of necessity pass. Philip slackenedhis pace, keeping under the shadow of the rock. By-and-by Kinraid,walking on the sunlight open sands, turned round and looked long andearnestly towards Haytersbank gully. Hepburn paused when he paused,but as intently as he looked at some object above, so intently didHepburn look at him. No need to ascertain by sight towards whom hislooks, his thoughts were directed. He took off his hat and waved it,touching one part of it as if with particular meaning. When heturned away at last, Hepburn heaved a heavy sigh, and crept yet moreinto the cold dank shadow of the cliffs. Each step was now a heavytask, his sad heart tired and weary. After a while he climbed up afew feet, so as to mingle his form yet more completely with thestones and rocks around. Stumbling over the uneven and often jaggedpoints, slipping on the sea-weed, plunging into little pools ofwater left by the ebbing tide in some natural basins, he yet kepthis eyes fixed as if in fascination on Kinraid, and made his wayalmost alongside of him. But the last hour had pinched Hepburn'sfeatures into something of the wan haggardness they would wear whenhe should first be lying still for ever.
And now the two men were drawing near a creek, about eight milesfrom Monkshaven. The creek was formed by a beck (or small stream)that came flowing down from the moors, and took its way to the seabetween the widening rocks. The melting of the snows and running ofthe flooded water-springs above made this beck in the earlyspring-time both deep and wide. Hepburn knew that here they bothmust take a path leading inland to a narrow foot-bridge about aquarter of a mile up the stream; indeed from this point, owing tothe jutting out of the rocks, the land path was the shortest; andthis way lay by the water-side at an angle right below the cliff towhich Hepburn's steps were leading him. He knew that on this longlevel field path he might easily be seen by any one following; nay,if he followed any one at a short distance, for it was full ofturnings; and he resolved, late as he was, to sit down for a whiletill Kinraid was far enough in advance for him to escape being seen.He came up to the last rock behind which he could be concealed;seven or eight feet above the stream he stood, and looked cautiouslyfor the specksioneer. Up by the rushing stream he looked, then rightbelow.
'It is God's providence,' he murmured. 'It is God's providence.'
He crouched down where he had been standing and covered his facewith his hands. He tried to deafen as well as to blind himself, thathe might neither hear nor see anything of the coming event of whichhe, an inhabitant of Monkshaven at that day, well understood thebetokening signs.
Kinraid had taken the larger angle of the sands before turning uptowards the bridge. He came along now nearing the rocks. By thistime he was sufficiently buoyant to whistle to himself. It steeledPhilip's heart to what was coming to hear his rival whistling, 'Weelmay the keel row,' so soon after parting with Sylvia.
The instant Kinraid turned the corner of the cliff, the ambush wasupon him. Four man-of-war's men sprang on him and strove to pinionhim.
'In the King's name!' cried they, with rough, triumphant jeers.
Their boat was moored not a dozen yards above; they were sent by thetender of a frigate lying off Hartlepool for fresh water. The tenderwas at anchor just beyond the jutting rocks in face.
They knew that fishermen were in the habit of going to and fromtheir nets by the side of the creek; but such a prize as thisactive, strong, and evidently superior sailor, was what they had nothoped for, and their endeavours to secure him were in proportion tothe value of the prize.
Although taken by surprise, and attacked by so many, Kinraid did notlose his wits. He wrenched himself free, crying out loud:
'Avast, I'm a protected whaler. I claim my protection. I've mypapers to show, I'm bonded specksioneer to the _Urania_ whaler,Donkin captain, North Shields port.'
As a protected whaler, the press-gang had, by the 17th section ofAct 26 Geo. III. no legal right to seize him, unless he had failedto return to his ship by the 10th March following the date of hisbond. But of what use were the papers he hastily dragged out of hisbreast; of what use were laws in those days of slow intercourse withsuch as were powerful enough to protect, and in the time of popularpanic against a French invasion?
'D--n your protection,' cried the leader of the press-gang; 'comeand serve his Majesty, that's better than catching whales.'
'Is it though?' said the specksion
eer, with a motion of his hand,which the swift-eyed sailor opposed to him saw and interpretedrightly.
'Thou wilt, wilt thou? Close with him, Jack; and ware the cutlass.'
In a minute his cutlass was forced from him, and it became ahand-to-hand struggle, of which, from the difference in numbers, itwas not difficult to foretell the result. Yet Kinraid made desperateefforts to free himself; he wasted no breath in words, but fought,as the men said, 'like a very devil.'
Hepburn heard loud pants of breath, great thuds, the dull struggleof limbs on the sand, the growling curses of those who thought tohave managed their affair more easily; the sudden cry of some onewounded, not Kinraid he knew, Kinraid would have borne any pain insilence at such a moment; another wrestling, swearing, infuriatedstrife, and then a strange silence. Hepburn sickened at the heart;was then his rival dead? had he left this bright world? lost hislife--his love? For an instant Hepburn felt guilty of his death; hesaid to himself he had never wished him dead, and yet in thestruggle he had kept aloof, and now it might be too late for ever.Philip could not bear the suspense; he looked stealthily round thecorner of the rock behind which he had been hidden, and saw thatthey had overpowered Kinraid, and, too exhausted to speak, werebinding him hand and foot to carry him to their boat.
Kinraid lay as still as any hedgehog: he rolled when they pushedhim; he suffered himself to be dragged without any resistance, anymotion; the strong colour brought into his face while fighting wasgone now, his countenance was livid pale; his lips were tightly heldtogether, as if it cost him more effort to be passive, wooden, andstiff in their hands than it had done to fight and struggle with allhis might. His eyes seemed the only part about him that showedcognizance of what was going on. They were watchful, vivid, fierceas those of a wild cat brought to bay, seeking in its desperatequickened brain for some mode of escape not yet visible, and in allprobability never to become visible to the hopeless creature in itssupreme agony.
Without a motion of his head, he was perceiving and taking ineverything while he lay bound at the bottom of the boat. A sailorsat by his side, who had been hurt by a blow from him. The man heldhis head in his hand, moaning; but every now and then he revengedhimself by a kick at the prostrate specksioneer, till even hiscomrades stopped their cursing and swearing at their prisoner forthe trouble he had given them, to cry shame on their comrade. ButKinraid never spoke, nor shrank from the outstretched foot.
One of his captors, with the successful insolence of victory,ventured to jeer him on the supposed reason for his vehement andhopeless resistance.
He might have said yet more insolent things; the kicks might havehit harder; Kinraid did not hear or heed. His soul was beatingitself against the bars of inflexible circumstance; reviewing in oneterrible instant of time what had been, what might have been, whatwas. Yet while these thoughts thus stabbed him, he was stillmechanically looking out for chances. He moved his head a little, soas to turn towards Haytersbank, where Sylvia must be quickly, ifsadly, going about her simple daily work; and then his quick eyecaught Hepburn's face, blanched with excitement rather than fear,watching eagerly from behind the rock, where he had sat breathlessduring the affray and the impressment of his rival.
'Come here, lad!' shouted the specksioneer as soon as he saw Philip,heaving and writhing his body the while with so much vigour that thesailors started away from the work they were engaged in about theboat, and held him down once more, as if afraid he should break thestrong rope that held him like withes of green flax. But the boundman had no such notion in his head. His mighty wish was to callHepburn near that he might send some message by him to Sylvia. 'Comehere, Hepburn,' he cried again, falling back this time so weak andexhausted that the man-of-war's men became sympathetic.
'Come down, peeping Tom, and don't be afeared,' they called out.
'I'm not afeared,' said Philip; 'I'm no sailor for yo' t' impressme: nor have yo' any right to take that fellow; he's a Greenlandspecksioneer, under protection, as I know and can testify.'
'Yo' and yo'r testify go hang. Make haste, man and hear what thisgem'man, as was in a dirty blubbery whale-ship, and is now in hisMajesty's service, has got to say. I dare say, Jack,' went on thespeaker, 'it's some message to his sweetheart, asking her to comefor to serve on board ship along with he, like Billy Taylor's youngwoman.'
Philip was coming towards them slowly, not from want of activity,but because he was undecided what he should be called upon to do orto say by the man whom he hated and dreaded, yet whom just now hecould not help admiring.
Kinraid groaned with impatience at seeing one, free to move withquick decision, so slow and dilatory.
'Come on then,' cried the sailors, 'or we'll take you too on board,and run you up and down the main-mast a few times. Nothing like lifeaboard ship for quickening a land-lubber.'
'Yo'd better take him and leave me,' said Kinraid, grimly. 'I'vebeen taught my lesson; and seemingly he has his yet to learn.'
'His Majesty isn't a schoolmaster to need scholars; but a jolly goodcaptain to need men,' replied the leader of the gang, eyeing Philipnevertheless, and questioning within himself how far, with only twoother available men, they durst venture on his capture as well asthe specksioneer's. It might be done, he thought, even though therewas this powerful captive aboard, and the boat to manage too; but,running his eye over Philip's figure, he decided that the tallstooping fellow was never cut out for a sailor, and that he shouldget small thanks if he captured him, to pay him for the possiblerisk of losing the other. Or else the mere fact of being a landsmanwas of as little consequence to the press-gang, as the protectingpapers which Kinraid had vainly showed.
'Yon fellow wouldn't have been worth his grog this many a day, andbe d--d to you,' said he, catching Hepburn by the shoulder, andgiving him a push. Philip stumbled over something in this, hisforced run. He looked down; his foot had caught in Kinraid's hat,which had dropped off in the previous struggle. In the band thatwent round the low crown, a ribbon was knotted; a piece of that sameribbon which Philip had chosen out, with such tender hope, to giveto Sylvia for the Corneys' party on new year's eve. He knew everydelicate thread that made up the briar-rose pattern; and a spasm ofhatred towards Kinraid contracted his heart. He had been almostrelenting into pity for the man captured before his eyes; now heabhorred him.
Kinraid did not speak for a minute or two. The sailors, who hadbegun to take him into favour, were all agog with curiosity to hearthe message to his sweetheart, which they believed he was going tosend. Hepburn's perceptions, quickened with his vehement agitationof soul, were aware of this feeling of theirs; and it increased hisrage against Kinraid, who had exposed the idea of Sylvia to be thesubject of ribald whispers. But the specksioneer cared little whatothers said or thought about the maiden, whom he yet saw before hisclosed eyelids as she stood watching him, from the Haytersbankgully, waving her hands, her handkerchief, all in one passionatefarewell.
'What do yo' want wi' me?' asked Hepburn at last in a gloomy tone.If he could have helped it, he would have kept silence till Kinraidspoke first; but he could no longer endure the sailors' nudges, andwinks, and jests among themselves.
'Tell Sylvia,' said Kinraid----
'There's a smart name for a sweetheart,' exclaimed one of the men;but Kinraid went straight on,--
'What yo've seen; how I've been pressed by this cursed gang.'
'Civil words, messmate, if you please. Sylvia can't abide cursingand swearing, I'm sure. We're gentlemen serving his Majesty on boardthe _Alcestis_, and this proper young fellow shall be helped on tomore honour and glory than he'd ever get bobbing for whales. TellSylvia this, with my love; Jack Carter's love, if she's anxiousabout my name.'
One of the sailors laughed at this rude humour; another bade Carterhold his stupid tongue. Philip hated him in his heart. Kinraidhardly heard him. He was growing faint with the heavy blows he hadreceived, the stunning fall he had met with, and the reaction fromhis dogged self-control at first.
Philip did not speak nor move.
/> 'Tell her,' continued Kinraid, rousing himself for another effort,'what yo've seen. Tell her I'll come back to her. Bid her not forgetthe great oath we took together this morning; she's as much my wifeas if we'd gone to church;--I'll come back and marry her aforelong.'
Philip said something inarticulately.
'Hurra!' cried Carter, 'and I'll be best man. Tell her, too thatI'll have an eye on her sweetheart, and keep him from running afterother girls.'
'Yo'll have yo'r hands full, then,' muttered Philip, his passionboiling over at the thought of having been chosen out from among allmen to convey such a message as Kinraid's to Sylvia.
'Make an end of yo'r d--d yarns, and be off,' said the man who hadbeen hurt by Kinraid, and who had sate apart and silent till now.
Philip turned away; Kinraid raised himself and cried after him,--
'Hepburn, Hepburn! tell her---' what he added Philip could not hear,for the words were lost before they reached him in the outward noiseof the regular splash of the oars and the rush of the wind down thegully, with which mingled the closer sound that filled his ears ofhis own hurrying blood surging up into his brain. He was consciousthat he had said something in reply to Kinraid's adjuration that hewould deliver his message to Sylvia, at the very time when Carterhad stung him into fresh anger by the allusion to the possibility ofthe specksioneer's 'running after other girls,' for, for an instant,Hepburn had been touched by the contrast of circumstances. Kinraidan hour or two ago,--Kinraid a banished man; for in those days, animpressed sailor might linger out years on some foreign station, farfrom those he loved, who all this time remained ignorant of hiscruel fate.
But Hepburn began to wonder what he himself had said--how much of apromise he had made to deliver those last passionate words ofKinraid's. He could not recollect how much, how little he had said;he knew he had spoken hoarsely and low almost at the same time asCarter had uttered his loud joke. But he doubted if Kinraid hadcaught his words.
And then the dread Inner Creature, who lurks in each of our hearts,arose and said, 'It is as well: a promise given is a fetter to thegiver. But a promise is not given when it has not been received.'
At a sudden impulse, he turned again towards the shore when he hadcrossed the bridge, and almost ran towards the verge of the land.Then he threw himself down on the soft fine turf that grew on themargin of the cliffs overhanging the sea, and commanding an extentof view towards the north. His face supported by his hands, helooked down upon the blue rippling ocean, flashing here and there,into the sunlight in long, glittering lines. The boat was still inthe distance, making her swift silent way with long regular boundsto the tender that lay in the offing.
Hepburn felt insecure, as in a nightmare dream, so long as the boatdid not reach her immediate destination. His contracted eyes couldsee four minute figures rowing with ceaseless motion, and a fifthsate at the helm. But he knew there was a sixth, unseen, lying,bound and helpless, at the bottom of the boat; and his fancy keptexpecting this man to start up and break his bonds, and overcome allthe others, and return to the shore free and triumphant.
It was by no fault of Hepburn's that the boat sped well away; thatshe was now alongside the tender, dancing on the waves; now emptiedof her crew; now hoisted up to her place. No fault of his! and yetit took him some time before he could reason himself into the beliefthat his mad, feverish wishes not an hour before--his wild prayer tobe rid of his rival, as he himself had scrambled onward over therocks alongside of Kinraid's path on the sands--had not compelledthe event.
'Anyhow,' thought he, as he rose up, 'my prayer is granted. God bethanked!'
Once more he looked out towards the ship. She had spread herbeautiful great sails, and was standing out to sea in the glitteringpath of the descending sun.
He saw that he had been delayed on his road, and had lingered long.He shook his stiffened limbs, shouldered his knapsack, and preparedto walk on to Hartlepool as swiftly as he could.