The Penance of John Emmet
I have thought fit in this story to alter all the names involved anddisguise the actual scene of it: and have done this so carefully that,although the story has a key, the reader who should search for it wouldnot only waste his time but miss even the poor satisfaction of havingguessed an idle riddle. He whom I call Parson West is now dead. He wasan entirely conscientious man; which means that he would rather do wronghimself than persuade or advise another man--above all, a young man--todo it. I am sure therefore that in burying the body of John Emmet as hedid, and enlisting my help, he did what he thought right, though theaction was undoubtedly an illegal one. Still, the question is one forcasuists; and remembering how modest a value my old friend set on hisown wisdom, I dare say that by keeping his real name out of thenarrative I am obeying what would have been his wish. His small breachof the law he was (I know) prepared to answer for cheerfully, should thefacts come to light. He has now gone where their discovery affects himnot at all.Parson West, then, when I made his acquaintance in 188-, had for thirtyyears been vicar of the coast-parish of Lansulyan. He had come to italmost fresh from Oxford, a young scholar with a head full of Greek,having accepted the living from his old college as a step towardspreferment. He was never to be offered another. Lansulyan parish is awide one in acreage, and the stipend exiguous even for a bachelor. Fromthe first the Parson eked out his income by preparing small annotatededitions of the Classics for the use of Schools and by taking occasionalpupils, of whom in 188- I was the latest. He could not teach mescholarship, which is a habit of mind; but he could, and in the end did,teach me how to win a scholarship, which is a sum of money paidannually. I have therefore a practical reason for thinking of him withgratitude: and I believe he liked me, while despising my Latinity anddiscommending my precociousness with tobacco.His pupils could never complain of distraction. The church-town--asingle street of cottages winding round a knoll of elms which hide theVicarage and all but the spire of St. Julian's Church--stands high and amile back from the coast, and looks straight upon the Menawhidden reef,a fringe of toothed rocks lying parallel with the shore and half a miledistant from it. This reef forms a breakwater for a small inlet wherethe coombe which runs below Lansulyan meets the sea. Follow the roaddownhill from the church-town and along the coombe, and you come to awhite-washed fishing haven, with a life-boat house and short sea-wall.The Porth is its only name. On the whole, if one has to live inLansulyan parish the Porth is gayer than the church-town, where from theVicarage windows you look through the trees southward upon ships movingup or down Channel in the blue distance and the white water girdlingMenawhidden; northward upon downs where herds of ponies wander at willbetween the treeless farms, and a dun-coloured British earthwork topsthe high sky-line. Dwellers among these uplands, wringing theirlivelihood from the obstinate soil by labour which never slackens, yearin and year out, from Monday morning to Saturday night, are properlydespised by the inhabitants of the Porth, who sit half their timemending nets, cultivating the social graces, and waiting for the harvestwhich they have not sown to come floating past their doors.By consequence, if a farmer wishes to learn the spiciest gossip abouthis nearest neighbour, he must travel down to the Porth for it.And this makes it the more marvellous that what I am about to tell,happening as it did at the very gates of the Porth, should have escapedthe sharpest eyes in the place.The Vicar's custom was to read with me for a couple of hours in themorning and again for an hour and a half before dinner. We had followedthis routine rigidly and punctually for three months or so when, oneevening in June, he returned from the Porth a good ten minutes late,very hot and dusty, and even so took a turn or two up and down the roomwith his hands clasped behind his coat-tails before settling down tocorrect my iambics."John Emmet is dead," he announced, pausing before the window with hisback towards me and gazing out upon the ill-kept lawn."Wasn't he the coxswain of the life-boat?" I asked."Ah, to be sure, you never saw him, did you? He took to his bed beforeyou came . . . a long illness. Well, well, it's all over!" Parson Westsighed. "He saved, or helped to save, a hundred and fifteen lives,first and last. A hundred and fifteen lives!""I've heard something of the sort down at the Porth. A hundred andfifty, I think they said. They seemed very proud of him down there.""Why?" The Vicar faced round on me, and added after a moment abruptly--"He didn't belong to them: he was not even born in this parish.""Where then?"He disregarded the question. "Besides, the number was a hundred andfifteen: that's just the pity."I did not understand: but he had seated himself at table and was runningthrough my iambics. In the third verse he underlined a false quantitywith blue pencil and looked up for an explanation. While I confessedthe fault, his gaze wandered away from me and fell upon his fingersdrumming upon the table's edge. A slant of red sunshine touched thesignet-ring on his little finger, which he moved up and down watchingthe play of light on the rim of the collet. He was not listening.By-and-by he glanced up, "I beg your pardon--" stammered he, and leavingthe rest of my verses uncorrected, pointed with his pencil to theconcluding one. "That's not Greek," he said."It's in Sophocles," I contended: and turning up the word in "Liddelland Scott," I pushed the big lexicon under his nose.For a moment he paid no heed to the action; did not seem to grasp themeaning of it. Then for the first and last time in my acquaintance withhim he broke into a passion of temper."What do you mean, Sir? It's offensive, I tell you: a downrightoffensive, ungentlemanly thing to do! Yes, Sir, ungentlemanly!"He crumpled up my verses and tossed them into the waste-paper basket."We had better get on with our Tacitus." And "Offensive!" I heard himmuttering once more, as he picked up the book and found his place.I began to construe. His outburst had disconcerted me, and no doubt Iperformed discreditably: but glancing up in some apprehension after apiece of guess-work which even to me carried no conviction, I saw thatagain he was not attending. After this, by boldly skipping eachdifficulty as it arose I managed to cover a good deal of ground withadmirable fluency.We dined together in silence that evening, and after dinner strolled outto the big filbert-tree under which, for a few weeks in the year, ParsonWest had his dessert laid and sipped his thin port--an old common-roomfashion to which he clung. To the end of his days he had the whitecloth removed before dessert, and the fruits and the one decanter setout upon polished mahogany.I glanced at him while helping myself to strawberries and cream. He satnervously folding and refolding the napkin on his knee. By-and-by hespoke, but without looking at me."I lost my temper this afternoon, and I beg your pardon, my boy."I began to stammer my contrition for having offended him: but he cut meshort with a wave of the hand. "The fact is," he explained, "I wasworried by something quite different.""By John Emmet's death," I suggested. He nodded, and looked at mequeerly while he poured out a glass of Tarragona."He was my gardener years ago, before he set up market-gardening on hisown account.""That's queer too," said I."What's queer?" He asked it sharply."Why, to find a gardener cox'n of a life-boat.""He followed the sea in early life. But I'll tell you what is queer,and that's his last wish. His particular desire was that I, and Ialone, should screw down the coffin. He had Trudgeon the carpenter upto measure him, and begged this of me in Trudgeon's presence and thedoctor's. What's more, I consented.""That's jolly unpleasant," was my comment, for lack of a better.The Vicar sat silent for a while, staring across the lawn, while Iwatched a spider which had let itself down from a branch overhead andwas casting anchor on the decanter's rim. With his next question heseemed to have changed the subject."Where do you keep your boat now?""Renatus Warne has been putting in a new strake and painting her.I shall have her down on the beach to-morrow.""Ah, so that's it? I cast my eye over the beach this afternoon andcouldn't see her. You haven't been trying for the conger lately.""We'll have a try to-morrow evening if you'll come, Sir. I wish youwould."The Vicar, though he seldom found time for the sport, was a famousfisherman. He shook his head; and then, leaning an arm on the table,gazed at me with sudden seriousness."Look here: could you make it convenient to go fishing for conger thisnext night or two--and to go alone?"I saw that he had something more to say, and waited."The fact is," he went on after a glance towards the house, "I have aticklish job to carry through--the queerest in all my experience; andunfortunately I want help as well as secrecy. After some perplexityI've resolved to ask you: because, upon my word, you're the only personI can ask. That doesn't sound flattering--eh? But it isn't yourfitness I doubt, or your nerve. I've hesitated because it isn't fair todrag you into an affair which, I must warn you, runs counter to the lawin a small way."I let out a low whistle. "A smuggling job?" I suggested."Good Heavens, boy! What do you take me for?""I beg your pardon, then. But when you talk of a row-boat--at night--ajob that wants secrecy--breaking the law--""I'll have to tell you the whole tale, I see: and it's only fair.""Not a bit," said I stoutly. "Tell me what you want done and I'll doit. Afterwards tell me your reasons, if you care to. Indeed, Sir, I'drather have it that way, if you don't mind. I was abominablydisrespectful this afternoon--""No more about that.""But I was: and with your leave, Sir, that's the form of apology I'llchoose."And I stood up with my hands in my pockets."Nonsense, nonsense," said the Vicar, eyeing me with a twinkle.But I nodded back in the most determined manner."Your instructions, sir--that is, unless you prefer to get anotherhelper.""But I cannot," pleaded he. "That's the mischief.""Very well, then. Your instructions, please." And thus I had my way.This happened on a Tuesday. The next evening I walked down to the Porthand launched my boat. A row of idlers watched me from the long benchunder the life-boat house, and a small knot on the beach inspected myfishing-gear and lent a hand to push off. "Ben't goin' alone, be 'e?"asked Renatus Warne. "Yes," said I. "The conger'll have 'ee then, sureenough." One or two offered chaffingly to come out and search for me ifI shouldn't return before midnight; and a volley of facetious warningsfollowed me out upon the calm sea.The beach was deserted, however, when I returned. I had hooked threefine conger; and having hauled up the boat and cleaned her, I made myway back to the vicarage, well pleased, getting to bed as the clockstruck two in the morning.This was Thursday; and in the evening, between seven and eight o'clock,I launched the boat again under the eyes of the population and startedfishing on the inner grounds, well in sight of the Porth. Dusk fell,and with it the young moon dropped behind the western headland. Far outbeyond Menawhidden the riding-lights of a few drifters sparkled in thedarkness: but I had little to fear from them.The moon had no sooner disappeared than I shifted my ground, and pullingslowly down in the shore's shadow (I had greased the leathers of my oarsfor silence), ran the boat in by the point under Gunner's Meadow,beached her cunningly between two rocks, and pulled a tarpaulin over tohide her white-painted interior. My only danger now lay in blunderingagainst the coastguard: but by dodging from one big boulder to anotherand listening all the while for footsteps, I gained the withy bed at thefoot of the meadow. The night was almost pitch-black, and no one couldpossibly detect the boat unless he searched for it.I followed the little stream up the valley bottom, through an orchard,and struck away from it across another meadow and over the roundedshoulder of the hill to my right. This brought me in rear of akitchen-garden and a lonely cob-walled cottage, the front of which faceddown a dozen precipitous steps upon the road leading from Lansulyan tothe Porth. The cottage had but one window in the back, in the upperfloor; and just beneath it jutted out a lean-to shed, on the wooden sideof which I rapped thrice with my knuckles."Hist!" The Vicar leaned out from the dark window above. "Right: it'sall ready. We must stow it in the outhouse. Trudgeon is down in theroad below, waiting for me to finish."No more was said. The Vicar withdrew: after a minute I heard theplanking creak: then something white glimmered in the opening of thewindow--something like a long bundle of linen, extruded inch by inch,then lowered on to the penthouse roof and let slide slowly down towardsme."Got it?""Right." I steadied it a moment by its feet, then let it slide into myarms, and lowered it on to the gravelled path. It was the body of JohnEmmet, in his winding-sheet."Carry it into the shed," whispered the Vicar. "I must show Trudgeonthe coffin and hand him the keys. When I've got rid of him I'll comeround."Somehow, the second time of handling it was far worse than the first.The chill of the corpse seemed to strike through its linen wrappers.But I lifted it inside, shut the door upon it, and stood wiping myforehead, while the Vicar closed the window cautiously, drew the blind,and pressed-to the clasp.A minute later I heard him calling from the front, "Mr. Trudgeon--Mr.Trudgeon"; and Trudgeon's hob-nailed boots ascending the steps.Silence followed for many minutes: then a slant of candlelight faded offthe fuchsia-bush round the corner, and the two men stumbled down thestaircase--stood muttering on the doorstep while a key grated in thelock--stumbled down the steps and stood muttering in the sunken roadway.At length they said "Good-night" and parted. I listened while the soundof their footsteps died away: Trudgeon's down the hill towards thePorth, the Vicar's up towards the church-town.After this I had some painful minutes. As they dragged by, anabominable curiosity took hold of me, an itch to open the door of theshed, strike a match, and have a look at the dead face I had never seen.Then came into my mind a passage in the Republic which I had read afortnight before--how that one Leontius, the son of Aglaion, coming upone day from the Piraeus under the north wall of the city, observed somecorpses lying on the ground at the place of execution; and how he foughtbetween his desire to look and his abhorrence until at length, thefascination mastering him, he forced his eyes open with his fingers andran up exclaiming, "Look, wretches, look! Feed your fill on the fairsight!" . . . My seat was an inverted flower-pot, and clinging to it Ibegan to count. If the Vicar did not arrive before I reached fivehundred, why, then . . ."Hist!" He had fetched his compass round by the back of the garden,treading so softly that the signal sounded almost in my ear and fetchedme off my flower-pot in a nervous quake. He wore a heavy pea-jacket,and, as a smell of hot varnish announced, carried a dark lantern beneathit. He had strapped this to his waist-belt to leave both hands free.We lifted the body out and carried it across the meadow, the Vicartaking the shoulders and I the heels. And now came the real hazard ofthe night. If the coastguard or any belated wanderer should blunderupon us, we stood convicted of kidnapping a corpse, and (as the Vicarafterwards allowed) there was simply no explanation to be given.When we gained the orchard and pushed through the broken fence, everytwig that crackled fetched my heart into my mouth: and I drew my firstbreath of something like ease when at length, in the withy bed at thefoot of Gunner's Meadow, we laid our burden down behind the ruin of anold cob-wall and took a short rest before essaying the beach.But that breath was hardly drawn before I laid a warning hand on theVicar's sleeve. Someone was coming down the cliff-track: thecoastguard, no doubt. He halted on the wooden footbridge, struck amatch and lit his pipe. From our covert not ten yards away I saw theglow on his face as he shielded the match in the hollow of both hishands. It was the coastguard--a fellow called Simms. His match lit, Iexpected him to resume his walk. But no: he loitered there. For whatreason, on earth? Luckily his back was towards us now: but to me, as Icowered in the plashy mud and prayed against sneezing, it seemed thatthe damnatory smell of the Vicar's lantern must carry for half a mile atleast.And now I heard another footstep, coming from the westward, and a loosestone kicked over the cliff. Another coastguard! The pair hailed eachother, and stood on the footbridge talking together for a good threeminutes.Then to our infinite relief they parted with a "So long!" and each madeslowly off by the way he had come. It was just a meeting of the patrolsafter all.Another ten minutes must have gone by before we dared to lift the bodyagain: and after a nervous while in crossing the beach we found the boatleft high and dry by the ebb, and had an interminable job to get herdown to the water without noise. I climbed in and took the oars: theVicar lifted a sizeable stone on board and followed."The Carracks," he whispered. "That's the spot he named to me."So I pulled out towards the Carracks, which are three points of rocklying just within the main barrier of Menawhidden, where it breaks uptowards its western end into a maze of islets. While I pulled, theVicar knelt on the bottom-boards and made fast the stone to John Emmet'sfeet.Well, I need not tell the rest of our adventure at length. We reachedthe Carracks, and there the Vicar pulled out a short surplice from theimmense inner pocket of his pea-jacket, donned it, and read the burialservice in due form by the light of his dark lantern: and by the lightof it, as I arranged John Emmet's shroud, I had my first and lastglimpse of his face--a thin face, old and hollow, with greyside-whiskers: a face extraordinarily pallid: in other circumstancesperhaps not noticeable unless it were for a look of extreme wearinesswhich had lasted even into the rest of death."We therefore commit his body to the deep, to be turned into corruption,looking for the resurrection of the body (when the sea shall give up herdead), and the life of the world to come. . . ."Together we balanced it on the gunwale, and with the help of thestern-board tilted it over. It dropped, into fifteen fathoms of water.There was another funeral next day in Lansulyan churchyard--where somany have come to be buried who never in life heard the name ofLansulyan: the harvest of Menawhidden, commemorated on weather-beatenstones and, within the church, on many tablets which I used to con onSundays during the Vicar's discourses. The life-boat men had musteredin force, and altogether there was a large attendance at the graveside.At one point a fit of coughing interrupted the Vicar in his recital ofthe service. I was the one auditor, however, who understood the meaningof it.That evening we took our dessert again under the great elm. Somehow Ifelt certain he would choose this hour for his explanation: and in duecourse it came."I'm a truth-speaking man by habit," he began after a long gaze upwardsat the rooks now settling to roost and making a mighty pother of it."But I'm afraid there's no getting round the fact that this afternoon Iacted a lie. And yet, on the whole, my conscience is easy."He sipped his wine, and went on meditatively--"Morals have their court of equity as well as the law of the land: andwith us"--the Vicar was an old-fashioned Churchman--"that court is theprivate conscience. In this affair you insisted on putting yourconscience into my hands. Well, I took the responsibility, and chargemyself with any wrong you have committed, letting your confidence standto your credit, as well as the service you have done for me--andanother. Do you know the grey marble tablet on the south wall of thechurch--the Nerbuddha monument?"I nodded."'Sacred to the memory of Lieutenant-Colonel Victor Stanhope, C.B., and105 Officers and Men of Her Majesty's 2-th Regiment of Foot, lost in thewreck of the Nerbuddha, East Indiaman, on Menawhidden, January 15th,1857. . . .' Then follows a list of the officers. Underneath, if youremember, is a separate slab to the officers and crew of theNerbuddha, who behaved admirably, all the senior officers keepingorder to the last and going down with the ship."I nodded again, for I knew the inscriptions pretty well by heart."The wreck happened in the first winter of my incumbency here. Then, asnow, I had one pupil living with me, an excellent fellow. Dick Hobartwas his name, his age seventeen or thereabouts, and my business to putsome polish on a neglected education before he entered the Army.His elder brother had been a college friend of mine, and indeed ourfamilies had been acquainted for years."Dick slept in the room you now occupy. He had a habit, which I nevercured, of sitting up late over a pipe and a yellow-backed novel: and sohe happened to be dressed that night when he saw the first signal ofdistress go up from Menawhidden. He came to my room at once and calledme up: and while I tumbled out and began to dress, he ran down to Porthto give the alarm."The first signal, however, had been seen by the folks down there, andhe found the whole place in a hubbub. Our first life-boat had arrivedless than three months before; but the crew got her off briskly, andwere pulling away lustily for the reef when it occurred to a few ofthose left behind that the sea running was not too formidable for acouple of seine-boats lying high on the beach: and within five minutesthese were hauled down and manned with scratch crews--Dick Hobart amongthem."Three days of east wind had knocked up a heavy swell: but the wind wasblowing a moderate gale only--nothing to account for a big ship (as shewas already reported to be) finding herself on Menawhidden.Three signals only had been shown, and these in quick succession.We learned afterwards that she went down within twelve minutes ofstriking. She had dashed straight on the Carracks, with the wind wellbehind her beam, topmasts housed for the night, but, barring that,canvassed like a well-found ship sure of her sea-room. And the Carrackshad torn the bottom out of her."The difficulty with the life-boat and two seine-boats was to find theposition of the wreck, the night being pitch dark and dirty, and thecalls and outcries of the poor creatures being swept down the wind tothe westward. Our fellows pulled like Trojans, however, hailing andahoying as they went; and about half-way down the line of Menawhiddenthey came on the first of the Nerbuddha's boats, laden with women andchildren, in charge of the fourth officer and half-a-dozen seamen.From her they learned the vessel's name and whereabouts, and havingdirected her on her way to the Porth, hurried forward again.They passed another boat similarly laden, and presently heard thedistracting cries of swimmers, and drove straight into the wreckage andthe struggling crowd of bodies. The life-boat rescued twenty-seven, andpicked up four more on a second journey: the first seine-boat accountedfor a dozen: the second (in which Hobart pulled an oar) was lessfortunate, saving five only--and yet, as I shall tell you, my youngfriend had (and, for that matter, still has) abundant reason to bethankful for his voyage in her; for on that night he plucked from thesea the greatest treasure of his life."She--for it was a small girl of seven, and he took her from the arms ofa seaman who died soon after being lifted into the boat-turned out to bethe Colonel's daughter. She had stood by her mother's side above thegangway while the women passed down the side into the boats: for thatnoble English lady had insisted that as it was the Colonel's duty tofollow his men, so it was for the Colonel's wife to wait until everyother woman and every child had filed past. The Nerbuddha had gonedown under her as she stood there beside her husband, steadied by hishand on her shoulder. Both bodies were afterwards recovered."Altogether fifty-two were buried in this parish: other bodies werewashed ashore or picked up from time to time, some at great distances upand down the Channel. In the end the list of those unaccounted for cameto forty, or by other accounts thirty-six. That was my first experienceof what Menawhidden could do. I have had many since: but to this dayour little church--yes, even when we decorate it for harvest-festivaland pile the sheaves within the Communion rails--remains for me the darklittle building where the bodies lay in rows waiting to be identified,and where I and half-a-dozen volunteers took turns in keeping watch dayand night while the windows shook and the damp oozed down the walls."The cause of the wreck was never made clear. The helmsman had gone,and the captain (his body was among the missing), and the first, second,and third officers. But two seamen who had been successively relievedat the wheel in the early hours of the night agreed on the course set bythe captain. It was a course which must finally bring them straight onMenawhidden. Yet there was no evidence to show that the captain changedit. The men knew nothing of Channel navigation, and had simply obeyedorders. She had struck during the first mate's watch. The fourthofficer (survivor) had also been on deck. He gave evidence that hissuperior, Mr. Rands, had said nothing about the course. For his ownpart he had supposed the ship to be a good fifteen miles from the coast.They had sighted no shore-lights to warn them: but the weather was hazy.Five minutes before the catastrophe Mr. Rands had remarked that the windwas increasing, but had deferred shortening sail. The ship was an oldone, but newly rigged throughout. Her compasses had been adjusted andthe ship swung at Greenhithe, just before the voyage. Mr. Murchison,the captain, was a trusted commander of the H.E.I.C.: he came originallyfrom Liverpool, and had worked his way up in the company's service: apositive man and something of a disciplinarian, almost a martinet--not aman who would bear crossing easily. He was in his cabin, but came ondeck at once, ready dressed; and had, with Colonel Stanhope'sassistance, kept admirable order, getting out the three boats aspromptly as possible. A fourth had actually been launched, and wasbeing manned when the vessel plunged and stove her in as she went down."That is as much as needs be told about the Nerbuddha. Let me get onto the happier part of the story, that which concerns Dick Hobart andthe small girl whom by Heaven's mercy he helped to save. Her name wasFelicia--Felicia Rose Derwent Stanhope in full. Her uncle and guardian,Sir John Derwent, came down and fetched her home, with the bodies of herfather and mother. I have told you that Dick was just then waiting forhis commission, which, by the way, his family could poorly afford topurchase. Well, in recognition of his 'gallantry' (as the old gentlemanwas good enough to term it) Sir John, who possessed a good deal ofinfluence, had him gazetted within six weeks, and to the 2-th Regiment--'for which,' so ran the gracious letter bringing the news, 'you haveperformed the first of what I hope will be a long list of distinguishedservices.'"Pretty, was it not? Yes, but there's prettier to come. Felicia, whowas an only child and quite an heiress in a small way, kept up from thefirst a steady correspondence with her 'preserver': childish letters, tobegin with, but Dick kept them all. In Bombay, in Abyssinia, for a fewweeks in England (when he saw her for the first time since the wreck),then back in India again, he has told me since that the world held butone woman for him, and that was the little girl growing up to womanhoodin her Bedfordshire home."Well it all happened as you are guessing. Dick, who had inherited alittle money by this time, and was expecting his majority, returned toEngland in '72 on a long furlough. Needless to say he paid a visit toCressingham, where Felicia lived under the wing of a widowed aunt:equally needless to say what happened there. The engagement was a shortone--six weeks: and Dick flattered me immensely with an invitation tocome up and perform the ceremony."The Vicar paused, refilled his glass, and leaning back gazed up at thenow silent nests. "All this," thought I, "may be mighty interesting inits way, but what--""But what, you'll be asking, has all this to do with John Emmet?I'm coming to that. On the evening of my arrival at Cressingham, Dick,who was lodging at the village inn where I too had a room, took me overto pay my respects to the ladies. We had taken our leave and werepassing down the pretty avenue of limes to the entrance gates, when hepaused and hailed a man stooping over a fountain in the Italian gardenon our left, and apparently clearing it of dead leaves."'Hi! John Emmet!'"The man straightened his back, faced round, and came towards us,touching his hat."'This is the gentleman, John, who has come expressly to tie the knotnext Wednesday. You must know,' said Dick, turning to me, 'that MissFelicia and John Emmet are sworn friends, and he owes me a mighty grudgefor taking her away. He's been gardener here for fifteen--sixteen--howmany years is it, John?'"'Then,' said I, 'I suppose you were here before the wreck of theNerbuddha, and knew Miss Felicia's parents?'"The man gave a start, and his hat, which he had pulled off, and withthe brim of which he was fumbling, slipped from his fingers and rolledon the turf."'Oh, yes, I forgot!' put in Dick. 'I ought to have told you that Mr.West here is the Rector of Lansulyan, and was at the time of the wreck.""'Indeed, Sir!' John Emmet had recovered his hat, and confronted me witha face for which I spared a glance before bending my eyes on the daisiesat my feet. 'I--I took service here some months after that event.'"'Come, Padre'--these were the next words I heard--'if you wish to produp all the daisies on Felicia's property, arise early to-morrow andbegin. But if we're to dine at the Hall to-night it's time to begetting back to the inn and changing our clothes.'"I looked up, and my eyes fell on the retreating back of John Emmet,already half-way towards the Italian garden.""'Queer fellow, that--what's his name?--John Emmet,' said I late thatnight on our return to the inn, as Dick and I mixed our whiskey andprepared for a smoke before his sitting-room fire."'Tile loose, I fancy,' answered Dick, pausing with a lighted match inhis hand. 'I've an idea that he owes me a grudge for coming here andcarrying off Felicia.'"'What gives you that notion?'"'Well, you see he has always been a favourite of hers. She tells methat the hours she managed to steal and spend in the garden, chattingwith John Emmet while he worked, were the happiest in her childhood.He seems to have been a kind of out-of-door protector to her, and I'llbet she twisted him round her small thumb.'"'That's little enough to go upon,' was my comment. 'It struck me, onthe contrary, that the man eyed you with some affection, not to saypride.'"'Well, it's a small thing, but I can't help remembering how he took thenews of Felicia's--of our engagement. You see, it happened at afancy-dress dance.'"'What happened?'"'Don't be dense, Padre. Why, it--the engagement. The dance wasgiven by some people who live two miles from here--people calledBargrave. Felicia and I drove over. She wore an old Court dress of hergrandmother's or great-grand-mother's: I'm no hand at costumes, and canonly tell you that she looked particularly jolly in it. I went inuniform--mess uniform, that is. It's one of the minor advantages of theservice that on these occasions a man hasn't to put on a cavalier's wigand look like a goat out for a holiday. Well, as I was saying, at thisparticular dance it happened. It was daybreak when we started todrive home; a perfect midsummer morning, sun shining, dew on the hedges,and the birds singing fit to split themselves. Felicia and I had a lotto say to each other, naturally; and it occurred to us to stop thecarriage at the gates and send it on while we walked up to the housetogether. We took the path leading through the Italian garden, andthere--pretty well in the same place where you saw him this afternoon--we came on John Emmet, already out and at work: or rather he was leaningon a hoe and staring after the carriage as it moved up the avenue behindthe limes. We came on him from behind, and, I suppose, suddenly.Anyhow, we scared him. I never saw such a face in my life as he turnedon us! It went all white in an instant, and then slowly whiter.No doubt our dress was unusual: but I'm not accustomed to be taken for aghost--'"'Was it you who frightened him?'"'Yes, I think so. He kept his eyes on me, anyway: and at first, whenFelicia asked him to congratulate her, he didn't seem to hear. After abit, however, he picked up his speech and muttered something about fate,and wishing her joy--I forget what. Felicia confessed afterwards thathis face had fairly frightened her.'"'Look here,' I asked; 'it may seem an irrelevant question, but has the2-th made any changes in its uniform lately?--any important changes, Imean.'"'No: the War Office has been obliging enough to leave us alone in thatrespect: out of sight out of mind, I suppose. In point of fact we'vekept the same rig--officers and men--for something like a quarter of acentury.' He paused. 'I see what you're driving at. The man, youthink, may be an old deserter!'"'Not so fast, please. Now here's another question. You remember thenight after the wreck of the Nerbuddha: the night you took a turn inLansulyan Church, watching the bodies? You came to me in the morningwith a story which I chose to laugh at--'"'About the face at the window, you mean?' Dick gave a mock shudder.'I suppose my nerves were shaken. I've been through some queer thingssince: but upon my soul I'd as soon face the worst of them again as takeanother spell with a line of corpses in that church of yours.'"'But--the face?'"'Well, at the time I'd have sworn I saw it: peering in through the lastwindow westward in the south aisle--the one above the font. I ran out,you remember, and found nobody: then I fetched a lantern and flashed itabout the churchyard.'"'There were gravestones in plenty a man could hide behind. Should youremember the face?'"Dick considered for a while. 'No: it didn't strike me as a face somuch as a pair of eyes; I remember the eyes only. They were lookingstraight into mine.""'Well, now. I've always guessed there was something queer about thatNerbuddha business: though till now I've never told a soul my chiefreason for believing so. After you left me that night, and while I wasdressing, it occurred to me from the last of the three signals--the onlyone I saw--that the wreck must be somewhere near the Carracks, and thatFarmer Tregaskis had a seine-boat drawn up by the old pallace [1] atGunner's Meadow, just opposite the Carracks.'""'It struck me that if it were possible to knock up Tregaskis and hisboys and the farmhand who slept on the premises, and get this boatlaunched through the surf, we should reach the wreck almost as soon asthe life-boat. So I took a lantern and ran across the fields to thefarm. Lights were burning there in two or three windows, and Mrs.Tregaskis, who answered my knock, told me that her husband and the boyshad already started off--she believed for Gunner's Meadow, to launchtheir boat. There had been talk of doing so, anyhow, before they setout. Accordingly, off I pelted hot-foot for the meadow, but on reachingthe slope above it could see no lanterns either about the pallace or onthe beach. It turned out afterwards that the Tregaskis family hadindeed visited the beach, ten minutes ahead of me, but judging it beyondtheir powers to launch the boat short-handed through the surf, were bythis time on their way towards the Porth. I thought this likely enoughat the time, but resolved to run down and make sure."'Hitherto I had carried my lantern unlit: but on reaching the coombebottom I halted for a moment under the lee of the pallace-wall to strikea match. In that moment, in a sudden lull of the breakers, it seemed tome that I heard a footstep on the loose stones of the beach; and havinglit my candle hastily I ran round the wall and gave a loud hail. It wasnot answered: the sound had ceased: but hurrying down the beach with mylantern held high, I presently saw a man between me and the water'sedge. I believe now that he was trying to get away unobserved: butfinding this hopeless he stood still with his hands in his pockets, andallowed me to come up. He was bare-headed, and dressed only in shirtand trousers and boots. Somehow, though I did not recognise him, Inever doubted for a moment that the man belonged either to my own or thenext parish. I was a newcomer in those days, you remember."'"Hulloa!" said I, "where do you come from?"'"'He stared at me stupidly and jerked his thumb over his shouldertowards the west. I inferred that he came from one of the shore-farmsin that direction. He looked like a middle-aged farmer--a grizzled manwith a serious, responsible face. "But you're wet through," I said, forhis clothes were drenched."'For answer he pointed towards the surf, and lifting my lantern again,I detected a small cask floating a little beyond the breakers.Now before coming to Lansulyan I had heard some ugly tales of thewrecking done in these parts, and at the sight of this I fairly lost mytemper. 'It seems to me,' said I, "a man of your age should be ashamedof himself, lurking here for miserable booty when there are lives tosave! In God's name, if you have a spark of manhood in you, follow meto the Porth!" I swung off in a rage, and up the beach: after a momentI heard him slowly following. On the cliff track I swallowed down mywrath and waited for him to come up, meaning to expostulate more gently.He did not come up. I hailed twice, but he had vanished into the night."'Now this looked ugly. And on reflection, when I reached the Porth andheard men wondering how on earth a fine ship found herself onMenawhidden in such weather, it looked uglier yet. The fellow--now Icame to think it over--had certainly shrunk from detection.Then, thirty hours later, came your story of the face, and upset mefurther. I kept my suspicions to myself, however. The matter was toograve for random talking: but I resolved to keep eyes and ears open, andif this horrible practice of wrecking did really exist, to expose itwithout mercy."'Well I have lived some years since in Lansulyan: and I am absolutelysure now that no such horrors exist, if they ever existed.'"'But the man?' was Dick's query."'That's what I'm coming to. You may be sure I looked out for him: for,unlike you, I remembered the face I saw. Yet until to-day I have neverseen it since.'"'Until to-day?'"'Yes. The man I saw on the beach was Miss Felicia's gardener, JohnEmmet. He has shaved his beard; but I'll swear to him.'"All that Dick could do was to pull the pipe from his mouth and give along whistle. 'But what do you make of it?' he asked with a frown."'As yet, nothing. Where does the man live?'"'In a small cottage at the end of the village, just outside the gate ofthe kitchen-garden.'"'Married?'"'No: a large family lives next door and he pays the eldest girl to dosome odd jobs of housework.'"'Then to-morrow,' said I, 'I'll pay him a call.'"'Seen your man?' asked Dick next evening, as we walked up towards thehouse, where again we were due for dinner."'I have just come from him: and what's more I have a proposition tomake to Miss Felicia, if you and she can spare me an hour this evening.'"The upshot of our talk was that, a week later, as I drove home from thestation after my long railway journey, John Emmet sat by my side.He had taken service with me as gardener, and for nine years he servedme well. You'll hardly believe it"--here the Vicar's gaze travelledover the unkempt flower-beds--"but under John Emmet's hand this gardenof mine was a picture. The fellow would have half a day's work donebefore the rest of the parish was out of bed. I never knew a humancreature who needed less sleep--that's not the way to put it, though--the man couldn't sleep: he had lost the power (so he said) ever sincethe night the Nerbuddha struck."So it was that every afternoon found the day's work ended in my garden,and John Emmet, in my sixteen-foot boat, exploring the currents andsoundings about Menawhidden. And almost every day I went with him.He had become a learner--for the third time in his life; and thequickest learner (in spite of his years) I have ever known, for his mindwas bent on that single purpose. I should tell you that the TrinityHouse had discovered Menawhidden at last and placed the bell-buoy there--which is and always has been entirely useless: also that the LifeboatInstitution had listened to some suggestions of mine and werere-organising the service down at the Porth. And it was now my hopethat John Emmet might become coxswain of the boat as soon as he hadlocal knowledge to back up the seamanship and aptitude for command inwhich I knew him to excel every man in the Porth. There werejealousies, of course: but he wrangled with no man, and in the end I hadmy way pretty easily. Within four years of his coming John Emmet knewmore of Menawhidden than any man in the parish; possibly more than allthe parish put together. And to-day the parish is proud of him and hisrecord."But they do not know--and you are to be one of the four persons in theworld who know--that John Emmet was no other than John Murchison, thecaptain who lost the 'Nerbuddha'! He had come ashore in the darknesssome five minutes before I had surprised him on the beach: had comeashore clinging to the keg which I saw floating just beyond thebreakers. Then and there, stunned and confounded by the consequences ofhis carelessness, he had played the coward for the first and last timein his life. He had run away--and Heaven knows if in his shoes I shouldnot have done the same. For two nights and a day a hideous fascinationtied him to the spot. It was his face Dick had seen at the window.The man had been hiding all day in the trench by the north wall of thechurchyard; as Dick ran out with a lantern he slipped behind agravestone, and when Dick gave up the search, he broke cover and fledinland. He changed his name: let this be his excuse, he had neitherwife nor child. The man knew something of gardening: he had a couple ofpounds and some odd shillings in his pocket--enough to take him to oneof the big midland towns--Wolverhampton, I think--where he found work asa jobbing gardener. But something of the fascination which had held himlurking about Lansulyan, drove him to Cressingham, which--he learnedfrom the newspaper accounts of the wreck--was Colonel Stanhope's countryseat. Or perhaps he had some vague idea that Heaven would grant him achance to make amends. You understand now how the little Felicia becamehis idol."At Lansulyan he had but two desires. The first was to live until hehad saved as many lives as his carelessness had lost in the Nerbuddha.For it was nothing worse, but mere forgetfulness to change the course:one of those dreadful lapses of memory which baffle all Board of Tradeinquiry. You may light, and buoy, and beacon every danger along thecoast, and still you leave that small kink in the skipper's brain whichwill cast away a ship for all your care. The second of his desires youhave helped me to fulfil. He wished in death to be John Murchisonagain, and lie where his ship lies: lie with his grand error atoned for.John Emmet needs no gravestone: for John Emmet lived but to earn JohnMurchison's right to a half-forgotten tablet describing him as a braveman. And I believe that Heaven, which does not count by tally, hasgranted his wish."[1] Pilchard store.
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