Eli's Children: The Chronicles of an Unhappy Family

Part 3, Chapter XII.
A Long Sleep

If the Rector was placid and calm once more, so was not Luke Ross, whose pulses still throbbed more heavily than was their wont, as he thought of the old man’s words, and then, as it were to weave itself in with them, came the recollection of that which his father had said – that life was very short, and begging him to do all the good he could.

“It is impossible,” he cried at last. “I, too, could not bear it.”

He strode onward, walking more rapidly, for a strange feeling of dread oppressed him, and as he seemed to keep fighting against the possibility of his acceding to the Rector’s request, the words of the weak old man he had left asleep kept recurring, bidding him try to do all the good he could, for life was so very short.

“But he will forget by to-morrow that he asked me,” said Luke, half aloud. “It is a mad idea, and I could not go.”

As he reached the town, first one and then another familiar face appeared, and more than one of their owners seemed disposed to stop and speak, but Luke was too preoccupied, and he hurried on to his old home to find the housekeeper waiting for him at the door.

“How is he?” he cried, quickly, for his conscience smote him for being so long away.

“Sleeping as gently as a baby, sir,” the woman said. “Oh, what lovely grapes, sir. He will be so pleased with them. The doctor came in soon after you had gone out, and went and looked at him, but he said he was not to be disturbed on any account, so that he has not had his beef tea.”

Luke found the table spread for his benefit as he crossed the room to go gently up-stairs and bend over the bed, where, as the housekeeper had said, old Michael Ross was sleeping as calmly as an infant. So Luke stole down once more to partake of the substantial meal prepared on his special behalf, the housekeeper refusing to seat herself at the same table with him.

“No, sir,” she said, stiffly, “I know my duty to my betters too well for that. Michael Ross is an old neighbour, and knew my master well before he died, poor man.”

“Do you think one of us ought to sit with my father?” said Luke, quickly, as the woman’s last words seemed to raise up a fresh train of troublous thought.

“I’ll go and sit with him, sir, if you like,” said the woman, “but both doors are open, and the ceiling is so thin that you can almost hear him breathe.”

“Perhaps it is not necessary,” said Luke, quickly. “You’ll excuse my being anxious.”

“As if I didn’t respect you the more for it, Mr Luke, sir,” said the woman, warmly; “but as I was saying, I always had my meals with your dear father, sir.”

“Then why not sit down here?”

“Because things have changed, sir. We all know how you have got to be a famous man, and are rising still, sir; and we are proud of what you’ve done, and so I’d rather wait upon you, if you please.”

Luke partook of his meal mechanically, listening the while for any sound from up-stairs, and twice over he rose and went up to find that the sleep was perfectly undisturbed.

Then he reseated himself, and went on dreamily, thinking of the old man’s words.

“Life is very short, my boy. Do all the good you can.”

Over and over again he kept on repeating old Michael’s words, when they were not, with endless variations, repeating themselves.

Then came the possibility of his going down with Sage to see Cyril Mallow.

“No; it is impossible,” he said again. “Why should I go? What right have I there? I cannot – I will not – go.”

He rose, and went up-stairs to rest himself by the old man’s bed, finding that he had not moved; and here Luke sat, thinking of the past, of the change from busy London, his chambers, and the briefs he had to read. Then he went back again in the past, seeming to see in the darkness of the room, partly illumined by a little shaded lamp, the whole of his past career, till a feeling of anger seemed to rise once more against Cyril Mallow, against Sage, and the fate that had treated him so ill.

Just then the housekeeper came up and looked at the old man, nodding softly, as if to say, “He is all right,” and then she stole out again on tiptoe.

Again the interweaving thoughts kept forming strange patterns before the watcher’s eyes, as hour after hour calmly glided by till close on midnight. Misery, despair, disappointment, seemed to pervade Luke’s brain, to the exclusion of all thought of his great success, and the troubles that must fall into each life, and then came a feeling of calm and repose, as he thought once more of the words of the patient old man beside whose bed he was seated.

“I’ll try, father,” he suddenly said, “I’ll try. Self shall be forgotten, for the sake of my promises to you.”

He had risen with the intention of going down on his knees by the old man’s bed, when the housekeeper entered the room.

“I’ve brought you a cup of tea, sir,” she whispered. “It’s just on the stroke of two, sir, and I thought if you’d go to bed now I’d sit up with him.”

“I mean to sit up with him to-night,” said Luke, quietly; “but ought he to sleep so long as this at once?”

“Old people often do, sir, and it does ’em good. If you lean over him, sir, you can hear how softly he is a breath – Oh, Mr Luke, sir!”

“Quick! the doctor,” cried Luke, excitedly. “No; I’ll go,” and he rushed to the door.

There was no need, for old Michael Ross was fast asleep – sleeping as peacefully and well as those sleep who calmly drop into the gentle rest prepared for the weary when the fulness of time has come.

Part 3, Chapter XIII.
Sounds in the Fog

A week had passed since old Michael Ross had been conveyed to his final resting-place, followed by all the tradesmen of the place, and a goodly gathering beside, for in the Woldshire towns a neighbour is looked upon as a neighbour indeed. While he lives he may be severely criticised, perhaps hardly dealt with; but come sickness or sorrow, willing hands are always ready with assistance; and when the saddest trial of all has passed, there is always a display of general sympathy for the bereft.

On this occasion pretty well every shop was closed and blind drawn down.

And now the quaint country funeral was past, the cakes had been eaten, and after seeing, as well as he could, to his father’s affairs, Luke had said his farewells to those who were only too eager to manifest their hearty goodwill.

The vehicle that was to take him to the station was waiting at his door, and he stepped in with his portmanteau, Portlock being the driver; and then, with a rattle of hoofs and a whirr of wheels, they crossed the marketplace, followed by a hearty cheer, while at door after door as they passed there were townspeople waving hands and kerchiefs, till the dog-cart was out of sight.

Luke could not help feeling moved at the manifestations of friendliness, though, at the same time, he smiled, and thought of how strange these quaint, old-style ways of the people, far removed from the civilising influence of the railway, seemed to him after his long sojourn in the metropolis.

As he thought, he recalled the solemn processions of hearses and mourning coaches, with velvet and plumes, and trampling black, long-tailed horses, common in London; and in his then mood he could not help comparing them with the funeral of the week before, when six of his fellow-townsmen lifted old Michael Ross’s coffin by the handles, and bore it between them, hanging at arm’s length, through the town, with the church choir, headed by their leader, singing a funeral hymn.

There seemed something far more touching and appealing to the senses in these simple old country ways; and as Luke Ross pondered on them his spirit was very low.

The Churchwarden respected his silence, and did not speak save to his horse, a powerful beast that trotted sharply; and so they went on till Luke was roused from his reverie by the sudden check by the roadside.

He might have been prepared for it if he had given the matter a thought, but he had been too much wrapped up in his troubles to think that if they were to pick up Mrs Cyril Mallow on the road it would probably be at the end of this lane.

It came to him now, though, like a shock, as Portlock drew rein, and Luke recalled like a flash how, all those years ago, he had leaped down from the coach light-hearted and eager, to follow the course of the lane, picking the scattered wild flowers as he went, till he came upon the scene which seemed to blast his future life.

But there was no time for further thought, and he drove away these fancies of the past as he leaped down and assisted Sage Mallow, who was waiting closely veiled with her aunt, to mount into the seat beside her uncle, while he took the back.

Then a brief farewell was taken, all present being too full of their own thoughts to speak, and almost in silence they drove over to the county town, where one of the old farmer’s men had preceded them with the luggage, and was in waiting to bring back the horse.

It was on a brilliant morning, a couple of days later, that the party of three reached the old West of England city, from whence they would have to hire a fly to take them across to the great prison at Peatmoor. The journey had been made almost in silence, Sage being still closely veiled, and seeming to be constantly striving to hide the terrible emotion from which she suffered.

At such times as they had stopped for refreshment Luke had seemed to have completely set aside the past, treating her with a quiet deference, and attending to her in a gentle, sympathetic way which set her at her ease, while in her heart she thanked him for his kindness.

Their plans had been that Portlock was to-be their companion to the prison gates, where he would wait with the fly while Luke escorted the suffering woman within, of course leaving her to meet her husband.

As they drove on with the battered old horse that drew the fly, surmounting slowly the successive hills that had to be passed before they reached the bleak table-land overlooking the far-reaching sea where the prison was placed, Luke Ross could not help thinking how strange it was that, with all around so bright and fair in the morning sun, they alone should be moody and sorrowful of heart. He glanced at the Churchwarden, who returned the gaze, but did not speak, only sank back farther in his corner of the shabby vehicle. He turned his eyes almost involuntarily upon Sage, but there was no penetrating the thick crape veil she wore, and had he met her gaze, the chances are that he would have felt it better not to speak.

Sage was bearing up bravely, but Luke could see that from time to time some throb of emotion shook her frame, and on one of these occasions he softly opened the door of the fly, and, without stopping the driver, leaped out to walk beside the horse up the steep moorland hill they were ascending.

“Hard work for a horse, zir,” said the man; “and these roads are so awful bad. Gove’ment pretends to make ’em wi’ convict labour, but the work is never half done.”

“They might break the stones a little smaller,” said Luke, absently.

“Smaller, zir!” said the driver, as the fly jolted on, “why they arn’t broke at all. Fine view here, zir,” he said as he stopped to let the panting horse get its wind.

“Splendid,” said Luke, as he gazed at the wide prospect of moorland and sea. There was scarcely a tree to be seen, but the great expanse was dotted with huge blocks of grey granite, weather-stained, lichened, and worn by centuries of battling with the storm. The prevailing tint was grey, but here and there were gorgeous patches of purple heather, golden broom, and ruddy orange-yellow gorse, with creamy streaks of bog moss, heath pools, and green clumps of water plants glistening in the sun.

On his left was the deep blue sea, dotted with white-sailed yachts and trawlers, with luggers spreading each a couple of cinnamon-red sails, and seeming to lie motionless upon the glassy surface, for the ripple and heave were invisible from the great height at which they were.

“Ay, it’s a fine view from up here, zir, and though I don’t know much about other counties, I don’t s’pose there’s many as can beat this.”

“It is fine,” said Luke, whose thoughts were changed by the brightness of the scene, and the brisk, bracing air sent a thrill of pleasure through his frame.

“They do say, zir, as you can zee a matter of forty mile from a bit higher up yonder on a clear time,” continued the man, who appeared glad of a chance to talk; “but we shan’t zee that, nor half on it, to-day, zir, for there’s a zea-fog coming on, a reg’lar thick one. Look, zir, you can zee it come sweeping along over the zea like zmoke.”

“It is curious,” said Luke, watching the strange phenomenon, as by degrees it blotted out boat after boat, ship after ship, till it reached the land, and seemed to begin ascending the slopes.

“Much as we shall do to reach the prison, zir, before it’s on us,” said the man. “You zee it’s all up-hill, zir, or we could get on faster.”

“But it will not matter, will it?” said Luke, “You know the road?”

“Oh, I know the way well enough, zir, but it comes on zo thick sometimes that all you can do is to get down and lead the horse, feeling like, to keep on the road.”

“But they don’t last long, I suppose?”

“Half-an-hour zome of ’em, zir, zome an hour, zome for a whole day. There’s no telling when a fog comes on how long it’s going to be. All depends on the wind, zir.”

“They are only inconvenient, these fogs, I suppose?” said Luke, as they went on; “there is nothing else to mind.”

“Lor’, no, zir, nothing at all if zo be as you’ve brought a bit o’ lunch with you. When I get into a thick one I generally dra’ up to the zide of the road and put on the horse’s nose-bag, to let him amuse himself while I have a pipe.”

“And where does the prison lie now?” said Luke, after a pause.

“That’s it, zir,” said the man, pointing with his whip, “just where you zee the fog crossing. They’ll be in it before us, and p’raps we shall be in it when they’re clear. Perhaps you’ll get inside, zir, now; I’m going to trot the horse a bit.”

“I’ll get up beside you,” said Luke, quietly; and he took his place by the driver.

“Fine games there is up here zometimes, zir,” said the man, who was glad to find a good listener. “The convicts are out in gangs all over the moor, zir, working under the charge of warders. Zome’s chipping stone, and zome’s making roads; and now and then, zir, when there’s a real thick fog, zome of ’em makes a run for it, and no wonder. I should if I had a chance, for they have a hard time of it up there.”

“And do they get away?”

“Not often, zir,” said the driver, as, with a half-repressed shudder, Luke listened to the man’s words, for like a flash they had suggested to him the possibility of Cyril Mallow trying to effect his escape. “You zee the warders look pretty zharp after them, and their orders are strict enough. Once they catch sight of a man running and he won’t surrender, they zhoot him down.”

“So I have heard.”

“Yes, zir, they zhoot un down like as if they were dogs. They’re bad uns enough, I dessay, and deserves it, but zomehow it zeems to go again the grain, zir, that it do, to zhoot ’em.”

“Then you would not shoot one if you were a warder?” said Luke, hardly knowing what he spoke.

“I wouldn’t if I was a zojer, sir. Poor beggars’ liberty’s sweet, and may be if they got away they’d turn over a new leaf. No, zir, I wouldn’t zhoot ’em, and I wouldn’t let out to the warders which way a runaway had gone. I’d scorn it,” said the man, giving his horse a tremendous lash in his excitement.

“It does seem a cowardly thing to do.”

“Cowardly, zir? It’s worse,” said the man, indignantly. “I call it the trick of a zneak; but the people about here do it fast enough for the zake of the reward.”

“There, zir, I told you so,” continued the man, after a quarter of an hour’s progress, during which he had been pointing out pieces of scenery to inattentive ears. “The fog’ll be on uz in vive minutes more.”

They were descending a sharp hill as the man spoke, and in half the time he had named they were in the midst of a dense vapour, so thick that Luke fully realised the necessity for stopping if they wished to avoid an accident.

“I think we can get down here, zir, and across the next bit of valley, and then it will perhaps be clearer as we get higher up. Anyhow we’ll try.”

Keeping the horse at a walk, he drove cautiously on, finished the descent, went along a level for a short distance, and then they began once more to ascend.

“I’ll try it for two or three hundred yards, zir,” said the man, “and then if it don’t get better we must stop and chance it.”

What he meant by chancing it the driver did not explain, but as with every hundred yards they went the fog seemed thicker, he suddenly drew the rein and pulled his horse’s nose-bag from beneath the seat.

“If you’ll excuse me, zir, I’d get inside if I was you, and wait patiently till the wind springs up. These fogs are very raw and cold, and rheumaticky to strangers, and you arn’t got your great-coat on.”

“Hush! man, what’s that?” said Luke, excitedly, as just then came the dull distant report of some piece.

“Zhooting,” said the man, coolly, as he took out the horse’s bit and strapped on his nose-bag.

“Do you mean that shot was fired at a convict?” said Luke, hoarsely.

“Safe enough,” said the man.

Luke leaped down.

“I think I’d draw up the windows, Mr Portlock,” he said. “The fog is very dank and chilly now.”

“Won’t you come in?”

“Thanks, no. Draw up the windows. I’ll stop and chat with the man. I dare say the mist will soon pass away.”

As the windows were drawn up, Luke uttered a sigh of relief, for it was horrible to him that Sage should hear what was going on, and just then there was another report, evidently nearer.

“I thought they’d be at it,” said the man. “Mind me smoking, zir?”

“No: go on; but don’t speak so loudly. I don’t want the lady inside to hear.”

“All right, zir. Beg pardon,” said the man, lighting his pipe. “They’re sure to make a bolt for it on a day like this. Hear that, zir? I hope they won’t zhoot this way, for a rifle ball goes a long way zometimes.”

“Yes, I heard,” said Luke, feeling an unwonted thrill of excitement in his veins. “That shot could not have been far off.”

“Half a mile, or maybe a mile, zir,” replied the man. “It’s very hard to tell in a fog. Zounds is deceiving. There goes another. It’s hot to-day, and no mistake.”

Just then they heard a distant shout or two answered in another direction, and once more all was still.

“Let’s see, zir,” said the driver, who stood leaning against his horse, and puffing unconcernedly away, perfectly cool, while Luke’s blood seemed rising to fever heat; “it’s just about zigs months since that I was driving along here after a fog, and I come along a gang carrying one of their mates on a roughly-made stretcher thing, with half-a-dozen warders with loaded rifles marching un along. The poor chap they was carrying had made a bolt of it, zir, but they had zeen and fired at him; but he kept on, and they didn’t find him for three hours after, and then they run right upon him lying by one of the little ztreams. Poor chap, he was bleeding to death, and that makes ’em thirsty, they zay. Anyhow, they found him scooping up the water with his hand, and drinking of it, and as he come up alongside of me he zmiled up at me like, and then he zhut his eyes.”

“Did he die?” asked Luke, hoarsely.

“There was an inquest on him two days after, zir. Lor! they think nothing of shooting down a man.”

The fog was now denser than ever – so thick, that from the horses head where Luke stood the front of the fly was hardly visible. He was thinking with a chill of horror of the possibility of any such incident occurring that day, when once more there was a shout and a shot, followed by another; and, to Luke’s horror, the window of the fly was let down.

“Why, what do they find to shoot here?” said the Churchwarden, sharply; “hares or wild deer?”

“Men, zir,” said the driver, quickly; and as he spoke there was a loud panting noise, and a dimly-seen figure darted out of the mist at right angles to the road and dashed heavily against the horse, to fall back with a heavy groan.