“Oh, no one remembers poor WillWho stuck by hish mate at the mill.”
“Oh, no one remembers poor WillWho stuck by hish mate at the mill.”
“Oh, no one remembers poor WillWho stuck by hish mate at the mill.”
Dick laughed and took it up, and the crew, glad to find him so easily recovered, joined in eagerly and they filed off down the road singing in chorus:
“He ground up more bonesThan barley or stones,And more than old Rowley could kill.More bones, more bones,More bones, more bones,More bones than old Rowley could kill.”
“He ground up more bonesThan barley or stones,And more than old Rowley could kill.More bones, more bones,More bones, more bones,More bones than old Rowley could kill.”
“He ground up more bonesThan barley or stones,And more than old Rowley could kill.More bones, more bones,More bones, more bones,More bones than old Rowley could kill.”
“Ah, well!” said Joe, rising to his feet, as the last man reeled drunkenly out of the doorway. “I reckon I’ll be getting down to look to my boat.”
The others laughed; it was well known that the smugglers would commandeer any rowing-boat that might come their way to take them to the brig, and like as not would set it adrift to be carried out to sea.
“I’ll go with ye, lad,” said Granger, and they went out together.
Most of the others followed, leaving only French, Red, and Cip de Musset sitting with Gilbot round the fire.
Anny and Sue stood by the door talking together, their backs to the Spaniard, while Hal went on cleaning pewter.
Dick swaggered over to French.
“Master French,” he said softly, his beautiful voice very even and clear, “hadst thou not better go down to the brig and see to thy goods?”
French looked up, puzzled.
“Goods?” he said wonderingly, and then added as he met the Spaniard’s steady gaze, “Oh! ah! maybe I had, maybe I had,” and got up hastily.
Red caught hold of his hand.
“Take me,” he whispered.
French looked down at him and laughed as he stroked his honey-coloured beard.
“Come on, then, young ’un,” he said kindly.
Red whooped joyfully, and the big man and the little boy went to the door together.
Sue slipped her arm into French’s as he passed her.
“I’ll come a little way with ye, Ezekiel,” she murmured.
French put his arm about her and they went out.
Cip de Musset then rose to his feet.
“Are you coming, Captain?” he said, as he picked up his stick.
Anny caught her breath as she edged round behind the empty table.
Dick smiled sardonically.
“I shall follow,” he said.
Cip looked about him, and then smiled knowingly, and putting on his hat, went over to the door and out into the dark.
Black’erchief Dick waited until he had gone and then turned and faced Anny, who was watching him, fascinated. She felt that the time had come at last when she must shake him off for ever or else go with him.
She had not heard from Nan since Red had taken her message, and she remembered the old woman’s promise as the one gleam of hope on her horizon, and every moment she expected to see her hobble into the kitchen, but it was getting late, and Nan had not come.
Dick walked over to the table behind which she stood and seated himself upon it without speaking.
The desperate light crept into the girl’s eyes again and she began to laugh. At least she must keep him in as good a temper as possible. She realized that. So, dropping a curtsey, she came a little nearer and leaning over the table she asked him would he drink again. To her surprise he answered her very pleasantly that he would, and ordered rum.
Hal, who was still cleaning pewter, looked up from his work, and watched the little scene with a growing sense of despair.
To know that his love was lost to him was bitter enough, he told himself, but to see her happy in theSpaniard’s company, to see her hang upon the Spaniard’s words, and wait for his smile, was too much; he turned away quickly.
When Anny came back with the rum, Dick caught her wrist and held her firm with one hand while he raised the tankard to his lips with the other.
“Why are you not ready to come with me?” he whispered as he set down the empty rumkin.
Anny began to laugh again.
“Lord! how you talk, Captain!” she said, trying to pull her arm from out his grasp.
The Spaniard’s grip tightened, and his smile grew more grim.
“Ann, this is not the time to jest,” he said, his voice growing softer and more musical at every word. “The brig waits us.”
Anny noticed that his voice was gentle, and began to giggle again.
“Well, Master Dick, let it wait,” she said, tossing her head. “It can wait till Doomsday before you’ll see me aboard,” and she broke into a little nervous laugh.
To her surprise Dick joined in with her, and his long, low laugh echoed through the kitchen.
Hal looked up quickly and then turned away as though the sight had stung him, while Gilbot, thinking that it was a signal for general joyfulness, began to sing again:
“Pretty Poll, she loved a sailor,And well she loved he——”
“Pretty Poll, she loved a sailor,And well she loved he——”
“Pretty Poll, she loved a sailor,And well she loved he——”
“Peace, damn you, peace,” roared Dick, suddenly gripping Anny’s arm so hard that she cried out.
Gilbot sat spellbound. Never had any one so spoken to him in his life before, and he was about to reply, but one look at the furious face of the little Spaniard calmed him and he subsided, muttering:
“No offensh, no offensh.”
This outburst had surprised Anny quite as much as Gilbot, and she looked at Dick with new fear. If only Nan would come, she thought, if only Nan would come!
At this moment the door opened and she turned eagerly, her eyes alight with hope, but it was Sue who came in softly and sat down quietly by the fireside opposite her uncle.
Dick turned his head without letting Anny go, and called for more rum.
Hal brought it, without looking at either of them, and set it on the table.
The Spaniard drained it at a gulp.
“So you will not come with me, my beautiful one?” he said, still smiling, and leaning across the table toward the girl.
Anny looked at him and her spirits rose; he was only playing with her, after all, she thought, as she saw his dark eyes smiling at her.
Yet she wished that Nan would come, although she was still vague in her mind as to what she expected the old woman to do when she did come.
“Nay, sir,” she said, smiling, “not this time.”
The Spaniard laughed again.
“Not this time, my Ann? Not this time?” he questioned in an almost threatening note, which crept into his laughing tone.
“Here, boy, more rum,” he called over his shoulder.
Hal brought the liquor; the Spaniard drew his knife from his belt and held it up by the blade so that the flickering light fell on its jewelled hilt.
“’Tis a fair blade,” he said admiringly.
“Ay, it is,” agreed Anny, as she took the rum from Hal, who nearly cried out as he saw her bright, eager face lifted to the foreigner’s.
Dick took the tankard and drained it; then he began to smile again and to twist the knife through and about his fingers with that peculiar, smooth movement his crew knew so well.
The girl watched him for a second and then looked up at the clock. Why had not Nan come, she wondered?
“’Tis late, Captain, you will miss the tide an you do not hasten,” she said.
Dick’s eyelids dropped a little lower over his dark eyes, but his knife slipped through his fingers with a faster motion than before. Yet still he smiled, and when he spoke Anny thought that she had never heard so beautiful a voice.
“Ah! señora, I would not leave the Island without that jewel which is mine by right,” he said softly.
“Oh! I had forgot,” said Anny, feeling in her apron pocket, “here is the ring, sir, I had it ready for you,” and she drew out a little muslin packet, and unfolding it disclosed the flowered ring which he had given her. She held it out to him.
Sue, who had been watching them, gasped at the sight of such a jewel, and looked at Anny wonderingly.
The girl was over-lucky, she thought.
Dick took the ring and slipped it over the blade of his knife; it slid up to the hilt and there stuck, a band of gold and gems round the blue steel.
“You give it back to me?” he said, half to himself. “You give it back to me? No other woman has done so much,” he added suddenly, looking at her with that peculiar smile playing round his lips. Then his voice dropped, and he said as though he had just realized something: “But to no other woman have I given so much,” and he laughed again, unpleasantly and yet so musically—while the knife fairly sped through his slim, delicate fingers.
Anny began to feel fairly sure of herself. Why should she wait for Nan to defy him, she thought? Here he was, laughing and playing; surely there would be no danger in telling him the truth.
She leaned a little nearer to him and said very softly so that none of the others could hear:
“I would you would go, sir; you have your ring; what else remains?”
The knife paused for a moment in its unending circle round the thin white hand, the dark lids flickered, and the thin twisted smile vanished, but only for a second; then the soft voice said smoothly:
“One thing, Ann, my Ann of the Island, one thing remains that must come with me; that is my wife.”
Anny began to laugh again nervously, but conquering herself she said sharply:
“Pest on ye, sir, will ye never stop teasing a poor girl’s life out? I tell you, I hate you, sir.”
Dick laughed softly, and there was a new note in his voice which no one could mistake, and Anny drew back a little.
“You said so once before, sweet Ann,” he said, “and I did not believe you then, as I do not now.”
Anny felt strangely irritated by his attitude, and bending still closer to him, said in a sharp half-whisper:
“Oh! but, sir, you should; a man who woos unloved is a foolish sight in my eyes.”
Dick slipped his arm round her waist and held her fast; he was beginning to realize that he had at last come up against a will which would not bend before his own, and a wave of uncontrollable anger surged over him; his smile almost vanished for a moment and the knife quivered in his hand.
Anny took his silence as a sign that her words were prevailing with him and determined to play her last card.
“I love another one,” she said softly, drawing away from him as she spoke.
A ripple of laughter burst from the Spaniard’s lips and he held her closer to him.
Hal looked up at the sound with a fierce light inhis eyes; he made a step forward, but drew back again almost immediately.
“The lass likes it,” he thought mournfully. “The lass likes it.”
Yet he could not keep his eyes off the two.
Anny pointed to the knife, which was hanging before her, and looked into the dark smiling face so near her own.
“Put by thy knife, sir,” she said pettishly. “It fears me.”
Once again Dick laughed.
“Nay, ’tis a beautiful thing,” he said, holding it in the palm of his hand, the point toward her. “Think you not so?”
The girl shrank away and he bent toward her. “You said you loved another, mistress,” he said suddenly, fiercely. “Is it truth?”
Anny smiled at him fearlessly.
“Ay, sir, truth!” she said quietly.
The Spaniard’s smile returned, and the blue knife with the gold band on it seemed suddenly to have become part of his hand as with a deft movement he laid the bright steel against the girl’s bosom.
Hal and Sue leaned forward to see this new foolery of the Captain’s, each thinking that his love-making was a little too open to be decent.
“Oh! my sweet one, how fair my blade looks against thy white breast,” said Dick, his eyes holding Anny’s. “You gave me back my ring, but I am generous; see, I give it back to you.” With the lastwords the knife seemed suddenly to quicken and spring from his hand, and Anny staggered back from the table, her hand clasped to her breast.
“Oh! how you hurt me, sir,” she said simply, the smile still on her lips and her cheeks still bright with the excitement of a moment before. Then her eyes closed and she dropped on to the floor, the little thud her body made on the stone flags echoing all round the kitchen like a thunder-clap, and the knife Black’erchief Dick held was red blood up to the hilt.
He looked at it dazedly, a horrified expression on his usually inscrutable face.
“Dead!” he said hoarsely, his voice sounding old and strained in the intense silence. “She is sure to be dead; we have never struck twice, but,” his voice sank to a whisper, “at last we have struck too soon.”
He passed his hand over his forehead and gazed fixedly in front of him; some of the blood which had spurted off the knife on to his hand now smeared his forehead. Save for this, his face was ashy pale—then with slow, deliberate steps he walked to the door, opened it, and went out.
For a second the kitchen was in perfect silence, and then a scream as high and despairing as a woman’s rang out loud and clear in the suddenly cold room, and Hal Grame his boyish face distorted with rage and horror, flung himself across the kitchen and out after the Spaniard.
The night was an exceedingly dark one, and Nan Swayle stumbled once or twice over the loose stones in her path as she strode over the rough track which ran from her shanty to the Ship.
Many strange thoughts came to her as she passed on through the darkness, her tall, gaunt figure straining against the wind and her ragged garments flying like streamers out behind her.
The bitter memory of her last encounter with Pet Salt still rankled with her, and the thought of Anny’s enforced marriage to the Spaniard made her hate the other old woman more deeply than before. She had sworn to Anny that she would prevent her sailing with Dick, and it was to fulfil this promise that she was striding through the night.
To prevent Dick from carrying off Anny!
Nan had thought over her self-allotted task very carefully, and to her there seemed but one way to accomplish it. She had decided to take that way. And as she hastened on, her thin brown fingers gripped her long staff fiercely and from time to time she stopped to feel the heavy round stone which was bound to the top of it, making a once-harmless walking-stick a formidable weapon.
On she went, her head held high, and her sharp eyes fixed ahead as if she were seeking to pierce the blackness which closed in all around her.
“They do not sail till eleven,” she muttered, “and she would not go at once. I shall be in time to catch them as they come out of the yard. Ay,that is it, as they come out of the yard; it is dark there,” and, mumbling to herself, she clambered through a gap in the hedge and stumbled out into the Ship lane.
She had now a very little way to go, and her grip on her staff tightened as she hurried on.
A sharp bend in the road brought her in sight of the Ship. She could see the lights from the kitchen gleaming through the trees. She pressed on for a few more yards and then stopped suddenly and, holding her breath, stood rigid for a second, listening.
There was silence everywhere and the old woman shifted uneasily.
“No noise?” she muttered. “No noise? What has come to the Ship on sailing night that all should be so still?”
Keeping her eyes fixed on the lighted window, she hastened on to the yard gates. There she paused again. The Ship was silent as before, and then, as she stood there watching, the door opened and a slim figure stood silhouetted against the bright background for a second and then staggered out toward her.
Without further thought Nan strode forward, her staff upraised.
Hardly had she moved, however, when Hal’s terrible scream rang out through the open doorway.
The old woman sprang forward, a faint inkling of what had happened flashing through her mind.
Dick did not see her until she was almost on topof him. He came across the yard dazed and horrified, conscious of one thing only—that in a fit of rage he had killed the one woman he had ever loved.
The knife, still sticky and uncleaned, hung from his fingers, and the light from the window fell upon it as Nan came up to him.
When he saw her dark form and shining eyes rising up before him out of the darkness, he started back, bringing his hands up before his face.
Nan seized her opportunity and without a thought of the possible consequences dropped her staff and darting forward wrenched the knife out of his nerveless grasp and plunged at his throat.
Nan was a strong woman, and the knife, glancing on the Spaniard’s collar-bone, turned and slipped down into his neck, cutting the jugular vein.
A choking exclamation, “Doña Maria,” fell from his lips, a rush of blood stifled all other words, and he dropped on the dry stones as dead as the girl he had left in the Ship’s kitchen.
Nan heard them and laughed bitterly.
“Maria!” she muttered. “You may well call on her. Here, this is thine; take that with thee to hell, you slithering coward,” and bending down she slipped the twice-stained knife into the slim white fingers.
Then she straightened her back and looking up, became aware of Hal Grame’s tall figure standing not two feet away, his eyes fixed upon her.
They stood quite still for several seconds, neitherspeaking, and then Gilbot hurried out of the door. The shock had sobered him for once in his life.
Seeing Hal, he broke out excitedly:
“Have you seen him, lad? Have you caught him? Where is the ruffian?”
Still Hal did not speak, but catching the old man by the arm he pointed silently to the still figure at their feet; the stream of light from the open doorway fell across the Spaniard’s face and the white hand which held the knife.
Gilbot bent down for a moment, and when he looked up his face was even paler than the boy’s.
“Who?—— What—what happened?” he whispered.
Hal looked silently at Nan.
The old woman faced him without flinching.
“As I come up the road, I see him come out o’ the door waving his arms, and then suddenly drop like a sack; when I come up to him he was like this,” she said. “He killed hisself, I reckon,” she added carelessly.
Old Gilbot looked down at the huddled form.
“Twas just what I feared when I come to the door,” he muttered. “Lord! what things men do because o’ wenches—and in my house, too! What’s to happen now?”
TEN minutes later, Joe Pullen, who stood on the beach watching theAnny’sred lantern swing to and fro in the sharp breeze, was startled by the sudden appearance of Hal at his elbow. The boy’s face showed livid in the faint light, and his eyes seemed to have turned dead and dull like those of a corpse. When he spoke, his voice was strangely high and uncontrolled.
“Where’s Blueneck?” he said nervously, clutching the other man’s arm.
Joe jerked his thumb over his shoulder to where a little group of men could just be distinguished in the darkness.
Hal gasped with relief and turned to go to them, still keeping his hold on Joe’s arm.
The elder man suffered himself to be dragged after the boy without a murmur. He saw that something had happened but, until Hal volunteered the information, he was not the one to enquire for it.
Hal pushed unceremoniously through the little crowd, still pulling Joe behind him.
“Master Blueneck, will ye come up to the Ship at once?” he said, tapping the Spanish sailor on theshoulder and speaking in a whisper. Something in his tone caused the man to back away from his fellows, and step aside with the boy, and after a few muttered words of conversation the three set off up the lane at a brisk run.
A few seconds later they turned into the Ship yard; the door was still open, and a bright light shone from within the kitchen while all around was dark and very silent.
Running all round the paved yard, which was long and very narrow, was a wider one of beaten earth, and, as the three men turned into the gate, they could just make out the form of a tall woman standing well on their left. She was digging.
Old Gilbot met them in the doorway; he was very excited but quite sober.
On seeing Blueneck, he seized him by the arm and dragged him into the room.
Joe and Hal followed slowly.
Inside the kitchen everything seemed dead and quiet; the atmosphere was cold and damp and smelt of stale rum; the fire had died down to a few smouldering embers, and the steady ticking of the clock was the only sound.
Sue crouched in a corner shivering, her eyes wild with horror, and her teeth chattering. The two long tables had been dragged together, and on this rough bier Dick and Anny lay side by side, the knife between them.
There had not been time to wash the tables even,had any one desired to do so, and the two lay among the dregs and sloppings of the night’s drinking.
Blueneck walked across the kitchen and stood looking down at the bodies without uncovering.
Gilbot followed nervously.
“What are you going to do?” he whispered anxiously.
The sailor said nothing for a moment or two but continued to stare down at the limp, blood-stained figure whose white fingers held the thin red knife.
Gilbot stood trembling behind him, a picture of a wild crowd of captainless seamen sacking his inn rising up in his mind.
A strange light began to break over the Spanish sailor’s face, and he stroked his ill-shaven chin thoughtfully.
“Do?” he said slowly.
Gilbot swallowed painfully, his fat, podgy knees shaking under him and his little reddened eyes shifting uneasily.
“He killed hisself,” he muttered.
Blueneck bent over the table for a second and with his finger and thumb lifted one of the dark eyelids. He appeared satisfied, and straightening his back looked at the two critically.
“I knew it wasn’t no usual affair with him,” he said almost complacently. Then he turned to Gilbot. “She was a pretty wench,” he said, nodding at the little, white, still smiling face on the table.
Gilbot did not speak, and the man went on: “Inever thought he’d do for himself, though,” he muttered, “but it’s his stroke right enough, see”—he dragged the lace ruffles from the small gushing wound, “right over the collar-bone and down to the neck—he was a wonder with that knife of his; there wasn’t another man in the country who could try that stroke on himself and hit so clean.”
Gilbot nodded.
“Ay, he was a wonderful little fellow,” he said, “though I never took much notice of him. But what are you going to do, sir?”
Blueneck faced the three men steadily, a smile breaking out on his lips.
“Put to sea!” he said deliberately. “The men are a mangy lot, God knows, but if they’d sail under him they’ll sail under me, and be glad of the change.”
He paused, and Gilbot heaved a sigh of relief, and Blueneck, seeing that his decision was approved of, added: “And if ever I come near this accursed, God-forsaken island again the devil scuttle my brig and carry off my canvas,” and so saying he turned on his heel and strode to the door. “Good-night, good people,” he said, turning on the threshold.
Hal stepped forward and took the little knife from out the fingers that were still warm.
“Will you take this?” he said, holding it out to the sailor. “It served him well and may you.”
Blueneck drew back.
“Nay!” he said hastily, “I’ll have none of it, and, mark my words, lad, you put it down; the thingis evil. The man there was harmless enough without it, but together, by God, they were devils. Put it down. Fare you well, my masters,” he added, and went out.
They heard his footsteps die away down the road before any one spoke; then Gilbot wiped his beaded forehead and turned to the two friends.
“You must get them out of here; get them buried,” he said jerkily, pointing to the table. “Sink them in the mud,” he added, an idea coming to him.
Hal sprang suddenly forward, a light in his dulled eyes and his mouth half open—but his words died on his lips, for at that moment Nan Swayle, spade in hand, appeared in the open doorway.
“It is done,” she said, her big booming voice sounding strangely hollow in the silent room. “Susan, are you ready? Come help me.”
The frightened girl crept out of her corner and went toward the table; the old woman followed.
Gilbot put his hand on her arm.
“What are you doing, woman?” he said.
“Burying my gran’daughter,” replied Nan laconically.
“Not in my land,” said the old man quickly. “I’ll have no graves in my land.”
Mother Swayle turned and looked at him steadily.
“The lass shall be buried in good Island earth, near the only home she ever had,” she said determinedly, “and the grave is dug, and, thy land or no, Master Gilbot, there she shall lie.”
The man hesitated for a moment, but little by little his wavering eyes dropped before Nan’s bright ones, and shrugging his shoulders he drew back to let her pass.
Hal, who had stood motionless watching them, now stepped forward.
“I—I’ll carry her for you, Mother,” he said without looking up.
Nan stared contemptuously at him for a moment, her bright eyes growing suddenly hard.
“Had you carried her off ere now all had been well,” she said abruptly.
The boy winced, and something like a sob escaped him, but he turned and faced the old woman dry-eyed.
“May I take her?” he said again.
Nan made a gesture of impatience.
“Ay, take her, take her, boy, take her,” she said bitterly. “None of your carelessness can hurt her now.”
Joe, who had been watching the whole proceedings, now came forward and caught the old woman’s sleeve, and drew her away, then whispered:
“The lad is wonderful over-wrought, witch; leave taunting him.”
Nan looked at him fiercely, but she drew back, and the boy, stepping past her, picked up the light cold form of his love and, holding her in his arms, her blood-stained corsage pressed against his breast and her pretty head with its long black plaits lollingheavily on his shoulder, carried her quickly out of the room.
Sue began to cry softly, and Nan stood leaning on her spade and looking down into the fast whitening embers in the open grate.
In two or three minutes Hal came back; he was very pale and there was blood upon his hands and clothes. “I have left her to you, Mother,” he said rather unsteadily as he stood in the doorway looking across at the old woman.
Nan turned from the fire without a word, and beckoning to Sue, who followed her, still weeping, she went out and shut the door behind her.
Gilbot looked after her.
“’Tis a wonderful strange woman she is,” he said thoughtfully, “talking about granddaughters and such like, and her never having had a child.”
He shook his head and then turned to the table. “We must get him out of here,” he said, suddenly growing nervous again, as he looked at the dead Spaniard.
“Here, Hal, Joe, take him down to the mud. It will do the old place no good if folk get to know he’s lying here,” and he began to drag the limp mass on to the floor.
Joe looked up at the clock.
“Half-past twelve,” he said thoughtfully. “’Twill be full dawn at five.”
Then he turned to Hal.
“In four hours I’ll risk going out with him, lad,” he said. “Will you wait till then?”
Hal nodded.
Gilbot looked up.
“I had forgot,” he said. “I had forgot; it is a long time since I went out on the mud—ah, well! Hal, bring me some rum.”
The sky was a pale gray in which two or three late stars still shone faintly, and there was a sharp twang of frost in the air, when two men, carrying the body of a third between them, four great weights slung over their shoulders, stumbled out of the old Ship’s kitchen, leaving behind them a girl asleep by the empty grate and an old man lying drunk upstairs.
As they came out into the yard they both turned instinctively to a patch of newly disturbed earth on their right from the side of which rose a dark figure, who glided off into the grayness beyond.
The shorter of the two men spoke gruffly.
“The witch was fond enough of the lass,” he said. “I wonder she didn’t do more to save her.”
The other answered him bitterly:
“It wasn’t her place, Joe. ’Twas mine. And I did naught. God knows I—I thought she loved him,” he added, giving the slim little figure whose shoulders he held a violent shake.
Pullen shook his head, and a drop of pure sentiment crept into his bright blue eyes.
“’Tis a wonderful pity,” he said slowly, “a wonderful pity—poor little lass—and him, too—he must have loved her, or he’d never have killed hisself.”
The memory of Nan’s upstretched arm and fierce blow came clearly to Hal, and he opened his mouth to speak, but thought better of it, and they trudged on in silence.
The mud looked very black, cold, and sinister when they at last reached the shore; the tide was well out, and the sea seemed a full mile the other side of the soft greenish belt.
Joe dropped the Spaniard’s feet and stood staring in front of him for a moment; then he stooped down and lifted them again.
“It’s a bit farther up,” he said shortly, and they went on.
Presently he stopped again.
“Here we are,” he remarked, as he sat down on the shingle, and, taking off his back a pair of boards specially cut for the purpose, he proceeded to tie them on to his feet.
Hal did the like, and the two set out over the black, evil-smelling ooze.
The boards prevented them from sinking more than a few inches at each step, but it was not easy going, for the limp body of the Spaniard, although not heavy, was yet not light.
The two slipped often, sometimes almost falling.
After some fifteen minutes of this Joe paused.
“This’ll do,” he said, nodding to a circular patch of smooth grayish mud which lay just in front of them.
Hal looked at it and at the white face of the Spaniard; then he shuddered.
“It’s horrible,” he said.
Joe grunted.
“Give us them weights, lad,” he demanded, holding out his hand.
Hal slung them over.
Hastily, and with perfect calmness, Joe tied them to the Spaniard’s feet. He had to bend nearly double to do this, as to kneel with the boards on was impossible, and he straightened his back with some relief on finishing.
“That’s enough; now in with him,” he said briskly, wiping his hands on his jersey. Then his eyes fell on the silver buttons on the black velvet coat and the rings on the white hands, and he pulled out his knife.
“’Twould be a pity to leave him these,” he said practically, bending down again.
“Let be, Joe Pullen,” Hal’s voice rang out clear over the wind-swept flats. “We’ll have naught of his. Let the devil keep his own.” He drew from his belt the thin two-edged knife, now brown and clotted with dry blood, round which was still the flower-ring, and threw it into the centre of the gray circle. It sank almost immediately.
Pullen watched him.
“Ay, maybe the knife, but not the buttons; there’s no evil in them.”
Hal shook his head.
“Nay,” he said determinedly, “evil in everything he touched, everything he owned—sink it deep, Joe, sink it deep.”
Pullen sighed and shrugged his shoulders.
“Maybe you’re right, lad,” he said, “maybe you’re right,” and added cheerfully, “and I don’t know who’d buy them, anyway. Come, then, heave him in.”
Hal bent down and together they lifted the once so gallant little figure, still clad in all its bravery, and dropped it gently into the gray patch; the weights hit the mud first and sank quickly out of sight, dragging the silk-stockinged feet with them; the ooze clicked and chuckled to itself as it sucked down its prey. Farther and farther in sank the body of the great little captain, who twelve hours before was so gay, so sure of himself, so debonair.
The dawn breeze came stealing across the sea, and a sea-gull screamed lazily near by, while a faint yellow light began to glow over the mainland the other side of the bay. Now the mud had reached the Spaniard’s breast; his head, still bound with his famous black kerchief, had fallen forward and his limp arms lay loosely on the soft slime.
Joe looked at him critically.
“I wonder now has he struck the hard?” he said thoughtfully, and leaning forward he put his foot on the black-coated shoulder and pushed vigorously. The mud sucked noisily and the body vanished rapidly. Now only the head and one arm werevisible. Now the head was gone. The dark eyes, the terrible crooked smile, the white flashing teeth—the cold silent mud had them all. Now only a hand was left; it lay for a second on the gray background, white and shapely, and then it, too, vanished, leaving the gray circle as quiet and untroubled as before.
Joe turned away.
“Come,” he said slowly, “it’s all over now.”
Hal looked up.
“Ay,” he said, and his voice was heavy and toneless. “It is all over—Joe, all over in one night. Come.”
And they toiled, slipped, and struggled back to their homes again.
The yellow light over the mainland grew brighter and brighter, turned to gold, and then to crimson, and the sun rose once more over an Island as quiet and peaceful as if the Spaniard and his love had never been.
ONE evening two or three years later, Big French and Sue, his wife, their young daughter, and little Red Farran, whom they had taken to live with them, sat round the fire in the Ship kitchen.
Gilbot was dead. It was said in the village that he had died singing “Pretty Poll,” and he had left the old Inn to Hal Grame, who proved himself a very able landlord. He had grown very taciturn, however, since the affair of the Spaniard and the girl, which had by this time been almost forgotten by the easy-going Islanders, and he had taken to tobacco, with which Fen de Witt was well able to supply him at a cheap rate, and he sat now in a haze of smoke on the opposite side of the fireplace to French, his pipe in his mouth and his head thrown back as though in earnest contemplation of the rafters.
Joe sat at his elbow drinking ale; they two were as friendly as ever, but Pullen had been known to aver that no word of Anny or the Spaniard had been exchanged between them since that cold September morning long ago when black mud had swallowed the last trace of the affair.
It was late and all the other company had gone; the dips were beginning to die out one by one, andtall shadows began to creep over the oak-beamed ceiling and dark, rum-fumed walls.
Presently French rose to his feet.
“Ah, well,” he said, “I reckon we’ll go home, Sue. Good rest to you, Hal.”
The landlord nodded.
“Same to you, Master French, and you, too, mistress,” he said, without taking his pipe out of his mouth.
Sue smiled and picked up her baby who was crawling on the long seat beside her.
“Good-night, Hal,” she said, and then added, looking round the room affectionately: “It’s almost like the old days to be all here together again.”
“All?” murmured Hal bitterly.
Sue did not hear him but went on gaily.
“Yet I would not change,” she said. “These days are happier, I with my man and my little one.”
Hal winced, and French, who was watching, put an arm affectionately round his wife’s shoulders.
“Come, lass, we stay too long a-talking,” he said, gently drawing her to him.
Sue looked up at him, a smile on her lips. She was very proud of her handsome husband, and they went out together, little Red following, his hand clutching French’s big coat skirts.
After they had gone there was silence in the room for a second or two, while Pullen helped himself to more ale from a pitcher at his elbow.
Hal stared into the blazing fire.
“Like the old days?” he said at last, half to himself. “Like the old days? My God!”
Joe put down his tankard and wiped his lips.
“I reckon I’ll be going home to Amy—damn her,” he said, getting up.
Hal looked up, frowning.
“Must ye so, mate?” he said wistfully.
“No, no, er—no, lad, no need,” and Joe sat down again and re-filled his pot.
The silence continued.
Suddenly Hal rose and, standing on tiptoe, reached down one of the old cups on the high mantel shelf, and emptied its contents into his hand.
Joe heard the clink of coins and looked up.
His friend was leaning against the chimney-piece, his face half hidden, and in his hand which he held open before him were two little coins.
Presently the younger man turned away from the fire and held out his hand to Pullen.
“Do you remember these, mate?” he said rather abruptly.
Joe looked at the money curiously.
“Groats?” he said. “Well, now, I can’t say as I do, but——” He broke off suddenly. “That day we’d bin after fish?” he enquired.
Hal nodded.
Joe looked at him in astonishment.
“Why, lad, you don’t go thinking o’ that now, surely?” he said.
Hal clinked the coins together and looked roundthe kitchen ruefully. “I couldn’t give her aught then—but now—if only——” His voice trailed off and ceased.
Joe shifted uneasily in his seat.
“Don’t think on it, lad, don’t think on it,” he advised.
Hal laughed bitterly.
“You know not what you say, Joe Pullen,” he said, “I must think on it. ’Tis all I have to think on,” and he puffed at his pipe almost fiercely.
Joe did not speak, and after a while the other went on again; he spoke jerkily, and his voice was very low:
“Sometimes I think I see her come in crying and him after her. That’s when I try to forget, but it’s no use, I can’t; she loved him, I reckon; I can’t forget that.”
Joe cleared his throat noisily.
“Why trouble yourself, lad?” he muttered. “She’s gone and he with her, and you’re here——”
“More’s the pity,” interrupted the other. “I have naught to make me want to stay.”
Joe leaned back and crossed his legs.
“Oh! I don’t know,” he said, “there’s the Ship; she’s your love—after—after Anny.”
Hal looked up quickly.
“The Ship?” he repeated slowly. “The Ship my love after Anny? Ay, maybe you’re right, mate, maybe you’re right; I had forgot her—ay, the Ship.” A slow smile spread over his face and he forgot to smoke.
“My love after Anny,” he kept repeating softly. “My love after Anny.”
And after Joe had gone home he sat long, looking into the fire, the slow smile still on his lips, but later still, when his eyes fell again on the two groats, he picked them up tenderly and put them back in the cracked cup upon the mantel-shelf, and then after carefully bolting the door he took his candle and went up to bed.
On their way home Big French and Sue had to pass Nan Swayle’s cabin, and, as they came toward it, Red noticed the red baleful eyes of Ben, the old tom-cat, peering at them from behind the shed.
“Nan’s at home,” he said, hugging French’s hand. “And Ben’s bin whip’t.”
The big man looked across at the lonely shanty.
“God be wi’ ye, Nan,” he shouted; his voice resounded over the silent marshes and echoed round about the hut, but there was no reply.
French went nearer and knocked at the door.
“Are ye well, Nan?” he called.
Nan’s big booming voice replied, and her usual greetings rang out through the door:
“Ay, God be wi’ ye, good swine.”
French laughed and they went on, and as they crossed the dark saltings to their home they heard her hail, expressing approval and friendliness, following them over the flats, loud, then soft, and finally trailing off into a long-drawn-out wail:
“Rum, rum, rum—m—m.”