CHAPTERCLIII.THE STOKE FERRYMAN.Tom Gatliffe, as we have already intimated, went direct up to London, after the terrible scene on the cliffs.He made up his mind to cast off the woman who had, in days gone by, held him in bondage.Come what would, he was determined never to have anything further to say to her. But his mind was distraught, and every turn he expected to learn that a body had been picked up off Margate.However, days passed on, and no news received of the ill-fated Alf Purvis; but Tom could not dismiss from his mind the harrowing circumstances connected with the tragedy, and deemed it advisable to keep silent and await patiently the issue. It would be time enough for him to be outspoken when he felt assured that silence would be criminal.The infamous woman—the perpetrator of the act of atrocity which we have recorded—remained for a few days in Margate after the event, then she, like her companion, returned to the metropolis.She was quite calm and self-possessed, and did not appear to have any remorse for the past, or fears for the future.* * * * *On the side of a dark-rolling river, half buried among willows and rushes, stood a small cottage. Suspended before the door was a large bell, the rope of which swung backwards and forwards in the breeze.The road which passed the cottage consisted of two huge ruts, with grass growing in the space between; it ended at the river bank.To this bank were chained two boats—the one a kind of barge adapted for the carrying of vehicles and large burdens; the other one of those small flat-bottomed boats which may be propelled either by oar or pole and which are called punts.It was Stoke Ferry, the most desolate of all spots on the river as it passes on its course to the sea. The cottage was the residence of the ferryman—the bell was rung by those who wished to be ferried over to the other side.Some years previously the house and ferry had been put into the auction-room. An old man whom nobody knew had bought them, and had lived there since that day.He was never seen outside his door, except to ply his calling as a ferryman, and once a month to go to London, where he would always remain a night and return the next day with a face, they said, more pale and stern than before.He had no servant in the house to help him; he did all his washing and cleaning himself; he took his meat from the butcher, his bread from the baker, and his milk from the farmer’s man at the door. He was only known by the name of the Stoke Ferryman.His habitation was well suited to a misanthrope; it was surrounded by barren fields, exposed to cold winds, and in the winter the river would flood his garden, and would beat against his primitive residence, the walls of which were mossy and green from damp.The neighbours looked with astonishment upon this man as a sort of natural curiosity. He remained buried in solitude within sight of men; he dwelt amongst waters, and seemed to live in eternal cold and darkness, for no lights ever shone from his windows—no smoke ever rose from his chimney.When there was a dearth of scandal—it was not often this was the case—but when there was a lull in this respect, the gossips would always fall back upon the Stoke Ferryman.Some said he was a sorcerer, that he had dealings with the Evil One; some that he was a criminal hiding from the eyes of the law; others that he was only an eccentric individual, who was a little crazed in consequence of a great trouble he had met with in early life.When the children in the neighbourhood were troublesome and could not be brought to order by ordinary means, they were told that they would be handed over to the Stoke Ferryman, and this threat invariably had the desired effect.At a little less than a half mile from the ferry stood the habitation and fertile land known as Stoke Ferry Farm, and at about two miles distance or a little more perhaps, was the residence o; Mr. Kensett, the magistrate.It was the hour of twilight. Frogs croaked hoarsely from the damp ditches by the river-side, sometimes an owl flew past with its white ghastly wings and hollow cry.A woman stood before the ferryman’s house. Her face was pale and haggard, her limbs were weary, and her garments were soiled.She stood there for some minutes in a state of trepidation. Presently she seemed to muster up courage, for she seized the rope and rang the bell violently.The cottage door was opened, and an old man with a lantern advanced down the garden path slowly towards the gate.Through the bars of the gate which was secured by a padlock, he examined her face.“Umph,” he murmured, “I suppose you wish to cross over, madam.”“No, I do not. I wish to speak with you,” she answered.“Speak to me! And what might it be upon? Well, I am all attention, proceed.”“I wish to speak to you alone.”The old man extended his thin, horny hand towards the barren, dusty plain, then towards the silent river.“You may speak here safely,” said he, with a grim smile. “We are quite alone, and I do not expect we shall be interrupted by visitors.”“Ah, sir,” she cried, in a tone of anguish, “they say you know more than other men, and if this be so, which I do not for a moment doubt, you may be able to render me a service.”“I do not at present see in what way. What is it you desire?”“To find my son, whom I have been searching in vain for.”The ferryman regarded her for a moment, and then shook his head.“Do not refuse me the assistance I require. If I do not find my poor boy, I shall die. My feet are blistered with walking, my eyes are sore with weeping, and my heart is pining for him I cannot find. Oh, sir, if you have the power to assist me, you will not—you cannot refuse.”She fell upon the damp ground, and prayed with clasped hands to him who looked at her through her gate.“Such are women,” muttered the misanthrope. “When their own resources have failed them, they make one shallow hope an assurance, and appeal to a poor old man as if he were a god.”“It is my last hope,” she moaned.“What is your name?” he asked, absently.“I am called Mrs. Grover,” she returned, “but that is not my real name.”“And what might be your real name, then?”“Purvis.”“Ah, indeed. I have heard it before, I think,” he ejaculated, as he gave a convulsive start, while his eyes glared at her through the iron bars like those of a caged wolf who sniffs blood in the air.There was a pause of several minutes—then he slowly unlocked the gate.“You had better come in,” said he.She entered.He opened the door of his house and bade her follow him.She entered a room which was heated by a clear coal stove, and that was why no smoke ever rose from his chimney. It was lighted by an oil lamp suspended from the ceiling, while huge oaken shutters, and a baize edging to the foot of the door, prevented a gleam of light from penetrating abroad.The walls and floor were hidden by books; a table in the centre was covered with papers, and with instruments of a kind which she had never seen before.He trimmed the lamp, and sat down, leaning his face on his hand. He seemed to be lost in thought, but all this while his eyes were bent upon her—his eyes full of sorrow and compassion.Under other circumstances, the woman would have been frightened, and, as it was, she was not without certain misgivings; she was in the lone habitation of a forlorn and mysterious man.She was surprised at his pensive attitude, and his singular silence, which appeared to her to be almost preternatural.“Ah, sir, you already know my errand,” said she in a beseeching tone. Do not keep me in suspense. If you can do anything in respect to my poor boy, I feel assured you will not deny me the favour I ask.”“If I can. Ah,” murmured the recluse, “does it not strike you as being a little remarkable that you should seek the assistance of a poor old hermit like myself? I have no home, woman—am poor—and, I may say, dispised. How can I serve you?”“I want to find my boy—he who, years ago, was at Stoke Ferry farmhouse.”“From which place he ran away?”“He was turned away. The cruel farmer tied a hare round his neck, and beat him unmercifully. Small wonder is it then that the poor lad left Stoke Ferry farm for good and for all.”“He did not leave it for good—not for any good, as far as he was concerned.”“He was the son of a gentleman, and could ill brook the cruel usage to which he was subjected.”“We will not quarrel about that, Mrs. Grover,” said the ferryman; “it is hardly worth while. Mr. Jamblin was a worthy man—a litte headstrong, perhaps, but he was a good man for all that. Do not speak ill of the dead.”“Oh, I don’t speak ill of Mr. Jamblin. Still, had he been a little more tolerant, the boy would not have been driven to seek his living in the streets; neither would he have associated with lawless characters.”“Isabel Purvis, the thoughtlessness of man, and the bleeding of your own heart, drove you to a crime—you abandoned the child which you, as its mother, ought to have cherished. Is not this so?”“It is—I do not deny it. But I have had a lifelong punishment.”“True, you have repented. You are punished now, but you will be pardoned hereafter, let us hope,” he added, in a lower tone.She shuddered, and felt half afraid of the mysterious man who spoke so calmly, and appeared to be so self-possessed.“You have heard my last observations—have you not?”“Yes,” said she, “and they have sunk deep in my heart. It is quite true. My son has led an evil life—so I have been told.”“Who told you?”“I have heard it from several.”“Name one.”“William Rawton.”“Rawton—Rawton! He’s a gipsy—is he not?”“Yes. Do you know him?”“I have seen him once or twice—that is all. Cannot he give you any information about your son, whom, it would appear, you are now, all of a sudden, so anxious to see?”“It is not so sudden. I have been anxious to see him for a long time past. You forget, sir, that it is only lately I have had reasons for thinking he was my son.”“Ah, true, there is something in that. It’s a pity you had not known it earlier.”“I divine your meaning,” she cried, seizing his hands. “You know he is dead, and do not like to tell me. And yet——”“Yet what?”“He cannot be dead, he is so young.”The ferryman rose, and opened a small cabinet.From this he took a book bound in black, and placed it on the table before him.Now his face became stern, jets of fire seemed to dart from his deep-sunken piercing eyes.Mrs. Grover began to tremble.“In this book,” he muttered, in a hollow voice, “are recorded the vile deeds of a woman who is as nefarious as she is alluring.”Mrs. Grover started to her feet.“What is her name?” said she.“It would not benefit you if I were to tell you,” he answered.“But I can guess. I think I know whom you mean.”“Do you? Please to say then.”“Her name is Stanbridge.”The old man nodded and pored over his book.“Am I right?” she inquired.“Be silent!” he cried, “Have you no wounds in your heart which words will open? Be silent, my friend, and listen to your woes which are kindred to my own.”He opened the book. She shuddered. There were pages of writing, and the letters were all red.“You need not be under any apprehension,” said her companion. “I am not likely to do you or anybody else any harm, although my ways are not altogether like the ways of other men.”He turned to a particular page in the book.“Listen,” said he. Then he read.“Isabel Purvis.—Hiding from the police for the abandonment and attempted murder of her child. Repentant, and desirous of gaining an honest livelihood. The daughter of Satan discovers her—she pretends friendship, worms from her the relation of her crime, threatens to hand her over to justice if she refuses to obey her, and to destroy her.”Mrs. Grover groaned.“Yes, yes!” she ejaculated; “all this is but too true—every word of it. How could it have become known to you?”“That is my business,” said he, turning to another page.“Alfred Purvis runs away from Stoke Ferry Farm, and sells birds’ nests in London. The fiend finds him in a low lodging-house in Westminster, takes him to her den, depraves his mind by slow degrees, teaches him to cheat, places him under a notorious thief, sends Mrs. Grover upon the streets because she, warned by the instincts of a mother’s love——”“I did not know at that time that he was my son,” cried the miserable woman.“Possibly not. Indeed it is certain you did not; but listen. Alfred Purvis was placed under the care of Mr. Jamblin—he ran away to London. In different hands he might have been a credit to his relatives—I say he might—it is not certain—but he might; but under an obstinate agriculturist he became mischievous, and under a fiend——”“Why do you not continue?” exclaimed the woman. “There is more writing on the page. Go on. Pray go on. I can bear it—indeed I can. I am quite calm, as you see.”He closed the book, she sprang towards him with a yell, but his eyes repelled her; it was not because they were stern—it was because they were so sorrowful. She crept back from him.“Tell me, sir, for mercy’s sake—tell me if he is alive or dead. His grandfather, Lyme Kensett, yearns to see him. Already he has saved this unhappy and ill-fated young man from being convicted—now he wishes to make him his heir. Is he alive?”“He is,” said the old ferryman—“he is alive.”“Bless you for telling me this. It has given me new life. I may yet see him. Tell me where he is. Oh, give him to me!”The old man shook his head.“I cannot do that,” he slowly answered. “Shemust do that, I cannot.”“She—Laura Stanbridge?”He bent his head.“Is she in London?”He made the same sign.“Now leave me,” he said.She arose and went to the door and gained the garden beyond. He followed her to the gate. As she opened it he laid his hand upon her shoulder, where it felt like hot steel.And he hissed into her ear—“When the cup is full come to me.”
Tom Gatliffe, as we have already intimated, went direct up to London, after the terrible scene on the cliffs.
He made up his mind to cast off the woman who had, in days gone by, held him in bondage.
Come what would, he was determined never to have anything further to say to her. But his mind was distraught, and every turn he expected to learn that a body had been picked up off Margate.
However, days passed on, and no news received of the ill-fated Alf Purvis; but Tom could not dismiss from his mind the harrowing circumstances connected with the tragedy, and deemed it advisable to keep silent and await patiently the issue. It would be time enough for him to be outspoken when he felt assured that silence would be criminal.
The infamous woman—the perpetrator of the act of atrocity which we have recorded—remained for a few days in Margate after the event, then she, like her companion, returned to the metropolis.
She was quite calm and self-possessed, and did not appear to have any remorse for the past, or fears for the future.
* * * * *
On the side of a dark-rolling river, half buried among willows and rushes, stood a small cottage. Suspended before the door was a large bell, the rope of which swung backwards and forwards in the breeze.
The road which passed the cottage consisted of two huge ruts, with grass growing in the space between; it ended at the river bank.
To this bank were chained two boats—the one a kind of barge adapted for the carrying of vehicles and large burdens; the other one of those small flat-bottomed boats which may be propelled either by oar or pole and which are called punts.
It was Stoke Ferry, the most desolate of all spots on the river as it passes on its course to the sea. The cottage was the residence of the ferryman—the bell was rung by those who wished to be ferried over to the other side.
Some years previously the house and ferry had been put into the auction-room. An old man whom nobody knew had bought them, and had lived there since that day.
He was never seen outside his door, except to ply his calling as a ferryman, and once a month to go to London, where he would always remain a night and return the next day with a face, they said, more pale and stern than before.
He had no servant in the house to help him; he did all his washing and cleaning himself; he took his meat from the butcher, his bread from the baker, and his milk from the farmer’s man at the door. He was only known by the name of the Stoke Ferryman.
His habitation was well suited to a misanthrope; it was surrounded by barren fields, exposed to cold winds, and in the winter the river would flood his garden, and would beat against his primitive residence, the walls of which were mossy and green from damp.
The neighbours looked with astonishment upon this man as a sort of natural curiosity. He remained buried in solitude within sight of men; he dwelt amongst waters, and seemed to live in eternal cold and darkness, for no lights ever shone from his windows—no smoke ever rose from his chimney.
When there was a dearth of scandal—it was not often this was the case—but when there was a lull in this respect, the gossips would always fall back upon the Stoke Ferryman.
Some said he was a sorcerer, that he had dealings with the Evil One; some that he was a criminal hiding from the eyes of the law; others that he was only an eccentric individual, who was a little crazed in consequence of a great trouble he had met with in early life.
When the children in the neighbourhood were troublesome and could not be brought to order by ordinary means, they were told that they would be handed over to the Stoke Ferryman, and this threat invariably had the desired effect.
At a little less than a half mile from the ferry stood the habitation and fertile land known as Stoke Ferry Farm, and at about two miles distance or a little more perhaps, was the residence o; Mr. Kensett, the magistrate.
It was the hour of twilight. Frogs croaked hoarsely from the damp ditches by the river-side, sometimes an owl flew past with its white ghastly wings and hollow cry.
A woman stood before the ferryman’s house. Her face was pale and haggard, her limbs were weary, and her garments were soiled.
She stood there for some minutes in a state of trepidation. Presently she seemed to muster up courage, for she seized the rope and rang the bell violently.
The cottage door was opened, and an old man with a lantern advanced down the garden path slowly towards the gate.
Through the bars of the gate which was secured by a padlock, he examined her face.
“Umph,” he murmured, “I suppose you wish to cross over, madam.”
“No, I do not. I wish to speak with you,” she answered.
“Speak to me! And what might it be upon? Well, I am all attention, proceed.”
“I wish to speak to you alone.”
The old man extended his thin, horny hand towards the barren, dusty plain, then towards the silent river.
“You may speak here safely,” said he, with a grim smile. “We are quite alone, and I do not expect we shall be interrupted by visitors.”
“Ah, sir,” she cried, in a tone of anguish, “they say you know more than other men, and if this be so, which I do not for a moment doubt, you may be able to render me a service.”
“I do not at present see in what way. What is it you desire?”
“To find my son, whom I have been searching in vain for.”
The ferryman regarded her for a moment, and then shook his head.
“Do not refuse me the assistance I require. If I do not find my poor boy, I shall die. My feet are blistered with walking, my eyes are sore with weeping, and my heart is pining for him I cannot find. Oh, sir, if you have the power to assist me, you will not—you cannot refuse.”
She fell upon the damp ground, and prayed with clasped hands to him who looked at her through her gate.
“Such are women,” muttered the misanthrope. “When their own resources have failed them, they make one shallow hope an assurance, and appeal to a poor old man as if he were a god.”
“It is my last hope,” she moaned.
“What is your name?” he asked, absently.
“I am called Mrs. Grover,” she returned, “but that is not my real name.”
“And what might be your real name, then?”
“Purvis.”
“Ah, indeed. I have heard it before, I think,” he ejaculated, as he gave a convulsive start, while his eyes glared at her through the iron bars like those of a caged wolf who sniffs blood in the air.
There was a pause of several minutes—then he slowly unlocked the gate.
“You had better come in,” said he.
She entered.
He opened the door of his house and bade her follow him.
She entered a room which was heated by a clear coal stove, and that was why no smoke ever rose from his chimney. It was lighted by an oil lamp suspended from the ceiling, while huge oaken shutters, and a baize edging to the foot of the door, prevented a gleam of light from penetrating abroad.
The walls and floor were hidden by books; a table in the centre was covered with papers, and with instruments of a kind which she had never seen before.
He trimmed the lamp, and sat down, leaning his face on his hand. He seemed to be lost in thought, but all this while his eyes were bent upon her—his eyes full of sorrow and compassion.
Under other circumstances, the woman would have been frightened, and, as it was, she was not without certain misgivings; she was in the lone habitation of a forlorn and mysterious man.
She was surprised at his pensive attitude, and his singular silence, which appeared to her to be almost preternatural.
“Ah, sir, you already know my errand,” said she in a beseeching tone. Do not keep me in suspense. If you can do anything in respect to my poor boy, I feel assured you will not deny me the favour I ask.”
“If I can. Ah,” murmured the recluse, “does it not strike you as being a little remarkable that you should seek the assistance of a poor old hermit like myself? I have no home, woman—am poor—and, I may say, dispised. How can I serve you?”
“I want to find my boy—he who, years ago, was at Stoke Ferry farmhouse.”
“From which place he ran away?”
“He was turned away. The cruel farmer tied a hare round his neck, and beat him unmercifully. Small wonder is it then that the poor lad left Stoke Ferry farm for good and for all.”
“He did not leave it for good—not for any good, as far as he was concerned.”
“He was the son of a gentleman, and could ill brook the cruel usage to which he was subjected.”
“We will not quarrel about that, Mrs. Grover,” said the ferryman; “it is hardly worth while. Mr. Jamblin was a worthy man—a litte headstrong, perhaps, but he was a good man for all that. Do not speak ill of the dead.”
“Oh, I don’t speak ill of Mr. Jamblin. Still, had he been a little more tolerant, the boy would not have been driven to seek his living in the streets; neither would he have associated with lawless characters.”
“Isabel Purvis, the thoughtlessness of man, and the bleeding of your own heart, drove you to a crime—you abandoned the child which you, as its mother, ought to have cherished. Is not this so?”
“It is—I do not deny it. But I have had a lifelong punishment.”
“True, you have repented. You are punished now, but you will be pardoned hereafter, let us hope,” he added, in a lower tone.
She shuddered, and felt half afraid of the mysterious man who spoke so calmly, and appeared to be so self-possessed.
“You have heard my last observations—have you not?”
“Yes,” said she, “and they have sunk deep in my heart. It is quite true. My son has led an evil life—so I have been told.”
“Who told you?”
“I have heard it from several.”
“Name one.”
“William Rawton.”
“Rawton—Rawton! He’s a gipsy—is he not?”
“Yes. Do you know him?”
“I have seen him once or twice—that is all. Cannot he give you any information about your son, whom, it would appear, you are now, all of a sudden, so anxious to see?”
“It is not so sudden. I have been anxious to see him for a long time past. You forget, sir, that it is only lately I have had reasons for thinking he was my son.”
“Ah, true, there is something in that. It’s a pity you had not known it earlier.”
“I divine your meaning,” she cried, seizing his hands. “You know he is dead, and do not like to tell me. And yet——”
“Yet what?”
“He cannot be dead, he is so young.”
The ferryman rose, and opened a small cabinet.
From this he took a book bound in black, and placed it on the table before him.
Now his face became stern, jets of fire seemed to dart from his deep-sunken piercing eyes.
Mrs. Grover began to tremble.
“In this book,” he muttered, in a hollow voice, “are recorded the vile deeds of a woman who is as nefarious as she is alluring.”
Mrs. Grover started to her feet.
“What is her name?” said she.
“It would not benefit you if I were to tell you,” he answered.
“But I can guess. I think I know whom you mean.”
“Do you? Please to say then.”
“Her name is Stanbridge.”
The old man nodded and pored over his book.
“Am I right?” she inquired.
“Be silent!” he cried, “Have you no wounds in your heart which words will open? Be silent, my friend, and listen to your woes which are kindred to my own.”
He opened the book. She shuddered. There were pages of writing, and the letters were all red.
“You need not be under any apprehension,” said her companion. “I am not likely to do you or anybody else any harm, although my ways are not altogether like the ways of other men.”
He turned to a particular page in the book.
“Listen,” said he. Then he read.
“Isabel Purvis.—Hiding from the police for the abandonment and attempted murder of her child. Repentant, and desirous of gaining an honest livelihood. The daughter of Satan discovers her—she pretends friendship, worms from her the relation of her crime, threatens to hand her over to justice if she refuses to obey her, and to destroy her.”
Mrs. Grover groaned.
“Yes, yes!” she ejaculated; “all this is but too true—every word of it. How could it have become known to you?”
“That is my business,” said he, turning to another page.
“Alfred Purvis runs away from Stoke Ferry Farm, and sells birds’ nests in London. The fiend finds him in a low lodging-house in Westminster, takes him to her den, depraves his mind by slow degrees, teaches him to cheat, places him under a notorious thief, sends Mrs. Grover upon the streets because she, warned by the instincts of a mother’s love——”
“I did not know at that time that he was my son,” cried the miserable woman.
“Possibly not. Indeed it is certain you did not; but listen. Alfred Purvis was placed under the care of Mr. Jamblin—he ran away to London. In different hands he might have been a credit to his relatives—I say he might—it is not certain—but he might; but under an obstinate agriculturist he became mischievous, and under a fiend——”
“Why do you not continue?” exclaimed the woman. “There is more writing on the page. Go on. Pray go on. I can bear it—indeed I can. I am quite calm, as you see.”
He closed the book, she sprang towards him with a yell, but his eyes repelled her; it was not because they were stern—it was because they were so sorrowful. She crept back from him.
“Tell me, sir, for mercy’s sake—tell me if he is alive or dead. His grandfather, Lyme Kensett, yearns to see him. Already he has saved this unhappy and ill-fated young man from being convicted—now he wishes to make him his heir. Is he alive?”
“He is,” said the old ferryman—“he is alive.”
“Bless you for telling me this. It has given me new life. I may yet see him. Tell me where he is. Oh, give him to me!”
The old man shook his head.
“I cannot do that,” he slowly answered. “Shemust do that, I cannot.”
“She—Laura Stanbridge?”
He bent his head.
“Is she in London?”
He made the same sign.
“Now leave me,” he said.
She arose and went to the door and gained the garden beyond. He followed her to the gate. As she opened it he laid his hand upon her shoulder, where it felt like hot steel.
And he hissed into her ear—
“When the cup is full come to me.”