ONE day at Arle -- a
tiny scattered fishing hamlet on the north- western English coast -- there
stood at the door of one of the cottages near the shore a woman leaning against
the lintel-post and looking out: a woman who would have been apt to attract a
stranger's eye, too -- a woman young and handsome. This was what a first glance
would have taken in; a second would have been apt to teach more and leave a
less pleasant impression. She was young enough to have been girlish, but she
was not girlish in the least. Her tall, lithe, well-knit figure was braced
against the door-post with a tense sort of strength; her handsome face was just
at this time as dark and hard in expression as if she had been a woman with
years of bitter life behind her; her handsome brows were knit, her lips were
set; from head to foot she looked unyielding and stern of purpose.
And neither form nor
face belied her. The earliest remembrances of the coast people concerning Meg
Lonas had not been over-pleasant ones. She had never been a favorite among
them. The truth was they had half feared her, even as the silent, dogged, neglected
child who used to wander up and down among the rocks and on the beach, working
harder for her scant living than the oldest of them. She had never a word for
them, and never satisfied their curiosity upon the subject of the treatment she
received from the ill-conditioned old grandfather who was her only living
relative, and this last peculiarity had rendered her more unpopular than
anything else would have done. If she had answered their questions they might
have pitied her; but as she chose to meet them with stubborn silence, they
managed to show their dislike in many ways, until at last it became a settled
point among them that the girl was an outcast in their midst. But even in those
days she gave them back wrong for wrong and scorn for scorn; and as she grew
older she grew stronger of will, less prone to forgive her many injuries and
slights, and more prone to revenge them in an obstinate, bitter fashion. But as
she grew older she grew handsomer too, and the fisher boys who had jeered at
her in her childhood were anxious enough to gain her good-will.
The women flouted her
still, and she defied them openly; the men found it wisest to be humble in
their rough style, and her defiance of them was more scornful than her defiance
of their mothers and sisters. She would revenge herself upon them, and did,
until at last she met a wooer who was tender enough, it seemed, to move her. At
least so people said at first; but suddenly the lover disappeared, and two or
three months later the whole community was electrified by her sudden marriage
with a suitor whom she had been wont to treat worse than all the rest. How she
treated him after the marriage nobody knew. She was more defiant and silent
than ever, and gossipers gained nothing by asking questions. So at last she was
left alone.
It was not the face of
a tender wife waiting for a loving husband, the face that was turned toward the
sea. If she had hated the man for whom she watched she could not have seemed
more unbending. Ever since her visitor had left her (she had had a visitor
during the morning) she had stood in the same place, even in the same position,
without moving, and when at last the figure of her husband came slouching
across the sands homeward she remained motionless still.
And surely his was not
the face of a happy husband. Not a handsome face at its dull best, it was
doubly unprepossessing then, as, pale and breathless, he passed the stern form
in the door-way, his nervous, reluctant eyes avoiding hers.
"Yo'll find yo're
dinner aw ready on th' table," she said to him as he passed in.
Everything was neat
enough inside. The fireplace was clean and bright, the table was set tidily,
and the meal upon it was good enough in its way; but when the man entered he
cast an unsteady, uncomprehending glance around, and when he had flung himself
into a chair he did not attempt to touch the food, but dropped his face upon
his arm on the table with a sound like a little groan.
She must have heard it,
but she did not notice it even by a turn of her head, but stood erect and
steadfast until he spoke to her. She might have been waiting for his words --
perhaps she was.
"Tha canst come in
an' say what tha has to say an' be done wi' it," he said at last, in a
sullen, worn-out fashion.
She turned round then
and faced him, harder to be met in her rigid mood than if she had been a
tempest.
"Tha knows what I
ha' getten to say," she answered, her tone strained and husky with
repressed fierceness. "Aye! tha knows it well enough. I ha' not much need
to tell thee owt. He comn here this morning an' he towd me aw I want to know
about thee, Seth Lonas -- an' more too."
"He comn to
me," put in the man.
She advanced towards
the table and struck it once with her hand.
"Tha'st towd me a
power o' lies," she said. "Tha's lied to me fro' first to last to
serve thy own eends, an' tha'st gained 'em -- tha'st lied me away fro' th' man
as wur aw th' world to me, but th' time's comn now when thy day's o'er an' his
is comn agen. Ah! thou bitter villin! Does ta mind how tha comn an' towd me Dan
Morgan had gone to th' fair at Lake wi' that lass o' Barnegats? That wor a lie
an' that wor th' beginnin'. Does ta mind how tha towd me as he made light o' me
when th' lads an' lasses plagued him, an' threeped 'em down as he didna mean to
marry no such like lass as me -- him as wor ready to dee fur me? That wor a lie
an' that wor th' eendin', as tha knew it would be, fur I spurned him fro' me
th' very neest day, an' wouldna listen when he tried to straighten out. But he
got at th' truth at last when he wor fur fro' here, an' he browt th' truth back
to me to-day, an' theer's th' eend fur thee -- husband or no."
The man lay with his
head upon his arms until she had finished, and then he looked up all white and
shaken and blind.
"Wilt ta listen if
I speak to thee?" he asked.
"Aye," she
answered, "listen to more lies!"
And she slipped down
into a sitting posture on the stone door- step, and sat there, her great eyes
staring out seaward, her hands lying loose upon her knee, and trembling.
There was something
more in her mood than resentment. In this simple gesture she had broken down as
she had never broken down in her life before. There was passionate grief in her
face, a wild sort of despair, such as one might see in a suddenly-wounded,
untamed creature. Hers was not a fair nature. I am not telling the story of a
gentle, true-souled woman -- I am simply relating the incidents of one bitter
day whose tragic close was the ending of a rough romance.
Her life had been a
long battle against the world's scorn; she had been either on the offensive or
the defensive from childhood to womanhood, and then she had caught one glimpse
of light and warmth, clung to it yearningly for one brief hour, and lost it.
Only to-day she had
learned that she had lost it through treachery. She had not dared to believe in
her bliss, even during its fairest existence; and so, when light-hearted,
handsome Dan Morgan's rival had worked against him with false stories and false
proofs, her fierce pride had caught at them, and her revenge had been swift and
sharp. But it had fallen back upon her own head now. This very morning handsome
Dan had come back again to Arle, and earned his revenge, too, though he had
only meant to clear himself when he told her what chance had brought to light.
He had come back -- her lover, the man who had conquered and sweetened her
bitter nature as nothing else on earth had power to do -- he had come back and
found her what she was -- the wife of a man for whom she had never cared, the
wife of the man who had played them both false, and robbed her of the one poor
gleam of joy she had known. She had been hard and wild enough at first, but
just now, when she slipped down upon the door-step with her back turned to the wretched
man within -- when it came upon her that, traitor as he was, she herself had
given him the right to take her bright-faced lover's place, and usurp his
tender power -- when the fresh sea-breeze blew upon her face and stirred her
hair, and the warm, rare sunshine touched her, even breeze and sunshine helped
her to the end, so that she broke down into a sharp, sharp sob, as any other
woman might have done, only that the repressed strength of her poor warped
nature made it a sob sharper and deeper than another woman's would have been.
"Yo mought ha'
left me that!" she said. "Yo mought ha' left it to me! There wur
other women as would ha' done yo, there wur no other man on earth as would do
me. Yo knowed what my life had been, an' how it wur hand to hand between other
folk an' me. Yo knowed how much I cared fur him an' what he wur to me. Yo
mought ha' let us be. I nivver harmed yo. I wouldna harm yo so sinful cruel
now."
"Wilt ta
listen?" he asked, laboring as if for breath.
"Aye," she
answered him, "I'll listen, fur tha canna hurt me worser. Th' day fur
that's past an' gone."
"Well," said
he, "listen an' I'll try to tell yo. I know it's no use, but I mun say a
word or two. Happen yo didna know I loved yo aw' yo're life -- happen yo didna,
but it's true. When yo wor a little lass gatherin' sea-weed on th' sands I
watched yo when I wor afeared to speak -- afeared lest yo'd gi' me a sharp
answer, fur yo wor ready enow wi' 'em, wench. I've watched yo fur hours when I
wur a great lubberly lad, an' when yo gettin, [sic] to be a woman it wur th'
same thing. I watched yo an' did yo many a turn as yo knowed nowt about. When
yo wur searchin' fur drift to keep up th' fire after th' owd mon deed an' left
yo alone, happen yo nivver guessed as it wor me as heaped little piles i' th'
nooks o' th' rocks so as yo'd think 'at th' tide had left it theer -- happen yo
didn't, but it wor true. I've stayed round th' old house many a neet feared
summat mought harm yo, an' yo know yo nivver gave me a good word, Meg. An' then
Dan comn an' he made way wi' yo as he made way wi' aw th' rest -- men an' women
an' children. He nivver worked an' waited as I did -- he nivver thowt an'
prayed as I did; everything come easy wi' him -- everything allus did come easy
wi' him, an' when I seed him so light-hearted an' careless about what I wor
cravin' it run me daft an' blind. Seemt like he couldna cling to it like I did,
an' I begun to fight agen it, an' when I heerd about that lass o' Barnegats I
towd yo, an' when I seen yo believed what I didna believe mysen it run me
dafter yet, an' I put more to what he said, an' held back some, an' theer it
wor an' theer it stands, an' if I've earnt a curse, lass, I've getten it, fur
-- fur I thowt yo'd been learnin, [sic] to care fur me a bit sin' we wor wed,
an' God knows I've tried to treat yo fair an' kind i' my poor way. It worna Dan
Morgan's way, I know -- his wur a better way than mind, th' sun shone on him
somehow -- but I've done my best an' truest sin'."
"Yo've done yo're
worst," she said. "Th' worst yo could do wor to part us, an' yo did
it. If yo'd been half a mon yo wouldna ha' been content wi' a woman yo'd
trapped with sayin' 'Aye,' an' who cared less for yo than she did fur th' sand
on th' sea-shore. What's what yo've done sin' to what yo did afore? Yo cannot
wipe that out and yo cannot mak' me forget. I hate yo, an' th' worse because I
wor beginnin' to be content a bit. I hate mysen. I ought to ha' knowed" --
wildly -- "he would ha' knowed whether I wor true or false, poor chap --
he would ha' knowed."
She rocked herself to
and fro for a minute, wringing her hands in a passion of anguish worse than any
words, but a minute later she turned on him all at once.
"All 's o'er
between yo an' me," she said with fierce heat; "do yo know that? If
yo wor half a mon yo would."
He sat up and stared at
her humbly and stupidly.
"Eh?" he said
at last.
"Theer's not a mon
i' Arle as is not more to me now than tha art," she said. "Some on
'em be honest, an' I canna say that o' thee. Tha canst get thee gone or I'll go
mysen. Tha knows't me well enow to know I'll ne'er forgie thee for what tha's
done. Aye" -- with the passionate hand-wringing again -- "but that
wunnot undo it."
He rose and came to
her, trembling like a man with the ague.
"Yo dunnot mean
that theer, Meg," he said slowly. "You dunnot mean it word fur word.
Think a bit."
"Aye but I
do," she answered him, setting her white teeth, "word fur word."
"Think again,
wench." And this time he staggered and caught hold of the door-post.
"Is theer nowt as'll go agen th' wrong? I've lived wi' thee nigh a year,
an' I've loved thee twenty -- is theer nowt fur me? Aye, lass, dunnot be too
hard. Tha was allus harder than most womankind; try an' be a bit softer like
to'rds th' mon as risked his soul because he war a mon an' darena lose thee.
Tha laid thy head on my shoulder last neet. Aye, lass -- lass, think o' that
fur one minnit."
Perhaps she did think
of it, for surely she faltered a little -- what woman would not have faltered
at such a moment? -- but the next, the memory of the sunny half-boyish face she
had clung to with so strong a love, rushed back upon her and struck her to the
heart. She remembered the days when her life had seemed so full that she had
feared her own bliss; she remembered the gallant speeches and light-hearted
wiles, and all at once she cried out in a fierce impassioned voice: "I'll
ne'er forgie thee," she said -- "I'll ne'er forgie thee to th' last
day o' my life. What for should I? Tha's broke my heart, thou villian -- tha's
broke my heart." And the next minute she had pushed past him and rushed
into the house.
For a minute or so
after she was gone the man stood leaning against the door with a dazed look in
his pale face. She meant what she said: he had known her long enough to
understand that she never forgave -- never forgot. Her unbroken will and
stubborn strength had held her to enmities all her life, and he knew she was
not to be won by such things as won other women. He knew she was harder than
most women, but his dull nature could not teach him how bitter must have been
the life that rendered her so. He had never thought of it -- he did not think
of it now. He was not blaming her, and he was scarcely blaming himself. He had
tried to make her happy and had failed. There were two causes for the heavy
passion of misery that was ruling him, but neither of them was remorse.
His treachery had
betrayed him, and he had lost the woman he had loved and worked for. Soul and
body were sluggish alike, but each had its dull pang of weight and
wretchedness.
"I've come to th'
eend now surely," he said, and, dropping into her seat, he hid his face.
As he sat there a
choking lump rose in his throat with a sudden click, and in a minute or so more
he was wiping away hot rolling tears with the back of his rough hand.
"I'm forsook
somehow," he said -- "aye, I'm forsook. I'm not th' soart o' chap to
tak' up wi' th' world. She wor all th' world I cared fur, an' she'll ne'er
forgie me, for she's a hard un -- she is. Aye! but I wur fond o' her! I wonder
what she'll do -- I do wonder i' my soul what she's gettin' her mind on!"
It did not occur to him
to call to her or go and see what she was doing. He had always stood in some
dull awe of her, even when she had been kindest, and now it seemed that they
were too far apart for any possibility of approach at reconciliation. So he sat
and pondered heavily, the sea air blowing upon him fresh and sweet, the sun
shining soft and warm upon the house, and the few common flowers in the strip
of garden whose narrow shell walks and borders he had laid out for her himself
with much clumsy planning and slow labor.
Then he got up and took
his rough working-jacket over his arm.
"I mun go down to
th' Mary Anne," he said, "an' work a bit, or we'll ne'er get her
turned o'er afore th' tide comes in. That boat's a moit o' trouble." And
he sighed heavily.
Half-way to the gate he
stopped before a cluster of ground honeysuckle, and perhaps for the first time
in his life was conscious of a sudden curious admiration for them.
"She's powerful
fond o' such like bits o' things -- posies an' such like," he said.
"Thems some as I planted to please her on th' very day as we were wed.
I'll tak' one or two. She's most fond on 'em -- fur such a hard un."
And when he went out he
held in his hand two or three slender stems hung with the tiny pretty humble
bells. Who knows whether some subtle influence at work in soul or body, or even
the air he breathed, did not prompt the novel mood. . . . . . . .
He had these very bits
of simple blossoms in his hand when he went down to where the Mary Anne lay on
the beach for repairs. So his fellow-workmen said when they told the story
afterwards, remembering even this trivial incident.
He was in a strange
frame of mind, too, they noticed, silent and heavy and absent. He did not work
well, but lagged over his labor, stopping every now and then to pass the back
of his hand over his brow as if to rouse himself.
"Yo look as if yo
an' th' missus had had a fallin' out an' yo'n getten th' worst o' th'
bargain," one of his comrades said by way of rough jest.
They were fond of
joking with him about his love for his handsome taciturn wife. But he did not
laugh this time as he usually did.
"Mind thy own
tackle, lad," he said dully, "an' I'll mind mine."
From that time he
worked steadily among them until it was nearly time for the tide to rise. The
boat they were repairing had been a difficult job to manage, as they could only
work between tides, and now being hurried they lingered longer than usual. At
the last minute they found it must be moved, and so were detained.
"Better leave her
until th' tide ebbs," said one, but the rest were not of the same mind.
"Nay," they
argued, "it'll be all to do o'er again if we do that. Theer's plenty o'
time if we look sharp enow. Heave again, lads."
Then it was that with
the help of straining and tugging there came a little lurch, and then it was
that as the Mary Anne slipped over on her side one of the workers slipped with
her, slipped half underneath her with a cry, and lay on the sand, held down by
the weight that rested on him.
With his cry there
broke out half a dozen others, and the men rushed up to him with frightened
faces.
"Are yo hurt,
Seth, lad?" they cried. "Are yo crushed or owt?"
The poor fellow stirred
a little and then looked up at them pale enough.
"Bruised a
bit," he answered them, "an' sick a bit, but I dunnot think theer's
any bones broke. Look sharp, chaps, an' heave her up. She's a moit o' weight on
me."
They went to work again
one and all, so relieved by his words that they were doubly strong, but after
toiling like giants for a while they were compelled to pause for breath. In falling
the boat had so buried herself in the sand that she was harder to move than
ever. It had seemed simple enough at first, but it was not so simple, after
all. With all their efforts they had scarcely stirred her an inch, and their
comrade's position interfered with almost every plan suggested. Then they tried
again, but this time with less effect than before, through their fatigue. When
they were obliged to pause they looked at each other questioningly, and more
than one of them turned a trifle paler, and at last the wisest of them spoke
out.
"Lads," he
said, "we canna do this oursens. Run for help, Jem Coulter, an' run wi'
thy might, fur it wunnot be so long afore th' tide'll flow."
Up to this time the man
on the sands had lain with closed eyes and set teeth, but when he heard this
his eyes opened and he looked up.
"Eh!" he
said, in that blind, stupid fashion. "What's that theer tha's sayin'
Mester?"
"Th' tide,"
blundered the speaker. "I wor tellin' him to look sharp, that's aw."
The poor fellow moved
restlessly.
"Aye! aye!"
he said. "Look sharp -- he mun do that. I didna think o' th' tide."
And he shut his eyes again with a faint groan.
They strove while the
messenger was gone; they strove when he returned with assistance; they strove
with might and main, until not a man among them had the strength of a child,
and the boldest of them were blanching with a fearful, furtive excitement none
dared to show. A crowd had gathered round by this time -- men willing and
anxious to help, women suggesting new ideas and comforting the wounded man in
rough earnest style, children clinging to their mothers' gowns and looking on
terror-stricken. Suddenly, in the midst of one of their mightiest efforts, a
sharp childish voice piped out from the edge of an anxious group a brief
warning that struck terror to every heart that beat among them.
"Eh!
Mesters!" it said, "th' tide's creepin' up a bit."
The men looked round
with throbbing pulses, the women looked also, and one of the younger ones broke
into a low cry. "Lord ha' mercy!" she said, "it'll sweep around
th' Bend afore long an' -- an' -- and she ended with a terror in her voice
which told its own tale without other words.
The truth forced itself
upon them all then. Women began to shriek and men to pray, but, strange to say,
the man whose life was at stake lay silent, though with ashen lips about which
the muscles were tensely drawn.
His dull eyes searched
every group in a dead despair that was yet a passion, in all its stillness.
"How long will it
be," he asked slowly at last -- "th' tide? Twenty minutes?"
"Happen so,"
was the answer. "An' lad, lad! we canna help thee. We'n tried our best,
lad" -- with sobs even from the uncouth fellow who spoke. "Theer is
na one on us but ud leave a limb behind to save thee, but theer is na time --
theer is na -- "
One deep groan and he
lay still again -- quite still. God knows what weight of mortal agony and
desperate terror crushed him in that dead, helpless pause.
Then his eyes opened as
before.
"I've thowt o'
deein'," he said with a queer catch of his breath. "I've thowt o'
deein', an' I've wondered how it wor an' what it felt like. I never thowt o'
deein' like this here." Another pause and then --
"Which o' yo
lads'll tell my missus?"
"Ay! poor chap,
poor chap!" wailed the women. "Who on 'em will?"
"Howd tha noise,
wenches," he said hoarsely. "Yo daze me. Theer is na time to bring
her here. I'd ha' liked to ha' said a word to her. I'd ha' liked to ha' said
one word; Jem Coulter -- " raising his voice -- "canst tha say it fur
me?"
"Aye," cried
the man, choking as he spoke, "surely, surely." And he knelt down.
"Tell her 'at if
it wor bad enow -- this here -- it wor not so bad as it mought ha' been -- fur
me. I mought ha' fun it worser. Tell her I'd like to ha' said a word if I could
-- but I couldna. I'd like to ha' heard her say one word as happen she would
ha' said if she'd been here, an' tell her 'at if she had ha' said it th' tide
mought ha' comn an' welcome -- but she didna, an' theer it stands." And
the sob that burst from his breast was like the sob of a death-stricken child.
"Happen" -- he said next -- "happen one o' yo women foak say a
bit o' a prayer -- yo're not so fur fro' safe sand but yo can reach it --
happen one o' yo ha' a word or two as yo could day -- such like as yo teach
yo're babbies."
Among these was one who
had -- thank God, thank God! -- and so, amid wails and weeping, rough men and
little children alike knelt with uncovered heads and hidden eyes while this one
woman faltered the prayer that was a prayer for a dying man; and when it was
ended, and all rose glancing fearfully at the white line of creeping foam, this
dying man for whom they had prayed lay upon his death-bed of sand the quietest
of them all -- quiet with a strange calm.
"Bring me my
jacket," he said, "an' lay it o'er my face. Theer's a bit o' a posie
in th' button-hole. I getten it out o' th' missus's garden when I comn away.
I'd like to hold it i' my hand if it's theer yet."
And as the long line of
white came creeping onward they hurriedly did as he told them -- laid the rough
garment over his face and gave him the humble dying flowers to hold, and having
done this and lingered to the last moment, one after the other dropped away
with awe-stricken souls until the last was gone. And under the arch of sunny
sky the little shining waves ran up the beach, chasing each other over the
glittering sand, catching at shells and sea-weed, toying with them for a moment
and then leaving them, rippling and curling and whispering, but creeping --
creeping -- creeping. . . . . . . .
They gave his message
to the woman he had loved with all the desperate strength of his dull yet
unchanging nature; and when the man who gave it to her saw her wild, white face
and hard-set lips, he blundered upon some dim guess as to what that single word
might have been, but the sharpest of them never knew the stubborn anguish that,
following and growing day by day, crushed her fierce will and shook her heart.
She was as hard as ever, they thought; but they were none of them the men or
women to guess at the long-dormant instinct of womanhood and remorse that the
tragedy of this one day of her life had awakened. She had said she would never
forgive him, and perhaps her very strength made it long before she did; but
surely some subtle chord was touched by those heavy last words, for when,
months later, her first love came back, faithful and tender, with his old tale
to tell, she would not listen.
"Nay, lad,"
she said, "I amna a feather to blow wi' th' wind. I've had my share o'
trouble wi' men foak, an' I ha' no mind to try again. Him as lies i' th'
churchyard loved me i' his way -- men foak's way is apt to be a poor un -- an'
I'm wore out wi' life. Dunnot come here courtin' -- tak' a better woman."