Chapter 15

IN THE TROUGH OF THE WINDS

The three days following the events recorded in the preceding chapter
were notable to us all. Because my own affairs and experiences are of the
least account, I shall record them first: they will at least throw a
little light on the history of people who appeared previously in this
tale, and disappeared suddenly when the 'Fulvia' reached London, to make
room for others.

The day after Phil Boldrick's death I received a letter from Hungerford,
and also one from Belle Treherne. Hungerford had left the Occidental
Company's service, and had been fortunate enough to get the position of
first officer on a line of steamers running between England and the West
Indies. The letter was brusque, incisive, and forceful, and declared
that, once he got his foot firmly planted in his new position, he would
get married and be done with it. He said that Clovelly the novelist had
given a little dinner at his chambers in Piccadilly, and that the guests
were all our fellow-passengers by the 'Fulvia'; among them Colonel Ryder,
the bookmaker, Blackburn the Queenslander, and himself.

This is extracted from the letter:

   . . . Clovelly was in rare form.--Don't run away with the idea
   that he's eating his heart out because you came in just ahead in the
   race for Miss Treherne. For my part--but, never mind!--You had
   phenomenal luck, and you will be a phenomenal fool if you don't
   arrange for an early marriage. You are a perfect baby in some
   things. Don't you know that the time a woman most yearns for a man
   is when she has refused him? And Clovelly is here on the ground,
   and they are in the same set, and though I'd take my oath she would
   be loyal to you if you were ten thousand miles from here for ten
   years, so far as a promise is concerned, yet remember that a promise
   and a fancy are two different things. We may do what's right for
   the fear o' God, and not love Him either. Marmion, let the marriage
   bells be rung early--a maiden's heart is a ticklish thing. . . .
   But Clovelly was in rare form, as I said; and the bookmaker, who
   had for the first time read a novel of his, amiably quoted from it,
   and criticised it during the dinner, till the place reeked with
   laughter. At first every one stared aghast ("stared aghast!"--how
   is that for literary form?); but when Clovelly gurgled, and then
   haw-hawed till he couldn't lift his champagne, the rest of us
   followed in a double-quick. And the bookmaker simply sat calm and
   earnest with his eye-glass in his eye, and never did more than
   gently smile. "See here," he said ever so candidly of Clovelly's
   best character, a serious, inscrutable kind of a man, the dignified
   figure in the book--"I liked the way you drew that muff. He was
   such an awful outsider, wasn't he? All talk, and hypocrite down to
   his heels. And when you married him to that lady who nibbled her
   food in public and gorged in the back pantry, and went 'slumming'
   and made shoulder-strings for the parson--oh, I know the kind!"--
   [This was Clovelly's heroine, whom he had tried to draw, as he said
   himself, "with a perfect sincerity and a lovely worldly-mindedness,
   and a sweet creation altogether."] "I said, that's poetic justice,
   that's the refinement of retribution. Any other yarn-spinner would
   have killed the male idiot by murder, or a drop from a precipice, or
   a lingering fever; but Clovelly did the thing with delicate torture.
   He said, 'Go to blazes,' and he fixed up that marriage--and there
   you are! Clovelly, I drink to you; you are a master!"
   Clovelly acknowledged beautifully, and brought off a fine thing
   about the bookmaker having pocketed L5000 at the Derby, then
   complimented Colonel Ryder on his success as a lecturer in London
   (pretty true, by the way), and congratulated Blackburn on his coming
   marriage with Mrs. Callendar, the Tasmanian widow. What he said of
   myself I am not going to repeat; but it was salaaming all round,
   with the liquor good, and fun bang over the bulwarks.
   How is Roscoe? I didn't see as much of him as you did, but I liked
   him. Take my tip for it, that woman will make trouble for him some
   day. She is the biggest puzzle I ever met. I never could tell
   whether she liked him or hated him; but it seems to me that either
   would be the ruin of any "Christom man." I know she saw something
   of him while she was in London, because her quarters were next to
   those of my aunt the dowager (whose heart the gods soften at my
   wedding!) in Queen Anne's Mansions, S.W., and who actually liked
   Mrs. F., called on her, and asked her to dinner, and Roscoe too,
   whom she met at her place. I believe my aunt would have used her
   influence to get him a good living, if he had played his cards
   properly; but I expect he wouldn't be patronised, and he went for a
   "mickonaree," as they say in the South Seas. . . . Well, I'm off
   to the Spicy Isles, then back again to marry a wife. "Go thou and
   do likewise."
   By the way, have you ever heard of or seen Boyd Madras since he
   slipped our cable at Aden and gave the world another chance?
   I trust he will spoil her wedding--if she ever tries to have one.
   May I be there to see!

Because we shall see nothing more of Hungerford till we finally dismiss
the drama, I should like to say that this voyage of his to the West
Indies made his fortune--that is, it gave him command of one of the
finest ships in the English merchant service. In a storm a disaster
occurred to his vessel, his captain was washed overboard, and he was
obliged to take command. His skill, fortitude, and great manliness, under
tragical circumstances, sent his name booming round the world; and,
coupled, as it was, with a singular act of personal valour, he had his
pick of all vacancies and possible vacancies in the merchant service, boy
(or little more) as he was. I am glad to say that he is now a happy
husband and father too.

The letter from Belle Treherne mentioned having met Clovelly several
times of late, and, with Hungerford's words hot in my mind, I determined,
though I had perfect confidence in her, as in myself, to be married at
Christmas-time. Her account of the courtship of Blackburn and Mrs.
Callendar was as amusing as her description of an evening which the
bookmaker had spent with her father, when he said he was going to marry
an actress whom he had seen at Drury Lane Theatre in a racing drama. This
he subsequently did, and she ran him a break-neck race for many a day,
but never making him unhappy or less resourceful. His verdict, and his
only verdict, upon Mrs. Falchion had been confided to Blackburn, who in
turn confided it to Clovelly, who passed it on to me.

He said: "A woman is like a horse. Make her beautiful, give her a high
temper and a bit of bad luck in her youth, and she'll take her revenge
out of life; even though she runs straight, and wins straight every time;
till she breaks her heart one day over a lost race. After that she is
good to live with for ever. A heart-break for that kind is their
salvation: without it they go on breaking the hearts of others."

As I read Belle's and Hungerford's letters my thoughts went back
again--as they did so often indeed--to the voyage of the 'Fulvia', and
then to Mrs. Falchion's presence in the Rocky Mountains. There was a
strange destiny in it all, and I had no pleasant anticipations about the
end; for, even if she could or did do Roscoe no harm, so far as his
position was concerned, I saw that she had already begun to make trouble
between him and Ruth.

That day which saw poor Boldrick's death put her in a conflicting light
to me. Now I thought I saw in her unusual gentleness, again an unusual
irony, an almost flippant and cruel worldliness; and though at the time
she was most touched by the accident, I think her feeling of horror at it
made her appear to speak in a way which showed her unpleasantly to Mr.
Devlin and his daughter. It may be, however, that Ruth Devlin saw further
into her character than I guessed, and understood the strange
contradictions of her nature. But I shall, I suppose, never know
absolutely about that; nor does it matter much now.

The day succeeding Phil's death was Sunday, and the little church at
Viking was full. Many fishers had come over from Sunburst. It was evident
that people expected Roscoe to make some reference to Phil's death in his
sermon, or, at least, have a part of the service appropriate. By a
singular chance the first morning lesson was David's lamentation for Saul
and Jonathan. Roscoe had a fine voice. He read easily, naturally--like a
cultivated layman, not like a clergyman; like a man who wished to convey
the simple meaning of what he read, reverently, honestly. On the many
occasions when I heard him read the service, I noticed that he never
changed the opening sentence, though there were, of course, others from
which to choose. He drew the people to their feet always with these
words, spoken as it were directly to them:

   "When the wicked man turneth away from the wickedness that he hath
   committed, and doeth that which is lawful and right, he shall save
   his soul alive."

I noticed this morning that he instantly attracted the attention of every
one, and held it, with the first words of the lesson:

   "The beauty of Israel is slain upon thy high places: how are the
   mighty fallen!"

It seemed to me as if the people at first almost tried to stop breathing,
so intense was the feeling. Mrs. Falchion was sitting very near me, and
though she had worn her veil up at first, as I uncharitably put it then,
to disconcert him, she drew it rather quickly down as his reading
proceeded; but, so far as I could see, she never took her eyes off his
face through the whole service; and, impelled in spite of myself, I
watched her closely. Though Ruth Devlin was sitting not far from her, she
scarcely looked that way.

Evidently the text of the sermon was not chosen that it might have some
association with Phil's death, but there was a kind of simple grandeur,
and certainly cheerful stalwartness, in his interpretation and practical
rendering of the text:

   "Who is this that cometh from Edom, with dyed garments from Bozrah?
   . . . travelling in the greatness of his strength? I that speak
   in righteousness, mighty to save."

A man was talking to men sensibly, directly, quietly. It was impossible
to resist the wholesome eloquence of his temperament; he was a revelation
of humanity: what he said had life.

I said to myself, as I had before, Is it possible that this man ever did
anything unmanly?

After the service, James Devlin--with Ruth--came to Roscoe and myself,
and asked us to lunch at his house. Roscoe hesitated, but I knew it was
better for him not to walk up the hills and back again immediately after
luncheon; so I accepted for us both; and Ruth gave me a grateful look.
Roscoe seemed almost anxious not to be alone with Ruth--not from any
cowardly feeling, but because he was perplexed by the old sense of coming
catastrophe, which, indeed, poor fellow, he had some cause to feel. He
and Mr. Devlin talked of Phil's funeral and the arrangements that had
been made, and during the general conversation Ruth and I dropped behind.

Quite abruptly she said to me: "Who is Mrs. Falchion?"

"A widow--it is said--rich, unencumbered," I as abruptly answered.

"But I suppose even widows may have pedigrees, and be conjugated in the
past tense," was the cool reply. She drew herself up a little proudly.

I was greatly astonished. Here was a girl living most of her life in
these mountains, having only had a few years of social life in the East,
practising with considerable skill those arts of conversation so much
cultivated in metropolitan drawing-rooms. But I was a very dull fellow
then, and had yet to learn that women may develop in a day to wonderful
things.

"Well," I said in reply, "I suppose not. But I fear I cannot answer
regarding the pedigree, nor a great deal about the past, for I only met
her under two years ago."

"And yet I have imagined that you knew her pretty well, and that Mr.
Roscoe knew her even better--perhaps," she said suggestively.

"That is so," I tried to say with apparent frankness, "for she lived in
the South Seas with her father, and Roscoe knew her there."

"She is a strange woman, and quite heartless in some ways; and yet, do
you know, I like her while I dislike her; and I cannot tell why."

"Do not try to tell," I answered, "for she has the gift of making people
do both.--I think she likes and dislikes herself--as well as others."

"As well--as others," she replied slowly. "Yes, I think I have noticed
that. You see," she added, "I do not look at people as most girls of my
age: and perhaps I am no better for that. But Mrs. Falchion's
introduction to me occurred in such peculiar circumstances, and the
coincidence of your knowing her was so strange, that my interest is not
unnatural, I suppose."

"On the contrary," I said, "I am only surprised that you have restrained
your curiosity so much and so long. It was all very strange; though the
meeting was quite to be expected, as Mrs. Falchion herself explained that
day. She had determined on coming over to the Pacific Coast; this place
was in her way; it is a fashionable resort; and she stood a good chance
of finding old friends."

"Yes--of finding--old friends," was the abstracted reply. "I like Miss
Caron, her companion, very much better than--most women I have met."

This was not what she was going to say, but she checked herself, lest she
might be suspected of thinking uncharitably of Mrs. Falchion. I, of
course, agreed with her, and told her the story of Galt Roscoe and Hector
Caron, and of Justine's earnestness regarding her fancied debt to Roscoe.

I saw that the poison of anxiety had entered the girl's mind; and it
might, perhaps, bear fruit of no engaging quality. In her own home,
however, it was a picture to see her with her younger sisters and
brothers, and invalid mother. She went about very brightly and sweetly
among them, speaking to them as if she was mother to them all, angel of
them all, domestic court for them all; as indeed she was. Here there
seemed no disturbing element in her; a close observer might even have
said (and in this case I fancy I was that) that she had no mind or heart
for anything or anybody but these few of her blood and race. Hers was a
fine nature--high, wholesome, unselfish. Yet it struck me sadly also, to
see how the child-like in her, and her young spirit, had been so early
set to the task of defence and protection: a mother at whose breasts a
child had never hung; maternal, but without the relieving joys of
maternity.

I knew that she would carry through her life that too watchful, too
anxious tenderness; that to her last day she would look back and not
remember that she had a childhood once; because while yet a child she had
been made into a woman.

Such of the daughters of men make life beautiful; but themselves are
selfish who do not see the almost intolerable pathos of unselfishness and
sacrifice. At the moment I was bitter with the thought that, if Mrs.
Falchion intended anything which could steal away this girl's happiness
from her, even for a time, I should myself seek to retaliate--which was,
as may appear, in my power. But I could not go to Mrs. Falchion now and
say: "You intend some harm to these two: for God's sake go away and leave
them alone!" I had no real ground for making such a request. Besides, if
there was any catastrophe, any trouble, coming, or possible, that might
hasten it, or, at least, give it point.

I could only wait. I had laid another plan, and from a telegram I had
received in answer to one I had sent, I believed it was working. I did
not despair. I had, indeed, sent a cable to my agent in England, which
was to be forwarded to the address given me by Boyd Madras at Aden. I had
got a reply saying that Boyd Madras had sailed for Canada by the Allan
Line of steamers. I had then telegraphed to a lawyer I knew in Montreal,
and he had replied that he was on the track of the wanderer.

All Viking and Sunburst turned out to Phil Boldrick's funeral. Everything
was done that he had requested. The great whistle roared painfully,
revolvers and guns were fired over his grave, and the new-formed
corporation appeared. He was buried on the top of a foot-hill, which, to
this day, is known as Boldricks' Own. The grave was covered by an immense
flat stone bearing his name. But a flagstaff was erected near, no stouter
one stands on Beachy Head or elsewhere,--and on it was engraved:

               PHIL BOLDRICK,
          Buried with Municipal Honours on
          the Thirtieth day of June 1883.
        This to his Memory, and for the honour of
             Viking and Sunburst.

"Padre," said a river-driver to Galt Roscoe after the rites were
finished, "that was a man you could trust."

"Padre," added another, "that was a man you could bank on, and draw your
interest reg'lar. He never done a mean thing, and he never pal'd with a
mean man. He wasn't for getting his teeth on edge like some in the
valley. He didn't always side with the majority, and he had a gift of
doin' things on the square."

Others spoke in similar fashion, and then Viking went back to work, and
we to our mountain cottage.

Many days passed quietly. I saw that Galt Roscoe wished to speak to me on
the subject perplexing him, but I did not help him. I knew that it would
come in good time, and the farther off it was the better. I dreaded to
hear what he had to tell, lest, in spite of my confidence in him, it
should really be a thing which, if made public, must bring ruin. During
the evenings of these days he wrote much in his diary--the very book that
lies by me now. Writing seemed a relief to him, for he was more cheerful
afterwards. I know that he had received letters from the summer hotel,
but whether they were from Mrs. Falchion or Justine Caron I was not then
aware, though I afterwards came to know that one of them was from
Justine, asking him if she might call on him. He guessed that the request
was connected with Hector Caron's death; and, of course, gave his
consent. During this time he did not visit Ruth Devlin, nor did he
mention her name. As for myself, I was sick of the whole business, and
wished it well over, whatever the result.

I make here a few extracts from Roscoe's diary, to show the state of his
mind at this period:

   Can a man never get away from the consequences of his wickedness,
   even though he repents? . . . Restitution is necessary as well
   as repentance; but when one cannot make restitution, when it is
   impossible--what then? I suppose one has to reply, Well, you have
   to suffer, that is all. . . . Poor Alo! To think that after all
   these years, you can strike me!
   There is something malicious in the way Mercy Falchion crosses my
   path. What she knows, she knows; and what she can do if she
   chooses, I must endure. I cannot love Mercy Falchion again, and
   that, I suppose, is the last thing she would wish now. I cannot
   bring Alo back. But how does that concern her! Why does she hate
   me so? For, underneath her kindest words,--and they are kind
   sometimes,--I can detect the note of enmity, of calculating scorn.
   . . . I wish I could go to Ruth and tell her all, and ask her to
   decide if she can take a man with such a past. . . . What a
   thing it is to have had a clean record of unflinching manliness at
   one's back!

I add another extract:

   Phil's story of Danger Mountain struck like ice at my heart. There
   was a horrible irony in the thing: that it should be told to me, of
   all the world, and at such a time. Some would say, I suppose, that
   it was the arrangement of Providence. Not to speak it profanely, it
   seems to be the achievement of the devil. The torture was too
   malicious for God. . . .
   Phil's letter has gone to his pal at Danger Mountain. . . .

The fourth day after the funeral Justine Caron came to see Galt Roscoe.
This was the substance of their conversation, as I came to know long
afterwards.

"Monsieur," she said, "I have come to pay something of a debt which I owe
to you. It is a long time since you gave my poor Hector burial, but I
have never forgotten, and I have brought you at last--you must not shake
your head so--the money you spent. . . . But you MUST take it. I should
be miserable if you did not. The money is all that I can repay; the
kindness is for memory and gratitude always."

He looked at her wonderingly, earnestly, she seemed so unworldly,
standing there, her life's ambition not stirring beyond duty to her dead.
If goodness makes beauty, she was beautiful; and yet, besides all that,
she had a warm, absorbing eye, a soft, rounded cheek, and she carried in
her face the light of a cheerful, engaging spirit.

"Will it make you happier if I take the money?" he said at last, and his
voice showed how she had moved him.

"So much happier!" she answered, and she put a roll of notes into his
hand.

"Then I will take it," he replied, with a manner not too serious, and he
looked at the notes carefully; "but only what I actually spent, remember;
what I told you when you wrote me at Hector's death; not this ample
interest. You forget, Miss Caron, that your brother was my friend."

"No I cannot forget that. It lives with me," she rejoined softly. But she
took back the surplus notes. "And I have my gratitude left still," she
added, smiling.

"Believe me, there is no occasion for gratitude. Why, what less could one
do?"

"One could pass by on the other side."

"He was not fallen among thieves," was his reply; "he was among
Englishmen, the old allies of the French."

"But the Priests and the Levites, people of his own
country--Frenchmen--passed him by. They were infamous in falsehood, cruel
to him and to me.--You are an Englishman; you have heart and kindness."

He hesitated, then he gravely said: "Do not trust Englishmen more than
you trust your own countrymen. We are selfish even in our friendships
often. We stick to one person, and to benefit that one we sacrifice
others. Have you found all Englishmen--and WOMEN unselfish?" He looked at
her steadily; but immediately repented that he had asked the question,
for he had in his mind one whom they both knew, too well, perhaps; and he
added quickly: "You see, I am not kind."

They were standing now in the sunlight just outside the house. His hands
were thrust down in the pockets of his linen coat; her hands opening and
shutting her parasol slightly. They might, from their appearance, have
been talking of very inconsequent things.

Her eyes lifted sorrowfully to his. "Ah, monsieur," she rejoined, "there
are two times when one must fear a woman." She answered his question more
directly than he could have conjectured. But she felt that she must warn
him.

"I do not understand," he said.

"Of course you do not. Only women themselves understand that the two
times when one must fear a woman are when she hates, and when she
loves--after a kind. When she gets wicked or mad enough to hate, either
through jealousy or because she cannot love where she would, she is
merciless. She does not know the honour of the game. She has no pity.
Then, sometimes when she loves in a way, she is, as you say, most
selfish. I mean a love which--is not possible. Then she does some mad
act--all women are a little mad sometimes. Most of us wish to be good,
but we are quicksilver. . . ."

Roscoe's mind had been working fast. He saw she meant to warn him against
Mrs. Falchion. His face flushed slightly. He knew that Justine had
thought well of him, and now he knew also that she suspected something
not creditable or, at least, hazardous in his life.

"And the man--the man whom the woman hates?"

"When the woman hates--and loves too, the man is in danger."

"Do you know of such a man?" he almost shrinkingly said.

"If I did I would say to him, The world is wide. There is no glory in
fighting a woman who will not be fair in battle. She will say what may
appear to be true, but what she knows in her own heart to be false--false
and bad."

Roscoe now saw that Justine had more than an inkling of his story.

He said calmly: "You would advise that man to flee from danger?"

"Yes, to flee," she replied hurriedly, with a strange anxiety in her
eyes; "for sometimes a woman is not satisfied with words that kill. She
becomes less than human, and is like Jael."

Justine knew that Mrs. Falchion held a sword over Roscoe's career; she
guessed that Mrs. Falchion both cared for him and hated him too; but she
did not know the true reason of the hatred--that only came out
afterwards. Woman-like, she exaggerated in order that she might move him;
but her motive was good, and what she said was not out of keeping with
the facts of life.

"The man's life even might be in danger?" he asked.

"It might."

"But surely that is not so dreadful," he still said calmly.

"Death is not the worst of evils."

"No, not the worst; one has to think of the evil word as well. The evil
word can be outlived; but the man must think of those who really love
him--who would die to save him--and whose hearts would break if he were
killed. Love can outlive slander, but it is bitter when it has to outlive
both slander and death. It is easy to love with joy so long as both live,
though there are worlds between. Thoughts fly and meet; but Death makes
the great division. . . . Love can only live in the pleasant world."

Very abstractedly he said: "Is it a pleasant world to you?"

She did not reply directly to that, but answered: "Monsieur, if you know
of such a man as I speak of, warn him to fly." And she raised her eyes
from the ground and looked earnestly at him. Now her face was slightly
flushed, she looked almost beautiful.

"I know of such a man," he replied, "but he will not go. He has to answer
to his own soul and his conscience. He is not without fear, but it is
only fear for those who care for him, be they ever so few. And he hopes
that they will be brave enough to face his misery, if it must come. For
we know that courage has its hour of comfort. . . . When such a man as
you speak of has his dark hour he will stand firm."

Then with a great impulse he added: "This man whom I know did wrong, but
he was falsely accused of doing a still greater. The consequence of the
first thing followed him. He could never make restitution. Years went by.
Some one knew that dark spot in his life--his Nemesis."

"The worst Nemesis in this life, monsieur, is always a woman," she
interrupted.

"Perhaps she is the surest," he continued. "The woman faced him in the
hour of his peace and--" he paused. His voice was husky.

"Yes, 'and,' monsieur?"

"And he knows that she would ruin him, and kill his heart and destroy his
life."

"The waters of Marah are bitter," she murmured, and she turned her face
away from him to the woods. There was no trouble there. The birds were
singing, black squirrels were jumping from bough to bough, and they could
hear the tapping of the woodpecker. She slowly drew on her gloves, as if
for occupation.

He spoke at length as though thinking aloud: "But he knows that, whatever
comes, life has had for him more compensations than he deserves. For, in
his trouble, a woman came, and said kind words, and would have helped him
if she could."

"There were TWO women," she said solemnly.

"Two women?" he repeated slowly.

"The one stayed in her home and prayed, and the other came."

"I do not understand," he said: and he spoke truly.

"Love is always praying for its own, therefore one woman prayed at home.
The other woman who came was full of gratitude, for the man was noble,
she owed him a great debt, and she believed in him always. She knew that
if at any time in his life he had done wrong, the sin was without malice
or evil."

"The woman is gentle and pitiful with him, God knows."

She spoke quietly now, and her gravity looked strange in one so young.

"God knows she is just, and would see him fairly treated. She is so far
beneath him! and yet one can serve a friend though one is humble and
poor."

"How strange," he rejoined, "that the man should think himself miserable
who is befriended in such a way! Mademoiselle, he will carry to his grave
the kindness of this woman."

"Monsieur," she added humbly, yet with a brave light in her eyes, "it is
good to care whether the wind blows bitter or kind. Every true woman is a
mother, though she have no child. She longs to protect the suffering,
because to protect is in her so far as God is. . . . Well, this woman
cares that way. . . ." She held out her hand to say good-bye. Her look
was simple, direct, and kind. Their parting words were few and
unremarkable.

Roscoe watched Justine Caron as she passed out into the shade of the
woods, and he said to himself: "Gratitude like that is a wonderful
thing." He should have said something else, but he did not know, and she
did not wish him to know: and he never knew.