ADAM AND EVE.
Whilethe small party of soldiers were employed in attracting the attention of the inhabitants to the meaningless parade of taking down the offer of reward and replacing it by the announcement of discovery, the larger portion of their company had already entered Uncle Zebedee's house and seized upon Jerrem, their object being to avoid any defence on the part of the neighbors, which Adam, with a view of preventing further search being made in the house, had assured them was certain to take place unless they could find a means of very speedily effecting their purpose. Although little disposed to be influenced by any of his suggestions, the force of this one was greatly strengthened by the necessity of dividing themselves into two parties, one of which must take Adam on, while the other returned to Polperro to seize the prisoner. And this they managed with such promptitude that in less than ten minutes they had entered the house and had dragged out Jerrem, who, half stupefied, was pinioned and marched off before he was sufficiently aroused to thoroughly comprehend or realize his situation.
The tattoo of the drums announced to the men on the quay that the capture was effected, and the party, hurrying off by the Warren, had joined their comrades, already half up Talland lane, before those who had been spectators of one calamity could exchange their evil tidings with those who had witnessed the other.
Yes, Jerrem was gone—led off to disgrace, maybe to death, through the treachery of his shipmate, his comrade, his—all but in blood—brother. What would come next? Ghastly fears crowded in upon all present. Vengeance grew rank, hatred spread out on all sides: the earth thirsted for his blood, and the air was thick with curses showered on his name. Even Joan turned relentless and flung pity from her heart; while old Zebedee, stung to the quick by the odium brought upon his name, disowned Adam for his son and took God to witness that so long as life remained every farthing he possessed should be spent in saving Jerrem.
At early dawn of the next day, Joan, at the instance of her uncle and in company with several trusty friends, set off first for Liskeard, and then, if need be, to get on to Plymouth or to Bodmin, at one of which places Jerrem, they said, was certain to be tried. Bodmin jail and Plymouth clink had both been familiar in days gone by to many who still lived to tell their tales and give their experience, and schemes were already abroad to put the larger boats on wheels, so that, if Bodmin were selected, conveyances might be supplied by which the mass of the people could be transported there and see fair play dealt out to their comrade.
But days went by without Joan coming back, and Eve, who was left behind to look after Uncle Zebedee, had to sit and listen to the terrible outpourings of wrath against his son to which the old man gave vent in the presence of his neighbors, and see the more heartrending desolation of spirit which bowed him to the ground when no strange eye was near to witness his weight of woe.
So entirely had the chain of circumstances overpowered Eve that this climax of disaster seemed to have sealed up the flow of her emotions, and listening to and looking at the tears, exclamations, sighs and groans with which the excitable, sympathetic Cornish folk expressed their anguish and their indignation, she asked herself, "Had all feeling left her? Did she no longer care what happened to herself or anybody around her? Was it nothing to her that her life was, as it were, at an end, her future blighted, her hopes dead, her lover disgraced, reviled, disowned and denounced by his own father and his own family?" Any way,she could find no tears to bewail her sad fate in, no sighs to relieve her burdened heart, no groans to ease her desolate spirit: all was chaos, over which two dark shadows moved—the spectral forms of herself and Adam.
"Uncle, what do you think's become of him? where can he have gone to?" Eve asked one night as, no longer afraid of his neighbors seeing him, the old man tore off the armor under which in their presence he concealed every softer feeling.
"To bottom o' sae, clane gone out o' the warld, I hope, where I wishes I was too," groaned Zebedee. "Awh! to think e'er a boy o' mine should ha' sarved us so!—that he us counted 'bove all other flesh and blood should ha' bin the whiles carryin' 'bout the heart of a fausse Judas in his body!"
"Perhaps he was mad," said Eve, dropping her voice in terror of the suggestion.
"Lord send I could see un ravin'!" cried Zebedee. "Why," he added, his voice breaking under the pictured joy, "I'd thraw mysel' 'pon un and hug un to me close, though he tored out my heart 'pon the spot for 't. Naw, lass, naw," he sighed, "he ain't mad: 'tis the devil has seazed hold on un somehow: that's what's brought un to this."
"Didn't he say nothing that seems now as if he'd told you that night what he meant to do?" urged Eve.
"Naw, nothin'."
"And you didn't say anything to him, did you?"
"Iss, there 'tis: that's what sticks by me and shaws me plain the vengeance that was in un, 'cos I tawld un that us was tryin' to dale double, so as to manage for Jerrem to stale away."
"You didn't tell him about the soldier?" faltered Eve. "No, you couldn't, because you didn't know anything about it yourself, did you?"
"Iss, I did. Jerrem tawld—he allays tawld me everything Jerrem did—and I ups and tells Adam."
An icy grip seized Eve by the heart. "Oh, uncle!" she groaned, "could it be because of that—that he thought about me?"
"What damon's in the maid now?" cried the old man, starting to his feet and standing before her with clenched hands and quivering limbs. "Do 'ee give heed to what 'tis you'm sayin' of? Doan't 'ee knaw that if I thought that 'twas you was the cause of it I'd scat out yer brains on the planchin' where you'm standing to?"
Eve shrank back in terror, while Zebedee, after a minute's pause, his outburst ended, sank down into his former despondent attitude, muttering, "There! there! let be! let be! Awh, I wander what 'tis a keepin' o' Joan so? Things is all bottom side upmost when her's out o' hailin'-distance."
But two days more passed before Joan returned, bringing with her the startling intelligence that, instead of Bodmin or Plymouth, Jerrem was to be tried in London, to which place report said Adam had already been removed. But, though every one thirsted for news, beyond the bare facts Joan had little with which to satisfy them: she had failed in her endeavor to see Jerrem, of whose present whereabouts even no one could speak with certainty; she could learn no positive tidings of Adam, neither had she been able to ascertain any trustworthy account of the betrayal, only that it was in every one's mouth that Adam had done it, and had meant to do it from the first moment he found that the shot fired against his will would bring them all to trouble. Mr. Macey, the lawyer at Fowey, who had always managed Uncle Zebedee's money-business, had said 'twas a terrible job of it, and though he couldn't take it himself he'd see 'twas carried through by somebody sharper at such work than he was; and he'd sent Uncle Zebedee word that not a stone should be left unturned or a guinea unspent while hope was left that Jerrem's life might be saved; but he also sent a solemn warning to him and to all the Lottery's crew to keep quiet and out of sight until 'twas seen whether they meant to carry their vengeance further, or whether Jerrem's life alone would serve to content them.
"Wa-al," sighed Zebedee, who had listened eagerly to the whole of Joan's details and patiently to old Mr. Macey'sfriendly warning, "they'm fair words and kindly spoken, and, so far as they goes, I'll bide by 'em. But hark 'ee here, Joan: if the warst comes to warst, mind this—though they strings me up with un and we swings together, I'll stand yet wance more face to face with Jerrem afore he dies."
"And that you shall," said Joan; "and so will I too, for while in life us cherished un, so while life lasts us 'll never desert un."
"And as for t' other wan," said the stricken old man, his wrinkled face growing pinched and sharp, "may the wound that he's planted in my heart rankle and fester in his own! May he live to know the want o' they he's cast hisself off from, and die a stranger in a furrin land, and be buried where none who knawed un here can point to the grave that holds un!"
"Uncle!" cried Eve, thrusting her fingers into her ears to keep out these terrible words from falling on them—"uncle!" But Joan's upraised hand warned her to keep silent, and turning she saw that a sudden change had fallen upon Zebedee: his features had relaxed, his stretched eyelids were half closed over his glazed eyes, his head drooped low and was sunk down upon his breast.
For some minutes the two girls stood anxiously gazing at him, until Joan, terrified by the ashen pallor which had blanched his usually ruddy cheeks, ventured to speak, and at length succeeded in so far rousing him that he allowed himself to be persuaded to go to bed, and the two girls were left alone.
"You're wanting to run up to your mother's, Joan, ain't you?" said Eve. "I'll sit and watch Uncle Zebedee while you're gone."
"No, never mind for to-night," said Joan wearily.
"Then let me go," said Eve: "'twon't take me any time, and I want a breath of fresh air;" and she rose from her seat as she spoke.
But Joan intercepted. "No, now sit down," she said hurriedly: "there ain't no call for neither to go; 'sides which, 'tis too late. I don't wan't 'ee to go wanderin' 'bout in the dark: you'm too much given to goin' out by yourself. It won't do now: 'tain't safe, you knaw."
Eve stared: "Not safe, Joan? Why not?"
"Well, now, I'd rather you didn't. Sit down now, like a dear."
Eve sat down, but, her curiosity awakened by Joan's agitated, nervous manner, she said, "Joan, what is it? I'm sure you've heard something. Tell me, what makes you say we oughtn't to go out by ourselves, eh?"
Joan hesitated. "I wonder," she said, "whether I'd best tell 'ee or not? It may be nothin' but a passel o' mazed talk, only I wouldn't have a finger o' harm laid 'pon 'ee for warlds."
"Why, what is it, Joan?"
"Well, my dear, you see, I've see'd Jonathan. Through Adam's tellin' he was tooked off too and lodged in Plymouth clink; but findin' they couldn't make un spake a word o' sense, when they carr'd Adam away they left Jonathan bide; and there he is, and there I hopes he'll stay."
"You do? What for?" asked Eve, amazed.
"Why, 'cos o' you, Eve. Iss," she said, answering her look of surprise, "he's for all the world like anybody ravin' mad agen you."
"Against me? But why against me?"
"He will have that you'm the cause of it all," said Joan; "and 't seems now he let out to Adam 'bout the letter that Jerrem writ and he broffed, and then he drove un further mad by a passel o' lies he's somehow got tagged on t' it—that you'd ha' told the sergeant, and through that he dropped a bit o' paper, tellin' of it all, into the rendevoos winder; for, seemin', that was how they got scent o' the Lottery's landin'."
"And Adam believed him?" gasped Eve.
"He must have," sobbed Joan; "and then I reckon somethin' he see'd or heerd that night finished un."
"Oh, Joan!" cried Eve, flinging herself down and burying her head on Joan's lap.
"Iss: don't it seem as if us all musthave some hand in tightenin' the rope that's round that poor sawl's neck?"
"And Adam could believe that I would betray them—would betray him?" and, clasping her hands, Eve looked up as if making an appeal to some unseen presence—"him," she said, "for whom I would have given my life—for whom," she cried, breaking down, "oh, Joan, I would give my life now!"
"Iss, I know you would," said Joan, hugging her close to her. "Why, haven't I called un everything bad before 'ee, o' purpose 'cos I should see 'ee flare up agen me for doin' it? and haven't I blessed 'ee in my heart for stickin' to un through thick and thin? Awh, Eve, my dear, don't 'ee judge me hard for keeping all to Jerrem's side. 'Tain't only love for Jerrem makes me do it, but that Adam sha'n't never be fouled by havin' the stain o' blood restin' 'pon un. If 'twas only for that I'd spend my last breath to save Jerrem from hangin'."
"They think they'll try to hang him?" said Eve in a faltering voice.
"Iss, for certain they'll try; and, though I didn't say so to uncle, all Mr. Macey fears is that wan life won't content 'em, neither."
"Could Adam have known that?" whispered Eve.
"He knawed 'twas death to whoever was took, and a free pardon to whoever told on 'em, or else why didn't he take and knock him on the head hisself? Jonathan says," she added after a minute's pause, "that when he'd told un 'bout you he sprung on un like a tiger and shook un like a rat; and after, when it comed to 'bout the letter, he roared out like a bull belvin', and then fell flat down 'pon his face like one struck for death."
"Oh, why, why did Jerrem send that letter?" moaned Eve, wringing her hands in desperation.
"Iss, why indeed?" said Joan. "Though that could have had nothin' to do with the findin's out, that I can see; for, if 'twas the last word I spoked, I could take an oath to never havin' quitted a word 'bout it to a single livin' sawl; and as to you meetin' the sergeant, why, you never stirred from this, did 'ee?—Let's see: what did us do that day?" she added, trying to recall the past events; while Eve, sensible of having concealed her meeting with Reuben May, averted her face so that Joan might not perceive its terrible pallor.
Over and over again had Eve endeavored to screw up her courage to tell Joan of this meeting, since which one misfortune after another had crowded so thickly upon them as to make each endeavor seem inopportune. For days after the interview she had every now and again been seized with terror lest Reuben should make his appearance, and great was her relief when, as time went on, she began to be released from this anxiety. But no suspicion that he could in any way have been connected with the betrayal had ever entered her mind until now, when, as Joan spoke of her being the supposed betrayer, a sudden dart of terror seemed to strike her. Was it possible? Could she have said anything that Reuben had laid hold of against them? For an instant Eve wrestled with the doubt and tried to crush it, but so vividly did it rise up before her that at any cost she felt it must be set at rest, and seizing Joan's hand she blurted out, "Joan, there's one thing I've never told you of—that the day we expected them all back, after Jerrem's letter had come, I went out for a bit by Talland way, and there, just down before you come to the Warren stile, I met—"
"Not he! No, doan't 'ee tell me you see'd the sergeant!" cried Joan, forcing her hands up to Eve's mouth as if to keep back the words.
"The sergeant? no!" said Eve indignantly; "but the young man I told you of from London—Reuben May."
"Reuben May, Eve? Why, however did he come down 'long this ways? What broffed un here, eh?"
"He was coming to see me," said Eve. "He had come in Capen Triggs's vessel because of something he'd heard about us, and the minute he saw me he began about uncle and Adam, calling them both thieves and robbers, and I can't tell what."
"But that wouldn't make 'ee tell un nothin' 'bout their landin'?" said Joan.
"No: I feel sure I never mentioned that. I told him they were expected home, because I feared he'd want to come that night and see you all; but then we fell to quarrelling again, and parted in such anger that I said I hoped never to see his face again."
"But whatever made 'ee keep it to yourself and never spake of it till now?" said Joan, turning her eyes upon Eve with a look of anxious scrutiny.
"I never meant to keep it from you, Joan," said Eve earnestly; "and only that your mother and Mrs. Climo and the rest were here, I should have told you the minute I got back: then, when they were gone, I said, 'I'll tell her as soon as we come down from the cliff;' but what happened there put everything else out of my head for that night, and since then, though I've had it on my lips to say twenty times, something has always come up to hinder me from speaking."
"I'd a made sure you'd never cast eyes on any man outside the place," said Joan, perplexed by this new opening-out of difficulties.
"I wish now, more than ever, that it had never happened," sighed Eve. "Still, Joan, the more I think of it the more certain I feel that Reuben May had no hand in it, unless it could be that anybody might have watched us together. That's not impossible, although I never met a single soul, coming or going."
Joan made no comment: for a minute she seemed to struggle and debate with her thoughts; then, suddenly looking up, she said, "Eve, you'll have to go back home to wance: it 'ull never do to have 'ee stayin' here now."
"But why, Joan? Has what I have told you made you think ill of me? Don't you believe that I am speaking the truth when I say that what kept me silent were the bitter words that Reuben May spoke? I meant to tell you of it, because I had spoken of him to you before, but I could never have told Adam that one I had counted as my greatest friend had called him a thief over whose head the gallows was dangling;" and at the remembrance of how near those words seemed now to the truth Eve burst into a passion of tears.
"Now, don't 'ee go for to cry like that," exclaimed Joan, dashing away the drops which were blinding her own eyes. "Whatever 'tis, I loves 'ee too well to think harm of 'ee for it; and whether 'twas he or some other man, t' mischief's done now and can't be set straight agen. But, Eve, us mustn't let more harm come to us if we can hinder it; and I tawld 'ee that I didn't like the angry words and the manin' looks o' Jonathan, and he gived two or three twists o' hisself while he was spakin' that made me turn as cold as death, and 't seemed as if I couldn't draw my eyes away from the glarin' roll he was lookin' about un with."
"Oh, I'm not afraid of Jonathan," said Eve, trying to brave down the tremor of nervous fear which was creeping through her—"a poor half-witted creature, who says one thing this minute and forgets all about it the next."
"Awh, my dear, don't 'ee sneer at Jonathan," said Joan reprovingly: "he's a bitter foe, I'll warn 'ee. And when," she added, dropping her voice to a whisper, "he talks of maidens who loves to stand gazin' 'pon the sea growin' dizzy and fallin' in, and o' folks bein' 'ticed fro' their homes and never comin' back 'longs agen, 'tis time to steer clear of un, Eve, for there's devilry in his words and mischief broodin' in his mind."
"Why, Joan," gasped Eve, "surely he wouldn't—you don't think he'd murder me?" and as the words came trembling out her very lips turned white with horror.
"I wouldn't like to lave 'ee in his way," faltered Joan.
"But he'd be afraid, wouldn't he?"
"Wa-al, if so be he could get free to tell his story there's no knawin' what might come of it. I had to dale double with un as it was, and manage so that neither wan but me got in to see un; and 'fore he gets set free altogether, Eve, you must put miles atween you and they who, when they'd listened to his story, would awnly be too quick to shut their eyes to what they wasn't axed to take part in."
"Of course, in that case," said Eve,"'tis best I should go back by myself again to London."
And as the words came slowly dragging forth, the narrow street, the obscured sky, the stifling air weighed down upon her, and crushed her with a sense of gloom unknown before when her thirst for freedom was but a want unsatisfied. Her whole being revolted against the cruel exchange: her nature cried out in protest, but in vain.
The more they discussed the point the more convinced they both became that there was no other possible alternative; and the money for her journey being supplied by Uncle Zebedee, under pretence of accompanying Jochabed Giles in one of her stolen visits to Plymouth Eve set off late one afternoon, intending to rest by the way, and get on the next day to Plymouth, whence she would take coach to London.
There was to be no leavetaking, for no one must know that she was going away. So, with only a nod of good-bye to Uncle Zebedee and a moment's desperate clinging to Joan, Eve left the house, and in silent sadness followed Jochabed down the street, past the Warren, and away along by the cliff-path until they came to the jutting point which, once past, shuts out all view of Polperro from beyond. Here Eve paused, and motioning Jochabed to go on she turned and bade her eyes gaze round upon the scene and look their last farewell.
The sun, which all day long had shone hot and fierce, had run its course and sunk to rest, leaving its trail of glory to tip the hills above and be reflected down in crimson glow upon the sea below. The mist of heat which all day long had hung over the land, though rolled away from there, still floated in filmy clouds before the harbor's mouth, veiling the little haven and casting broad shadows on the rugged cliffs, up whose steep sides the white-faced houses clung, higher and higher still, till they were lost amid the tangle of the ridge which crowns the valley's sides.
Like an echo awakened by some tuneful strain which jars on the ear and smites the heart because the voice which gave it melody is still and hushed for ever, the sunset calm of that peaceful scene jarred on the misery of her who stood stricken and desolate. Involuntarily she shut her eyes, that through them at least her heart should be no longer pierced; and when she opened them again a mist of gathering tears obscured her view and blotted out the prospect from her sight. Then, slowly turning, Eve went her way, knowing that while this life should last the face of that fair portion of earth would never meet her eyes again.
Reuben Mayhad been but a short time back in London when one evening, as he was closing the shutters of his small shop, a boy presented himself, saying he was the landlady's nephew at Knight's Passage, and had been sent by her to ask Mr. May for some of the things he was taking care of for Eve Pascal.
"Why, what does she want them for?" asked Reuben curtly.
"She wants them for Eve Pascal herself," said the boy. "Eve Pascal has come back again: she came back this morning, only she hadn't got any one to send till now."
"All right," said Reuben, returning to his shutter-closing and then proceeding to fasten the door: "I'll go round and speak to her myself."
"Then you won't want me?" said the boy, not sorry to be released by his stern-looking companion.
"No: you can go your own way," replied Reuben, already several paces in advance, and walking with such rapid strides that a few minutes brought him to the house which had been the scene of all the romance his life had ever known.
"Oh, Mr. May!" but, paying no heed to the landlady's voice and without a pause, Reuben ran up the different flights of stairs, knocked at the door, opened it, and found himself at once in the presence of Eve: "Eve!"
"Reuben!"
And then silence, each looking at the other, wondering what could havewrought such a change; for the bodily fatigue and mental anxiety undergone by Reuben had told as heavily on his appearance as the sorrow Eve had endured had told on hers, although the absence of original comeliness made the alteration in him less generally noticeable.
"Have you been ill, Eve?" and as he put the question a wild thought sprang up that perhaps her suffering had been on his account, and, stirred by this prompting, Reuben took her hand in his and looked with tender anxiety into her face.
"No," she said, quietly withdrawing her hand, "I have not been ill. Have you? You look very ill."
"Oh, that's on account of my having walked most of the way back here from Plymouth: it's a stiffish tramp, you know, and took the little flesh I had off my bones."
Eve paused for an instant, as if trying to repress the over-haste of her question: then she said, while her face was half turned away, "Did you go straight on to Plymouth after I saw you?"
"I got to Plymouth before daylight the next morning. I was forced to rest a bit here and there on the way, as I'd come the same ground once before that day; but the night was fine; so, as I didn't care about stopping anywheres, I stumped on without waiting to see Triggs even—made a message do for him—and started off on my journey."
"Then you never went near Looe at all?" Eve exclaimed with eagerness.
"Ah!" replied Reuben, evading a direct reply by a little laugh, under which he heralded his answer, "you may be sure I didn't stop to inquire the names of all the places I passed through: I was in too hot haste to turn my back on them for anything of that sort."
"Oh, thank God!" said Eve; and at the words her whole mind and body seemed to relax from the strain imposed on them by the suspicion that in some indistinct way on her had rested the blame of the betrayal.
"'Thank God'?" repeated Reuben sharply. "Thank God for what?"
"For not making me the betrayer of those who put their trust in me."
Reuben's face turned crimson, but so engrossed was Eve by her own satisfaction that his sudden confusion was lost upon her, and she continued: "I may as well tell you, Reuben, that a terrible trouble has fallen upon me and mine since I parted with you. That very night some one played us false and betrayed the Lottery into the hands of the revenue."
"I can't see what else was to be expected," said Reuben stolidly: "when men run their necks into a noose they may be pretty sure of some day finding the knot drawn tight."
"I was so afraid that you might have laid hold on anything I said to you, and had been led in any way to tell it against them," sighed Eve, paying no heed to the taunt with which Reuben had hoped to sting her.
"And supposing I had," he said, "oughtn't you to thank me for doing it? Don't tell me, Eve"—and he threw into his tone a mixture of contempt and bitterness—"that you've come to take it as a trial that those you talk of belonging to are forced into taking to honest ways."
"Those I belong to have been hunted down like dogs," she cried. "A price has been set upon their lives, and one of them has been dragged away up here that they may try and hang him if they can."
"What?" exclaimed Reuben, starting to his feet—"hang him? Who are they going to hang? What can they hang him for? Is it your cousin, Adam Pascal, you're talking of?"
"No: I wish it was," said Eve, her face quivering with the emotion the relation of these details stirred within her; "but, though 'twas in fair fight, 'twas Jerrem shot the man."
"Shot what man?" gasped Reuben.
"The revenue-man. The Lottery was lying still, waiting for the tide to come up, when the boats crept up behind them in the dark; and if it hadn't been for Adam not one among their crew would have lived to tell the tale, but by his word he kept his own men quiet—all but Jerrem,who fired his gun, and down the revenue-man fell, dead."
Reuben stifled the exclamation which rose to his lips, and Eve, to whose days of pent-up misery the repetition of these woes seemed to bring relief, continued: "At first all blamed Adam and praised Jerrem, but almost at once the soldiers came, and they'd only barely time to hide away from them. Adam went to the mill, and was there a week and more; and then some one told him that 'twas I was the cause of their being betrayed; and it drove him so mad with jealousy and rage that he told of the place where Jerrem was hid; and the next day the soldiers came again, dragged Jerrem out and carried him away. And now, though uncle spends every guinea he has got, 'tis almost sure that through Adam's word Jerrem will be hanged; for they say they've brought them both to London, and that they're lodged in Newgate jail."
Up to this time Reuben's eyes seemed riveted upon Eve's face, but as she paused he bent his head and sunk it down upon the table near—a movement that at any former time would naturally have awakened some surprise, but now Eve had grown so familiar with the aspect of sorrow that she regarded all visible emotion as an outburst of the certain sympathy to be expected from her hearers. "Now you know why it is, Reuben," she continued, "that I feel so glad that you had no hand in anything of this; for you must overlook the anger that I showed at that time. I've been sorry for it often since, and feared you'd count me over-bold for talking as I did. Not that I'm changed, Reuben, nor think one bit the less of Adam for what's happened. No; and though all the world should turn their backs on him, I'd stand by his side; and to prove it I must find him out and tell him that, in spite of all they've told him, in heart and tongue I've never been untrue to him." And, filled with the desire of seeing the man she loved, Eve clasped her hands and sat trying to revolve her plans, while Reuben commenced pacing the little room with a troubled air.
Suddenly bringing himself to a stand before Eve, he said, "Eve, be sure your sin will find you out."
"No, Reuben—no;" and she put up her hand as if to avert the continuance of any homily: "'tis of no good talking like that. Sorrow has sealed up my heart against taking condemnation or comfort from anything of that sort."
"It isn't of you I'm thinking," he exclaimed. "Oh," he cried, giving vent to his pent-up feelings, "down into what a pitfall a minute's evil passion may fling a man! To think that I, while I was crying vengeance against others, was drawing down the wrath of God upon my own head, stamping myself with the brand of Cain, and doing the devil's work by sending men to death with all their sins still heavy on their souls!"
"Reuben, what is it you mean?" and seizing hold of him with both her hands, Eve gazed into his face.
"That the thought you had was true," he said, "and that 'twas me who dropped the paper in that told them where the Lottery would be found;" and a tremor ran through Reuben's frame: his pulses for a moment quickened, and then grew faint and seemed to die away; while Eve uttered neither word nor sound: her eyes drooped, her hold relaxed, and tottering she sank back into the seat behind her, and there sat motionless and still as one carved out of stone.
The abandonment of hope, the unutterable despair of face and form, so unlike anything which Reuben had ever seen in Eve, touched him as no reproaches could have done. That depth of misery which words can neither describe nor express pierced his inmost soul and added to the stings with which conscience was already smiting him. Not for the act of betrayal, for had there been no Eve to prompt him Reuben would have looked upon it as an act of justice that he should aid the law against men who set order and government at defiance, and though each man on board had met his death Reuben would have held his conscience free of any tittle of reproach; but, equitable and unyielding to himself as well as to others, he full well knew that when he wrote the words which sealed theLottery's fate justice was clean gone out of his mind. He neither knew nor cared what might become of the men whose safety he betrayed: the whole rancor of his hate was turned against his rival; and the paper he flung into the rendezvous window was as much a blow aimed at Adam as if he had dealt him a thrust and had stabbed him in the dark.
"Eve," he said, "words are but poor things at a time like this, and if I spoke from now till never I couldn't make you see by them the misery I feel; but if you'll trust me this far, I swear by Him who sees us both and knows our hearts that no stone shall be unturned, no thing undone. I'll walk London over, and neither rest day nor night till I find out Adam Pascal and his comrade and tell them the whole truth. And when I say this," he added, his face working with emotion, "don't fancy 'tis because of love of you, Eve: I know that, come what may, we never can be nothing more than friends now; but oh—" and he held out his hands toward her—"let's at least be that, Eve: let me help you to set yourself clear with the man who, be he what he may, it seems you've given all your heart to; and you—you help me to rid myself of the thought that I've led into sin and hurried on to death fellow-creatures whose godless lives I'd now give my own to save. Together, if we set our minds to work, there's no knowing what we mayn't do yet. Warrants have been quashed and pardons given when men have reached the very gallows' foot; and as for getting in, why Mr. Osborne knows Newgate prison, every inch, from going there with old Silas Told when he was living, and he'll do anything for me; so there'll be no fear about that. And you knowme, Eve: you know how when I'm set upon a thing I strain my utmost nerve to get it done;" and, pausing, he stood watching with mingled hope and fear the effect of his words—first, the flush of spreading color, then the quivering mouth and eyes, and finally the rush of tears which lifted up and cleared away that stone-like gloom.
A ray of hope seemed once more near, and catching at the feeblest chance of being brought again face to face with Adam, Eve, unable to speak, stretched out her hand, which Reuben took, grasped it almost to pain, then let it go, and with it every hope of love that lingered still for Eve.
The rest of the time was spent in explanations of the various incidents relating to the all-engrossing event, the details which bore upon it, the circumstances which surrounded it, until, from following out all these into their different channels, Reuben began to have a clearer conception of the men, their characters, their individual virtues and collective failings, growing interested in them almost against his will. The hour was late before he recollected that until he reached his home he could hardly settle his plans so as to secure an entrance into the prison on the following day. Bidding Eve good-night, he left the house and walked away, only stopping at the turn of the street to step into the road and cast his wistful gaze up to the window of the room which to him now was as the tomb of his dead love.
An ordinary workingman standing in an obscure street is not a figure to arouse much interest, and Reuben's stolid face gave little index to the varied emotions which surged within his troubled heart. He was able to return the gruff "Good-night!" the watchman gave, and the old man, passing on, went wondering as to the cause of such anxious survey on Reuben's part. For as he stood his thoughts ran here and there, and by the magic of their power showed to his view the long-gone joys of other days. He watched the struggling birth of love, scorched himself in its flame, and felt by turns the tortures and delights its presence gives to those who live on hope alone: then sadly saw it fade from out his sight, sicken and faint almost to death, and yet it did not die until by that one action he had robbed it of life and killed it evermore. Yes, love was dead, and love was Eve; and for Reuben May the Eve he had loved so fondly lived no longer.
Duringthe time which had elapsed since the night on which Eve Pascal and Reuben May renewed their bond of friendship many an anxious incident had occurred to test its value and cement its strength.
Jerrem and Adam were familiar names to Reuben now, and the men who bore them were often before his eyes and constantly in his thoughts. Prepared as Reuben had been for undergoing much awkwardness in delivering himself of the tale he had to tell, he found he had greatly underrated the pain and humiliation he actually felt when, through the interest of his friend, he found himself within the walls of Newgate and in the presence of Adam. Reuben was no coward, yet it needed all the strength of his strictly-disciplined mind to open up and lay bare before a rival's eyes those wounds which love had made and time had had no space to heal. He shrank from placing in front of Adam the picture of himself and Eve as they had stood in the days when, Adam all unknown, the balance of a happy future seemed trembling still within the hand of Fate; and he paused from time to time as he spoke, hoping some word or sign would make his task more easy; but Adam never spoke or turned aside his eyes, and under that fixed gaze Reuben was forced to tell his tale out to the end, constraining his pride to give out word for word what Eve had said in Adam's praise, and searing the green memory of his love by making his lips repeat those vows which she had told him bound her to another.
At length the task was ended, the jealous rage, the mad revenge, was all confessed; and satisfied that, whatever guilt it might please Adam to lay to his charge, he had at least shown that Eve was free from any shadow of stain, Reuben paused, and the two so strangely linked stood looking at each other with envy, jealousy, distrust clouding their minds, while a chord of sympathy drew them together as they recognized a similitude in their actions which made each self-abasement uttered find an echo in its listener's breast. Proud, stern, unyielding to emotion as both these men had lived, it was not in them to take comfort in the shifts and excuses weaker natures find: the hearts that had refused pity for their neighbors would not entreat it because they themselves now stood in need. As they had judged their fellows so they arraigned themselves, and thus unwittingly rendered the first atonement man is called upon to make.
The sight of Adam's strong, powerful form shaken and bowed down by the remorse he strove in vain to control moved Reuben strangely. The haggard pallor of his striking face, the sunken eyes, the untasted food, the unslept-in bed,—each told its tale of misery and woe, and opened out to Reuben a depth of despair his own experience hitherto had furnished him with no gauge to measure. What if with no further warning he fetched up Eve to Adam's aid? The thought would bear no hesitation: a thousand jealous "Noes" battled with the suggestion, but Reuben's better self resolved to have its way, and, seizing the opportunity of Adam's head being bent down in his arms, Reuben went swiftly out and along down to the keeper's room, where Eve had been left impatiently awaiting his return.
Although the grating of the hinge roused Adam, he neither stirred nor moved until, satisfied by the unbroken silence that Reuben had left him to himself, he ventured to raise his head. Where could he go? where hide himself from human gaze? And as the thought of all his shame came crowding to his mind he started up and wildly stared around, and then around again, seeing each time the walls, which looked so near, draw nearer still. No hope! no hope! Here he must live until the hour when those who brought him here would drag him forth to swear away his comrade's life. O God! how helpless he felt! and as he let himself drop down each limb gave way and nerveless fell, as if Dejection claimed him for her own. The time had been when Adam's mind was racked by thoughts of what lay in the hearts of those he had left behind: their pictured hatred and contempt stung him to madness; the words they would say, the curses they were uttering,seemed ever ringing in his ears. But Reuben's tale had for the time swept this away and filled its place with dark remorse for what he had done to Jerrem. True, Reuben had shown that Jerrem's hand had wrought his own and their destruction, but what of that? Adam through him had wreaked his vengeance on them all—had, Judas-like, delivered them to death: henceforth, branded and disgraced, he must be an outcast or a wanderer. As this fallen spectre of himself rose up and flitted in his sight a cry of wild despair burst forth, wrenched from the depths of his proud heart—a cry which some one near sent echoing back; and as it came his hands were caught, and Pity seemed to stretch her arms and fold him to her breast.
Was it a nightmare he was waking from—some hideous dream in which our bodies slumber while our fancies live a lifetime? Would this vision of Eve (for Eve it was who knelt close by his side, her arms around his neck) melt away and fade as many a one of her had done before? She calls him love—her love, the husband of her heart. What! he, this guilty outcast—can he be this to any one, and most of all to Eve?
A finger's touch seemed laid upon the veil which hitherto had shut out hope from Adam's view, and as it shrivelled up and rolled away the light revealed that Mercy still sat throned on high, and bowing down his head on Eve's neck he let his stricken soul take comfort in the thought.
But while Adam was thus cast down under suffering, sorrow had taken but a slight hold on Jerrem, who, after the first shock produced by the horrors of a place then branded as "the darkest seat of woe this side of hell," gradually regained his old elasticity, and was soon ready to treat, laugh and drink with all who came near him. His merry jokes, his quaint sea-songs, the free handling he gave to his plentiful supply of money,—all served to ensure his popularity, so that, instead of the man sunk under misery and despair whom Reuben, after leaving Adam, had girded himself up to encounter, he came upon Jerrem rollicking and gay, a prime favorite with all the authorities, and a choice spirit amid the crew of tried and untried prisoners who in those days crowded together in the foul wards of Newgate.
Fresh from the sight of Adam's dark remorse, filled with compunction at the thought of all the ills their joint passions had hurled on Jerrem's head, Reuben had invested Jerrem with a sense of wrong, to make reparation for which he had come prepared to offer whatever sacrifice he should demand. To find the man for whom all this feeling had been conjured up reckless and unconcerned, casting oaths against his ill-luck one moment and cutting jokes at his possible fate the next, jarred upon Reuben terribly, and made him at once decide that it would be worse than useless to urge upon him any necessity for taking thought for his soul when he was so utterly reckless as to what would become of his body. The story Reuben had to tell of himself and Eve, the betrayal, and the suspicions it had aroused against Eve in Adam, merely affected Jerrem as a matter for surprise and curiosity. He seemed pleased to hear that Eve was close at hand, but still expressed no wish to see her. He talked about Adam, and with a painful absence of all malice told Reuben to say to him that he'd best lay it thick on his back, so that the judge and jury would let the other chaps go free. The circumstance of being brought to London to be tried seemed to afford him immense satisfaction—a thing, he said, that hadn't happened for sixty years and more, since old —— swung for it; and then he fell to wondering how soon that might be his fate, and if so how many from Polperro would make the stretch to come so far. He'd promise them it shouldn't be for nothing: he'd show the Cornishmen that he could cut his capers game. Only one subject seemed able to sober or subdue his reckless spirit, and this was any mention of Joan or Uncle Zebedee: to them the poor soul seemed to cling with all the love his nature could command. And when Reuben, instructed by Eve, told him how stricken down the old man lay, and farther on promised to write for him all themessages he wished to send to Joan, a heart of wax seemed given to his keeping, in which it now must be his care to mould the little good there yet was time to teach. And so it happened that in all his future visits—and every hour that Reuben had to spare was given up to Jerrem—Joan was the theme that threaded all their discourse, and by her power Jerrem's soft heart and softer nature became to Reuben as an open page, wherein he read of actions in which good and bad were so mixed up and jumbled that in the very midst of his reproof and condemnation Reuben was often forced to stand abashed before some act of generous pity which found no echo in his former life. And out of this humility, which grew in strength, there sprang forth greater merits than from all the weary efforts he made at working out his own atonement; for Reuben, like Adam, had been over-satisfied about his own rectitude, and took pride in the knowledge that if ever he had committed a wrong he had acknowledged it freely and expiated it to the uttermost farthing; while Jerrem, for the first time in his life brought to see guilt in what he had counted pleasure, scarce dared to listen to a hope of mercy for himself, but rather craved Reuben to beg it for the many who had been thoughtless sharers in his folly. His ruling desire was to see Joan once more, and no sooner was he told that the admiralty session had begun and that his day of trial, although not fixed, was near at hand, than he begged Reuben to write and ask Joan to delay her promised visit no longer; and this Reuben did, adding on his own account that, from what the lawyer said, it would be best she came at once by the coach which would reach London on the following Thursday week, on which day Reuben would be waiting to receive her.
Now, at the onset of this disaster had such a letter reached Polperro not a man in the place but, short of knowing it would cost his life, would have risked all else to go to London, and if Jerrem was to die give him courage by mustering round their comrade at the last. But the downpour of disaster had cowed these daring spirits, and the men who had not known what fear meant so long as success was secure now trembled and gave way under the superstitious certainty that Ill-luck was following them and Misfortune had marked them for her own. Their energies paralyzed, they succumbed to what they looked upon as Fate, and in most cases were seized without a struggle and led off to the nearest prisons without an effort on their own part toward resistance.
The money over which, from the small scope for spending it, they had seemed so lavish and reckless, when needed for lawyers and counsel and bribes went but a small way; and though they made a common purse of all their hoards, not a day passed without some house being stripped of the substance which adorned it, so that money might be got for the husband, the son, the brothers who had brought these treasures home. The women, on their knees, pressed on the farmers' wives their chintzes, their lace, their gaudy stock of jewelry, and when this market failed toiled along to Liskeard, Plymouth and Launceston, carrying their china, silver plate and bowls in the hope of finding somebody to buy them.
With a revenue cutter—often two—always in sight, landing parties of king's men, who, recalling ugly thoughts of the hated press-gang, roamed hither and thither, ready to seize any one who happened to show his face; with half the husbands, sons and brothers in Plymouth clink or Bodmin jail, and the rest skulking in farm-houses or lying hidden in the secret places; with plenty vanishing and poverty drawing nigh,—the past circumstances which had led to this desolation were swallowed up in the present misery it had entailed upon them; and though every one now knew the whole story as it stood—how that through Jerrem writing to Eve she had had it in her power to tell Reuben May, her former lover, who, led on by jealousy, had betrayed them to the revenue-men—so familiar had Reuben's good services to Jerrem become known that it was taken as only one more of his many friendly actions that he should write to Joan, urgingher to come to London without delay, and promising to meet her and see that she was taken care of. If any among them thought that Joan would go probably to Eve's home, they made no mention of it, for Eve's name was by a tacit understanding banished from their mouths, and the memory of her lay as a seal to that dark sepulchre wherein, with bitter scorn and hate, Adam lay buried.
There was no question now of Uncle Zebedee going, for the confinement, the excitement and the degradation had been too much for the old man, whose free and happy life had never known trouble or restraint, and his mind had gradually weakened under the burden imposed upon it; so that now, except when some unexpected incident roused the flickering flame of memory, the past few months were blotted from his mind, and in company with Jonathan—who, broken down by ill-usage and turned out of prison to die, had managed to crawl back to the friends he knew he should find shelter with—he roamed about harmless and contented, always watching for the Lottery's return, and promising, when she did come back, that he would give them all a fling such as Polperro had not seen for many a day.
It was an easy matter to cheat him now, and when, her journey all arranged, Joan stepped into the boat which was to take her round to Plymouth and left old Zebedee standing on the shore, raising his thin cracked voice to fetch her ear with cheery messages for Jerrem and for Adam, whom she was going to meet, her cup of bitterness seemed to overflow.
The Author of "Dorothy Fox."
[TO BE CONTINUED.]