From A Cottage in Troy

by Arthur Quiller-Couch

　　From Noughts and Crosses: Stories, Studies and Sketches.

　　I.A HAPPY VOYAGE.

　　The cottage that I have inhabited these six years looks down on theone quiet creek in a harbour full of business. The vessels thatenter beneath Battery Point move up past the grey walls and greenquay-doors of the port to the jetties where their cargoes lie.All day long I can see them faring up and down past the mouth of mycreek; and all the year round I listen to the sounds of them--thedropping or lifting of anchors, the wh-h-ing! of a siren-whistlecutting the air like a twanged bow, the concertina that plays atnight, the rush of the clay cargo shot from the jetty into the ladingship. But all this is too far remote to vex me. Only one vessellies beneath my terrace; and she has lain there for a dozen years.After many voyages she was purchased by the Board of Guardians in ourdistrict, dismasted, and anchored up here to serve as a hospital-shipin case the cholera visited us. She has never had a sick man onboard from that day to the present. But once upon a time threepeople spent a very happy night on her deck, as you shall hear.She is called The Gleaner.I think I was never so much annoyed in my life as on the day whenAnnie, my only servant, gave me a month's "warning." That was fouryears ago; and she gave up cooking for me to marry a young watchmakerdown at the town--a youth of no mark save for a curious distortion ofthe left eyebrow (due to much gazing through a circular glass intothe bowels of watches), a frantic assortment of religiousconvictions, a habit of playing the fiddle in hours of ease, and anabsurd name--Tubal Cain Bonaday. I noticed that Annie softened it to"Tubey."Of course I tried to dissuade her, but my arguments were those of awifeless man, and very weak. She listened to them with muchpatience, and went off to buy her wedding-frock. She was a plaingirl, without a scintilla of humour; and had just that sense of anomelet that is vouchsafed to one woman in a generation.So she and Tubal Cain were married at the end of the month, anddisappeared on their honeymoon, no one quite knew whither. They wenton the last day of April.

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　　At half-past eight in the evening of May 6th I had just finished myseventh miserable dinner. My windows were open to the evening, andthe scent of the gorse-bushes below the terrace hung heavilyunderneath the verandah and stole into the room where I sat beforethe white cloth, in the lamp-light. I had taken a cigarette and wasreaching for the match-box when I chanced to look up, and paused tomarvel at a singular beauty in the atmosphere outside.It seemed a final atonement of sky and earth in one sheet of vividblue. Of form I could see nothing; the heavens, the waters of thecreek below, the woods on the opposite shore were simplyindistinguishable--blotted out in this one colour. If you can recallcertain advertisements of Mr. Reckitt, and can imagine one of thesetransparent, with a soft light glowing behind it, you will be as nearas I can help you to guessing the exact colour. And, but for asolitary star and the red lamp of a steamer lying off the creek'smouth, this blue covered the whole firmament and face of the earth.I lit my cigarette and stepped out upon the verandah. In a minute orso a sound made me return, fetch a cap from the hall, and descend theterrace softly.My feet trod on bluebells and red-robins, and now and then crushedthe fragrance out of a low-lying spike of gorse. I knew the flowerswere there, though in this curious light I could only see them bypeering closely. At the foot of the terrace I pulled up and leantover the oak fence that guarded the abrupt drop into the creek.There was a light just underneath. It came from the deck of thehospital-ship, and showed me two figures standing there--a womanleaning against the bulwarks, and a man beside her. The man had afiddle under his chin, and was playing "Annie Laurie," rather slowlyand with a deal of sweetness.When the melody ceased, I craned still further over the oak fence andcalled down, "Tubal Cain!"The pair gave a start, and there was some whispering before theanswer came up to me."Is that you, sir?""To be sure," said I. "What are you two about on board TheGleaner?"Some more whispering followed, and then Tubal Cain spoke again--"It doesn't matter now, sir. We've lived aboard here for a week, andto-night's the end of our honeymooning. If 'tis no liberty sir,Annie's wishful that you should join us."Somehow, the invitation, coming through this mysterious atmosphere,seemed at once natural and happy. The fiddle began again as Istepped away from the fence and went down to get my boat out.In three minutes I was afloat, and a stroke or two brought me to theship's ladder. Annie and Tubal Cain stood at the top to welcome me.

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　　But if I had felt no incongruity in paying this respectful visit tomy ex-cook and her lover, I own that her appearance made me stare.For, if you please, she was dressed out like a lady, in a gown ofpale blue satin trimmed with swansdown--a low-necked gown, too,though she had flung a white shawl over her shoulders. Imagine thisand the flood of blue light around us, and you will hardly wonderthat, half-way up the ladder, I paused to take breath. Tubal Cainwas dressed as usual, and tucking his fiddle under his arm, led me upto shake hands with his bride as if she were a queen. I cannot sayif she blushed. Certainly she received me with dignity: and then,inverting a bucket that lay on the deck, seated herself; while TubalCain and I sat down on the deck facing her, with our backs againstthe bulwarks."It's just this, sir," explained the bridegroom, laying his fiddleacross his lap, and speaking as if in answer to a question: "it'sjust this:--by trade you know me for a watchmaker, and for a PlymouthBrother by conviction. All the week I'm bending over a counter, andevery Sabbath-day I speak in prayer-meeting what I hold, that life'sa dull pilgrimage to a better world. If you ask me, sir, to-night, Iought to say the same. But a man may break out for once; and when sowell as on his honeymoon? For a week I've been a free heathen: for aweek I've been hiding here, living with the woman I love in the openair; and night after night for a week Annie here has clothed herselflike a woman of fashion. Oh, my God! it has been a beautiful time--ahappy beautiful time that ends to-night!"

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　　He set down the fiddle, crooked up a knee and clasped his hands roundit, looking at Annie."Annie, girl, what is it that we believe till to-morrow morning?You believe--eh?--that 'tis a rare world, full of delights, and withno ugliness in it?"Annie nodded."And you love every soul--the painted woman in the streets no lessthan your own mother?"Annie nodded again. "I'd nurse 'em both if they were sick," shesaid."One like the other?""And there's nothing shames you?" Here he rose and took her hand."You wouldn't blush to kiss me before master here?""Why should I?" She gave him a sober kiss, and let her hand rest inhis.I looked at her. She was just as quiet as in the old days when sheused to lay my table. It was like gazing at a play.I should be ashamed to repeat the nonsense that Tubal Cain thereuponbegan to talk; for it was mere midsummer madness. But I smoked fourpipes contentedly while the sound of his voice continued, and amconvinced that he never performed so well at prayer-meeting. Down atthe town I heard the church-clock striking midnight, and then oneo'clock; and was only aroused when the youth started up and graspedhis fiddle."And now, sir, if you would consent to one thing, 'twould make usvery happy. You can't play the violin, worse luck; but you mighttake a step or two round the deck with Annie, if I strike up awaltz-tune for you to move to."It was ridiculous, but as he began to play I moved up to Annie, putmy arm around her, and we began to glide round and round on the deck.Her face was turned away from mine, and looked over my shoulder; ifour eyes had met, I am convinced I must have laughed or wept. It washalf farce, half deadly earnest, and for me as near to hysterics as asane man can go. Tubal Cain, that inspired young Plymouth Brother,was solemn as a judge. As for Annie, I would give a considerableamount, at this moment, to know what she thought of it. But shestepped very lightly and easily, and I am not sure I ever enjoyed awaltz so much. The blue light--that bewitching, intoxicating bluelight--paled on us as we danced. The grey conquered it, and I feltthat when we looked at each other the whole absurdity would strikeus, and I should never be able to face these lovers again without afurious blush. As the day crept on, I stole a glance at Tubal Cain.He was scraping away desperately--with his eyes shut. For us thedance had become weariness, but we went on and on. We were afraid tohalt.Suddenly a string of the violin snapped. We stopped, and I saw TubalCain's hand pointing eastward. A golden ripple came dancing down thecreek, and, at the head of the combe beyond, the sun's edge wasmounting."Morning!" said the bridegroom."It's all done," said Annie, holding out a hand to me, withoutlooking up. "And thank you, sir.""We danced through the grey," I answered; and that was all I couldfind to say, as I stepped towards the ladder.Half an hour later as I looked out of the window before getting into bedI saw in the sunlight a boat moving down the creek towards the town.Tubal Cain was rowing, and Annie sat in the stern. She had changedher gown.

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　　They have been just an ordinary couple ever since, and attend theirchapel regularly. Sometimes Annie comes over to make me an omelet;and, as a matter of fact, she is now in the kitchen. But not a wordhas ever been spoken between us about her honeymoon.

　　II.THESE-AN'-THAT'S WIFE.

　　In the matter of These-an'-That himself, public opinion in Troy isdivided. To the great majority he appears scandalously careless ofhis honour; while there are just six or seven who fight with asuspicion that there dwells something divine in the man.To reach the town from my cottage I have to cross the Passage Ferry,either in the smaller boat which Eli pulls single-handed, or (if amarket-cart or donkey, or drove of cattle be waiting on the slip)I must hang about till Eli summons his boy to help him with thehorse-boat. Then the gangway is lowered, the beasts are driven onboard, the passengers follow at a convenient distance, and the longsweeps take us slowly across the tide. It was on such a voyage, afew weeks after I settled in the neighbourhood, that I first metThese-an'-That.I was leaning back against the chain, with my cap tilted forward tokeep off the dazzle of the June sunshine on the water, and lazilywatching Eli as he pushed his sweep. Suddenly I grew aware that byfrequent winks and jerks of the head he wished to direct my attentionto a passenger on my right--a short, round man in black, with abasket of eggs on his arm.There was quite a remarkable dearth of feature on this passenger'sface, which was large, soft, and unhealthy in colour: but whatsurprised me was to see, as he blinked in the sunlight, a couple ofbig tears trickle down his cheeks and splash among the eggs in hisbasket."There's trouble agen, up at Kit's," remarked Eli, finishing hisstroke with a jerk, and speaking for the general benefit, though thewords were particularly addressed to a drover opposite."Ho?" said the drover: "that woman agen?"The passengers, one and all, bent their eyes on the man in black, whosmeared his face with his cuff, and began weeping afresh, silently."Beat en blue las' night, an' turned en to doors--the dirty trollop.""Eli, don't 'ee--" put in the poor man, in a low, deprecating voice."Iss, an' no need to tell what for," exclaimed a red-faced woman whostood by the drover, with two baskets of poultry at her feet."She's a low lot; a low trapesin' baggage. If These-an'-That, there,wasn' but a poor, ha'f-baked shammick, he'd ha' killed that wife o'his afore this.""Naybours, I'd as lief you didn't mention it," appealedThese-an'-That, huskily."I'm afeard you'm o' no account, These-an'-That: but sam-sodden, if Imay say so," the drover observed."Put in wi' the bread, an' took out wi' the cakes," suggested Eli."Wife!--a pretty loitch, she an' the whole kit, up there!" went onthe market-woman. "If you durstn't lay finger 'pon your wedded wife,These-an'-That, but let her an' that long-legged gamekeeper turn'eeto doors, you must be no better'n a worm,--that's all I say."I saw the man's face twitch as she spoke of the gamekeeper. But heonly answered in the same dull way."I'd as lief you didn' mention it, friends,--if 'tis all the same."

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　　His real name was Tom Warne, as I learnt from Eli afterwards; and helived at St. Kit's, a small fruit-growing hamlet two miles up theriver, where his misery was the scandal of the place. The verychildren knew it, and would follow him in a crowd sometimes, peltinghim with horrible taunts as he slouched along the road to the kitchengarden out of which he made his living. He never struck one; nevereven answered; but avoided the school-house as he would a plague; andif he saw the Parson coming would turn a mile out of his road.The Parson had called at the cottage a score of times at least: forthe business was quite intolerable. Two evenings out of the six, thelong-legged gamekeeper, who was just a big, drunken bully, wouldswagger easily into These-an'-That's kitchen and sit himself downwithout so much as "by your leave." "Good evenin', gamekeeper," thehusband would say in his dull, nerveless voice. Mostly he only got ajeer in reply. The fellow would sit drinking These-an'-That's ciderand laughing with These-an'-That's wife, until the pair, very likely,took too much, and the woman without any cause broke into a passion,flew at the little man, and drove him out of doors, with broomstickor talons, while the gamekeeper hammered on the table and roared atthe sport. His employer was an absentee who hated the Parson, so theParson groaned in vain over the scandal.

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　　Well, one Fair-day I crossed in Eli's boat with the pair. Thewoman--a dark gipsy creature--was tricked out in violet and yellow,with a sham gold watch-chain and great aluminium earrings: and thegamekeeper had driven her down in his spring-cart. As Eli pushedoff, I saw a small boat coming down the river across our course.It was These-an'-That, pulling down with vegetables for the fair.I cannot say if the two saw him: but he glanced up for a moment atthe sound of their laughter, then bent his head and rowed past us atrifle more quickly. The distance was too great to let me see hisface.I was the last to step ashore. As I waited for Eli to change mysixpence, he nodded after the couple, who by this time had reachedthe top of the landing-stage, arm in arm."A bad day's work for her, I reckon."It struck me at the moment as a moral reflection of Eli's, and nomore. Late in the afternoon, however, I was enlightened.

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　　In the midst of the Fair, about four o'clock, a din of horns, beatenkettles, and hideous yelling, broke out in Troy. I met the crowd inthe main street, and for a moment felt afraid of it. They had seizedthe woman in the taproom of the "Man-o'-War"--where the gamekeeperwas lying in a drunken sleep--and were hauling her along in a RamRiding. There is nothing so cruel as a crowd, and I have seennothing in my life like the face of These-an'-That's wife. It wasbleeding; it was framed in tangles of black, dishevelled hair; it waslivid; but, above all, it was possessed with an awful fear--a horrorit turned a man white to look on. Now and then she bit and foughtlike a cat: but the men around held her tight, and mostly had to dragher, her feet trailing, and the horns and kettles dinning in herwake.There lay a rusty old ducking-cage among the lumber up at thetown-hall; and some fellows had fetched this down, with the poles andchain, and planted it on the edge of the Town Quay, between theAmerican Shooting Gallery and the World-Renowned Swing Boats.To this they dragged her, and strapped her fast.There is no heed to describe what followed. Even the virtuous womenwho stood and applauded would like to forget it, perhaps. At thethird souse, the rusty pivot of the ducking-pole broke, and the cage,with the woman in it, plunged under water.They dragged her ashore at the end of the pole in something less thana minute. They unstrapped and laid her gently down, and began tofeel over her heart, to learn if it were still beating. And then thecrowd parted, and These-an'-That came through it. His face wore nomore expression than usual, but his lips were working in a queer way.He went up to his wife, took off his hat, and producing an old redhandkerchief from the crown, wiped away some froth and green weedthat hung about her mouth. Then he lifted her limp hand, and pattingthe back of it gently, turned on the crowd. His lips were stillworking. It was evident he was trying to say something."Naybours," the words came at last, in the old dull tone; "I'd aslief you hadn' thought o' this."He paused for a moment, gulped down something in his throat, and wenton--"I wudn' say you didn' mean it for the best, an' thankin' you kindly.But you didn' know her. Roughness, if I may say, was never no goodwi' her. It must ha' been very hard for her to die like this, axinyour parden, for she wasn' one to bear pain."Another long pause."No, she cudn' bear pain. P'raps he might ha' stood it better--though o' course you acted for the best, an' thankin' you kindly.I'd as lief take her home now, naybours, if 'tis all the same."He lifted the body in his arms, and carried it pretty steadily downthe quay steps to his market-boat, that was moored below.Two minutes later he had pushed off and was rowing it quietlyhomewards.There is no more to say, except that the woman recovered. She hadfainted, I suppose, as they pulled her out. Anyhow, These-an'-Thatrestored her to life--and she ran away the very next week with thegamekeeper.

　　III."DOUBLES" AND QUITS.

　　Here is a story from Troy, containing two ghosts and a moral.I found it, only last week, in front of a hump-backed cottage thatthe masons are pulling down to make room for the new Bank.Simon Hancock, the outgoing tenant, had fetched an empty cider-cask,and set it down on the opposite side of the road; and from thisSpartan seat watched the work of demolition for three days, withoutexhaustion and without emotion. In the interval between twoavalanches of dusty masonry, he spoke to this effect:--

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　　Once upon a time the cottage was inhabited by a man and his wife.The man was noticeable for the extreme length of his upper lip andgloom of his religious opinions. He had been a mate in the coastingtrade, but settled down, soon after his marriage, and earned hisliving as one of the four pilots in the port. The woman wasunlovely, with a hard eye and a temper as stubborn as one of St.Nicholas's horns. How she had picked up with a man was a mystery,until you looked at him.After six years of wedlock they quarrelled one day, about nothing atall: at least, Simon Hancock, though unable to state the exact causeof strife, felt himself ready to swear it was nothing more seriousthan the cooking of the day's dinner. From that date, however, thepair lived in the house together and never spoke. The man happenedto be of the home-keeping sort--possessed no friends and never putfoot inside a public-house. Through the long evenings he would sitbeside his own fender, with his wife facing him, and never a wordflung across the space between them, only now and then a look of coldhate. The few that saw them thus said it was like looking on a pairof ugly statues. And this lasted for four years.Of course the matter came to their minister's ears--he was a"Brianite"--and the minister spoke to them after prayer-meeting, oneWednesday night, and called at the cottage early next morning, toreconcile them. He stayed fifteen minutes and came away, down thestreet, with a look on his face such as Moses might have worn on hisway down from Mount Sinai, if only Moses had seen the devil there,instead of God.

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　　At the end of four years, the neighbours remarked that for two daysno smoke had issued from the chimney of this cottage, nor had anyoneseen the front door opened. There grew a surmise that the quarrelhad flared out at last, and the wedded pair were lying within, intheir blood. The anticipated excitement of finding the bodies wasqualified, however, by a very present sense of the manner in whichthe bodies had resented intrusion during life. It was not untilsunset on the second day that the constable took heart to break inthe door.There were no corpses. The kitchen was tidy, the hearth swept, andthe house empty. On the table lay a folded note, addressed, in theman's handwriting, to the minister.

　　"Dear Friend in Grace," it began, "we have been married tenyears, and neither has broken the other; until which happens,it must be hell between us. We see no way out but to part forten years more, going our paths without news of each other.When that time's up, we promise to meet here, by our door, onthe morning of the first Monday in October month, and tryagain. And to this we set our names."--here the two namesfollowed.

　　* * * * * * *They must have set out by night; for an extinguished candle stood bythe letter, with ink-pot and pen. Probably they had parted justoutside the house, the one going inland up the hill, the other downthe street towards the harbour. Nothing more was heard of them.Their furniture went to pay the quarter's rent due to the Squire, andthe cottage, six months later, passed into the occupation of SimonHancock, waterman.

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　　At this point Simon shall take up the narrative:--"I'd been tenant over there"--with a nod towards the ruin--"nine yearan' goin' on for the tenth, when, on a Monday mornin', about thistime o' year, I gets out o' bed at five o'clock an' down to the quayto have a look at my boat; for 'twas the fag-end of the Equinox, andther'd been a 'nation gale blowin' all Sunday and all Sunday night,an' I thought she might have broke loose from her moorin's."The street was dark as your hat and the wind comin' up it like gasin a pipe, with a brave deal o' rain. But down 'pon the quay day wasbreakin'--a sort of blind man's holiday, but enough to see the boatby; and there she held all right. You know there's two posts 'ponthe town-quay, and another slap opposite the door o' the 'FifteenBalls'? Well, just as I turned back home-long, I see a man leanin'against thicky post like as if he was thinkin', wi' his back to meand his front to the 'Fifteen Balls' (that was shut, o' course, atthat hour). I must ha' passed within a yard of en, an' couldn'figure it up how I'd a-missed seein' en. Hows'ever, 'Good-mornin'!'I calls out, in my well-known hearty manner. But he didn' speak norturn. 'Mornin'!' I says again. 'Can 'ee tell me what time 'tis? formy watch is stopped'--which was a lie; but you must lie now and then,to be properly sociable."Well, he didn' answer; so I went on to say that the 'Fifteen Balls'wudn' be open for another dree hour; and then I walked slap up to en,and says what the Wicked Man said to the black pig. 'You'm a queerChristian,' I says, 'not to speak. What's your name at all?And let's see your ugly face.'"With that he turned his face; an' by the man! I wished mysel'further. 'Twas a great white face, all parboiled, like a woman'shands on washin' day. An' there was bits o' sticks an' chips o'sea-weed stuck in his whiskers, and a crust o' salt i' the chinks ofhis mouth; an' his eyes, too, glarin' abroad from great rims o' salt."Off I sheered, not azackly runnin', but walkin' pretty much like aTorpointer; an' sure 'nough the fellow stood up straight and began tofollow close behind me. I heard the water go squish-squash in hisshoon, every step he took. By this, I was fairly leakin' wi' sweat.After a bit, hows'ever, at the corner o' Higman's store, he droppedoff; an' lookin' back after twenty yards more, I saw him standin'there in the dismal grey light like a dog that can't make up his mindwhether to follow or no. For 'twas near day now, an' his face plainat that distance. Fearin' he'd come on again, I pulled hot foot thefew steps between me an' home. But when I came to the door, I wentcold as a flounder."The fellow had got there afore me. There he was, standin' 'pon mydoor-step--wi' the same gashly stare on his face, and his lips alead-colour in the light."The sweat boiled out o' me now. I quavered like a leaf, and my hatrose 'pon my head. 'For the Lord's sake, stand o' one side,' Iprayed en; 'do'ee now, that's a dear!' But he wudn' budge; no, notthough I said several holy words out of the Mornin' Service."'Drabbet it!' says I, 'let's try the back door. Why didn' I think'pon that afore?' And around I runs."There 'pon the back door-step was a woman!--an' pretty well asgashly as the man. She was just a 'natomy of a woman, wi' the linesof her ribs showin' under the gown, an' a hot red spot 'pon eithercheek-bone, where the skin was stretched tight as a drum. She lookednot to ha' fed for a year; an', if you please, she'd a needle andstrip o' calico in her hands, sewin' away all the while her eyes wereglarin' down into mine."But there was a trick I minded in the way she worked her mouth, an'says I, 'Missus Polwarne, your husband's a-waitin' for 'ee, round bythe front door.'"'Aw, is he indeed?' she answers, holdin' her needle for a moment--an' her voice was all hollow, like as if she pumped it up from afathom or two. 'Then, if he knows what's due to his wife, I'lltrouble en to come round,' she says; 'for this here's the door Imean to go in by.'"But at this point Simon asserts very plausibly that he swooned off;so it is not known how they settled it.[This story is true, as anyone who cares may assure himself byreferring to Robert Hunt's "Drolls of the West of England," p. 357.]

　　IV.THE BOY BY THE BEACH.

　　There are in this small history some gaps that can never be filledup; but as much as I know I will tell you.The cottage where Kit lived until he was five years old stands at thehead of a little beach of white shingle, just inside the harbour'smouth, so that all day long Kit could see the merchant-ships trailingin from sea, and passing up to the little town, or dropping down tothe music of the capstan-song, and the calls and the creaking, astheir crews hauled up the sails. Some came and went under bare polesin the wake of panting tugs; but those that carried canvas pleasedKit more. For a narrow coombe wound up behind the cottage, and downthis coombe came not only the brook that splashed by the garden gate,but a small breeze, always blowing, so that you might count on seeingthe white sails take it, and curve out majestically as soon as everthey came opposite the cottage, and hold it until under the lee ofthe Battery Point.Besides these delights, the cottage had a plantation of ash and hazelabove it, that climbed straight to the smooth turf and the four gunsof the Battery; and a garden with a tamarisk hedge, and a bed ofwhite violets, the earliest for miles around, and a fuchsia treethree times as tall as Kit, and a pink climbing rose that looked inat Kit's window and blossomed till late in November. Here the childlived alone with his mother. For there was a vagueness of popularopinion respecting Kit's father; while about his mother, unhappily,there was no vagueness at all. She was a handsome, low-browed woman,with a loud laugh, a defiant manner, and a dress of violent hues.Decent wives clutched their skirts in passing her: but, as a set-off,she was on excellent terms with every sea-captain and mate that putinto the port.All these captains and mates knew Kit and made a pet of him: andindeed there was a curious charm in the great serious eyes andreddish curls of this child whom other children shunned. No one cantell if he felt his isolation; but of course it drove him to returnthe men's friendship, and to wear a man's solemnity and habit ofspeech. The woman dressed him carefully, in glaring colours, out ofher means: and as for his manners, they would no doubt have becomefalse and absurd, as time went and knowledge came; but at the age offour they were those of a prince."My father was a ship's captain, too," he would tell a newacquaintance, "but he was drowned at sea--oh, a long while ago; yearsand years before I was born."The beginning of this speech he had learned from his mother; and themisty antiquity of the loss his own childish imagination suggested.The captains, hearing it, would wink at each other, swallow downtheir grins, and gravely inform him of the sights he would see andthe lands he would visit when the time came for him, too, to be aship's captain. Often and often I have seen him perched, with hissmall legs dangling, on one of the green posts on the quay, anddrinking in their talk of green icebergs, and flaming parrots, andpig-tailed Chinamen; of coral reefs of all marvellous colours, andsuns that burnt men black, and monkeys that hung by their tails tothe branches and pelted the passers-by with coco-nuts; and the restof it. And the child would go back to the cottage in a waking dream,treading bright clouds of fancy, with perhaps a little carved box orknick-knack in his hand, the gift of some bearded, tender-heartedruffian. It was pitiful.Of course he picked up their talk, and very soon could swear withequal and appalling freedom in English, French, Swedish, German, andItalian. But the words were words to him and no more, as he had nomorals. Nice distinctions between good and evil never entered thelittle room where he slept to the sound only of the waves that curvedround Battery Point and tumbled on the beach below. And I know that,one summer evening, when the scandalised townsmen and their weddedwives assembled, and marched down to the cottage with intent to leadthe woman in a "Ramriding," the sight of Kit playing in the garden,and his look of innocent delight as he ran in to call his mother out,took the courage out of them and sent them home, up the hill, likesheep.Of course the truth must have come to him soon. But it never did:for when he was just five, the woman took a chill and died in a week.She had left a little money; and the Vicar, rather than let Kit go tothe workhouse, spent it to buy the child admission to an Orphanage inthe Midlands, a hundred miles away.So Kit hung the rose-tree with little scraps of crape, and was put,dazed and white, into a train and whisked a hundred miles off. Andeverybody forgot him.

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　　Kit spent two years at the Orphanage in an antique, preposteroussuit--snuff-coloured coat with lappels, canary waistcoat, andcorduroy small-clothes. And they gave him his meals regularly.There were ninety-nine other boys who all throve on the food: but Kitpined. And the ninety-nine, being full of food, made a racket attimes; but Kit found it quiet--deathly quiet; and his eyes wore alistening look.For the truth was, he missed the noise of the beach, and waslistening for it. And deep down in his small heart the sea waspiping and calling to him. And the world had grown dumb; and heyearned always: until they had to get him a new canary waistcoat, forthe old one had grown too big.At night, from his dormitory window, he could see a rosy light in thesky. At first he thought this must be a pillar of fire put there toguide him home; but it was only the glare of furnaces in amanufacturing town, not far away. When he found this out his heartcame near to break; and afterwards he pined still faster.

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　　One evening a lecture was given in the dining-room of the Orphanage.The subject was "The Holy Land," and the lecturer illustrated it withviews from the magic-lantern.Kit, who sat in one of the back rows, was moderately excited atfirst. But the views of barren hills, and sands, and ruins, andpalm-trees, and cedars, wearied him after a while. He had closed hiseyes, and the lecturer's voice became a sing-song in which his heartsearched, as it always searched, for the music of the beach; when, byway of variety--for it had little to do with the subject--thelecturer slipped in a slide that was supposed to depict an incidenton the homeward voyage--a squall in the Mediterranean.It was a stirring picture, with an inky sky, and the squall burstingfrom it, and driving a small ship heeling over white crested waves.Of course the boys drew their breath.And then something like a strangling sob broke out on the stillness,frightening the lecturer; and a shrill cry--"Don't go--oh, damn it all! don't go! Take me--take me home!"And there at the back of the room a small boy stood up on his form,and stretched out both hands to the painted ship, and shrieked andpanted.There was a blank silence, and then the matron hurried up, took himfirmly in her arms, and carried him out."Don't go--oh, for the Lord A'mighty's sake, don't go!"And as he was borne down the passages his cry sounded among theaudience like the wail of a little lost soul.The matron carried Kit to the sick-room and put him to bed.After quieting the child a bit she left him, taking away the candle.Now the sick-room was on the ground floor, and Kit lay still a veryshort while. Then he got out of bed, groped for his clothes, managedto dress himself, and, opening the window, escaped on to the quietlawn. Then he turned his face south-west, towards home and the sea--and ran.How could he tell where they lay? God knows. Ask the swallow howshe can tell, when in autumn the warm south is a fire in her brain.I believe that the sea's breath was in the face of this child ofseven, and its scent in his nostrils, and its voice in his ears,calling, summoning all the way. I only know that he ran straighttowards his home, a hundred miles off, and that next morning theyfound his canary waistcoat and snuff-coloured coat in a ditch, twomiles from the Orphanage, due south-west.

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　　Of his adventures on the road the story is equally silent, as Iwarned you. But the small figure comes into view again, a weeklater, on the hillside of the coombe above his home. And when he sawthe sea and the white beach glittering beneath him, he did not stop,even for a moment, but reeled down the hill. The child was just aliving skeleton; he had neither hat, coat, nor waistcoat; one footonly was shod, the other had worn through the stocking, and ugly redblisters showed on the sole as he ran. His face was far whiter thanhis shirt, save for a blue welt or two and some ugly red scratches;and his gaunt eyes were full of hunger and yearning, and his lipshappily babbling the curses that the ships' captains had taught him.He reeled down the hill to the cottage. The tenant was a newcomer tothe town, and had lately been appointed musketry-instructor to thebattery above. He was in the garden pruning the rose-tree, but didnot particularly notice the boy. And the boy passed without turninghis head.The tide on the beach was far out and just beginning to flow.There was the same dull plash on the pebbles, the same twinkle as thesun struck across the ripples. The sun was sinking; in ten minutesit would be behind the hill.No one knows what the waves said to Kit. But he flung himself amongthem with a choking cry, and drank the brine and tossed it over hishead, and shoulders and chest, and lay down and let the small wavesplay over him, and cried and laughed aloud till the sun went down.Then he clambered on to a rock, some way above them, and lay down towatch the water rise; and watching it, fell asleep; and sleeping, hadhis wish, and went out to the wide seas.

　　THE END.