: 
 
 { 

 
 Sea Wrack
 
 Sea Wrack 
 
 BY 
 
 Vere Hutchinson 
 
 F. D. GOODCHILD 
 
 TORONTO 
 1922
 
 Copyright, 1922, by 
 THE CENTUBY Co. 
 
 PRINTED IN V. a. A.
 
 To 
 D. M. B. B. 
 
 WHO BELIEVED IN IT 
 WITH PATIENCE 
 BEYOND WORDS 
 Sept. 1920-Sept. 1921 
 
 2136030
 
 "Deep calleth unto deep at the noise of Thy water- 
 spouts ; all Thy waves and Thy billows are gone over me." 
 Psalm xlii.
 
 BOOK ONE 
 
 SEA WRACK
 
 SEA WRACK 
 
 IT all happened years back when I was a younger 
 man and my beard less thin and gray. I was, in 
 fact, respectably journeying toward the middle-aged 
 period, when circumstance, or fate, have it as you 
 will, took charge of me. It is certain I was weaker 
 about the joints when the drama was ended. As you 
 know I am, and always will be, a nomad of uncertain 
 employment with an ill-bred way of doing one job one 
 day and trying another the next. Sheer boredom made 
 me follow up an advertisement for a drawing-master 
 at a school in Lincoln, somewhere about the year 1835. 
 Sheer boredom and circumstance in the shape of a 
 devil of a storm put me off the track forever. 
 
 I have seen storms before, east and west, north 
 and south, hot and cold. But that night in the Fens! 
 I tell you it was the witch's hour with the broomstick ; 
 it was a devil's triumph! November and you 
 know what November is like in England! But 
 that November was like a mad dog yelling and foaming 
 its way abroad. There was snow and there was rain : 
 
 3
 
 4 SEA WRACK 
 
 slashing, cutting, biting rain, and frozen, jagged snow. 
 But the wind there was the poison, that was the mad- 
 ness! No trumpet sounded on high could have been 
 like the trumpetings of that wind! No shrieking in 
 hell like the shriekings of that night! It came like 
 wings, great storming, battering wings, outspread 
 and thundering around the earth ; it came like laughter 
 bawling, brazen laughter as of a drunken man bel- 
 lowing among the roof-tops! 
 
 We were hugging the coast, and hugging it too 
 close for even my taste. It was impossible to see a 
 road, much less keep to it, and the chaise and horses 
 simply wallowed their way through drifting snow and 
 mud slithered along, drifted and plunged and pitched 
 like a ship rather than a carriage. 
 
 Therefore, I was n't so surprised when we stopped 
 dead and the postboy, with water pouring about him, 
 poked his head in at the window and screamed he 
 could n't get on. 
 
 "We 'd best turn off and put up some're !" 
 
 I was as wet as he, for the snow had found its way 
 into the chaise, and I sat in a river of it and looked like 
 a kind of waterspout. 
 
 I told him to stop where he pleased, but to put 
 some quickness into it unless he wanted me to turn into 
 an iceberg. He muttered something about a "bit of a 
 village somewhere around," and we struggled on our 
 way again. 
 
 Where we went, or how, I could never say. But 
 we seemed to curve somewhere, and the wind to veer
 
 SEA WRACK 5 
 
 a little, and then come straight at us to clutch at that 
 lumping snow and batter it dead and sure into the 
 drenched faces of those poor brutes of horses; I could 
 feel them clawing with their sodden feet and rocking 
 against each other for some foothold, and by the Lord ! 
 that boy must have been a marvel to have got them 
 down that lane ! First one lamp went then the other ; 
 and now without one jolt of light we staggered and 
 stumbled our miserable way. Any moment and I 
 expected we should be lifted clean off the ground and 
 swirled abroad by that terrific wind any second I 
 expected us to be reduced to mere fragments, maimed 
 and broken by its pitiless strength. And it was ex- 
 actly as I was giving myself up to this forlorn imag- 
 ination that, with a sharp, twisting crack, one of the 
 rickety windows smashed into bits and I was spit- 
 ting beneath a cloud of snow and fragments of broken 
 glass. I thought this was the end and so it was, but 
 different from my idea. We stopped dead, and I could 
 dimly see a bit of a light I could even smell unmis- 
 takable, certain, the sea. 
 
 Well, it was an inn, a cheerless, evil-looking place, 
 with a toothless hag of a woman and a white-faced, sly- 
 looking devil of a boy her son. They could give me 
 a bed, but that was all. I said I smelled the sea. I 
 was pretty nearly standing in it. It slushed about their 
 kitchen and, together with the snow, drowned every 
 vestige of fire they 'd ever had. Apparently this was 
 nothing in the the coast villages on the Fens. You 
 see, they had sprung up on little or no decent founda-
 
 6 SEA WRACK 
 
 tion, and with virtually no shelter from sea or dike. 
 And they were queer stubborn folk, those who lived 
 in them, snarling against all idea of progress, prefer- 
 ring apparently the sea in their cottages and flood over 
 their lands. Superstition it may have been, or possibly 
 laziness. They clung doggedly to their moving fisher- 
 ies and wild shootings ; it was sufficient for them. So 
 when the farming folk gradually came down from the 
 hills when the Government began to drain the marshes, 
 their bitterness reached uncomfortably high. It came 
 to righting on some parts of the coast and they had 
 to let the soldiers loose ; then gradually gave in savagely 
 and sullenly, like beasts being tamed then of a sud- 
 den lashing out, 
 
 But all this I learned later on. For the moment here 
 I was in this boat of an inn, and I might have been 
 in that chaise for all the comfort it could offer. It 
 was no use arguing with those two who bossed it: 
 they saw nothing unusual in a puddle for a fire, 
 and I suppose what was sufficient for them was for 
 me, or any other passer-by. 
 
 After a lot of muttering they gave me a good dose 
 of rum, which I swallowed down eagerly enough, you 
 may be sure, and followed the unhealthy-looking son 
 to the room they had to offer me a barn of a place 
 this, with a barn of a bed and the usual pool for the 
 hearth ; but by this time I was used to such little pleas- 
 antries, and even the cracked window, hitched as it 
 was by cord and wire, an easy leakage for the wet to 
 trickle through, affected me but a little. It was their
 
 SEA WRACK 7 
 
 custom, their notion of hospitality. I became greatly 
 amused. My baggage was as wet as I, and the idea 
 of a change was hopeless. I wrapped myself about in 
 the one blanket and snuggled down into the immense 
 mattress. 
 
 I wanted to sleep, and of course I could n't. I lay 
 like a mummy in a kind of damp, hot sweat. I cursed 
 the weather, I cursed the roads, I cursed the inn and 
 its toothless owner and her fox of a son. I lay there 
 cursing, and most of all I cursed myself. Here was 
 I, half-way to rheumatic fever in a damned hut of a 
 place, simply because I was an unsatisfied, discon- 
 tented kind of vagabond. Restless, unpractical de- 
 void of all ambition, wandering off in a haphazard sort 
 of way to a paltry position as drawing-master, in an 
 equally paltry school in a strange town ! 
 
 I had been God knows what I had been and even 
 now I might still have had the energy to pull myself to- 
 gether instead of wrestling in so forlorn a fashion with 
 the imbecile brains of imbecile youths ! 
 
 How long I lay there trying to fathom the intricate 
 state of my mind, and how long I might have so con- 
 tinued, there is no knowing. But in the middle of it 
 all with a weary non-committal air that crazy case- 
 ment dropped clean from its hinges and disappeared 
 from view. I stared at the empty hole and pelting 
 snow with blank despair. If the roof itself had fallen 
 in I don't think I could have become more sodden and
 
 8 SEA WRACK 
 
 wretched than I already was. Therefore, in one way, 
 that open space meant very little; yet I scrambled out 
 of bed and even peered into the bitter night to see 
 if it had caught anywhere. Of course it had n't. And 
 anyway, in that pitchy night I shouldn't have been 
 able to see it at all. But there was something else 
 that roused my interest the slightest. There was a 
 glimmer of light not steady, but moving and 
 twisting that told of a lantern; what was more, of 
 some being the other end of it. It occurred to me 
 then that my melancholy window very probably had 
 paid a surprise visit to that lantern holder. I shouted 
 down, with my hands around my mouth, some words 
 of apology explanation even. I gathered by the way 
 the light was suddenly jerked upward that he had 
 heard ; what was more, he answered. 
 
 His words came scattered with the wind, I only got 
 one here and there, and so far as I could make out 
 they had nothing to do with my questioning. I merely 
 caught them as they drifted by: "A ship . . . 
 ashore . . . going to see ... no chance. ..." And 
 the light twisted and bickered its way. 
 
 I -remained at that gaping window- frame and tried 
 to follow the drift of that shaken lantern, while into 
 my wet mind and sodden brain every bit of curiosity 
 I had stirred sullenly to life again. "A ship . . . 
 ashore . . . going to see ... no chance. ..." 
 
 Enchantment! That was it. Magic behind each 
 one of those words! And I knew then it was 
 impossible to think any more of sleep or rest. I just
 
 SEA WRACK 9 
 
 stood on at that opening and screwed my eyes to mere 
 points to try and find out further meaning to those 
 scattered sentences. 
 
 The wind seemed to have died down somewhat, but 
 not the snow. Perfectly noiseless it dropped, flake 
 clinging to flake so there was not the breadth of a 
 finger between any one of them; and in the blackness 
 of the night the purity of their color seemed to stand 
 out more than ever. My spokesman had vanished, 
 yet even as I peered light came. 
 
 A flaring, lop-sided blaze of a light that told of a 
 torch, and the steadier, more forlorn glimmer of a 
 lantern. And then others patchy, moving. For one 
 instant as I stared all those lights were bunched 
 together. Patient lights, patiently waiting, danced and 
 twisted by the wind. Yellow and red with redder 
 sparks torn wildly from them. To bow and courtesy 
 to go and be seen again, now as nothing by that vaunt- 
 ing wind, now stretching defiant tongues to scorch the 
 falling snow and glare heavenward. And, as sud- 
 denly, to separate, and dodge and flicker unevenly 
 away. 
 
 What was their secret? What was their errand? 
 Who were the men who bore them, and for what 
 purpose? A ship! What ship? What game of 
 chance were these torch-bearers up to? At that mo- 
 ment there was no thought of hesitation. I dropped 
 the steaming blanket I had still caught around me, 
 took up the guttering candlestick, and made my way 
 downward. The inn seemed wrapped in profound
 
 io SEA WRACK 
 
 silence, and I wondered whether its pleasant owners 
 were enjoying a better night's rest than I. In the 
 big bar-parlor, or kitchen, I came across the old woman, 
 sleeping her sleep as she fancied. She sat in a hard 
 chair, her coarse frock lifted to cover her face and 
 head, revealing a stained petticoat of yellow about her 
 bony knees ; her naked feet thrust in threadbare slippers 
 paddling heedlessly on the wet bricks, her hands clasped 
 as if in the attitude of prayer at her bosom; while 
 from beneath this shroud her breath came harsh and 
 resonant : sleep held her firmly. Not a pretty sight 
 and I turned away from her, and prepared to occupy 
 myself witb the door. That was easy. It was not 
 securely caught, but merely on the latch. I opened it 
 and slipped outside. 
 
 As I have said, the wind had dropped somewhat, 
 but it was there sufficiently to make me blink as it drove 
 the snow against my face. In one instant it had 
 smothered my candle entirely, so that the hot wax ran 
 about my hand. Even the murky light of the bar added 
 to the impassable blackness of the night; the passing of 
 the wind had brought about yet another sound: a 
 grinding, rushing noise, with a snarl about its voice 
 and a threat in its song. I knew then I was very close 
 to the sea. 
 
 Obviously, I was in some street, and to make certain 
 walked straight across until I touched a wall and 
 beneath clinging snow the hard wood that spoke of 
 shutters. . . . And yet, wood or stone, there seemed 
 no sign of human life, only that sullen sea and the
 
 SEA WRACK ii 
 
 monotonous falling of the snow. It was toward the 
 sea that those wavering lights had gone, and it was in 
 their direction I very gingerly groped my way. I can 
 promise no mountain climber was more cautious than 
 I! There was reason enough for it. I trod in deep 
 drifting snow, yet that was nothing, or very little; of 
 far more import was the realization of its detestable 
 slushiness, of its uncomfortable wetness like heavy 
 rain, like water. It was water: it was the sea itself 
 breaking up that street, and I knew pretty shrewdly 
 that every step of mine took me nearer it. Still, I was 
 bent on seeking those tantalizing lights. I was bent 
 on finding all the mysteries and excitements that sur- 
 rounded that ship of whom only a passing word had 
 been flung my way. 
 
 I was full of a fretful impatience against delay, and 
 the delay in this case because of my complete ignorance : 
 I had no real idea where to go, or what I had best do. 
 It seemed pretty certain to me this street must end 
 directly at the sea, or harbor, or shore, or whatever 
 it might be. And somewhere about there, those lights 
 and men must have gone for all I knew were at this 
 moment adventuring about their business. 
 
 And then it was, as I groped and clung to slippery 
 snow-covered walls, I came up against something else. 
 I clutched hold of stuff that was most decidedly water- 
 proof. ... I kept my hold, and it was returned by 
 cold, wet fingers which seemed against my throat 
 unpleasantly soft. I think I knew the owner of the 
 oilskins and unhealthy hands before he guessed who
 
 12 SEA WRACK 
 
 or what I was. He said, and his face was so near mine 
 I could smell the drink in his breath: 
 
 "Who'm you?" 
 
 I told him. "What do you think? A ghost? 
 What do you expect? Excise men?" 
 
 I felt his fingers loosen as if he would bolt and 
 run. I held on all the more to the slippery coat. I 
 wanted a guide, and I had one near at hand and did 
 not intend to lose him. I answered impatiently: 
 
 "Come, come, man; feel me if you can't see! If 
 you 're an innkeeper you should have some memory 
 for your visitors." 
 
 He took my suggestion, working his clammy fingers 
 about me in a decidedly unpleasant manner. I felt 
 them groping at my coat and my shoulders, at my face, 
 so that I bristled with discomfort, for they were so 
 hideously fish-like. It was not until he found my 
 beard and the trim of it that he appeared at all relieved. 
 He muttered : 
 
 "Different to us. You came by chaise this evening ?" 
 
 "I did. To your inn, I rather fancy." 
 
 His reply was lost at my feet, and I found by the 
 sudden glimmer of a light he had a lantern with him 
 which, in some way, he set going, and stood up with 
 it, spluttering at his side. I asked : 
 
 "What's this of a ship? Is there one or rather 
 a rescue on hand?" 
 
 He mumbled : "What if there is ?" 
 
 I said very cheerfully: "Why, nothing, except that 
 my curiosity would have me see it."
 
 SEA WRACK 13 
 
 Such an idea obviously did n't meet with his ap- 
 proval. He stamped uneasily as he stood and stuttered 
 some jumble about "danger" and "surefootedness," 
 and "no place for any gentleman." 
 
 I said : "You should n't discourage me, young man ; 
 the more you ply that sort of talk the more you rouse 
 my zeal ! You should make it more comfortable for 
 your guests if you 'd have them remain in their beds." 
 
 He said with the deepest suspicion : "What 's it 
 to do with you up there?" 
 
 By "up there" I guessed he meant some place or 
 other along the shore where the rest of the men had 
 gone, and where I longed to be. 
 
 I said rather impatiently : "Have you only met cut- 
 throats or spies all your life that you 're so infernally 
 suspicious ? Why, you '11 make me think you 're doing 
 murder or pillage at least, if you go on in -this non- 
 sensical manner." 
 
 My words hit true, for he fairly jumped into the 
 air at my mention of plunder. I had it now clear 
 enough. It was not so much a rescue these men were 
 after, but a matter of pillage before the coast-guards 
 came along. A matter of spirits and anything of 
 goodly value, to pass well away from the hands of 
 the law, into the cellars of this young man who owned 
 the inn. It had its humorous side, and I confess I 
 was chuckling as I saw him cringe. I went on very 
 pleasantly : 
 
 "Don't you think you 'd better lead the way ? You 
 know there 's nothing to prevent my slipping from you
 
 14 SEA WRACK 
 
 now and whispering a few words to the custom- folk 
 at Boston. I should do remarkably well for myself 
 in the long run ; better than you, I fancy." 
 
 He said hoarsely: "I could settle that before you 
 turned !" 
 
 I told him mildly, listening the while to the chatter 
 of his teeth: "I very much doubt it. Your hands 
 are too soft, mine too hard. Besides you forget the 
 postboy will be full of questionings. Now I care 
 nothing for your plunderings or your morals, but I 
 care quite a lot to gratify this whim of mine. You 
 can help me that much, and for all you know I may be 
 able to help you quite a lot. Well, what do you 
 think?" 
 
 He turned without a word and led the way. 
 
 As I thought, we were n't so very far from the 
 sea edge. There came a sudden slope and the crunch- 
 ing noise of shingle and mud beneath one's feet some 
 attempt at a harbor or gangway for boats to slide up 
 on and then my guide turned sharp to the left and we 
 had water above our ankles, and sea-sprayed snow 
 stinging our faces. This, as I discovered later, was 
 the bit of sea-wall the place boasted of. An affair of 
 mud and stone plastered all anyhow together and run- 
 ning a quarter of a mile each way, but crazy enough 
 toward the end and breaking away helplessly into the 
 sand and mud. We groped our way along this until 
 there came one of these sudden gaps, and so upon
 
 SEA WRACK 15 
 
 those distracted lights and a small group of men. I 
 heard one of them shout out : 
 
 "Some one with you, Grainger?" 
 
 And my guide went up to them. It did n't interest 
 me what he said, and I merely waited, until one sep- 
 arated himself from the others and came along to me. 
 He swung his lantern on high to see me the better. 
 
 "And what's this?" he demanded. "Who be 
 you?" 
 
 I have but to shut my eyes now, and I can see that 
 man even as I saw him that night, and never in my 
 life was to see him again. He was not so very tall, 
 but the girth of him was terrific: he must have had 
 the strength of seven bulls in those shoulders, and the 
 grip of seven men in those huge hands of his. He 
 was browner than any man I had ever seen, and his 
 gray mustache stood out like a shimmering spear along 
 his lip ; he wore a jersey, with no other covering from 
 the storm, and wore it with the same air as an emperor 
 his royal trappings. His tremendous boots came up 
 above his knees, and he had that free fierce walk such 
 as a savage has, paying no heed for any obstacle in 
 his path, but removing it because it was there and it 
 hindered him. It was pretty obvious that I was no 
 more to him than any bramble or snarling cub, and 
 that he would have removed me with as much ease and 
 as little thought as with them. But his face fascinated 
 me, and as I stared up, back my thoughts were with 
 my long- forgotten easel and my garret of paint and 
 muddle. ... I muttered beneath my breath:
 
 16 SEA WRACK 
 
 "O Lord, how I would like to paint you !" Then I 
 said aloud: "Let me watch here awhile; I'll not 
 worry you." 
 
 He said slowly : "I 'm thinking you have eyes to 
 see." 
 
 I told him : "They have a trick of closing when 
 need be so have my ears of shutting up !" 
 
 I thought I noticed the slightest quiver to the enor- 
 mous mustache ; and the big slow voice answered me : 
 "And your tongue?" 
 
 "It does but follow!" 
 
 He looked me up and down with as much care as 
 a farmer some beast. 
 
 "Then keep well away: w'n enough to do wi'out 
 strangers." 
 
 And turning on his heel went back to the others. 
 And I wished then with all my heart I could have lived 
 their life: there was something rather remarkable in 
 their simplicity. They were just primitive folk and 
 they lived in their own primitive manner. Life and 
 death were one and the same. One man paid his toll 
 to the sea and another took his place. Some woman 
 dried her eyes and watched her child slip easily to the 
 father's seat. It is likely or not they worshiped God 
 likely or not they had their own wondering knowledge 
 of the universe. They saw their God in the sea, and 
 it is certain, was He pagan or divine, they fought their 
 battles with Him and for Him. Paid their sacrifices 
 and offered their worship. God of the Old Testament, 
 they watched his wrath and took heed of His passion.
 
 SEA WRACK 17 
 
 Christ of the New, they took food from His hands 
 and marveled at His judgment. That was their way. 
 And I, standing apart with all about me supreme 
 evidence of Supreme Godhead, envied these men and 
 their simplicity, envied their secret whisperings, won- 
 dering at the mystery that was all about them and 
 their business. 
 
 In the pitchy darkness they had been cut away from 
 all action. They had heard the muffled appeal of a 
 gun and seen the blurred flare of a rocket. Somewhere 
 in that darkness there was a ship, and with all manner 
 and kind of tragedy. Somewhere ... it was for 
 them to wait for some vague sign of dawn. They had 
 no boat, for the sea had ruthlessly claimed them as her 
 own. They had a great coil of rope only; it would 
 be about now the tide would be on the turn. Sullenly 
 the sea was changing: it needed but some sign of the 
 lifting of that black curtain. . . . 
 
 It was a startled dawn. Like a frightened child 
 it came its creeping way, only half awake, only half 
 assured. The faintest glimmer of silver, a mere pale 
 slit in that vast canopy of darkened sky. To stretch, 
 like a lazy child will stretch, trembling arms gleaming, 
 yet hesitating, as if in apology for what the world 
 might see of the riot of the night. 
 
 There was nothing to see. That great wilderness of 
 water raged and leaped in perfect solitariness. Of 
 ship there was no sign; of life or wreckage there was 
 no semblance. From where we stood, right away to 
 where that shimmer of light balanced timidly on the
 
 i8 SEA WRACK 
 
 very edge of those mouthing white- topped waves, there 
 was nothing but sea, nothing but mystery mystery 
 because of the untold secrets she had stored away in 
 her belly. 
 
 At that blank stretch of muttering water some of 
 the men began to swear softly. 
 
 I heard the whining voice of my friend the inn- 
 keeper, fretful and discontented. 
 
 "Been hanging about here too long that 's what 
 we ha' done! What 's t' good of waiting an' looking? 
 A bit o' quickness and we might ha' got something. 
 Idling, that 's what ye do : fair sick it makes me !" 
 
 One man shook his torch in the other's face so that 
 the sparks of it singed his eyes. 
 
 "Say that again," he roared, "an' I '11 chuck you 
 to the sea as extra food for her gullet ! Idling? What 
 o' you? Living on our hands, sucking from our 
 blood that 's your tricks, you mealy-mouthed swipe !" 
 
 A thin, lanky fellow, with great red hands like raw 
 meat and a habit of constant and steady spitting, here 
 sent a spurt of yellow juice well in the direction of the 
 pallid Grainger with the drawling remark: 
 
 "Not tasty enough bait for the fishes: let him get 
 back to his cellars and his mother's bosom ! There 's 
 no liquor here, and if there was you wouldn't have 
 it! Get back to your kennel, puppy-dog." 
 
 From the appreciative attitude of the others I began 
 to think it was time he did clear off. For my part 
 I would have entirely relished his ducking. He was 
 a particularly nasty type sucking and cringing all
 
 SEA WRACK 19 
 
 in one breath. Squirming through life and squeaking 
 like a pettish child against the pricks. I wondered 
 how these tough men put up with him, but later I 
 understood. His inn, you see, was an easy refuge in 
 more ways than one. I learned more of that as time 
 went on. 
 
 It was in the middle of all this trifling with the 
 unspeakable Grainger that there came a sudden inter- 
 ruption from the big man. Prince as he was among 
 them, he stood apart, hands on hips, body slightly 
 bent, the skin on his face all puckered about his eyes : 
 he stood thus silhouetted against the glittering morning 
 sky staring straight ahead of him. He said now, 
 loudly and clearly and with perfect assurance : 
 
 "There 's something out there !" And pointed. 
 
 We crowded around him, pushing and' jostling, each 
 one of us trying to follow the gesture of his arm, 
 making futile remarks seeing nothing. 
 
 "Whereabouts?" 
 
 "There 's nothing there !" 
 
 "Skipper's eyes are sure enough! What d' yer see, 
 then?" 
 
 "Can't be anything I" 
 
 "Might be, though! What do you make of fit, 
 Skip?" 
 
 And the big man's placid, contemptuous voice : 
 "Blind are you then? Where that great white-topped 
 fellow dips} Watch now. . . . There! A-top of 
 it!" 
 
 It seemed sheer impossibility that the eye could find
 
 20 SEA WRACK 
 
 in that hammering sea of shadows and froth any such 
 thing that could be marked as something separate and 
 individual from it. And yet one man had seen some 
 unknown object which was utterly indistinguishable on 
 my part, at all events. 
 
 And then, quite suddenly, with many grunts and 
 ejaculations, it was spied by the rest. It did n't give 
 them any particular pleasure. They had hung about 
 there long enough, and if an entire ship had gone, 
 what rubbish could be left by that infuriated storm? 
 They eyed the Skipper (it was evident he was their 
 leader) doubtfully, and stood about uneasy and sullen. 
 He said bluntly: 
 
 "We maun chance it," which made them growl des- 
 pondently. 
 
 "Tide 's well on t' turn ! It 's heavy work for any 
 old rot." 
 
 "It 's a ruddy risk, Skip. There be no good left out 
 there!" 
 
 The spear-like mustache seemed more stiff and stab- 
 bing than ever: he gave it a great tug at either end, 
 and in that tug I could see the iron of his fist and brain, 
 which ruled these men and used its cunning against the 
 sea. He said very savagely and determinedly: 
 
 "None o' mine then are ye ! Not one o' ye, by 
 God! I '11 ship a new hand with this gentleman" (this 
 with a jab of his finger at me) "and leave ye to suckle 
 where ye can but not wi' my boats by Christ, no!" 
 
 Some of them went red at that, and all of them
 
 SEA WRACK 21 
 
 shuffled sheepishly; the very lanky man, spurting a 
 thin jet from him, muttered moodily : 
 
 "Aw, now, Skipper, reckon we 're wi' ye. What 's 
 a do?" 
 
 "T rope," he told them shortly. "Come, spin it 
 out." 
 
 They were uncommonly cold by now, and, big men 
 as they were, I doubt if any one of them had the 
 indomitable grit of their leader. The rope they carried 
 was sodden and clumsy as were their fingers. * It was 
 like a dead thing, and they half dead, trying. to" put 
 some life into it and themselves. They twisted it 
 around each man and straightened it as best they could 
 between them. They had not even started on their 
 business, yet it cut their skin and tore their nails and 
 bit into their flesh. With tfie exception of the Skipper 
 they were uncommonly sick, and he all hot blood at 
 the prospects of a fight. They left their lights with 
 Grainger, and he and I stood, dripping and frozen, 
 and watched them set about the matter. 
 
 It was just a shadow of a thing they were after. 
 Just the vestige of some shape flung about and twisted 
 from wave to wave. It might have been something, 
 yet more certainly it might have been nothing. Yet 
 their lives were to be pitted against that howling sea 
 on the pure game of chance possibility. 
 
 With the big man at their head they edged down 
 into the water, digging with their feet for support, 
 bracing their numbed bodies against each hurling wave.
 
 22 SEA WRACK 
 
 It was n't so far out, that shadow, that it could not be 
 caught at. But they were merely two-legged individ- 
 uals of simple flesh and blood. And the sea was a live, 
 vigorous thing, a maddened monster with all the heat 
 of ten thousand devils. Yet they went into it ; followed 
 their leader like sheep, stumbled and fell and were up 
 again; ducked and pitched and swallowed and spat 
 were entirely beneath the sea and were snarling on top 
 of it, were gone and were there and struggling on 
 further all in quest of that shadow. 
 
 Oh, yes, and they got it. With their own blood 
 reddening the rope, and their feet dragged from be- 
 neath them, their breath pumped from their bodies, 
 the water weighing them down, yet they clutched it, 
 tore at it, grappled and fought with it, and brought it 
 back a mere bit of broken spar, a lump of tattered 
 tarpaulin and rope a rotten, useless thing, but theirs 
 back from the sea. 
 
 We helped them that pallid youth and I back to 
 where we had waited and beyond that to where the 
 water was less and scattered islands of grass and sand 
 were beginning to show. They sat about then and 
 rubbed and squeezed at their bruised limbs and tried 
 to win back some of the exhausted breath that had 
 been ruthlessly dragged from them. . . . Sat there 
 as if they could never rise again and not 
 one of them looked toward the bundle of wretchedness 
 they had so nearly spent their lives for. . . . Not one 
 of them. And then, with extraordinary suddenness, 
 the Skipper bent down and began to tear the stuffs
 
 SEA WRACK 23 
 
 away from the wood. They stared disinterested at 
 him; one made some remark, "Some one's washing, 
 fur sure." Yet no one laughed, and when the big 
 man demanded, "A knife, one o' ye quick now!" some 
 one got it out without a comment. 
 
 They sat and watched him, and I with them. Sod- 
 den stuffs, all sorts and kinds, a bit of petticoat, a 
 blanket, an oilskin coat and so on to the very last, 
 when there came to view sodden and pinched and 
 twisted of limb, yet blinking a bit of a child, a tiny 
 thing, struggling weakly for the breath that was nearly 
 choked out of it yet, even as we stared, let out a sob 
 of a cry. 
 
 Was ever fate so mad ? What comedy, what drama 
 could be compared to this? Where there had been a 
 ship, there was this ! Where there had been men, 
 there was this poor atom ! From the unknown to the 
 unknown! From secret and mystery to more secret 
 and mystery. Bringing nothing, and coming to noth- 
 ing; questioning surely, yet questioning himself! 
 What sort of life behind him? What, in God's name, 
 before him? Mere nothingness to mere nothingness! 
 
 The way you see Andrew started on his adventur- 
 ings.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 MYSTERIOUS, that was it, and you can't chal- 
 lenge the word : you can't question its connec- 
 tion with this waif. He was mystery itself, and he 
 came to mystery. He brought it with him and he 
 walked right into it. All life is obscure, secret. The 
 very wheel revolves on a question. Whence? 
 Whither? Why? Fog-bound we stare into space and 
 mark out our route. Follow it out, track it down, 
 choose the path we prefer, and gild it to our snug pur- 
 pose. And yet there is the fog sure enough: at the 
 grave we swallow it in great gulping breaths! 
 Whence? Whither? And why? Mystery, mystery. 
 And this scrap of derelict childhood arrived on the 
 very waves of it. 
 
 Where man had not survived, where timber and sail 
 had gone yet this one small thing remained! There 
 had been a woman once who had held him to her breast : 
 there had been some man who had played with him: 
 there had been some love in his life, some mother- 
 worship. That was finished. The very womb of the 
 sea had cast him on the shore and taken into itself all 
 that had once mattered to him. Why spare such a help- 
 
 24
 
 SEA WRACK '25 
 
 less mite as this ? Why suck under so terrific a mouth- 
 ful and leave this poor morsel? 
 
 Mysterious wonderful! I tell you you cannot 
 challenge the word, it encompassed him too securely, it 
 belonged to him it was his from the first : he ad- 
 ventured forth, wrapped in it, and knowing it even as 
 he lay in swaddling clothes ! More than that. Within 
 the week that he had found refuge, he was to know 
 desolation, to be outcast. To have a taste of that re- 
 markable thing we call human nature, life. 
 
 It was the Skipper who took compassion on him 
 that fatal night and carried him back to his own home. 
 He had sought for him, put his strength against that 
 of the sea, and won this unknown from its depths. 
 His compassion was as big as his power. He ex- 
 tended it to the child; he brought his wife to look 
 kindly enough on it. Once again fate. Once again 
 a turn of the wheel, and the unknown was out in the 
 unknown again. Why? Human nature, for one 
 thing. For the other, something bigger than the Skip- 
 per even. Picture this man if you can, the very epi- 
 tome of health, the very ideal of strength! I would 
 have painted him and called it Power; I would have 
 painted him and called it Might ; I would have painted 
 him and called it Courage! All this and more he 
 seemed to me, to the wishes of my poor brush. All 
 of them indeed he was, and yet none of them! Death, 
 you see, woke suddenly to notice him. Stretched one 
 gigantic fist and plucked him by the middle, shook 
 him gently and, with his usual smile, crushed the
 
 26 SEA WRACK 
 
 breath from his body and tossed him poor ghost of 
 a thing into the air, into space. Pneumonia, the doc- 
 tor said. Cold from the wreck, and within a week of 
 it they had put him beneath the ground and heaved 
 earth upon him. Then it was that Ditchling showed 
 fear. More than that, a kind of dread. Nearly fifty 
 years had this big leader of theirs lived and dominated 
 and spoken. Nearly fifty years and nothing had 
 touched him. 
 
 Then, a new soul had come to Ditchling, and with 
 it all those wondering questions. Whence? Whi- 
 ther? Why? An old soul had gone its way, and all 
 about it those selfsame words: Whence? Whither? 
 Why? Not for you and me to answer; with such 
 things, in such events, there is no answer. But with 
 these people in their untutored, primitive minds there 
 was but one thought. Ill luck had come from the sea. 
 Ill luck, for with it came death. Thus it fell out that 
 on the day the Skipper died the old parson of the place, 
 stubborn and persistent man of God that he was, 
 christened the waif, only to find when it was 
 over that the child's refuge had been taken from 
 him. The shutters of the dead man's cottage 
 were closed, the door barred. What was more, 
 every cottage throughout the place was so* bolted and 
 closed. 
 
 I met the old man, his head bare and his cassock 
 fluttering in the breeze, a colored blanket held closely 
 to him, striding up and down that white street, beat- 
 ing a furious crescendo of sound at every door and
 
 SEA WRACK 27 
 
 getting no word in response no sound, simply silence 
 as of a tomb. 
 
 He was a particularly nice man, this rector. Sturdy 
 and strong, both a fighter himself and a man of sym- 
 pathy. But he had reckoned too much on the humanity 
 of the small community that was his. All his labor 
 and teachings had not lessened one jot of their own 
 ideas and superstitions. His words might be the 
 words of Christ Himself : they were as nothing to the 
 belief deep rooted in their own hearts. He swung the 
 burden slightly toward me as we met, and demanded 
 with great vexation : 
 
 "Look down this street, Mr. Penrose. Could you 
 believe there are women behind nearly every door, 
 yet they will bolt and bar against a mite like this?" 
 
 I looked at the pitiful bundle and then at the narrow, 
 silent street, very white and very still. Death in one 
 of those cottages, life here and yet no room no 
 thought for that new, fresh young spirit. 
 
 I asked, "What do you make of it?" 
 
 He passed the child from one arm to the other. 
 "Make of it? Stubborn minds, stubborn thoughts! 
 
 Make of it " He hammered again at the door 
 
 nearest to him, and listened with me to the vibrating 
 noise muttering down the street. "Listen to life 
 battering at the door and watch for the answer." He 
 pointed to the chimney stacks, "Smoke merely gray 
 drifting of vapor."
 
 28 SEA WRACK 
 
 The child moved a little, and gave a little whimper. 
 The old man pressed it with rough tenderness against 
 his gown; his face softened the slightest as he re- 
 marked sadly : 
 
 "This means the workhouse for this poor wayfarer." 
 
 I came a bit closer and caught a glimpse of it. Just 
 the ordinary round little head with dark soft hair 
 clinging to it, intensely blue eyes, and the faintest 
 flush on the cheeks. I asked curiously: 
 
 "You've christened him?" 
 
 The old man nodded. 
 
 "To save any future doubts, and anyway he 's had 
 a pretty big shock by his watery cradle." 
 
 "What have you called him ?" 
 
 The twist of a smile appeared on his face. "Oh, 
 well," he said, "I had a whimsical notion of giving 
 him something fitting. Andrew because of my church, 
 and Sartor because, well, we had to dress him, and I 
 am inclined to think it would have tickled the scorn- 
 ful Tufelsdrockh. Here we have a naked boy; let us 
 clothe him and see what manner of a man a coat and 
 shirt will make himf" 
 
 I laughed with him, and asked, "Will you tell the 
 result to Carlyle?" 
 
 "I know his answer. What does he say? 'In that 
 strange dream, how we dutch at shadows as if they 
 were substances.' ' 
 
 "Substances look at this baby, already stretching his 
 fists, eager in firm belief! He had been better left to
 
 SEA WRACK 29 
 
 that hungry sea than that we should deck him out and 
 send him in pursuit of shadows!" 
 . There was a touch of irony about the matter, how- 
 ever you came to look at it. This salvation from 
 death, and then with a curt apology an offer of life 
 of a half -shriveled kind to give him a coat and bid 
 him make the best of it to couple his name with that 
 of a saint and a cynic and let him work out his own 
 damnation or happiness. 
 
 I walked with him to where his house stood ruddy 
 and square beside the small and ancient church, and, 
 as we were about to part, accepted his cordial invita- 
 tion to go in for supper that night. 
 
 "Until the roads are easier, I shall have to get 
 my housekeeper to take charge of this waif. She 
 won't relish it much : it 's a queer matter how very 
 little there is of mother-love in this world." 
 
 And then, just as he turned toward his gate, he 
 hesitated with the remark : 
 
 "Hullo, I wonder what Farmer Swinsco 's doing 
 down here?" and looked up the lane. I looked with 
 him, and, though it was no business of mine, looked 
 again. 
 
 There was a man coming down toward the village 
 Fascinating in his remarkable personality. He must 
 have stood over six feet in height, and he had breadth 
 and strength to go with it. His face was very thin 
 and very hard the skin burnt and beaten by wind and 
 sun to a deep reddish brown in hue and drawn tightly
 
 3.o SEA WRACK 
 
 over his prominent cheek-bones, as one would spread 
 parchment across a jam jar. His hair, where it 
 showed, was thick and pitch-black, but and this was 
 what made him all the more remarkable the huge 
 beard which fell thick and straight to his waist was 
 red, deep red. He wore a suit of velveteen with a 
 check muffler round his throat and a flat, wide-brimmed 
 hat. 
 
 He hardly listened to the rector's questioning cheer- 
 ful "Good day to you." He asked at once in a 
 brusque, clear voice: 
 
 "What's this of a child, parson? Likely you 
 know?" 
 
 "Seeing I 've christened it and seem to be nurse 
 to it into the bargiai*, I know of it well, Swinsco." 
 
 He noticed the bundle the other held for the first 
 time, and bent his great body toward it with certain 
 curiosity. 
 
 "A boy?" 
 
 The rector nodded. "And it 's the orphanage for 
 him, poor beggar: that death of the Skipper seems to 
 have turned the whole village craiiy." 
 
 Swinsco repeated, "A boy, eh?" And bunohed that 
 gigantic beard in one hand and stared at it thought- 
 fully. 
 
 "Afraid of him, be they?" 
 
 "Afraid of themselves," retorted the other bitterly. 
 "And Heaven only knows what else of beside!" 
 
 The farmer straightened himself and stared now 
 at the rector.
 
 SEA WRACK 31 
 
 "The workhouse, you say?" 
 
 "Seemingly," muttered the rector. "Seemingly." 
 
 "What if I have him?" 
 
 "Man alive!" came the surprised answer. "Why, 
 you Ve one on your hands already." 
 
 Swinsco replied with deep earnestness. 
 
 "That was the Lord's gift in the midst of my sorrow. 
 There 's naught sentimental about this," and he pointed 
 at the child. "But that lad o' mine, he was put in my 
 way ; he was sent to my barren heart. I 'm thinkin' 
 I owe it to God to do something big with that gift of 
 His! So I want him different, different to me and 
 mine I want him a gentleman with a gentleman's 
 place about him ! That 's where this stray comes in. 
 His blood may be good blood, or may not, I '11 take 
 the risk on that, but there 's no gentlefolk round here 
 who '11 have to do with me or my folk yet. I want 
 a companion for my lad a playmate, to be wi' him, 
 to grow up wi' him. For his sake, parson, that 's how 
 I look at it. For my boy two of 'em helping each 
 other, helping him better than one alone you can see 
 that?" 
 
 You call it pathetic admirable. You are pro- 
 foundly stirred by the faith so delicately wrapped 
 about this man ? Let that pass. For the moment, see 
 him as I saw him like some dead and gone Isaac from 
 lands beyond the Dead Sea, a crusader, a knight. For 
 what man is more worthy of knighthood than he who 
 stakes his all upon his simple faith? 
 
 I could see the rector was touched. He was puzzled,
 
 32 SEA WRACK 
 
 too, how to answer. He stared up the blank and 
 desolate street, and he stared down it; he pulled away 
 the blanket from the child's sleeping face and peered 
 down as i.t lay; he looked at me and obviously found 
 no help there. He looked back again at Swinsco and 
 sighed a bit, as if in that rough sturdy face he saw 
 some sympathy. 
 
 "Why, why, this is very friendly of you; more than 
 that, very fine remarkably finely felt, Swinsco. You 
 mean you '11 give this morsel a roo.f and a helping hand 
 is that your idea?" 
 
 The great red beard jerked violently. 
 
 "More than that, parson. He shall have as much 
 as my lad excepting my heart. He shall learn as he 
 learns, and speak every bit as fine as he shall find to 
 speak. Just the same, ye see and yet not quite, for 
 my boy carries my name and my lands ; the young one 
 has his own, but I '11 see to it to gie him a start in life; 
 that I swear before my God." 
 
 And he took that immense hat from his head and 
 held it on high every bit as some old knight raised up 
 his sword and then fell to his knees to worship. 
 
 The rector gfently extended the bundle to the other. 
 
 "Here he is then,' 7 he said. "And the blessing 
 fjronr on high go with him and your work." 
 
 Swinsco took him with extraordinary gentleness and 
 stared down on him so solemnly. 
 
 "It shall be a good thing, parson, good for him 
 and good for each one of us. What I can give he 
 shall have of me. I '11 put him on his way teach
 
 SEA WRACK 33 
 
 him to handle a plow and cut a clean furrow." 
 
 The rector pressed a little back on his heels, smil- 
 ing slightly as if pleased with his day's work. 
 
 "I '11 teach him the Bible, Swinsco, and of Latin 
 and such good things!" said he. 
 
 And there it WG.S that cursed jade Fate pyut excite- 
 ment into my heart and eager words into my folly- 
 loving mouth. I joined with these two now and 
 cried : 
 
 "And I '11 teach him color and romance and books. 
 All good things, God helping me !" 
 
 Said, you see, and done! Flung fcrom me without 
 hesitation promised and made ready. Was I right 
 or w.as I wrong? Who can say? My answer, if 
 there i|s one, you shall hear as I proceed. For the 
 rest, here was young Andrew one more foot on his way, 
 one further stride from the sea to the land, from his 
 own solitude to the companionship of one young 
 Ayerst Swinsco. 
 
 You, who are a city man, know nothing of the land. 
 I, who in my wanderings have certain sympathy with 
 the plains and the hills, only a trifle. My knowledge 
 of the men who work thereon was merely passing; as 
 time went on I was to know more ; and as my knowl- 
 edge grew I think the thing that stirred me most was 
 their simplicity, their patience. 
 
 This man Swinsco. This perfectly simple man with 
 his perfectly simple faith. Yet about him, even as
 
 34 SEA WRACK 
 
 the earth stretches, so does his story. There was no 
 questioning with him ; there was no hesitation. There 
 was perfect love and boundless belief. His knowl- 
 edge was nothing, save of his beasts and his land; his 
 traveling of no account, excepting the length of his 
 boundaries. But his faith was marvelous, better than 
 mine. Stars and wind and greenery were as one with 
 him. The moods of the earth and the moods of his 
 God all a part of his quiet existence. 
 
 From a child he had known such things. From his 
 mother's apron-strings he had grown with them. Wet 
 and fine, storm or sun, it was one and the same to him. 
 Each day was a working day, each season a working 
 season. A planting and a reaping, a rearing to life 
 and a cutting down. And then, as he grew to man- 
 hood, so one day, like Isaac of old, he went into his 
 own land and sowed his own seed. Nothing to you 
 and me, less still to some people. But think awhile. 
 That land and the marvel of it. How does a man 
 build a house, a palace, a cathedral? Watch how it 
 grows, extends, shoots up. From mere mud and filthi- 
 ness to clay and plaster; from the clay to brick and 
 timber; from the brick to doors and roof. Complete, 
 finished. And the men who see it grow beneath their 
 fingers can stand aside and stare on it proudly, stand- 
 ing in all its glory. So it was with his farm. 
 
 A bit of land and wooden shed, to design, to plant, 
 to dig, to prepare, to make good. To stand away and 
 look at it in all its wealth of crops and beasts and know 
 it for yours. Hands, brain, courage. These his tools
 
 SEA WRACK 35 
 
 and no others. Of lesson-books he knew nothing. 
 His own scent and touch and sight guided him his 
 way taught him the meaning of right and wrong. 
 That was sufficient. And then, just when he was get- 
 ting steadily to his feet, just as Mellow Farm was be- 
 ginning, he fell in love. 
 
 She was pretty, this girl a young slip of a thing 
 full of pretty shy ways, and soft in her voice. And 
 Swinsco, who had regarded women as mysterious 
 creatures, keeping well out of their way, considered 
 her most wonderful, most marvelous. And when she 
 showed him her simple books, and read passages from 
 the "Gazette" to her parents, his wonder grew, his 
 whole strength fell away from him. He reasoned 
 dully, she was as far above him as the stars the earth, 
 and he as clumsy as any young colt beside its graceful 
 mother. . . . See him then, think if you can of him, 
 great hulking man as he was, muttering his misfortune 
 to the village school master . . . and then later on 
 spending quiet evenings at the old school-house, be- 
 wildered and awkward, spelling out laboriously those 
 queer old sentences, "Sam is up, Ned is out." . . . 
 Lean with him as he leans perplexed and dazed over 
 some grubby slate, contorting his poor brain most 
 dreadfully with "Twice two are four." This Isaac of 
 the fields with his lesson-books! Wonder of a man! 
 Wonder of a love! And yet it is not education that 
 will teach a man to say, "I love you," and the woman 
 to wdiisper, "O my dear!" These two, then, with their 
 faith, their simplicity ; and I can picture his pride later
 
 36 SEA WRACK 
 
 on when the evenings before their marriage their two 
 young heads would be bent over the prayer-book, 
 while he with her help stumbled through the service. 
 
 Later on well, what did it matter? How could 
 it ? Her time with him was the sweetest thing he had 
 ever known. Then she died. And that which she had 
 brought into the world, that which was to have been 
 their joy and their pride, she took away with her. 
 Sowing and reaping once again, you see! 
 
 Now, you are all bewilderment, all hotfoot with 
 questions! If the child was dead, who was the boy? 
 Who was this Ayerst? Simply the answer to his 
 barren heart, simply the sound proof of his faith ! He 
 found the child. It was left in his lambing sheds on 
 the wolds. There was, I understand, some pitiful note 
 with it, and later still some poor soul was discovered, 
 dead or dying, right away in the hills. Anyway, she 
 was buried in the workhouse cemetery at Lin- 
 coln, and it was supposed there was some connection 
 between her and the baby. 
 
 That did n't matter to Swinsco ; what did matter was 
 this foundling, this new hope in his life. She was 
 dead, she and the joy that was to have been theirs. 
 Right down in his heart there would always be a great 
 hole that nothing but death itself could fill up. But 
 if with the one hand God had taken away, with the 
 other He had given! There was no doubt, no ques- 
 tionings in the man's heart. He was certain, he was 
 assured. In this strange haphazard way God had 
 touched him. So he christens the child. Gives him
 
 SEA WRACK 37 
 
 his own name and calls him Ayerst. So had his wife's 
 people been called. 
 
 And it was on this boy he built his dream. Father 
 and son they were to be to each other, and had the 
 blood been the same no man could have been prouder 
 of his child. Not only son, but more than that 
 gentleman. Farmer Swinsco's gentleman son! Mar- 
 velous words ! To inherit not only the farm but posi- 
 tion, respect such as a gentleman should have. And 
 when he added and bought and extended to the farm he 
 was adding and buying and extending for young 
 Ayerst. So that in years to come people might say: 
 "Mellow Farm, fine place, fine land the biggest in 
 these parts. . . . Swinsco's place, young Swinsco's, y' 
 know. Great place I can tell you ! Great chap young 
 Swinsco, great gentleman!" 
 
 Most of us who are anything have our thoughts 
 centered about some thing, fact, or purpose. Most of 
 us work round some pivot, some thought. And old 
 Farmer Swinsco had the beginning and the end of his 
 whole existence centered about this boy, this found- 
 ling, Ayerst. You may sniff at the pathos in it, but 
 I I scented only the tragedy! And I have often 
 wondered since those red-hot days if some unknown, 
 un-understood instinct of mine already smelled it out 
 even as I stood in the snow with the rector and 
 Swinsco, and laid on my pledge for this scrap of a 
 thing who was to go up to Mellow Farm and learn 
 gentlemanly ways for the sake of this prince of gentle- 
 men young Ayerst!
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 NEVERTHELESS, I did not immediately carry 
 out my promise. I could be of little use to 
 Andrew the infant; it would be with the boy the 
 youth I should be concerned. So for something like 
 eight years I drifted here, there, and everywhere, with 
 occasional glances at Ditchling, until, in my usual hur- 
 ried way, I went off to South America. It is suffic- 
 ient to say my doings out there have nothing to do with 
 this story. I was away about four years; I got back 
 in the summer of 1848 Andrew must have been about 
 fourteen or so. Things happen in such a time, and I 
 found on my return too much had happened for my 
 liking. 
 
 To begin with, my old friend the rector was dead. 
 
 And nothing I suppose could have been more tragic 
 than his end. Certain newly fixed sluice gates at that 
 part of the land freshly recovered and partly owned by 
 old Swinsco had done their damnedest. Crashed be- 
 neath a storm one night, flooded the land, and drowned, 
 not only beasts and crops, but the rector himself. . . . 
 That hit Swinsco hard harder than he had ever 
 guessed he could be hit; game as he was, something 
 
 38
 
 SEA WRACK 39 
 
 must have snapped that ghastly night and the morn- 
 ing they brought him back, sodden and helpless, from 
 those maimed fields from his friend's body. ... A 
 stroke, the doctor had said, a paralytic seizure. Not 
 completely, for while his brain was active enough the 
 lower part of that immense body was helpless; he de- 
 pended on a wheeled chair to get him about the place. 
 
 Well, I was told this by the new, thin, prim rector 
 who had stepped into the living; who dismissed the 
 tragedy with an impatient look at his watch. It was 
 nothing to him, I suppose. After all, why should it be ? 
 He could not know my thoughts, see my vision a 
 never- faded one of that kindly bluff old preacher, his 
 dingy gown, black and fluttering against the heavy 
 snow, full of perplexities about the sprawling infant 
 he held so close to him. Could not see, and never 
 would, three men take an oath about its little body! 
 Three men! And one had gone his silent way, and 
 one was mere wreckage ! Seemingly there was but I, 
 and what good could come through my poor vow? 
 Obviously, nothing by losing time where I was not 
 wanted. I muttered a few words that I do not imag- 
 ine were heard, and set my face away from the village 
 toward the farm. 
 
 Have I ever explained Ditchling? It 's as well you 
 should know the lie of the place and realize the rather 
 curious fact that there were actually two villages 
 Ditchling "Old," and, as they called it, Ditchling
 
 40 SEA WRACK 
 
 "New." The old part was that at the edge of 
 the sea, running virtually into it, and containing simply 
 a narrow street of cottages with a queer jumble of 
 nets, boots, oars, jerseys, caps, and barefooted children 
 about the door-steps. Then you 'd see a stretch of 
 marsh land; sudden pools of water, yellow patches of 
 gorse, and thick clumps of coarse grass, with the 
 church and the rectory abruptly in the middle and 
 farther on, in a kind of a semicircle, cottages and barns 
 sprawling around a sort of pocket-handkerchief of a 
 green with a battered well in the middle. Ditchling 
 "New," and the so-called agriculture part of the place. 
 There is always, I fancy, a kind of "smell" or 
 "taste" about any town, and whereas it is almost to 
 be expected in some of the larger ones, there is some- 
 thing fainty humorous when you sniff it out in a tiny 
 hamlet. Thus it was in these two bits of villages 
 boasting not more than a hundred-odd men and women, 
 separated by less than half a mile, and yet as foreign to 
 each other as a dog to a cat ! In the one you saw fish 
 you smelled fish, you trod on fish ; in the other your 
 senses were pleasantly enticed by wonderful scents of 
 newly baked bread, of grain and oats, of stable and 
 piggery; there were hens all about the green and ducks 
 with plenty to say; the heat of the forge on the one 
 side and a combined cobbler's and saddler's on the 
 other; there was everything in fact that in a small im- 
 portant manner spoke of the earth, just as in Ditchling 
 "Old" there was everything that spoke harshly and 
 brazenly of the sea. And though they bought fish and
 
 SEA WRACK 41 
 
 milk the one from the other, yet I am inclined to think 
 there was precious little love between the two. And 
 yet they were from the same parts. From the Wolds 
 and from the Fens. Lincolnshire all through. 
 Surely of the same blood and yet all signs of a division. 
 
 At the top of the village ran the road down which I 
 had traveled so many years back on the wings of that 
 storm which had led me to strange things. 
 
 Centuries ago those Fen men must have built on 
 these marshes, in their clumsy manner, some kind of 
 protection, some sort of roof for themselves and their 
 folk; so gradually, as time went on, they must have 
 pushed their way farther afield and battered some sort 
 of track across the swamps until they came in touch 
 with others of their kind. Time had n't helped them 
 overmuch. True, it had brought stone where there had 
 once been wood, clay where there had been mud ; but the 
 road was n't so very different. Different people and 
 different methods passed that way, yet for all the re- 
 claiming of the land it remained nothing more than a 
 rough, twisting thing of mud and sand joining up other 
 such villages as Ditchling, and swelling to some impor- 
 tance when it reached Wainfleet on the one hand 
 and Boston on the other. Tilling Road, they called 
 it, and Tilling Dike that which freshly flowed at the 
 right side, and Tilling Plain the land that lay about 
 it. 
 
 You crossed both road and dike to reach Mellow 
 Farm, and cut away up a narrow lane through country 
 as flat as the palm of my hand, until, after a mile or
 
 42 SEA WRACK 
 
 so, you started to climb a goodish bit and reached the 
 farm beyond the farm lay Spilsbury. 
 
 Nearly all that land was Swinsco's. He had pushed 
 his way farther and farther toward the village, until, 
 immediately it was ready, he took over the newly 
 drained land topping the dike. Made it his and made 
 it perfect only in one terrific moment to lose it. I 
 passed it now, scarred and broken, torn and desolate; 
 with trees uprooted lying like dead things in the great 
 hollows that their weight had smashed in! Sudden 
 huge holes these, some already sprouting with weed 
 and fungus, others silent with stagnant water and slime. 
 Here and there tossed planks and odd tiles, silent memo- 
 rials of some barn or shed. Here and there scarlet 
 poppies sadly drooped, searching, it would seem, for 
 the friendly corn now dead nothingness far beneath 
 the earth, quivering silently against each other as if 
 ashamed of their naked loneliness. 
 
 Yet, farther afield, there were signs that old Swinsco 
 had started afresh another struggle. It might be a 
 losing game, it might be a winning one ; yet one thing 
 was certain he was going on with it, was ready to 
 fight afresh, battle with it, wrestle with it. Sea or 
 flood or tempest, he would -put his back to the wall 
 and meet them gamely. 
 
 So hereabouts it stretched on either side in fine, 
 clean furrows or fresh green pasture, until it joined 
 with the sloping ground that spoke of Swinsco's old 
 domain.
 
 SEA WRACK 43 
 
 Mellow House Farm was just the kind of place a 
 farm should be, and just the kind some old and worthy 
 squire might have known. You went up a bit of a 
 drive with huge trees, like wise and ancient sentinels 
 guarding it, smooth enough lawn about the house it- 
 self, yet a comfortable scratching-place for hens and 
 ducks, and then beyond the house, great barns, stables, 
 cow-sheds, and other yards, and beyond them still a 
 drowsy old orchard, scenting the air with wild flowers, 
 hot ripe fruit and blossom, and forever the murmur 
 of homely bees, yellow with pollen. The house it- 
 self was square and red, with ivy twisting about the 
 chimney stacks and the old bottle-glass windows. 
 There was a big clamped door right on the drive, 
 but that was hardly ever used. It was just a thing 
 for state affairs; for the present it remained shut 
 with trails of creeper about its rust-covered iron bell. 
 It was to the side door leading direct to the big kitchen 
 you went for entrance, and it was here I knocked and 
 waited. 
 
 With a sudden clatter of pans and a scuffle of list 
 slippers a woman came toward me, and, I confess, en- 
 tirely took me aback; so I stood like some kind of 
 idiot with dropping jaw. 
 
 You see, she was a stranger to me, and somehow 
 of a totally different kind from what I had expected 
 at Mellow Farm. There had been, when I was last
 
 44 SEA WRACK 
 
 there, an old and uncommonly pleasant person, who 
 acted as a kind of housekeeper to Swinsco and the 
 boy. I should have well remembered her kindly face, 
 but this person left me blank. To begin with, her 
 whole person was almost grotesque. She was re- 
 markably short and remarkably round; her face 
 matched her hoop-like appearance, as did her unusually 
 small bright eyes ; in fact, she was the roundest thing 
 I had ever seen. She showed no sign of a neck, it 
 all seemed part of this intense rotundity, while from 
 the way she walked, in an almost circling manner, she 
 reminded me of a top. As time went on I realized I 
 was n't so far wrong, for she was a creature who 
 buzzed and hummed through life. Not in a pleasant 
 sort of way, but with an interfering incessant tone 
 always on one note . . . and that was an uncommonly 
 shrill one. 
 
 We both stared at each other, she and I, and I am 
 pretty sure we immediately made up our minds how 
 very mutual our dislike was. Then I asked if I could 
 see Farmer Swinsco, to which she replied in her buz- 
 zing voice he was somewhere in the fields. I could see 
 she wanted to be rid of me, but I was n't to be so 
 speedily finished with in this way. I asked quickly : 
 
 "Andrew, then, young Andrew, is he anywhere 
 about?" 
 
 Really it was extraordinary the suspicion that 
 seemed to bristle out of her at my mention of Andrew. 
 She jerked forward her round head sharply:
 
 SEA WRACK 45 
 
 "And who may you be, coming along here after 
 young Andrew?" 
 
 It was no use trying to be on one's dignity with 
 such a bag of crossness ; the only thing was to humor 
 her. I answered very politely: 
 
 "My name 's Penrose Treeves Penrose. No, 'I 
 don't suppose you know much of me. When I was 
 here last, Mrs. Flock was housekeeper; but I know 
 Andrew, knew him from the earliest of his days here, 
 and I count Farmer Swinsco as my friend. So I 
 hope to see one of them if not both. May I wait?" 
 
 She blinked with remarkable rapidity, and replied: 
 "There 's been no Mrs. Flock here these five years. 
 I 'm a sister of the farmer's. I- live here!" 
 
 She made this last remark with most crashing em- 
 phasis. Obviously there should be no doubt about 
 it. Obviously, also, it was said for my benefit; it 
 was in fact to have a most decided effect on me to 
 what end I do not know. I am afraid I disappointed 
 her. I only thought how particularly trying it must be 
 Tor the old man to have such a sister; and I found my- 
 self wondering at the curiously resentful manner she 
 showed toward Andrew. I simply went on : 
 
 "I really would like to see the boy." 
 
 I saw her eyes gleam angrily, and I guessed my 
 bluntness had found a mark. She muttered, "He 's 
 fetching in th' eggs." 
 
 I said, "Perhaps he won't be long?" 
 
 She grumbled then. "Oh, I '11 fetch him; I '11 send
 
 46 SEA WRACK 
 
 him in," and pattered out into the yard toward one of 
 the barns. 
 
 As I turned and watched her rotund personality 
 sailing its angry way, scattering all over the place 
 numerous hens and ducks and CLts, and wabbling some- 
 what uneasily on the cobbles, I found myself won- 
 dering, "Now, I wonder what trouble you tow along 
 beside you, and who the devil helps you with it?" 
 
 Then, because it was hot and I forever a remark- 
 ably rude fellow, I went into the cooler kitchen. 
 
 It would have charmed your eye, that jolly big place 
 of rough red brick and gay chintz curtains. A great 
 long room with a window at one end and a kind of 
 back kitchen at the other. It had a huge monk's- 
 table right up the center, its great age bearing such a 
 mellow polish, all lop-sided at one end and nicely 
 worm-eaten. There were rows of pewter tankards 
 on the shelf and chunky bits of bacon hanging from 
 the heavy blackened beams, a collection of guns and 
 whips and old harness in one corner, an enormous 
 barrel of beer, with an ancient toby jug of brightest 
 blue, in the other. There was a big rounded settle on 
 one side of the vast open hearth, with a somewhat 
 tattered sheepskin rug flung over its back; and it was 
 here I sprawled myself out, and drank in all the 
 pleasantness of the room and waited for Andrew. 
 
 He was not so very long in coming, and from the mo- 
 ment he rushed in I knew him. There was so much 
 to happen in those grim days to come so much that 
 did happen: yet the events of any one of them could
 
 SEA WRACK 47 
 
 never blot from my memory that first meeting with 
 young Andrew. A most poignant recollection of that 
 hot August day with the sun gleaming saber-like 
 through that old room, and young Andrew, like some 
 fresh eager warrior, bursting in -on it ! 
 
 Alive, that was the first thing you noticed in him! 
 Brimming with life, breathing and speaking of it, 
 loving it and living for its wonderful sake. Looking 
 older than his age, he carried his fine young head well 
 away from his body, and beautifully balanced on his 
 strong brown throat : with his arms thrust away from 
 his sides he had an unusually fearless expression, like 
 that of boxers and sailors. His eyes were immensely 
 blue and his hair wonderfully black; he was thin, but 
 of that thinness that shows so marvelously the grace 
 of youth, the wonderful freedom of young limbs. 
 
 There is a saying that you can see the heart from the 
 eyes, and I tell you as I looked at Andrew I saw it 
 hot and keen; staring out into the world swiftly poised, 
 ready for flight to any sort and any kind of adven- 
 turing that might be his. 
 
 Even as I stared at him and wondered at the great 
 knots that had so suddenly gathered in my throat, he 
 had crossed the room and was clutching at me, fairly 
 crying : 
 
 "So you have come! How jolly, jolly glad I am 
 to see you!" 
 
 I said there were knots in my throat, and I tell you 
 there were so many of them I could but grip back at 
 those strong young hands and think a hundred
 
 48 SEA WRACK 
 
 thoughts! And that was how we met again, young 
 Andrew and I. 
 
 I said at last, "Good Lord, young man, how you 've 
 grown !" 
 
 And he grinned all over his young, jolly face, and 
 strutted tremendously on his toes, crying: "Oh, well, 
 you know, you 've been away long enough ! Why, I 'm 
 fourteen now!" 
 
 Terrific age! And terrific the pride of youth! I 
 said: "Fourteen, eh? And what have you been up 
 to in all those years?" 
 
 He twinkled back grandly, "Oh, lots of things." 
 
 "Good or bad?" 
 
 He punched me gently with his brown fists. "A 
 bit of both, I expect." 
 
 We laughed then, and I began to fill my pipe, watch- 
 ing him the while as the sun twisted about his thick 
 hair, starting little ruddy points in it and flushing his 
 skin. I let my eyes glance about him at their leisure, 
 marking him down inch by inch as a man choosing a 
 horse and seeing to it that nothing escapes him. I 
 remember that day he had on a dark blue cotton shirt 
 open wide at the throat, with the sleeves turned right 
 up to the shoulder, short buff-colored knickers, and 
 naked legs and feet, thrust into rough shoes. I went 
 on with my questioning: 
 
 "Still go to school?" 
 
 He nodded. "There '11 only be another year of it 
 though." 
 
 "Glad or sorry?"
 
 SEA WRACK 49 
 
 He wriggled a little. "Both ways, I think! I like 
 history and geography I simply hate sums ! But best 
 of all I like getting out!" 
 
 "And playing the young man, eh?" 
 
 There came a sudden look into his eyes that I can 
 only best describe by saying it reminded me of the ex- 
 pression you will sometimes see on the faces of sailors 
 or men away from England for long years just near- 
 ing her coasts. A look that has with it extraordinary 
 hope and wondering. Hope because something is 
 within their grasp and their desire is beyond words; 
 wonderment lest there be some unexpected hitch a 
 fearful feeling of disappointment when you get there. 
 Well, here it was, suddenly stamped on this boy's face 
 tremendous hope, tremendous wistfulness. He 
 simply replied: 
 
 "Oh, rather, but you see I just love tramping about 
 the farm with the governor! Watching things grow 
 and putting up sort of fights with the jolly old earth." 
 
 "You 're bent on being a farmer, then?" 
 
 "I should jolly well say so! There's something 
 
 about it that 's so so ." He struggled for the 
 
 word. "So belonging to you made by you!" He 
 stared up at me triumphantly. 
 
 I asked abruptly, "And Farmer Swinsco how is 
 he?" 
 
 "Just splendid!" he cried. "Just splendid! You 
 know he 's been so ill nearly crippled ? And yet 
 why, you 'd never think so, you simply could n't! He 
 just goes about in that chair of his, seeing to every-
 
 50 SEA WRACK 
 
 thing and never minding what people say about that 
 land." 
 
 I broke in there. "What do they say?" 
 
 "Oh, you know." His voice was full of scorn. 
 "They funk at having anything to do with it after 
 that flooding. They say it 's evil got a bad name and 
 not meant to be touched, and all that sort of rot ! As 
 well as abusing him for wasting money and all on it! 
 Did you ever know anything so silly? Why, it's 
 simply glorious ; it 's the best thing in the world to 
 fight for a thing, don't you think?" 
 
 "Evidently you think it is?" 
 
 "Why, of course I do! It makes it worth while." 
 
 I asked sharply, "Makes what worth while?" 
 
 He answered slowly: "Oh, I don't quite know. 
 Everything, I suppose. But I don't see the use of 
 things being too easy; there 's no fun in it." 
 
 He was so certain, so ready! Yet to me there is 
 always something almost terrible in the way words of 
 your youth come back in after years to mock and cut 
 you rattle about like so many hailstones until they 
 make you bleed and bleed again. 
 
 I asked then, "And young Ayerst, how do you like 
 him?" 
 
 He looked somewhat uneasily; the dreamy look 
 seemed to leave his face. He said, "Oh, all right, you 
 know." 
 
 I did not know, and I said so somewhat sharply. 
 "What do you mean by 'all right'? 'All wrong,' I 
 suppose, is the real answer!"
 
 SEA WRACK 51 
 
 He looked up at me mischievously. 
 
 "I think I '11 leave old Ayerst to you !" He went 
 on rather reflectively : "It 's difficult to explain, you 
 know. We don't see things in the same sort of way; 
 he 's got such funny sorts of ways and ideas so, so 
 utterly different from the governor; much more like 
 Miss Swinsco!" 
 
 "And you don't care much about either of them?" 
 
 He jerked his shoulders rather impatiently. "It 's 
 not so much how I feel : they 're not so over- friendly 
 to me, you see!" 
 
 I had just started to demand somewhat irritably 
 what on earth he meant, when there came the sound 
 of voices and steps from the yard. Andrew slipped 
 off the table where he had been lounging with the 
 cry: 
 
 "That 's the governor !" And I saw his whole face 
 light up with curious eagerness and affection. He 
 turned then suddenly to me and whispered excitedly: 
 "I say, whatever you do don't offer him any help; it 's 
 what Swinny will do and it just drives him crazy!" 
 And he darted away from me toward the door, cry- 
 ing: 
 
 "Hullo, sir! I say, you do simply spin along! 
 Is n't it tremendous Mr. Penrose 's back again?" 
 
 I heard the old man's great voice : "Don't bawl at 
 me, young fellow. I 'm not deaf yet, ye know !" Then 
 a sudden heaving bump and he wheeled into the room. 
 After all, he had n't changed so very much in those 
 years. They might have bruised him and snarled at
 
 52 SEA WRACK 
 
 him with uncommon brute force, but they couldn't 
 damage him so very much. Just a few white hairs 
 in that great beard and a slight show of wrinkles about 
 the tight skin; possibly, too, a certain strained look 
 around the grim mouth. But that was all. He sat as 
 straight and taut in that chair as he had stood on that 
 snow-covered road and pledged his word for Andrew 
 so many, many years past. He wore a sleeveless vest, 
 and the great muscles could be plainly seen heaving 
 and stretching beneath it; about the lower part of his 
 body there was arranged a thin covering. 
 
 I put my hand out to him, and he caught it firmly. 
 
 "Well, Mr. Penrose! Glad to see ye, glad to see 
 ye." And went on, with his usual impatience, "And 
 what d 'ye think o' my lad?" 
 
 It was on my lips to retort, "Magnificent utterly 
 magnificent?" But I checked myself in time, because 
 you see I realized he did not mean Andrew because 
 at that instant I was startled by the appearance of 
 Ayerst. 
 
 He had just slithered into the room, and I know it 
 struck me as quite remarkable that so big a man could 
 move so smoothly. When I say big, I am not talking 
 of such strength and bigness as the Skipper's or old 
 Swinsco's : he had a sort of gawky, heavy appearance, 
 just as if the Maker of all things had flung flesh and 
 skin at him, and left him to do the fitting himself! 
 And it was pretty obvious there had been no nicety in 
 that latter. He seemed to stick out at all manner and 
 kind of places rather gaunt about the knuckles, a
 
 SEA WRACK '53 
 
 >it bumpy at the shoulders, a trifle over-sharp around 
 the hips. He stood too long on his legs and too short 
 with his arms. A very pale face with paler hair and 
 equally pale eyes. They were the oddest part of him, 
 those eyes, though I am bound to admit his mouth ran 
 them pretty close! The former seemingly but half 
 opened and having a perpetual dodging, flickering way 
 with them, the other crocked and thin twitching and 
 twisting as if bent most furiously on keeping in time 
 with those agitated lids. . . . Mark you, I am the 
 first to admit that the outside appearance goes for 
 nothing there is plenty of fine stuff beneath all man- 
 ner of grotesqueness ; but there was something odd 
 about Ayerst odd, you see, but not quaint! Comic, 
 if you like, but not whimsical! He didn't tickle the 
 happy side of you, but he jarred rather upon your sus- 
 picions. He set you wondering just how much was 
 wrapped up beneath all that oddity, and just what it 
 was and how far it could go. He savored of the 
 dandy, too not that his clothes were cut by any better 
 hands than a country tailor's, but they were quite 
 startling in a place like Ditchling! Maroon-colored 
 jacket and quite correct breeches, highly polished boots 
 and gaiters, with fancy waistcoat and spotted cravat. 
 
 This was Ayerst, then the hope of the house, the 
 answer to prayer, the outcome of belief! 
 
 I had a sort of feeling of pins and needles all over 
 me, that crept into my brain and made speech difficult. 
 
 Ayerst Swinsco. . . . Well, why not? What had 
 it to do with me what kind of a chap he was? Who,
 
 54 SEA WRACK 
 
 anyhow, was I to have either doubts or disappoint- 
 ments or perplexities over matters that were none of 
 mine? And worse still, of what kind could I be to 
 be thinking all the while of such distasteful things as 
 comparisons ? 
 
 I said with as much cordiality as I was able to sum- 
 mon : "I 've got to make his acquaintance properly 
 yet! How are you, Ayerst? Why I left you quite a 
 bit of a chap: you Ve grown up properly!" 
 
 His pale eyes flickered, opened very wide, as if to 
 take me completely in, and then shut almost entirely 
 as if what he saw of my shabby clothes and rough 
 appearance caused him discomfort beyond words. He 
 said, and his voice was of the pale and smooth kind : 
 
 "It 's a goodish time since you were here?" 
 
 I nodded and the old man struck in: "He's left 
 his learning now, he has! Picking up my job now; 
 makin' his way." 
 
 I asked, "Glad to leave school?" 
 
 He murmured, "It were a grind." 
 
 There came a sudden outburst from old Swinsco. 
 "Was a grind, young man, was! Them lesson-books 
 o' yourn ha' taught me more than you, I reckon!" 
 A kind of brooding expression for one instant 
 shadowed his face; he turned to me with some bitter- 
 ness : "They don't know what 's good ; it 's them that 
 missed it can tell !" 
 
 I said, with some attempt to cheer him, "I can pro- 
 mise you it is n't always schooling that makes a man."
 
 SEA WRACK 55 
 
 He grunted with stubborn disbelief : " 'T is n't for 
 any gentleman not to know his letters." 
 
 From young Swinsco there came a sudden veiling 
 of those pale eyes, and a sort of spasm around his 
 mouth which seemed to make it even more twisted. 
 He said very gently, as if his tongue was so bored it 
 could not move with any decency, "I never quite see 
 why a farmer should know so much of books." 
 
 I thought old Swinsco was going to burst out again, 
 but to my intense surprise it was Andrew who inter- 
 rupted : 
 
 "That 's because you jolly well don't think! Burns 
 was a plowman and Bunyan a tinker think what 
 they found out of lesson-books !" 
 
 The pale tired lids opened with astonishing wideness 
 and then closed exceedingly abruptly and completely. 
 He murmured, "I thought they both spent a great deal 
 of their time in prison." 
 
 Andrew hit with his heels against the table where 
 he was sitting. "Oh, tlwt!" he retorted scornfully. 
 "That simply did n't matter ! And, anyway, not old 
 Burns!" 
 
 I demanded, "And pray, what do you know of either 
 of them?" 
 
 He grinned back at me with boyish delight at my 
 obvious surprise, "From Mr. Baldwin" (this, the old 
 rector, by the way). "They were his great men the 
 two B's he would call them! You could get the best 
 of lessons from their lives as you would from any!"
 
 5 6 SEA WRACK 
 
 "And what did they teach you, eh?" This from the 
 old man, with terrific tugs at that huge beard. 
 
 Andrew stopped the steady tattoo he was keeping 
 up on the table legs; he answered rather shyly: 
 "Why," he said, "you learnt of poetry and love from 
 the one, and God and battles from the other." 
 
 I saw the big hands grip violently at the chair arms 
 so that the veins shot up on them like streaks of 
 knotted rope. He repeated heavily: "Love? Love 
 d' ye say ? What 's that fur you ?" 
 
 The brown legs started off again. "Oh, well," he 
 answered carelessly, "there is always something to 
 learn, I suppose." 
 
 The big hands loosened with a sudden jerk their vio- 
 lent hold on the chair. He answered grimly : "Then you 
 can go an' learn this minute how to ring pigs! Get 
 you gone to Beaton in the lower yard ; Mr. Penrose an' 
 I ha' much to talk on."
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 ALL said and done, memory is a painful thing, and 
 I positively dislike you for making me drag out 
 this yarn. Believe me, it is detestable because of the 
 yearning it tears out of you because of the sharp 
 jabs it will inflict on your heart. Even its spelling is 
 false; it should be written tragedy it is tragedy! It 
 should be named "pain" it means pain ! 
 
 I may be old now, feeble enough, if you will, but 
 there is no groping yet in my mind to resurrect those 
 scenes long dead long past. To catch hold of Time 
 by his skirts and look backward over his shoulders at 
 all those things memory spells, at all those tunes mem- 
 ory still pipes. . . . Look back at them ! 
 
 Hot days with Andrew on the sea. Hot scorching 
 days with the sun blistering the painted boat, and beat- 
 ing out all manner and kind of scents from that per- 
 fectly still ocean. 
 
 Utterly silent, utterly dead. . . . Somehow you 
 could not picture it peopled, you could not picture it 
 raging. It stretched blue and flattened like glass to the 
 horizon where the sweltering haze received it and 
 wrapped it round about with mysterious strands of 
 
 57
 
 58 SEA WRACK 
 
 mist. Andrew, all naked and dripping, swinging idly 
 from the bows; very white where his skin had been 
 covered; very brown where the sun had ruthlessly 
 caught it. Andrew, full of all manner and kind of 
 ideas, thrusting forward with sudden questions and 
 hopes. Andrew, part dreamer, part impatient youth. 
 
 When the mood had him he would ply me with 
 questions of travel outlandish spots principally. I 
 remember he had no taste for cities. Then at other 
 times, as the mood had passed, he was scheming, lov- 
 ing the flat lands of Lincolnshire. 
 
 "I don't know what I want," he told me one day. 
 "Don't know how I want to satisfy myself. Some- 
 times all this seems so small," and he made a tremen- 
 dous impatient sweep of his arm. "So small, and I 
 want bigger things; jolly old spaces, and all that tre- 
 mendous feeling of what lies beyond! Then then I 
 feel, because I came here, some one, some God, some 
 Unknown, had some jest with me, some idea when it 
 tossed me ashore. Must have done ! Else why here? 
 And, O Lord! I love it! ... But it doesn't love 
 me ! I can feel that it 's got a grudge against me and 
 there must be some meaning in it all ; there 's always 
 same meaning behind everything; and then I watch 
 and I wait. And you know, Penrose, sometimes the 
 blessed place seems alive, all ready and watching and 
 waiting ! And then I wonder what meaning it 's got 
 hidden away, and when it '11 spring out all alive !" 
 
 I remember asking curiously, "But you won't be 
 staying here all your life?"
 
 SEA WRACK 59 
 
 And he twisted his foot about in the water so that 
 the spray flicked over me. "As to that," he retorted 
 carelessly, "how do I know ? I 've got to make my 
 way. I 've got to wait awhile and see how I stand, or 
 if I stand at all!" 
 
 I hit very hard with my pipe on the boat's edge. 
 "When the old man dies " I began hesitatingly. 
 
 "When the old man dies," he answered impatiently. 
 "There 's Ayerst. What do you suppose Ayerst will 
 have to say to me ?" 
 
 I said, "You '11 be your own master then." 
 
 He shot a quick glance at me, and then turned away 
 again. 
 
 "So will Ayerst. That will be my beginning or my 
 end! I came by the sea; shall I go by it? I wonder." 
 
 Then, with sudden fretfulness, he 'd jerk back into 
 the seat and pull on the oars. 
 
 Get back with Time long way back. And through 
 it all the years jogging at Andrew, pulling him on, 
 adding to him this way, strengthening him that. 
 Eighteen, nineteen, twenty always with much to say, 
 always urging him on, whimpering at his heels and 
 making much speed with him. 
 
 He would come into my cottage (did I tell you I 
 was owner of an infinitesimal spot in Ditchling "Old"?) 
 in the late winter evenings and roast chestnuts and 
 potatoes at my fire. Crouch there in silence watching 
 the smoke from his pipe join the gray strands of the
 
 60 SEA WRACK 
 
 fire and sweep heavenward with them up the chimney. 
 Crouch there, and then let fly with one of his puzzle- 
 ments. Once I remember he turned as he sat and 
 peered up at me with wrinkled brows. "Who do you 
 think my mother was, Penrose ? My father I wonder 
 what kind of a link there must have passed from them 
 to me." 
 
 "Some children," I told him, "have practically noth- 
 ing of their parents in them." 
 
 He broke a chestnut savagely between his fingers. 
 
 "Ah, but I would like to feel the touch there ! Like 
 to know some bit of their feelings, desires, had crept 
 into me. I say, Penrose, was ever a man like me? 
 What sort of folk were they? O Lord, Penrose, what 
 would I not give to have a glimpse of those two un- 
 known?" 
 
 I answered him angrily : "So you say, so you say ! 
 But what if that missing link had been your salvation?" 
 
 He flung back at me with fine scorn : "What a gos- 
 pel to believe! Practical enough for those who like 
 it, but I would let my fancy roam and take me along 
 with her. God knows it 's poor enough stuff only 
 paint-work. That 's where the rub conies in." 
 
 I asked with my usual bluntness: "What does 
 Ayerst think of such things?" 
 
 He gave a sort of grunt that might have meant any- 
 thing. "Ayerst! Do you think he cares? Can you 
 think of Ayerst with a soft feeling about his heart? 
 I can't ! Yet I did ask him once when I was a much 
 littler chap. And I often wonder why I was such a
 
 SEA WRACK 6 1 
 
 fool! That is the oddest thing of life of things 
 letting out some bit of you that you know to be en- 
 tirely your own ! And yet you suddenly say it to the 
 wrong person. Why?" 
 
 He stared at me with brooding eyes. "Why ?" 
 
 I shook my head. He went on : 
 
 "Oh, well, it does n't matter, but it 's a freakish sort 
 of business. We 'd been lambing, I remember both 
 of us still at school but holidays up on the wold. It 
 was one of those cold, clean afternoons when the sun 
 is but a bit of a lamp in the sky, and a thin lazy kind 
 of wind just moved the dank grass. Why, in God's 
 name, did I even get on such a subject with Ayerst? 
 It must have been that odd, silent sort of feeling in 
 the air; it must have been that sullen, heaving sea! A 
 mocking, jeering kind of sea, with a sneer about each 
 wave, and a laugh about its roarings. Sometimes the 
 sea gets me like that. Sometimes it chuckles and 
 mutters away at me." He let his chin sink to his 
 folded arms. "See w1w.t I 've got! See what I 've 
 got! Part of you, part of you. . . ." He stared 
 silently into the fire, arousing himself with a 
 jerk to continue roughly : "Anyway, sea or air or what 
 I suddenly found myself asking Ayerst, 'Do you 
 ever think of your parents?' I could have bitten my 
 tongue out as I spoke, for the sort of amused flicker 
 that crossed his face was answer enough. He mur- 
 mured in his gentle, apologetic mannfer, 'Dear old 
 fellow, why ever should I?' 
 
 "I went on, because something in me could not bear
 
 62 SEA WRACK 
 
 to be silenced. 'Are nt' you ever lonely ? Don't you 
 ever miss something? Good Lord, man, isn't it as 
 though a chunk had been cut clean from your life?' 
 And he just answered with his usual, softly humorous 
 way, 'Put in, you mean, dear old chap; given me a 
 glimpse of life that I might never have had if I 'd 
 known my real name!' 
 
 "And I, fool that I was, still persisted you know 
 how I go on, Penrose? Fairly cried at him 'Life 
 that you 've lost, you mean ! Years that you may 
 have missed and can never pick up with again. Faces 
 in your life that you '11 never know?" And he simply 
 cocked his head on one side as if I were a sort of 
 circus curiosity and hummed softly, 'Now I never 
 knew that you could get so upset, old boy ; fancy hav- 
 ing all that inside of you! Too exciting for me, 
 though ; I reckon I 'm better off as I am !' And I 
 just stared at him at the twist of his mouth and all 
 its hidden meaning. I saw my folly. I knew my 
 idiotic fall! I could only mutter, 'Oh, never mind, 
 never mind !' ' 
 
 He was standing up now, staring straight at me 
 hot and flushed, and extraordinarily moved, I said : 
 
 "But look here, Andrew, why did that affect you so 
 much?" 
 
 And he flung his hands above his head and then 
 down to his sides as though he would fling something 
 from him and could not. 
 
 "Why ? O man, it 's easy enough ! Because I let 
 him see there 's something soft in me ! Because I let
 
 SEA WRACK 63 
 
 him know I could fee I and I would n't have let him 
 think that for the world! It was my safeguard, that 
 carelessness of mine; it was a sort of shield! Now 
 he 's seen another side, and he knows I can be hurt, 
 so he '11 jab at me hard hard hoping I '11 hit back, 
 hoping the old man will see, will know!" And then 
 he cried in sudden fury : "Now you think I 'm a 
 coward !" 
 
 I answered him, "I think you 're a precious poor 
 friend to think such things of me." 
 
 All the energy died away. He dropped into a chair, 
 picking up his pipe from the floor where it had fallen. 
 
 "Sorry, sorry, that 's my distardly tongue ! How it 
 does lead me on ! Yet, when you come to think of it, 
 the way I stick on here is nothing short of cowardliness. 
 Then you see there 's some sort of magic about this 
 place, some sort of feel. It holds me, it keeps me 
 why ? There 's the old man : I should hurt him badly 
 if I left. That 's not conceit : I just feel it. There 's a 
 kind of bond between us. Besides I owe him much 
 more than I can ever pay. It 's not for me to snap 
 like a fretful child at any little pricking that may come 
 my way. Such things are nothing to the life the 
 chance he 's given me. I 'm caught ! And I 'm a will- 
 ing prisoner, for there is enchantment in these marshes. 
 Funny, is n't it ? that I should speak so when you think 
 how much it 's got from me ! What possible good can 
 it give out ? Eh, Penrose, what good ? And why do I 
 fill myself with such imaginings?" 
 
 No, I don't think he had any superstitious idea about
 
 64 SEA WRACK 
 
 the place. He was n't that kind. He did feel there 
 was some link between him and it ; possibly, though he 
 never deliberately mentioned it, he connected it most 
 vividly with the wreck and the drowning of his parents. 
 You must understand any idea they had never been on 
 that ship, that he was orphaned already or even that they 
 were alive in some distant country, never entered into 
 his head. Or if it ever had, he simply brushed it on one 
 side. They had been there he was utterly positive. 
 And the very part of the sea that faced Ditchling had 
 taken them. So, as I have already said, the connection 
 between that flat, water-logged land and Andrew must 
 have been a very real, very tremendous thing in his 
 mind. As if they had touched it with their dead feet. 
 Hallowed it and made it holy ground. He simply could 
 not bring himself to turn his back on it then anyway. 
 Afterward when he felt he had paid his debt, this most 
 honorable debt to old Swinsco, well, there was time 
 enough for such things. For the present, Ayerst and 
 Miss Swinsco like creatures of ill omen might hedge 
 him round with all manner of cunning little tricks. 
 What of that? And who were they anyway? And 
 what were such little businesses of life compared to this 
 bigger, sterner matter between him and old Swinsco? 
 
 "Mark you," he had once told me. "Mark you, 
 there 's nothing sentimental about it ! I don't imagine 
 the old man would break his heart if I cleared off. It 
 is n't that ; it 's a matter of repayment, the scratching 
 out of a debt, thanking him ! That 's what it is ! Not 
 just taking bread from his fingers with a mere nod of
 
 SEA WRACK 65 
 
 the head! But showing some sort of gratitude, no 
 matter how poor giving him my hands and my energy 
 to their uttermost." 
 
 Get back with Time ! Like a diary those pages are 
 spread before me ; like a rushing wind those years come 
 sounding at my ears. Twenty-one, twenty-two, 
 twenty-three! All the seasons galloping ahead with 
 Andrew, month after month touching him after their 
 fashion, to race past him and come again after many 
 days with the cry, "How is it with you, brother how 
 speed you?" All manner of things happening, all 
 kinds of business spreading out before him. ... It 
 was remarkable, now I look back on it, how greatly 
 Miss Swinsco was in evidence all those years. What 
 an extraordinary sinister figure hers was, and how 
 equally extraordinary was the influence she had on 
 young Ayerst. Reviewing her again as I do, marking 
 down every scrap of remembrance, there could have 
 been no real affection between this odd couple, yet it 
 was so entirely positive that just as within that mean 
 hard bosom of hers she held a most tremendous grudge 
 against Andrew, so did she hold prisoner some sort 
 of liking for Ayerst. I never knew anything of her 
 past life. Certainly I could never imagine her driven, 
 ill treated, neglected. No, I am sure it was none of 
 these that tightened to mere nothingness her narrow 
 soul. It was a purely selfish motive of getting the best 
 out of life, of using some one no matter who to
 
 66 SEA WRACK 
 
 support her through her days; a kind of feather-bed 
 whereon to droop her plumes. 
 
 She was the kind of woman who makes a bargain 
 wherever she is or wherever she may go. I could 
 fancy Miss Swinsco at the gates of heaven putting it 
 with all her cunning to Peter himself. "You just let 
 me in," she would have said, ''and I '11 tell you who 
 you ought to keep out." 
 
 That 's what she did with Ayerst. The subtlety of 
 the one was hardly noticed by the other; there was a 
 perfectly mutual understanding, and in their case the 
 person they wanted to keep out was Andrew. When 
 I come to think it out in a perfectly cold manner I 
 realize how positively staggering her practicality was. 
 It seemed inconceivable that Andrew would ever be 
 more than a friend and a worker to the old man. The 
 whole of old Swinsco's possessions would pass to 
 Ayerst ; he bore the name ; he was, to all intents and pur- 
 poses, the son. What had Andrew to do with the 
 affair? Yet, mark you, that was not enough for Miss 
 Swinsco; by Jove, no! There was such a thing as 
 chance, and c'hance might prove an able mistress to 
 Andrew, while Andrew and herein spoke her shrewd 
 mind. 
 
 Suppose Andrew in possession of the farm; result, 
 her complete muzzling! The entire maiming of her 
 authority and more particularly the abrupt vanishing 
 of her feather-bed! So she set about driving small 
 wedges about him, sharp, nagging little wedges that 
 pricked his most sensitive side, and cut him like little
 
 SEA WRACK 67 
 
 whips. They never moved him, never broke his pride. 
 Yet, if their aggravation reached its uttermost at times, 
 think how they must have rejoiced twofold to find, 
 as Ayerst found, that nervous dreamy side of his 
 nature! .Rejoiced. . . . And gone on steadily driv- 
 ing at those wedges. . . . 
 
 And it was in the middle of all this, in the midst of 
 all these hurrying years, that a remarkable change com- 
 menced about Miss Swinsco a change that was all the 
 more extraordinary when you knew her as I did 
 when you realize as deeply as I how entirely self-satis- 
 fied were her ideas, and how methodically she wor- 
 shiped the little tin god Self. I tell you it came with 
 almost a shock to think of her with any religious 
 thought in her life! Incredible to imagine her, in fact, 
 with any other interest beyond the careful arranging of 
 the feathers which were to make her nest. Yet she ac- 
 tually had this interest ? She actually bent her head in 
 penitence ! But you will see as time progresses how per- 
 fectly she arranged to join that line which divides the 
 body from the soul and the material from God. For 
 the moment that does not matter. I am talking of 
 the beginning of the business. ... It was Andrew 
 who so carelessly alluded to it, and thereby fanned the 
 Bitterness she had for him into something approach- 
 ing a blaze. . . I had been down there to supper on 
 a Sunday night when there was some slight talk, led 
 by Ayerst and Miss Swinsco, of the dinner they had 
 had with friends in Boston the Yardleys. As usual 
 the old man sat silent, then grunted- out :
 
 68 SEA WRACK 
 
 "And never went to church either of ye, I '11 be 
 bound!" 
 
 Ayerst told him gently, "Not so very much time, 
 Father." 
 
 "Ye started early enough; did ye stay to gad on 
 the road?" 
 
 And Miss Swinsco's rasping voice: "I'll thank 
 you not to talk of gadding with me, brother. If it 's 
 friends you grudge me, better say so than wrap your 
 words in insults!" 
 
 And the Andrew, who hated these wrangles which 
 would so suddenly break out Andrew, to whom all re- 
 ligions were one and the same provided they worshiped 
 the real God in them, cried in his cheerful manner: 
 
 "I say, why hide your good works beneath a bushel, 
 eh? Why, I saw you devout as any saint coming 
 from the Catholic church on the Boston highroad !" 
 
 It was extraordinary the violent change in her. Her 
 whole face flushed to a kind of purple red and her eyes 
 narrowed to shiny black currants. But she got no 
 chance to say her say then, for, with a kind of roar, 
 the old man was at her demanding : 
 
 "What 's this, what 's this ? Are you doing tricks 
 wi' th' Romans, eh?" 
 
 She never answered him; she muttered at Andrew, 
 her voice all thick and furious : "What 's it to you ? 
 What were you doing, prying round my heels ?" 
 
 And Andrew, flushed and exceedingly uncomfort- 
 able, answered hotly : "Now, that 's a rotten kind of 
 thing to say! I was walking round there, Penrose
 
 SEA WRACK 69 
 
 and I. We came up Church Lane as you came out. 
 As a matter of fact it was the scarlet of the trap with 
 Ayerst in it that first caught my eye. I 'm not the 
 kind of person to " 
 
 He was not allowed to say any more. Old Swinsco 
 crashed his fist on the table so that the plates and 
 glasses fairly leaped into the air. 
 
 "Now, mark ye, I '11 -ha' no Romans under my roof! 
 I 've had no good from 'em and I '11 keep my house 
 clean from their sort. Understand that understand 
 it well, too, by God!" 
 
 And then the smooth, deprecating voice of Ayerst 
 came gently through this decidedly heated atmosphere. 
 
 "As a matter of fact, if you 'd just let me speak 
 as a matter of fact, it was nothing to do with a ser- 
 vice; it was just to see that window they put up for 
 Councilor James, after all only a sort of local curios- 
 ity, dear Father." 
 
 The old chap was looking at him with a sort of 
 undecided, rough perplexity, as I remember once see- 
 ing a wolf look at its cub. He asked heavily: "And 
 did ye go in, young fellow? Mind, I '11 ha' no lies." 
 
 The pale hairless lids almost entirely hid the equally 
 pale eyes. "Why, no, dear Father!" he murmured. 
 "You know what an utter sort of heathen I am." 
 
 I noticed a sort of spasm passed over that fine 
 strong face. He muttered into his beard: "A Catho- 
 lic and a heathen ! Pretty sort of family !" and sent the 
 wheeled chair back with a jerk from the table. 
 
 It was n't over then by any manner of means.
 
 70 SEA WRACK 
 
 Afterward, in the garden, as Andrew was seeing me 
 off, Miss Swinsco came violently on us. She simply 
 did n't notice me, but spat out at the boy like a wild- 
 cat. 
 
 "A word with you a word with you, if you please! 
 What were you- doing after me this morning? What 
 were you at?" 
 
 Andrew answered rather hesitatingly: "Doing? 
 What was I doing ? Why, I 've told you ! Penrose 
 and I were having a most tremendous tramp round 
 
 about. Good Lord !" And he gave a sort of 
 
 apologetic laugh. "Good Lord, why, by the way you 
 speak, you* might be thinking I was on the watch for 
 you!" 
 
 She answered with extraordinary passion : "That 's 
 just what I do think, just what I know. I 'm no fool; 
 I know many things, young man, many things !" 
 
 "Then I wish you 'd say them," Andrew told her 
 warmly. "I wish you 'd speak out and have done 
 with it!" 
 
 I have never seen a woman so mad as she was! 
 She had her distorted face rammed right up against 
 him, her great breasts seeming to swell until I almost 
 expected the tight stuff of her bodice to split clean 
 away. She hardly heard what Andrew said. She 
 seemed to speak with difficulty, as if her rage strangled 
 her ; she went on : 
 
 "Trying to trap me down even at my prayers ! Lay- 
 ing in wait for me like a spy, a common spy !" 
 
 Even in the darkness I saw Andrew turn a sudden
 
 SEA WRACK 71 
 
 livid white; I noticed his hands blurred and patchy 
 caught at each other with a most violent gesture. 
 "Look here," he muttered thickly. "Look 
 here. . . ." And there was something about his voice 
 that made me catch at his two hands and cry to Miss 
 Swinsco : 
 
 "See here, I think you Ve said enough, and what 
 more there is to say tell it to me, and keep a check 
 on your tongue!" 
 
 And she was round and spitting out at me "I '11 
 have no words with a godless man like you! No 
 words and no interference. My church-going, wher- 
 ever it may be, is a deal sight better than the poison 
 you and your kind sow ! Take it from me, Mr. Pen- 
 rose, as the Lord will have me do, so I obey ; those who 
 don't like it can best keep quiet; I don't answer to 
 them! But if need be they shall answer to me. 
 That 's my say; best to know it, the two of you; best 
 to heed it!" And she had twisted her round body 
 about and was clamping away up the drive. 
 
 Andrew and I, left to ourselves, stood staring 
 stupidly at each other. Andrew said in a blank, al- 
 most toneless voice: 
 
 "I say, I say, Penrose " I hardly heeded him ; 
 
 I was hot and furious all over. I cried savagely : 
 
 "Good God, what a woman what a creature " 
 
 Andrew muttered very softly, "I say Penrose, how 
 she does hate me!" He startled me, and I answered 
 him roughly. 
 
 "Don't be such an idiot, boy; she 's off her head!"
 
 72 SEA WRACK 
 
 He simply went on : "With hate, yes ! She simply 
 loathes me, Penrose. I wonder why." 
 
 Yet this month that jolted at him so badly was 
 followed by one of the most tremendous elation on 
 Andrew's part. I can see him now, extraordinarily 
 hot and extraordinarily excited. Bareheaded as usual, 
 despite the blazing sun, with his blue shirt all open at 
 the throat, and the sleeves right up to his shoulders; 
 flinging himself from a huge brown horse to rush into 
 my cottage with a shout: 
 
 ''Penrose, I say, Penrose, where the dickens are 
 you? O Lord, man, what do you think? The 
 governor 's bought that new land Tilling Plain as 
 they call it you know, they 've just done draining 
 it ; well, he 's got twenty-five acres of it and he 's put 
 me in charge to make it all fit and proper ! Is n't that 
 splendid? Is n't it fine? A job on my own. A sort 
 of adventure, Penrose. A slight enough thing, I jolly 
 well know ! But it is something a big something to 
 me! I feel . . . Oh, I feel like that old chap Isaac, 
 when he went his way and pitched his tents on his own 
 land ! That 's what I 'm doing ! Pitching my tents, 
 getting my own out of the earth !" 
 
 He stopped with a sudden jerk, and began to fill 
 his pipe with fingers that shook the slightest. 
 
 "I suppose even you must think me a precious sort 
 of a fool the way I go on." There was a kind of 
 apologetic note about his voice. "I suppose I am.
 
 SEA WRACK 73 
 
 Yet even you can't know just what a trust like this 
 seems to me ! For it is a trust that 's why I feel it 
 so. It 's a sign a sign of faith from the old man 
 faith in my work, faith in the poor stuff that I am. 
 It 's the grandest thing that could have happened to 
 me ; it 's the best thing I could have asked for. . . . 
 Not that it'll ever be mine my very own!" He 
 jerked red ashes from the pipe and stamped them be- 
 neath his foot. "Not that! But it '11 be something I 
 shall have left my mark on, when the time comes for 
 me to move. Something I shall have touched ! Earth 
 I can look back on as having turned to my own pur- 
 pose. Like those old fellows in the Bible to whom 
 earth and space and stars were one with the mystery 
 of God who pitched their tents and made their mark, 
 and went their way. . . . Even as I shall please 
 Heaven !" 
 
 . . . He was sowing his seed, stepping afoot with 
 Time. Twenty-five acres of marsh land, of doubt- 
 ful soil. He was to be answerable for them; he was 
 to make good with them if any good were possible. 
 To render such account of this his stewardship to 
 toil, to bend to sweat. . . . Half-way to paying that 
 debt of his a good half-way! "It 's a sort of chance," 
 as he once said. "A chance, and it may never come 
 my way again! It's now now that I can show my 
 gratitude, now that I can prove all I have felt, all I 
 have so longed to say!" 
 
 Always a man of the fields, always one with the 
 earth and the things that belonged to -it ; so now even
 
 74 SEA WRACK 
 
 a thousand times more. Winter and summer, daylight 
 and drowsy mornings ... to turn and plow and sow 
 and plow and turn and s'ow again. To wait and 
 watch and hope. To rejoice and give no heed to dis- 
 appointment. 
 
 In those days he was noticed more by the village. 
 Until then, you must understand, most of his work 
 had been up on the wold; now he was seen more, ob- 
 served more, a certain interest was meted out to him. 
 There was Cathy Yardley, pretty foolish Cathy, with 
 her rather defiant coquettish, ways, and a tremendous 
 belief in her own fascination. I remember her hair, 
 puffed about her dainty pointed little face in very fair 
 curls ; I remember she wore white if she possibly could, 
 and she liked ribbons and flowers, Cathy Yardley such 
 a flimsy little nature! She was the only child of old 
 Barnabas Yardley a man with a face like a camel and 
 an air that was as ponderous and overweighted as that 
 beast itself. His was a somewhat important position 
 in Ditchling: corn chandler and timber merchant, and 
 agent to some big coal dealer in Lincoln. Unlike the 
 village folk, you never saw him in working clothes; I 
 imagine his idea was to impress his clients by the 
 spruceness of his garments, by the immensity of his 
 watch-chain and the cleanliness of his cravat. "I do 
 not work," seemed to be his aspect; "I control." He 
 had certain authority in the local affairs at Boston, and 
 relations there into the bargain, who prinked them- 
 selves on their remarkable superiority, and perfect 
 correctness of their tea-parties. You would always
 
 SEA WRACK 75 
 
 find Cathy at these parties. There would be much talk 
 and brightness, much chaffing and high laughter. Very 
 pleasurable all these things to Cathy. 
 
 And it is paramount to this story to make it known 
 that you would have seen a good deal of Ayerst be- 
 sides. And I happen to know there was at one time 
 just sufficient talk of the two of them to cause a most 
 violent scene between him and the old man. A scene 
 that led to a sudden unheaval and rearrangement of 
 matters at the farm ; a turning and twisting of affairs, 
 of which two things were of considerable importance 
 one the departure of Ayerst to London, to stay with 
 a brother of the Lincoln firm of lawyers with whom 
 Swinsco did considerable business, and who therefore 
 held him in considerable respect; the other I have al- 
 ready mentioned this intrusting of Andrew with the 
 new land at Tilling Plain. 
 
 And it was while working there that Cathy, possibly 
 for the first time, took any real notice of him. She 
 had seen him before, at her father's yard in Lincoln, 
 when the fair came round, and maybe passed him 
 occasionally on the road. But in those days, though 
 she may have bowed prettily in answer to his careless 
 salutation, she had other thoughts and ideas to fill her 
 mind. She may have had them now; and when I 
 come to think of it, I do not think they ever utterly 
 died in her. But for the moment she was sulky, out 
 of patience, vexed at innumerable things. Ayerst 
 was n't there to drive her continually to the Boston 
 relations, and possibly her father began to think there
 
 76 SEA WRACK 
 
 was a little too much dancing and singing at that house. 
 She did n't go over so frequently and the days hung 
 remarkably heavy on her hands. 
 
 Bitchling, you see, had little or nothing to offer 
 her by way of amusement. She became peevish and 
 fretful, and yet, with that alert methodical manner 
 that so many women have, she set about looking for 
 some interest amusement tor help her along. She 
 found it in Andrew. 
 
 In her way, Cathy was the complete egoist. Her 
 satisfaction in herself and her apparent charm was the 
 most positive thing in her life. There are some such 
 women and their certainty would be ridiculous if it 
 were not so tragic. Thus with Andrew she was so com- 
 pletely assured. She could have had no qualms, no 
 doubtful moments. His carelessness, his abstraction, 
 even his quick abruptness when he would sometimes 
 pass her by, worried her not in the least. She con- 
 sidered him shy nervous, perhaps ; she possibly spoke 
 of him in this strain to her friends he was all the 
 things that pleasant shy men were. . . . He was none 
 of them as I knew so well. He hardly noticed her; 
 that was the point: and this Cathy simply never real- 
 ized. She knew nothing saw nothing beyond her 
 own charms. Of this, she was very certain, very satis- 
 fied. 
 
 Has it ever struck you how persistent and method- 
 ical Time can be ? Have you ever imagined how busy 
 and exact the business of it all is? Such a fitting and 
 arranging ! Such a figuring and piecing out, a placing
 
 SEA WRACK 77 
 
 and a planning ; all leading sometimes even in an un- 
 even, crooked kind of way to some kind of crisis 
 to one certain and inevitable question: "What will 
 he do now. What will he say next?" Queer trickery 
 about it all ! Unseen, and very often amazing endings 
 to the whole of this absurd little affair we call life, 
 sent spinning out into this bit of a world by some un- 
 known, un-understandable Finger and Thumb. . . . 
 What laughter there must be in heaven. What tears ! 
 . . . Persistent and methodical! This piecing out, 
 this fitting together. With each year some movement, 
 some happenings! Certain things developing, cer- 
 tain events stretching farther afoot, yet with that same 
 persistence joining up, slipping together, making a 
 whole. Movement and life in the village, movement 
 and life some few miles out. About that hamlet of a 
 place Colt-Harrow, about that grim faded old house 
 Coltons, about that grotesque, strutting little figure of 
 a man ex-Lieutenant Carey, royal navy lord of the 
 manor ! Light creeping in through his rusty old doors 
 and windows, light and yet more light. For, just a 
 year before Andrew took charge over Tilling land, 
 there came over the seas one Tarnia, \yn\y child of the 
 absurdly important Lieutenant Tarnia. . . . So, to 
 her father's house.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 TARNIA. And for reasons that you will know 
 later, and I hope understand, it is befitting you 
 should hear orf her first from Andrew. As he once 
 told me many years later . . . "She is like the wind on 
 a summer's night. ..." 
 
 There was something in her face that took you back 
 fought most desperately with your thoughts and 
 hurried you back through the ages twisting and grop- 
 ing in your mind for the likeness that you saw 
 mirrored within hers. She had the mystery that -is 
 Egypt ; the solitary passion that is the desert. . . . The 
 desert! That was just it; the stillness, and yet the 
 movement ; its untamed passion and yet withal its mar- 
 velous yearning. . . . And all the time it was as if 
 Egypt itself had touched her with magic fingers and 
 veiled her face and made her secret ; had whispered so 
 to her : 
 
 "You shall be as all women through the ages you 
 shall be as none! For what woman is like another? 
 I have set my seal on your face, I have set my shadow 
 about your eyes. To break that seal, to raise that 
 
 78
 
 SEA WRACK 79 
 
 shadow it is for you and one other!" . . . For the 
 rest she was a very still woman. 
 
 Tarnia. Well, she came to the Fen land, and all 
 the time she dwelt there she was entirely foreign to it. 
 Like Andrew she came by the sea: unlike him it had 
 been a nurse to her, a very great love, no casting away, 
 only a great and terrible yearning. I want to tell 
 you the meaning of that; I want you to know some of 
 the history that was hers before she came over the 
 sea. 
 
 I have mentioned to you the little cocksure, trumpet- 
 ing man who was her father. He was an ex-lieutenant 
 of his Majesty's navy; and once some Nelson man had 
 nursed him into a prime sailor. Yet when I knew him 
 he was all pepper and salt, all foolish importance, and 
 bumptious pride. He lived at Coltons Colt-Harrow 
 in the county of Lincoln. He had a great dingy old 
 house, with a great dingy old garden, with iron gates, 
 with dusty rooms and moth-eaten furniture. It could 
 only have been the compassion of God on high that he 
 did not know how the whole place mocked him. 
 Mocked him for what he had been and what he had 
 sunk to. 
 
 A country gentleman, a great name ! And you may 
 ask is a man down because of such splendid things? 
 You never knew him, my friend, and I never knew 
 him when his spirit was reared above and above again 
 such earth-bound dignity ; of such affairs he knew noth- 
 ing and cared less when he walked his ship a royal 
 ship when he wore a uniform and wore it royally,
 
 8o SEA WRACK 
 
 when he used his sword and used it li'ke a king's man. 
 . . . Those days! 
 
 That was his time; that was when he was uplifted 
 above himself- and lived his life! 
 
 Knowing him as I did,, seeing him, fussy, fretful, 
 domineering, it was impossible almost ever to have 
 thought him as that; and yet, if that caused certain 
 doubt, I tell you it was almost staggering to 
 realize how once he had grasped so earnestly at 
 romance! Yet he had, and that was how Tarnia 
 was born. 
 
 Let us- go back a bit and think of him in those dead 
 days, a mere distant relative of these Careys, of Colt- 
 Harrow. Very distant, I rather imagine. His father, 
 then, was a parson in some obscure village in Kent, and 
 he was one of many children somewhere between the 
 eldest and the youngest, I rather imagine. The import- 
 ant fact was that the patron of his underfed father was 
 either a post-captain or an admiral I Ve forgotten 
 which, just as I don't remember his name it 's of no 
 consequence the point is, he extended his patronage 
 to young Carey, and pretty soon he had triumphant 
 property in a monstrous sea-chest and an absurd dirk, 
 and off he goes upon his first adventure ! You 
 must n't think of him then as the pompous little chap 
 I Ve been telling you about ; you must know him for 
 what he certainly was then or what he grew into as 
 time went on. A slippery, keen-eyed fellow, alert, 
 quick, overflowing with enterprise; that was the Ar- 
 nold Carey then ! There was plenty to do to keep him
 
 SEA WRACK 81 
 
 going in those hot days, and you may be certain the 
 tougher the matter he 'd be the first in it and the last 
 out! Expeditions on the Peninsula coast, blockade 
 work, stiff fighting in America over those damn fool 
 colonies; plenty of it more than enough! and the 
 zeal of him- then must have been tremendous! And 
 then to finish up with that sharp business at Navarino 
 with Codrington. It brought him certain distinction; 
 it brought him something more an injury to his leg 
 which would make him limp to his grave, and a bless- 
 ing from the admiralty in the shape of his discharge. 
 It must have been a pretty bad thing for him ; it must 
 have knocked him uncommonly hard. And yet 
 what does he do? What does he care? Squares his 
 jaw and sets his teeth. And very calmly marries! 
 It is natural you will call it folly fast enough if I let 
 you maybe talk ! But I 'm not going to ! It 's really 
 not your concern nor mine. In those days he was 
 well, a man whom you and I have seen never. It 's 
 just his record we are following up, and there was 
 everything good about it, everything that stood for 
 romance and pluck and chivalry. He married. And 
 the woman ? I 'm coming to that. It was n't a mar- 
 velous affair. How could a penniless lieutenant be 
 expected to have good sense? And a man in love! 
 Well, he 'd met her before, and treasured her up in 
 that heart of his, and swore to have her one day! It 
 had been in Italy. The squadron was at Naples. He 
 then, on a few days' leave, went off with some others 
 on a bit of a tour inland, right among the mountains
 
 82 SEA WRACK 
 
 and as romantic as any Garden of Eden. Well, 
 they met there in those hills. She was n't of high 
 birth, and she was n't of low. She came of Gipsy 
 stock she was a Gipsy all but her mother, who was of 
 royal blood, so I have heard say! I know nothing 
 about that ; it was the daughter he met living with her 
 father's people in tents, tending goats about the hills. 
 There was no questioning on either side they just 
 knew and understood! 
 
 Afterward, then, he sought her out and they were 
 married at the English church. You have to think of 
 them in some dingy room ; you have to see him looking 
 at all manner of ships in the harbor, you have to be 
 with them as they ate their frugal meals and discussed 
 in whispers the marvelous happiness that was theirs. 
 . . . But he was n't the kind that goes under. Not 
 he! He kept that brain of his working; he kept those 
 eyes of his well ahead. Was it the prettiness of his 
 wife? Was it because he was English, and English 
 navy people ranked high those days? It might have 
 been that, it might have been chance but a stray 
 acquaintance in that harbor turned into a friendly 
 merchant, a Jew, I believe, 'and like most of his 
 kind, one with a cute business eye and, well, 
 luck had n't left him for so long, and he and this Gipsy 
 wife are away on a ship of sorts, and he a trader 
 among those queer and almost unknown islands down 
 the Pacific way. Adventure? It was the stuff they 
 were made of ! Well, he worked in his fine tough way 
 for that Jew fellow over in Naples. He traded, and he
 
 SEA WRACK 83 
 
 cruised ; he dealt wisely, and you may be sure he dealt 
 unwisely. That 's as may be. In hardly three years 
 he was a free man. He was his own owner. Quit 
 of the Jew, quit of all outside authority. He bought 
 his own brig, he trod his own decks, he traded as he 
 pleased and where he pleased; had servants and paid 
 them. All his shackles had gone. And then it was, 
 just as he had got clean away on his own, that their 
 child was born Tarnia. . . . Immense silences im- 
 mense space immense myste'ry! This man as we 
 knew him to be then ; and that woman who had traveled 
 from her lemon-trees to this wonderful adventuring 
 with her lover. So to them Tarnia. . . . 
 
 Picture her out there, picture her as she was in those 
 young, young days ! Think of the heat and the blue- 
 ness of the sky; get at the taste of that hot sea, and the 
 muttej of wind fluttering heavy sails. . . . Sluggish 
 voyages down sluggish rivers with gigantic trees bend- 
 ing to meet overhead, wild flights of colored birds, 
 discordant music from some native village; and always 
 the sea! Always the ship that would take her over 
 empty and terrific space, always the stars for her to 
 watch with the deck still warm beneath her naked feet. 
 . . . All about her great invisible forces : mysteriously 
 working about their business. 
 
 And after all, the years were but playing with her. 
 Her mother died. . . . What was she like, this 
 mother? Impossible to tell! Her record is a secret 
 one. Yet I like to think of her as a creature of fire 
 and flame, a woman of night and morning. . . . And
 
 84 SEA WRACK 
 
 even as the heart that with one great swoop like the 
 swoop of an eagle caught at the passion of her life, 
 even so must she have bent her beautiful face bathed 
 in tears, mother-wise, wonder-wise, over this marvel- 
 ous joy her daughter. Passing the love of women. 
 ... Is there such a thing? And then she died. 
 
 Quite suddenly and she had gone. And imme- 
 diately there settled about her child, there wrapped 
 around Tarnia, that most awful agony, the pall of 
 loneliness. You will say she had her father ; you will 
 reason there was still this jolly keen father of hers: 
 this splendid lover whose love had been the most per- 
 fect thing in her mother's life : this fine, eager sailor! 
 
 Well, even I am prepared to swear that when his 
 whole being took on that remarkable change, the great 
 love of his moved not one jot! The wrench in his 
 heart remained forever a gaping, bleeding thing. And 
 yet it was exactly because of the depth of his wound 
 he never saw hers! It was precisely because his grief 
 had smote him hip and thigh, and crushed, as I be- 
 lieve, then and there every bit of that free adventuring 
 spirit from him, he never realized, never imagined, the 
 fearful anguish that was hers! Blind, thrice blind! 
 And by his own rushing, stricken tears. . . . 
 
 This was beginning of the barrier between them, 
 and I think it shot up completely with certain news 
 from England.
 
 SEA WRACK 85 
 
 All these years of adventuring had been marked by 
 adventure of another kind at home. His father was 
 dead, his mother, a sister here and a brother there 
 he was the elder surviving son, and therefore of some 
 interest to certain rather moldy lawyers somewhere 
 down in the City. . . . Coltons was empty. Colt- 
 Harrow suddenly found itself without an overlord, and 
 the whole place lay in moody silence waiting for some 
 Carey to enter the stronghold. The ways and manner 
 of it all does n't matter ; the simple fact remains that 
 Arnold Carey, in an abrupt and utterly unexpected cir- 
 cumstance, became heir to that whole property. 
 
 Coltons, destitute, masterless, waited patiently 
 enough while search was made for this very distant 
 relative, ex-Lieutenant Carey, late of his Majesty's 
 navy. They followed him down, they chased him 
 around. From the Admiralty to some hospital at 
 Portsmouth, so on to some obscure place in Naples; 
 from the old Jew, his first friend, now living in senile 
 luxury, to a port in Java, and so to his brig some 
 few weeks after his wife's death. Months it had taken 
 to reach him, and now, while some musty old parch- 
 ment writer took snuff in Lincoln's Inn, Arnold Carey, 
 with crape on his arm, read this news beneath the awn- 
 ing of his ship on the Pacific. Can you see this little 
 man as I see him ? Can you think of him, spruce and 
 hard and tight, on his spruce, hard, and tight ship, 
 taking it all in? Can you realize what he had been? 
 In the navy in Nelson's navy, a trader, an adventurer, 
 a lover? In those mountains, on these seas, with her
 
 86 SEA WRACK 
 
 at his side, with her in his arms with her on her 
 death-bed, and then most bitterly nursing that stricken 
 heart of his?' -Can you, I ask? Can you! And then 
 look again, and see for yourself the little tiny grain 
 of egoism that must have been there also, that must 
 have lain sleeping for all those years, and suddenly 
 awoke and rubbed its eyes to mutter : "I have a name, 
 an estate a future!" He must have stuck out his 
 ridiculous chest then, he must have cleared his throat 
 a hundred times; he must have smoked an extra large 
 cheroot with extra large importance. Little man, little 
 strutting man h Yet a Carey of Coltons, Colt-Harrow, 
 Lincolnshire! Oh! I tell you, such a little man on 
 a little ship in a little sea, full of little thoughts ! Yet 
 big enough to break as a peevish child will break a 
 mirror that adventuring spirit! To tear into strips 
 as a hysterical woman will a handkerchief the last 
 remnant of romance he still had in his soul. He is 
 Arnold Carey, Esquire, of Coltons, Colt-Harrow, 
 Lincolnshire, and he has buried deep down young 
 Carey young, keen, reckless Carey fathoms deep 
 beneath the sea. 
 
 There is very little hesitation about him; he makes 
 his plans, and works them out in a feverish, important 
 kind of manner. And possibly the most important 
 is that Tarnia shall go to some finishing school in Paris. 
 Terrific and extraordinary determination ! Yet to my 
 mind it is even more extraordinary that all that part 
 the news he had to tell, the decision he had made re-
 
 SEA WRACK 87 
 
 main and always will remain a sealed book as between 
 her and her father. 
 
 A sealed and entirely unknown document! And 
 there is certain significance in that because, it was the 
 one thing even in her after life she would never men- 
 tion, the one most fearful knowledge she would never 
 admit; that some one new and strange had arisen be- 
 fore her, that a mysterious kind of death seemed to 
 have sucked under that old and dearly loved 
 father. . . . 
 
 He does n't notice he does n't see ! He carries all 
 before him with certain air of triumphant importance. 
 He squares his accounts, and sells his brig; he issues 
 his last final command when he steers her silently into 
 Manila and gives her over to her new owner. A quick 
 matter, arranged with due nicety, and they are both 
 homeward-bound on some passenger ship for England. 
 It is finished then ; it is all over. Time has had a trium- 
 phant reaping; with one sweep of his scythe he has 
 taken one soul to meet his account with another, ro- 
 mance is sent wailing overboard. . . . 
 
 She is at school in Paris; she is learning all the 
 correct rudiments of scholastic knowledge she is 
 learning many things besides. A most select place 
 this academy, this correct establishment for young 
 ladies. She is being looked at, summed up, and duly 
 placed by the odd fifty or so young ladies of whom 
 this seminary is made up. She is being surrounded 
 by sharp inquisitive eyes and poked and picked at by
 
 88 SEA WRACK 
 
 skilful chattering tongues. She is learning learning 
 many things, and above all her many imperfections. 
 Dry-and-dull geography, dry-and-dull history, dry-and- 
 dull voices, while the fifty or so pairs of eyes slyly 
 mock her, and the fifty or so odd tongues titter and 
 twitter to each other. She is learning. . . . 
 
 Always to learn that was what she was there for! 
 . . . Little things, bitter things. That if you are quiet 
 you are an amusement; if you are sensitive, it is wiser 
 not to wince; if you have deep feelings, it is better to 
 keep them secret. That there is such a thing as 
 laughter; and it can cut into your very soul and sear 
 you for life. . . . And it must have been then, entirely 
 and completely, that she let the old Egypt take charge 
 of her and seal her eyes and lock her heart. 
 
 It was not the finish of the affair, that school. Her 
 father had further arrangements. Immediately she 
 was to travel ; immediately there stepped forward from 
 some mysterious, ancestral burrow a penniless dowager, 
 with a plentiful supply of the bluest blood and all the 
 most up-to-date methods of gaining the best equipped 
 and provisioned husband. 
 
 Womanhood, in fact, was ascending upon Tarnia. 
 But she was approaching it in chains. The gates that 
 had held her so tightly during her school-days were no 
 sooner opened wide for her to pass out than others 
 appeared and shut her in. She had simply gone one 
 step further in the art of schooling. She had no 
 sooner finished with one task than another was meted 
 out to her. It was a stern enough business this. She
 
 SEA WRACK 89 
 
 was a sort of bait, you see, to be trailed about and 
 catch up the tastiest fish. Somehow she did n't trail 
 well enough. I have seen scraps of letters written by 
 her father at that time. Rebuking notes, with many 
 allusions to "coldness of manner," "not taking sufficient 
 heed of your chances," and much hurt expressed at her 
 "lack of consideration toward my old age." In other 
 words, a hint that she should, with correct duti fulness, 
 get a proper support elsewhere! 
 
 Pleasant sort of letters for a woman so sensitive and 
 proud ! But you must understand that things were not 
 progressing so wonderfully with this little piece of 
 pomposity at Colt-Harrow! Things, in fact, were 
 rather on the tight side : he was beginning to feel un- 
 pleasantly squeezed, unpleasantly empty about the 
 pockets. 
 
 The point was, he had fairly stuffed his round head 
 with all manner and kind of schemes, not a single idea 
 connected with land or land cultivation, and he did not 
 wildly spring at it. He ventured where his placid an- 
 cestors never would have blundered. ... So far as 
 that he ventured on such business that no level-headed 
 man would have looked at, far less have touched. He 
 had such castles in the air that he virtually flew off the 
 the ground and floated upon the very clouds. . . . And 
 it was precisely those castles which tripped his stride 
 or should I say flight? and made him bruise himself 
 with exceeding discomfort! 
 
 Again, how queer, and un-understandable, that this 
 little navy man, who once handled men in a way that
 
 90 SEA WRACK 
 
 gained him credit from the lords of the admiralty, who 
 set his teeth at any tight corner and wiped it clean, 
 mixed his feet most vilely as he walked, and brought 
 his house crashing about his head! Of his pluck, his 
 foresight, and all those other inestimable qualities in 
 these days one saw nothing. He only proved the ex- 
 istence of that little grain of self-pride, its madder 
 growing ! Coltons had been good enough for the Carey 
 he had succeeded not particularly rolling in richness 
 and possessions, but with enough and more. Horses 
 in the stable, wine in the cellars, liveries for the many 
 servants, land and plenty to be plowed and sown, and 
 all that kind of thing. And yet, this absurdly impatient 
 man, what does he do but plan for more ! What does 
 he think but gain gain and more gain! Selling, 
 buying, to borrow here and spend there. Altering this, 
 and completing that! Speculating, in fact, and then 
 loses his head! That tight, alert, keen little brain it 
 goes ! There is always a reckoning in such affairs ; it 
 came soon enough. A horse or so less, a servant or two 
 gone, a farm or so sold, some acres gone to waste. 
 Reckoning ! Most damnable word ! For it means the 
 recall of Tarnia. More than that : the very borrowing 
 of her traveling expenses! 
 
 3 
 
 Thus her return. The most silent, most tragic thing 
 that could have been. No trumpetings about this; no 
 bonfires or banners, no speech-making and other such 
 blaze of welcome, nothing better than the carrier's cart
 
 SEA WRACK 91 
 
 from Lincoln to set her down at the gates of Coltons ! 
 So much for the ex-lieutenant ; so much for the Careys 
 of all Careys; so much for the vastness of the house 
 with father and daughter cramped in one room, and 
 somewhere among the cobwebs two old melancholy 
 creatures to minister to them ; so much for the acres of 
 gardens with weeds and fungus for them to walk in! 
 So much ah, how much? 
 
 For all those hot, adventuring days, and the hot ad- 
 venturing love that went with them! How many 
 leagues from this barren house ? How many fathoms 
 beneath the sea? . . . 
 
 It was about a year, or perhaps a little more, before 
 Andrew's venture with the Tilling land, and the abrupt 
 despatch of Ayerst to London, that Tarnia came to 
 Colt-Harrow. Yet in that time I do not think he met 
 her but twice once as they passed in the road and once 
 at Coltons. It was the latter time only they spoke. 
 
 She had a fancy for roaming the country for miles 
 around on the only horse they had in their poor stable. 
 A great gray beast, thick of coat and heavy of hoof, 
 with a certain furious baffled gleam about his eyes as 
 though he had been bought for better things, and had 
 come through bitter ways to a most bitter existence. 
 But his neck took a prouder curve when she started to 
 ride him, and in the end I think she lessened his 
 drudgery and used him as befitted his magnificence. 
 And it was during her riding these two first met An- 
 drew and Tarnia : met, and passed by. A dreary cold 
 day, with a sodden droning wind and a sodden drab
 
 92 SEA WRACK 
 
 sky. Yet her horse was hot and steaming, and she all 
 warmly flushed from hard riding. 
 
 It was a fancy of hers to wear an odd, rather old- 
 fashioned riding dress not so much old-fashioned, but 
 as having a fashion of its own, as belonging to her en- 
 tirely, just as entirely as she belonged to it. A sort of 
 plum color, with the coat cut very loose and heavy, 
 with great paste buttons on the front and great soft 
 gantlets reaching to her elbow. She would twist a 
 colored scarf about her throat, orange or scarlet or blue 
 as the whim seized her, while her hat was three-cor- 
 nered and matched the dress, excepting the long bend- 
 ing feather, which was a vivid scarlet. 
 
 That was the first time he saw her, then : a strange, 
 almost barbaric figure, set up on this great horse with 
 that intense bleak sky behind her. Her head bent the 
 slightest, so that the green of her scarf played tricks 
 with her eyes. That stoop of her head was a very 
 small thing, yet just sufficient for her to notice Andrew. 
 The ruddy brown of him, and the deep fire-blue of that 
 gleam between his lids, the impatient set of his head 
 and breadth of his shoulders. . . . He swung past her 
 then light-footed, bold in movement. Neither did 
 either of them turn, and yet, as it happened, neither of 
 them forgot that passing. 
 
 Not until some months later did he speak to her. 
 That was at Coltons. Obviously there was some busi- 
 ness betwen Swinsco and Carey, and on this particular 
 morning Andrew went with a message. 
 
 The little old doddering man who admitted him a
 
 SEA WRACK 93 
 
 very wretched man, who had known the house in its 
 gilded days and now wept over its meager desolation 
 led him fumbling down endless passages, past endless 
 doors, some of which he opened and pushed his shining 
 old head into, shaking it mournfully at the blank empti- 
 ness and snuffling a little at the dank, musty smell. 
 
 Andrew, then, found Tarnia in the only room they 
 used the library. Found her high up against the 
 great bookcases on the uppermost rung of the ladder, 
 a book on her knees, a cream-colored monkey snug- 
 gling against her breast. He came slowly into the room 
 and stared up at her, as she stared down at him. 
 
 "It was you I passed the other evening?" 
 
 And Andrew, his eyes still fixed on her, answered: 
 "Yes. . . . And it was you . . . ?" 
 
 She asked reflectively, "Who are you ?" And when 
 he told her, said with sudden sharpness : 
 
 "A relation of Ayerst Swinsco?" 
 
 "Not to him, nor any soul!" 
 
 It was then she made a most extraordinary remark : 
 "Neither am I ! I stand alone." 
 
 Somewhat puzzled, Andrew asked : "There is your 
 father ?" 
 
 She pressed the monkey nearer to her, and with one 
 hand caressed its ears. "If I told you my father was 
 dead and buried many, many miles from here, you 
 would think me a mad woman ! Yet I am alone ; more 
 than that I am used to my loneliness." 
 
 He took a step toward her. "Then there should be 
 a bond between us you and me?"
 
 94 SEA WRACK 
 
 She told him slowly, "Why I do not know I have a 
 bond with any man." 
 
 He answered then, "Nor I with any woman !" And 
 then hesitated as though the challenge in her eyes caught 
 him unawares. 
 
 She asked, "Well, then well?" 
 
 The challenge was in her voice now she might have 
 flung him down a glove, a token she might have been 
 waiting for him to pick it up. 
 
 He said slowly, "I think you are different from any 
 other woman ..." 
 
 She smiled very faintly, "Is that all?" 
 
 It would seem then that he stooped and picked up 
 that gage, answering with his own challenge : 
 
 "I have met so very few, so I know so very little. 
 I might ask ..." And then he stopped again. 
 
 She questioned, "What would you ask?" 
 
 "For you to teach me. ..." 
 
 For the first time she laughed. . . .
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 I MAY disappoint you, but I cannot say what else 
 passed between them afterward. That is, if any- 
 thing further did pass. You must remember though, to 
 a very great extent, I was a witness of most of these 
 events; others were simply repeated to me ragged 
 and unarranged the greater part of them from An- 
 drew, from Tarnia, from obscure persons whose names 
 I have forgotten and whose connection with this story 
 is so insignificant I have never troubled to remember 
 them. Such as they were, I have endeavored to string 
 them together in some decent form or setting. There 
 has been no deliberate intent at additions of my own. 
 Certain suggestions, suppositions even, I may be guilty 
 of, but I offer no apology for them : they were necessary 
 to link up the story. 
 
 Therefore, whether or no that fragmentary talk of 
 these two ended with such abruptness, I cannot tell; I 
 only know there appeared a sudden silence about them, 
 and I remember no further allusion to any other meet- 
 ing; neither to my knowledge did Andrew ever go 
 again to Coltons. And the first time I ever saw them 
 together was one afternoon on the Tilling land, and 
 
 95
 
 96 SEA WRACK 
 
 that was some little time after Andrew had taken it in 
 charge, and Ayerst departed to London. 
 
 I have already told you of the new dike running 
 parallel with the road : part of it formed a boundary 
 to Tilling land with a rude bridge here and there to get 
 across to it ; but the actual entrance, the position where 
 farm buildings would be if such were ever erected 
 and where now a barn or so stood, was from the lane 
 which led you eventually to Mellow Farm. 
 
 It was from this opening I crossed the fields that 
 day, and came upon them from behind, standing against 
 one of the rough plank bridges staring over the road 
 and the marsh land beyond it. 
 
 Looking back on it now, I remember how tranquil 
 that afternoon was; how utterly placid, how great a 
 hush lay about the land. An autumn sun, rather tawny 
 and gentle, dropping away out to sea, and taking its 
 indolent time to sink away out of sight. Even the 
 earth had taken on that ruddy autumn look. Stained 
 leaves and half-stripped trees, dank grass and naked 
 gorse, mud and sand and shadows : slipping, sliding 
 altogether out to the sea. A sudden flight of wild 
 geese, their wings flushed red as they surged before 
 the light, yet uttering no sound as they rushed on 
 their way. 
 
 They stood there then, these two; not very close, 
 yet close enough for the shadow from her hat to throw 
 the slightest shadow on his face, and once, as she 
 moved, her sleeve grazed his bare arm. There was 
 something very quiet in the attitude ; they were talking,
 
 SEA WRACK 97 
 
 yet the murmur of their voices did not drift over to 
 me. . . . For my part, let it be confessed, I remained 
 where I was, looking at them. . . . Staring with a 
 kind of uncertain relief, a feel of extraordinary com- 
 fort as if I was at last looking on something I had spent 
 my whole life searching for. . . . How to account for 
 it I do not know. 
 
 Yet one thing was certain. In my rough way my 
 love was a very deep thing for these two : oh, yes, even 
 for the woman whom I had known so short a time. 
 And I liked to see them standing together: I knew 
 then I wanted to see them so always side by side. 
 
 How long I might have remained there, and whether 
 I would have gone to them, or slipped softly away, 
 hugging my fancy to my breast, I cannot say. Quite 
 suddenly, from behind, stepping daintily, moving 
 softly, there came Cathy exceedingly pretty in spotted 
 muslin, exceedingly cool beneath a shaded hat! Oh, 
 yes, and I was n't the least bit pleased to see her! At 
 that moment she interrupted me. She spoke imme- 
 diately. And in the quiet of that evening her rather 
 high, yet pleasing enough voice sounded sudden and 
 sharp. It jarred my contentment even as it jarred 
 the stillness. And yet She was so very pretty so 
 very young! What business had I to resent her com- 
 ing? 
 
 "Good evening, Mr. Penrose! Are you going to 
 stand there all the time ?"
 
 98 SEA WRACK 
 
 I smiled at her: "Not entirely. I came to speak 
 to Andrew." 
 
 She darted a quick glance at me and then to where 
 he stood with Tarnia. 
 
 "And has it taken you all this while to make up 
 your mind what to say?" Her curiosity was so ob- 
 vious, it even surprised me. 
 
 I cried : "Hullo ! Miss Sharp-eyes !" 
 
 Her voice took on an impatient note. "I came by 
 Long Meadow and climbed the gate. You know when 
 you do that you can see right down here ; I noticed you 
 then ; that was all." 
 
 She seemed distinctly put out by now. And I was 
 quick to notice it and, I think, the reason. She was 
 pretty jealous of me, that was the truth: I had a trick 
 of butting in upon her chatter with Andrew. She 
 did n't like that. She knew well enough how Andrew 
 frequently passed her house for mine and never so 
 much as glanced her way: she knew above all things 
 I grudged as much time away from the boy as she re- 
 sented my having with him! She was well aware of 
 all these things in her own inquisitive little way. Yet 
 here was I loitering in a kind of dream, paying no 
 heed to the moments he and Tarnia idled away to- 
 gether ! 
 
 "I'm that kind of fellow, Miss Cathy! I rather 
 like dawdling about." 
 
 She started to walk toward them. "I thought you 
 didn't like wasting time?" 
 
 I followed her leisurely. "Oh, it depends, Miss
 
 SEA WRACK 99 
 
 Cathy it always depends." And I saw her sharp 
 little shoulders jerk impatiently. 
 
 I don't think she had ever met Tarnia before. But 
 I imagine she knew of her, for old Yardley had been 
 often enough up at Coltons, and done some business 
 over the timber there. 
 
 I don't know how Andrew introduced them. But 
 I saw Tarnia extend her hand in her grave gentle 
 fashion, and Cathy take it rather unwillingly, and then, 
 as I had expected, proceeded to state my offense. It 
 seemed to amuse Andrew. There was a mischievous 
 look about his face such a look, too, I observed with 
 relief, on Tarnia's : there were twinkling lights in her 
 eyes and the twist of a smile on her lips. I cried : 
 
 "I say! Has Miss Cathy been giving away my 
 character?" and looked at her and laughed, because of 
 the four of us she was the least at ease. 
 
 Andrew said, grinning away, "Oh, you 've lost it 
 now entirely!" 
 
 And Tarnia gravely added, "Won't you try and re- 
 capture it again?" 
 
 "It went years ago," I told them. "I 've so for- 
 gotten its existence that I should n't know what to look 
 for!" 
 
 Andrew turned to Cathy with dancing eyes : "I say, 
 Miss Cathy, what shall we do with such a man?" 
 
 But Cathy's humor was obviously very bad. She 
 answered ungraciously : 
 
 "I really don't know. I suppose it 's Mr. Penrose's 
 affair, anyway."
 
 ioo SEA WRACK 
 
 I saw Tarnia look at her quickly and suddenly, and 
 then turn away to say to me quietly : 
 
 "I rather wish you had come over to us. I was 
 hearing so much about the shipwreck. You might 
 have told me more about this land," and she turned 
 and stared away over the marshes. And then went 
 on softly, and there was, perhaps, just the tinge of 
 sadness in that softness, "I am trying to love it." 
 
 I said: "If you don't want to like it, I should be 
 deaf when Andrew talks ! He sees it as a kind of en- 
 chanted place, and sometimes I wonder if he 's not 
 forced its spell about me; for I 've never stayed so 
 long in one place, and I 've been here nearly ten years 
 now!" 
 
 She answered. "I have been in so many odd, strange 
 places; but I never remember such a sinister look as 
 these parts seem to have!" 
 
 Andrew said abruptly: "Oh, yes, it 's sinister enough! 
 It 's ugly, secretive. Life and death! It 's one and the 
 same here. I suppose I have n't much to thank it for ! 
 Yet I shall stick it out, I suppose !" And he dug with 
 his heel into the brown earth. 
 
 She turned to him then, and there was a sort of light 
 upon her face, as if some fire smoldered within her and 
 flared out red-hot. She cried: 
 
 "Ah, yes! But you can find so much here. You 
 can bury yourself in its solitude and yet drag some 
 life out. But I can't I can't. I only see it with eyes 
 that ache at its immense nakedness. If I could see it 
 living! If I could watch it moving! Find compas-
 
 SEA WRACK 101 
 
 sion in it, who knows ? But it seems to be beyond all 
 silences brooding darkly. . . . Secretive? Ah, yes! 
 But what good comes from secrets?" 
 
 She spoke with a kind of hopeless note about her 
 voice. She threw this question at him with a sugges- 
 tion of despair about it. As though she failed to see 
 any answer. . . . 
 
 Andrew said, "But you can't think it a dead 
 thing," in that hesitating, thinking way of his that 
 was so well known to me when he was digging hard 
 to get at the root of some matter. "Is n't it possible 
 to find some good out of most things?" 
 
 The light died from her face, and I could see a look 
 of intense compassion about her mouth and the deep 
 depths of her eyes. "Oh!" she answered very 
 softly, and I saw her hand half went out to him 
 and then fell to her side . . . "Oh, can you be- 
 lieve that?" 
 
 Cathy stepped in then Cathy distinctly bored, and 
 by now in a state of fidgets, verging on a positive lack 
 of good manners. "Well!" she said snappishly, "1 
 don't see what good can come out of this silly old place 
 except turnips and carrots! Any more than you can 
 see secrets ! It 's dull that 's about all. If it was n't 
 for Boston being fairly near it would be awful. That 's 
 what I wanted to find you out for" ; and she turned to 
 Andrew with a quick return to her usual dainty little 
 ways of expression. "Auntie has a party on Tues- 
 day, and she 'd be very pleased if you 'd come; and I 
 hope you will, for then you can drive me over. Dad
 
 102 SEA WRACK 
 
 won't spare the horse, so it means the carrier and that 's 
 horrid! Now you will say 'y es / won't you?" 
 
 She was quite pleasant again, was Cathy. All smiles 
 and prettiness, her little pointed face turned eager and 
 winningly up to Andrew her fair curls bobbing in the 
 most engaging fashion beneath her hat. There was 
 nothing for him to do but to answer her; to twist his 
 mind away from the marshes and bring it round to 
 suit Cathy's mood. 
 
 Tarnia had turned away to where her horse stood 
 snuffing grass at the roadside and I followed her, leav- 
 ing Andrew muttering in a dazed sort of way: 
 "Tuesday, Tuesday ? Now what on earth 's wrong 
 with Tuesday?" 
 
 While Cathy took him up with a clear laugh. 
 "Nothing, Mr. Sartor nothing. No excuses, if you 
 please!" 
 
 The big gray horse and Tarnia were having much 
 conversation on their own when I came up to them. 
 She was rubbing his ears and whispering into them, 
 while he transferred his affection from the grass to 
 the big buttons on her jacket. She turned to me as I 
 approached : 
 
 "Have you ever seen such a monster?" 
 
 I put a hand on the huge flank, and the great soft 
 nostrils turned in my direction with a questioning puff. 
 
 "He's a tremendous fellow!" 
 
 That pleased her, and she smiled. 
 
 "Like a child, really," she went on. "So terribly 
 pettish if I don't give him sugar each morning!"
 
 SEA WRACK 103 
 
 And then, taking up the reins, "Come along, my dear, 
 time to be going!" 
 
 She was in the saddle before I had moved forward 
 to help her; then as she sat there meditative, serious, 
 she asked suddenly, "Is there any chance of Andrew 
 leaving here?" 
 
 And I remember that I felt uncommonly stupid as 
 I stared at her in a blank sort of manner, and muttered : 
 "Leaving? No! Why should he?" 
 
 She looked at me frowning slightly, and I felt de- 
 cidedly foolish. 
 
 She continued : "I can't believe any good can come 
 to him here. Must he stay? She was looking at me 
 very intently. 
 
 I told her : "He would not go now unless he were 
 turned out ! There 's too much affection with him for 
 the old man of loyalty. He feels it would be a mean 
 thing to clear out. He 's not the kind to hurt the trust 
 that 's been given him !" 
 
 She nodded. "I see that I like that! But after- 
 ward! What becomes of the farm?" 
 
 "Afterward? There you have me! I suppose it 
 rests with Andrew. The property will go to Ayerst. 
 What Ayerst may have to say, what Andrew will do, 
 remains to be seen. I am inclined to swear, though, 
 he '11 not work for Ayerst." 
 
 That seemed to relieve her. She drew a great 
 breath. She said sharply, "I do most earnestly hope 
 not !" 
 
 I asked her, curiously, "Do you dislike Ayerst so
 
 104 SEA WRACK 
 
 much?" And having said this I was instantly sorry. 
 For the old haunting feeling of something unknown 
 un-understandable, the strange touch of the desert 
 and Egypt, now seemed to reappear and wrap 
 her close. 
 
 She said gravely: "I don't know that I like or dis- 
 like any one! I don't know many things! Does it 
 matter?" 
 
 And though her lips were faintly smiling, her eyes 
 were secret inscrutable. 
 
 I can imagine nothing more foolish than an attempt 
 to build other people's castles. And yet here was I 
 busy with my clay, making my bricks, fixing my scaf- 
 folding, visioning before me a most splendid edifice, a 
 very perfect palace : all about Andrew and Tarnia. 
 
 Believe me, it would have been impossible not to build 
 those castles! Chance had played a curious trick on 
 me! Uprooted, as it were, from my very depths, all 
 my trapesing ways, and settled me in an idle enough 
 place to watch at my leisure whatever business there 
 might be. Seven people withal, who roused any in- 
 terest whatsoever! Seven only for that matter who 
 were of any consequence in that village ! Yet I stayed 
 on! The circle that held them was small enough 
 narrow enough; devoid of any trappings, stripped of 
 any unusual excitement. Still, in a dog-like manner 
 I nosed about within, smelled out here, snuffed around 
 there, sat back on my haunches with patience I never
 
 SEA WRACK 105 
 
 thought was mine sat well back and stared ahead and 
 through the thicket beyond, as though from the im- 
 mensity of life there would spring out some equally im- 
 mense riddle ! 
 
 If it is possible, I scented it in the sea spray when 
 Andrew first came unknown and naked to this land. 
 I think it is more than possible it is, in fact, almost a 
 certainty I knew it for something alive, terrific, when 
 Tarnia came to Coltons ; when I first saw her and An- 
 drew together; not mine to solve it, not mine to join 
 the pieces! Nevertheless, I was off at a huge pace 
 about my castle building, and even as I laid my first 
 brick with a most romantic trowel I had my rebuke. 
 Ayerst came back to Mellow Farm. 
 
 Extraordinary and unlocked for this return. A 
 sending back, in fact, with a decidedly sooty label 
 attached. 
 
 I have told you open house had been offered him by 
 a brother of old Swinsco's solicitors at Lincoln? A 
 most respectable brother, a wealthy broker moving in 
 a select and highly respectable circle, and exceedingly 
 willing to open it widely to Ayerst. Unfortu- 
 nately, neither the circle nor Ayerst got on so very well 
 together, and the result was that he amused himself 
 in his own way and that was with a pretty but re- 
 markably artful housemaid. It is a dangerous game 
 to play with housemaids, but if it must be done it 
 should be with exceeding skill. And that is exactly
 
 io6 SEA WRACK 
 
 how Ayerst fell. He was careless, clumsy if you like. 
 And when she played her trump card, as she did, she 
 had him fairly by the throat and he yapping at her 
 feet! Almost unbelievable, eh? The smooth cun- 
 ning Ayerst, caught in a nicely prepared trap! And 
 you 'd think he 'd find a hole out, a crack to slide 
 through, a lie to fix her lie! Not a bit of it not a 
 sign! 
 
 A new Ayerst this. A shambling, white-livered 
 kind of dog, blinking and slinking round odd corners, 
 mouthing his panic, and sweating in every portion of 
 his coward's body lest she would force him to crown 
 her with orange-blossoms as a grand finale to his 
 wretchedness. Here his fears were utterly ground- 
 less. Truth be told she had a husband, and had played 
 this trick for paper possessing more value than a 
 marriage certificate. This was the stuff, then, she 
 tried to press him for. This the hidden card, and the 
 point she had been so artfully leading up to. He was 
 cornered! Now for the tweezers! Oh, she was an 
 expert, that woman! She twitched and twisted him, 
 and shook her fists and wrung her hands. Her tongue 
 cut him like the point of a sword, and every breath 
 showered down threats and abuse. There was no 
 prettiness about her now; she was merely a spitting 
 cat of a creature, and Ayerst had an excellent taste of 
 the exquisite sharpness of her claws ! 
 
 After writhing and twisting and turning beneath 
 her sting, he tried to get his wits into some order, and 
 thereby rose to the heights of desperation, or maybe
 
 SEA WRACK 107 
 
 the depths of stupidity. His banking account being 
 the most desolate and empty thing, he desperately 
 enough tried his hand at the oldest trick in the world. 
 He forged his father's signature on a check made out 
 to himself! 
 
 All said and done, it is a clumsy sort of game, and a 
 sharper brained fellow would have cold-shouldered it. 
 I am not doubting Ayerst's ability when it come to the 
 copying. He knew it well enough ; he must have seen 
 many a time those old fingers carefully, painfully trac- 
 ing the letters. And I don't suppose there was any 
 biting at the heart of him when he settled down to that 
 imitation! I can see him can't you? In his neat 
 and spruce bedroom in the neat and spruce house of 
 the neat and spruce broker. Very doggish about 
 the waistcoat and cravat tongue in cheek, fingers 
 somewhat knuckly, long legs awkwardly coiled 
 about a well-shaped but quite possibly unsteady 
 table, mopping at intervals his well-perfumed head 
 with an equally well-perfumed handkerchief; fixing 
 one pale eye on a recently arrived letter and the other 
 one on his own paper. . . . One on that letter ! Such 
 a letter that : when you think how laboriously that old 
 hand must have clutched a spluttering quill to form 
 ill-shaped and desperately tender words to this son of 
 his! Hoping he is "well," hoping he has "much en- 
 joyment," hoping he will "write soon"; hoping and 
 there is a sudden rough shyness here, I suspect that 
 he will be "home" soon; then ending with the abrupt 
 formula, "Your affectionate father, Rueben Swinsco."
 
 io8 SEA WRACK 
 
 Oh, well, he got it done at last to his liking. And 
 apparently the rest, to his idea, was easy going. But 
 a bank who knows of a customer nothing more than 
 a short introduction most certainly will not oblige 
 with due speed when the balance is nil and the figure de- 
 sired runs into three ! They told this Ayerst, with the 
 polite enough suggestion that he should call in again 
 in two or three days' time. Rather a nasty put-back 
 this; highly unpleasant those next few days, made 
 up of perpetually dodging the snapping housemaid, and 
 blinking with unusual intensity at the frequent aris- 
 ing of many and uncommonly harassing thoughts ! 
 And when he did try again, decidely jaunty in appear- 
 ance, with the devil of a swagger air about his hat, 
 they told him "no news" ; they therefore regretted 
 . . . but . . . and it was the "but" that cooked the 
 goose ! 
 
 The housemaid, on being told, fairly and finally 
 flounced. She flounced straight into the respectable 
 broker's office just as he was being shocked out of 
 his usual nicety of ways and respectable mind by a 
 letter from old Swinsco. Doubtless she shocked him 
 all the more, and most certainly assured him of the 
 distress of that communication. There was abso- 
 lutely nothing else to be done than to fold it most 
 carefully away, take an extra pinch of snuff, and 
 settle to a decidedly uncongenial conversation! You 
 may be sure that he did this, and so far as this story 
 is concerned that is the last of that unhappy gentleman 
 and the head-tossing housemaid.
 
 SEA WRACK 109 
 
 Not a very pleasant episode, and one well rid of; 
 but essential in its way to this yarn, because of the 
 new and startling insight it showed to Ayerst's char- 
 acter. It was actually a sort of link between two 
 moods; a kind of join between two strangely differ- 
 ent natures that made one whole of Ayerst. "Hang- 
 dog" Ayerst, with a thick white streak down the very 
 stomach of him, and the easy, gentle, non-committal 
 Ayerst, with unknown thoughts tucked carefully 
 away beneath those remarkably pale eyelids, and dis- 
 dainful amusement hanging from their very lashes. 
 ... A link! A most astounding opening. 
 
 And it was in this last nature, that old and well- 
 known mood, that he returned again to Mellow Farm, 
 to Ditchling. 
 
 After all, there was nothing very surprising about 
 this quick and ready change. Take it from Ayerst's 
 point of view; see it with his usual tolerance. This 
 burden which had pressed him so uncomfortably had 
 been most delicately removed. There were no chains 
 dragging him, or perpetually turning screws screw- 
 ing him most vilely. The ever-ready law had seen 
 to that in the most careful manner, had removed all 
 annoyance to the least prick. With one hand it had 
 methodically untied those troublesome knots, while, 
 with the other, it sealed red seals in such a way as 
 to pacify the housemaid, yet at the same time leaving 
 Ayerst free to kick as he liked.
 
 i io SEA WRACK 
 
 The whole business was dead. Why worry? 
 "Hangdog" Ayerst then was most neatly buried and 
 put away. Here is our soft-stepping- friend once 
 more, with much lip homage to pave his way. 
 
 This the Ayerst presenting himself to old Swinsco 
 a few minutes after his return. In the back parlor 
 this interview a sort of best room where the old 
 man did accounts at a worn and battered bureau, and 
 kept on a somewhat dusty table a gigantic and terrifi- 
 cally illustrated Bible a thing of great brass clasps 
 and corners, filled throughout with notices of births 
 and de'aths and marriages of dead and bygone Swins- 
 cos ; and read and thumbed by each one of them. 
 
 In this room, then: the old man, most desolate and 
 somewhat huddled down in his chair; soft-stepping 
 Ayerst, deprecating and a trifle bored, at the door. 
 ... So they faced each other. Old gray, gaunt wolf, 
 and this most gentle trickster: this soft speaker and 
 most peffect shuffler! 
 
 There was nothing noisy about this scene, I im- 
 agine! Ayerst was not of the shouting kind, neither 
 would the old man yelp shrilly over his scars : 
 nothing of that and for a space profound silence! 
 
 The acute agony then of Swinsco! The fearful 
 persistence with which hundreds of devil teeth must 
 have been gnawing at his seared heart as he stared at 
 his son. . . . Jerking out of him at last a most 
 bitter truth: 
 
 "An' I lied for ye. . . ."
 
 SEA WRACK in 
 
 Extraordinary and remarkable jubilation on the 
 part of soft-stepping Ayerst. Tremendous and highly 
 pleasant twangings within his brain, within his heart, 
 within his soul at this hearing. What of this? 
 What lie? ... And -to what purpose? The check? 
 . . . Was it possible? 
 
 And then with studied care to old Swinsco: 
 
 "Dear Father! If I have vexed you, may I not 
 explain?" Delightfully silky that voice of the very 
 finest quality. 
 
 But old gray wolf his great head on his great 
 chest . . . thinking thoughts that are like red-hot 
 needles probing and working down to the very depth 
 of his heart . . . wondering was it once possible 
 that that voice had been the splendid cause to make 
 him raise that same tired head in triumph on high? 
 
 He simply repeated, "Lied for ye! Lied!" Those 
 terrific hands must have clutched and striven with 
 the chair arms as if something could come from the 
 wood and give him support support for the agony 
 of this most damnable truth. . . . "Lied, lied, lied! 
 And my name has known no liars, has given birth 
 to no thieves!" 
 
 A wretched sort of business this for Ayerst, eh? 
 You can picture him with a most lamentable fidget 
 about his crooked mouth, fidgeting first to his toes 
 and then to his heels. Very soft about it; very soft 
 about his whole manner possibly resigned as to the 
 over-fussiness of old people, but resigned with most
 
 ii2 SEA WRACK 
 
 deprecating meekness. There is remarkably little for 
 him to say you may be sure he knows that and says 
 it with due nicety. 
 
 "Ah, dear Father. . . ." 
 
 But there is something yet to be said by old 
 Swinsco, and he lets it off like a rocket, so that Ayerst 
 on his toes comes down with hurt surprise to his 
 heels. 
 
 "That girl!" shouts out the old voice. "That 
 girl! Were ye of the mud that ye must pick of the 
 mud? Gie kisses to it, lie fur it, turn thief fur it?" 
 
 If there was anything comic about this matter to 
 Ayerst before, you may be -pretty certain it was in- 
 tensified now. All his rocket-shooting because of 
 that flirtation! Soft-stepping Ayerst, with an un- 
 usual speed for him, closes his eyes entirely; he would 
 not disclose those mocking impatient lights to this 
 great wolf, his treading is always exceedingly precise 
 and careful. His answer is politely murmured : 
 
 "My dear Father, I know it was silly; yet I sup- 
 pose each one of us does do such things !" 
 
 A sort of snap then in that old brain, a kind of 
 jerk right in the very heart of him, letting out the 
 sudden violent cry: 
 
 "And must ye sink to do them? Must ye turn 
 most mucky rogue ? My son my son ! Come here to 
 me. Let me look at ye touch ye; see ye as I must 
 see ye sommat new, sommat different." 
 
 And like a flash as soft-stepping Ayerst stood 
 with due humility at his side up went those huge,
 
 SEA WRACK 113 
 
 steel-like arms, tough and long and brown, with tough 
 and long brown hairs sticking from their flesh, while 
 his hands, great hard things like iron hooks, caught 
 those lying shoulders, gripped and dug into them as 
 though he would crush the very life away, crush and 
 break this mocking figure that is shame, this most 
 hideous lie that is Ayerst! Forcing him then to the 
 ground, to bend down to that pale face and mutter : 
 
 "Or is there no difference? Has there never been all 
 these years? Am I Isaac blind, blind? You were 
 the littlest thing that ever was when I took ye up and 
 called ye God-sent. Not o' my blood ! What matter ? 
 I reckoned I 'd claim ye fur it ; I reckoned there 'd be a 
 time when my soul could call you blessed. . . . Afore 
 you stole my name and lied wi' it fur your fun, you 
 stole somethin' else you took the very heart o' me, 
 and I gave it willingly, willingly! Now, like my 
 body, it be a poor maimed thing; like my pride it be 
 heavy in sorrow. . . . That I should live to call ye 
 'son' with shame! Get you gone! Fur you ha' 
 closed up the very strength o' me." 
 
 The veil was rent and the walls thundering about 
 his head! He had built his house he had pillared 
 his temple. After all, these years it stood empty; 
 after all these years it was but a thing of dust and 
 rottenness. . . . The glory had departed the busi- 
 ness was finished. There was no harvest only weeds. 
 
 Yet somehow I think I believe oh, well, then,
 
 ii4 SEA WRACK 
 
 I know! There did come a sudden jar to Ayerst! 
 A sort of rebuke to that smoothness! That gleam 
 in your eyes betrays your pleasure ! The more punch- 
 ings the better, eh? His kind though shows mighty 
 few bruises; yet, as things turned out, he got the 
 graze of one from Miss Swinsco. 
 
 Ayerst then moving softly into the kitchen Miss 
 Swinsco moving with hard, quick padding feet up to 
 him. Eyes like two shining buttons, fat hands, fatly 
 clenched into two plump balls. Miss Swinsco hiss- 
 ing at him like a steam engine: 
 
 "What's he said? What have you said?" 
 
 Soft-stepping Ayerst, with all the insolence of his 
 smooth kind: "My dear aunt, what should he say?" 
 
 Those ball-fists are tighter and rounder yet; she 
 jabs with them both toward Ayerst. 
 
 "Put sense to your tongue, can't you? He can 
 say much do much! What? What? What?" 
 
 The yawn has to come, and you may be pretty sure 
 it does, and with it the loosening of the drawl. 
 
 "How can I remember? The usual sort of lectur- 
 ing. You ought to have been at the keyhole! I tell 
 you I Ve forgotten !" 
 
 The hard fat balls are suddenly unrolled and about 
 his arm in square, podgy fingers. 
 
 "You '11 forget too often one day, young fool that 
 you are! Open your eyes now! See if you can't 
 remember one thing." 
 
 One thing! It is Andrew coming up the drive 
 from his work. Andrew in an empty wagon, whis-
 
 SEA WRACK 115 
 
 tling as he goes. Andrew peering toward the parlor 
 window and waving his hand. Andrew! 
 
 For one instant there is a sudden reappearance of 
 Hangdog Ayerst, for one instant the white streak 
 presses unpleasantly close to him! Andrew. . . . 
 
 That is always the way with chance and it was 
 just that which brought Andrew up the drive then, 
 as it had brought him years back from the sea's belly 
 to Ditchling.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 NO man cares to go hungry. And as it is the 
 accepted fact food is the maintenance of the 
 body, the well-fed hearts of this world stuff to their 
 bellyful. But it is a very different sort of matter 
 when Hope spreads her wings and leaves you solitary. 
 Eating then is of no consequence ; it is then starvation 
 pure and simple has its consolations. For whereas 
 with the one, death is a snug enough harbor, with the 
 other the trickery of the business is utterly fearful : 
 nine times out of ten man goes on living. That is 
 his tragedy, that, if you will, his very naked hell 
 stretched out before him! 
 
 That is what happened to old Swinsco. He went 
 on with life. He groped with his hands and met 
 nothing but despair; he stood on the very edge of the 
 pit that spelled oblivion, and death simply shook his 
 head and busied himself with other matters : for 
 the moment he felt no interest in this desolate figure. 
 
 It was in the early spring that the agony caught 
 him. Summer and winter and spring again came and 
 went, yet Life stilll chirped and chirruped with him, 
 in the most dutiful manner. A most persistent 
 
 116
 
 SEA WRACK 117 
 
 hussy, in fact; and no man was more sick to be rid 
 of her than old Swinsco, but she liked her nest. 
 
 Nevertheless, some part there was dead; some- 
 thing had passed right away from him. A closing up, 
 a shutting down, a letting go of some tremendous 
 and most vital force. Mark you, there was no as- 
 surred sign of collapse. That is why, when such a 
 thing did happen, it came with so much surprise. It 
 was in his eyes you saw the flight of that spirit. It 
 was in his eyes you saw the thing that made you 
 catoh your breath. . . . Dog-like! That is the 
 word. As an old dog patiently resigned for things 
 unknown and un-understandable, so was Swinco. 
 Dog-like. . . . Waiting, expectant, brooding. On 
 what? For what? Listening! Just that! Listen- 
 ing. ... As the old dog for Pluto's horn, so now 
 with Swinsco for God's touch. 
 
 He clung to that parlor now, and for nothing, ex- 
 cepting his meals, did he leave it. After all they 
 held something for him, those four walls. It had 
 been to that room gay in its bridal splendor he had 
 brought his young wife that long-ago day of their 
 marriage. ... It had been in that room they had lain 
 her out in her coffin, with flowers all about her and 
 the dead child at her breast. In that room (the 
 kitchen being too noisy) he had watched with pride 
 his own son, Ayerst, bend over his lesson-books. 
 There he had questioned : "An' what 's that you 're 
 learning of?" 
 
 Hearing Ayerst's unwilling murmur, "Latin."
 
 n8 SEA WRACK 
 
 To mutter, "Eh, Latin, Latin . . ." and with sud- 
 den gruff attempt at authority, "What's that word?" 
 
 And from Ayerst with that selfsame raise of his 
 brows : "Domini, Father a lord." 
 
 "A lord, eh? Well, well, who'd ha' thought it! 
 A lord! ..." And his eyes would travel slowly to 
 a somewhat faded portrait over the mantel-shelf. 
 . "A lord!" 
 
 I cannot conceive anything more exasperating to 
 both Ayerst and his well-covered aunt than this 
 closed-in attitude of old Swinsco : this more or less 
 settling down to a life which, to all intents and pur- 
 poses, simply did not know them. They did not see 
 that listening, patient look; I doubt if they thought 
 of the vision which forever held him fast. To them 
 he was simply an old man: not so old as to let the 
 reins of authority slip from his hands and keep the 
 work of the farm within his bounds; but old enough 
 to retire so deeply into himself as to be entirely apart 
 from them, doggedly silent, and this is what exasper- 
 ated Miss Swinsco beyond endurance silent, and un- 
 approachable on all manner and kind of things she 
 wished to know and never would know until he was 
 put away beside his wife in Ditchling Churchyard. 
 
 Through this business with Ayerst she had been 
 unpleasantly disturbed put about, as the saying is, 
 fidgeted, and curious as to how much lay behind this 
 deadly cloak of reserve, what was going on? Be-
 
 SEA WRACK 119 
 
 ing thought out ? Each day, each night, her irritation 
 increased; and the old man lived. And as long as he 
 did so must this spark smolder and simmer within 
 her. She wanted to heap earth upon him and dig 
 out the secrets he held so close. 
 
 For the rest she had one thing to be thankful for. 
 Her religious fervor could go its own way; his eagle 
 eyes passed it by unobserved. It always seemed to 
 me extraordinary that such a woman could bend and 
 bow and pray with as much passion as Miss Swinsco 
 evidently did. She was so sure her candle had been 
 lit, her call had sounded. I am firmly convinced she 
 spent hours on her knees wracked in the torment of 
 almost fanatical prayer. For her religion, and there- 
 fore herself she being the instrument to aid that wor- 
 ship she prayed, and in her way waited for the time 
 when she would be received by her faith, for the time 
 when there was no other master but Ayerst, for the 
 time when she could nestle in fat contentment, deny- 
 ing herself nothing thereby denying her church 
 less. . . . Waiting, in fact, when she might be called 
 "blessed" a word I spmetimes think can be most 
 vilely contorted. 
 
 Andrew w r ould have it they were two ghouls gloat- 
 ing over a possible corpse. 
 
 "You ought to hear Ayerst," he snorted one 
 day . . . "With his perpetual 'Goodnight, dear Father, 
 I hope you'll sleep well!' And 'Good morning, dear
 
 120 SEA WRACK 
 
 Father, I do hope you 've had a good night.' I tell 
 you it 's the most damnable humbug there ever was ! 
 What he wants to say is, 'Good night, and I hope to 
 God I '11 never see your face again !' And 'Good 
 morning, and O Lord, what a bore, you 're still here !' 
 The mouthing hypocrite that he is !" 
 
 I said, "Well, you 'd hardly get any one to spit out 
 that sort of truth." 
 
 "No, but if he were half the man he is he would n't 
 tie every speech in such pretty lies!" 
 
 "And what of Miss Swinsco?" 
 
 "That woman!" Andrew became unusually vio- 
 lent in the filling of his pipe. "Oh, she goes into 
 action in quite another way. His soul seems to be 
 her concern, and would you believe it, in her extra- 
 ordinary way she 's just as feverish about it as she 
 ever has been with this amazing religious business all 
 along!" 
 
 It did n't surprise me, and I said so. 
 
 "There are such who pray and curse with the same 
 breath, and their nursing is every wit as true as 
 their praying! I imagine, in their own remarkable 
 way, the one is a kind of passport for the other!" 
 
 Andrew grunted. "Oh, well, that 's her method. 
 And if she had the pluck I firmly believe she 'd have 
 her priests in the house. Holy water and all!" 
 
 "She would n't dare. Not while he 's living." 
 
 "She '11 dare soon enough when he 's dead." A 
 sort of change came over his face. "You know, Pen- 
 rose, it 's an awful thing to sit and watch some one
 
 SEA WRACK 121 
 
 each day of your life and know they 're mighty close 
 to passing out of it ! It 's a fearful thing to know 
 your own helplessness, to know the being you care 
 for is going out of the reach of your hands and you can 
 do nothing but watch it slip by. . . . Slip away from 
 you! And confound you with its mystery. ... It 's 
 like an open door that you can but stare at, knowing 
 its opening or closing is no business of yours. And 
 then it shuts, and it 's over there 's absolutely noth- 
 ing left to watch for." 
 
 I asked, somewhat grumpily: "And pray what 
 about me ? I suppose you 've marked me down with 
 one leg, if not two, in the grave?" 
 
 He put out a hand and caught my arm and gripped 
 it hard. "Don't say that sort of thing, old friend! 
 I 'm a selfish beast, I know . . . the way I sometimes 
 talk. You and the old man! Believe me, the very 
 best things in my life! Now to lose one of you. . . . 
 Time, you see, is the very devil! How can I know 
 how far his sweepings may go? Sometimes I think 
 he '11 pay me out and let me pass as I came solitary !" 
 
 It was then some old impulse made me ask, "And 
 what of Tarnia?" 
 
 His hand dropped away from me, and fumbled 
 with his handkerchief. "Tarnia? Miss Carey? 
 Why what on earth. ..." He stared at me, and 
 repeated: "Tarnia. . . ." 
 
 I said, "Well, you count her as your friend, don't 
 you?" 
 
 He made no direct reply to my question; he simply
 
 122 SEA WRACK 
 
 went on : "She has her own set path it does n't run 
 alongside with me. Why should it? Why should I 
 expect such a thing from her from any woman? 
 Friendship. . . ." He said it in an odd, jerky man- 
 ner. "Women. . . . What have they to do with me? 
 Even the sea grudged me one." 
 
 I did n't answer that ; the same impulse made me 
 stubbornly stick to my first remark. 
 
 "I saw you in Lincoln the other day with her." 
 
 He smiled the slightest. "The devil you did ! Then 
 why on earth did n't you join us?" 
 
 I shook my head. "I had other things on hand, 
 and my hurry was frantic." 
 
 He did n't seem to have heard me. He was star- 
 ing away across the flat, baking earth to where the 
 hot sullen sea stirred sluggish and fretful. 
 
 He said presently : "We went into the cathedral. 
 They were practising some anthem. . . ." 
 
 I answered, "I never thought you liked music." 
 
 He said curtly : "I can't say I do overmuch. This 
 was different; there is something about an organ that 
 stirs you like wind over the hills ! It is so utterly 
 immense all the sounds of the world singing and 
 shouting about your ears !" 
 
 He was still staring away across the Fens; and 
 as I looked it seemed to me that nature in her wild 
 impetuous way had patterned her likeness very deeply 
 and passionately upon this son of hers ! Earth, sea, 
 and sky! . . . No primitive man could have been 
 fashioned closer. Like a live thing and who can
 
 SEA WRACK 123 
 
 deny its life? Earth had nursed him to her own rich 
 color, even as the sea, having once cradled him, had 
 left him with her blueness smudged about his eyes ! So, 
 too, must the black racing clouds have noticed him and 
 rained their darkness about his head. One with na- 
 ture ! And like some tree of her planning, put out into 
 the waste to fight its way up against the storm the 
 trickery of life and life's moods ! 
 
 I must confess it was the sudden thought of him in 
 this spirit that made me deaf to his speaking. Quite 
 suddenly, as it were, from a tremendous way off, I 
 heard him saying: 
 
 "I tell you, Penrose, it was a tremendous thing, that 
 psalm! There was one bit they sang; it was this, I 
 think: 'God is gone up with a shout, the Lord with 
 the sound of a trumpet. . . .' Is n't that utterly splen- 
 did? Just what life should be! The coming and go- 
 ing ! A great shout. . . . As Tarnia said, a trumpet- 
 call!" 
 
 A trumpet-call ! Through the dim distance of all 
 the mystery of birth. In that strange twilight of ex- 
 istence we call childhood, in the morning of that time 
 we name youth, through those days and nights, so 
 must its pipings have come nearer and nearer to these 
 two Tarnia and Andrew. Until now now, with a 
 rushing sound like the roar of many wings, it was to 
 crash about their ears, to thunder out its trumpetings, 
 to make preparation. You ask for what ? Man, when
 
 124 SEA WRACK 
 
 the bugle rings it out on the field, what follows? . . . 
 The fight ! 
 
 It must have been close on two weeks before I saw 
 him again. All that time he had been a mere speck on 
 the fields fleet of foot and hot at his work. I tell 
 you at that time Andrew was utterly splendid vigor- 
 ous to his very finger-tips; swift, with the swiftness of 
 a hawk; alive as a colt is eager after more living. 
 
 Then, one evening, some time in July I think, he 
 came down to my cottage ; drank my cider, smoked my 
 tobacco, grinned away at me through the smoke, and 
 remarked : 
 
 "I 'm not at all sure if I 'm not in a vile temper! 
 On the other hand I may be in a perfect one. . . . 
 Which are you prepared to bet on?" 
 
 I said, very sarcastically, "As you Ve come to me, 
 I naturally conclude the worse." 
 
 This made him laugh so much that I rather think 
 it settled the question of mood. He said in his j oi- 
 liest way: 
 
 "What an old liar you are, Penrose ! If I do growl, 
 it 's mostly your fault ! You encourage me in it ; I 
 swear you do ! Or, anyway, you punch so much good 
 thought into me that I cheerfully growl away to get 
 hit ! To-night I 'm restless, impatient impatient, 
 Penrose, and I 'm damned if I know why, or what for! 
 I seem to be up against something that I can't rightly 
 see through. I don't even know if I want to see! 
 And then I feel this sort of nervous restlessness that
 
 SEA WRACK 125 
 
 I ought to that I 'm missing something. Now what 
 what?" 
 
 He got up and walked to the open door to frown 
 out at the darkened street. 
 
 He went on, "Old fuddle-face Tegg came over the 
 other day." 
 
 I asked in some surprise : "What, the mighty Tegg 
 of Tegg Bounderby? Honored, weren't you?" 
 
 He turned back again to the room. "That 's the 
 splendid fellow. He was going just as I got back for 
 dinner. I imagined he 'd been there on business for 
 the old man. Funny thing, he usually behaves as if 
 I were a yard boy, but that morning he was fairly all 
 over me! Fussing and fiddling in his usual fiddling 
 and fussy way, and this time about me \ Why, I 'm 
 hanged if he has n't even asked me over to his place 
 to any meal almost I care to choose. He 's gone to 
 London now; this startling favoritism begins imme- 
 diately he returns!" 
 
 I said, "Is this because you Ve been the good boy, 
 and Ayerst the bad?" 
 
 With his usual disrespect fulness, Andrew gave a 
 jerk at my few remaining hairs. 
 
 "Ass that you are, Penrose! As a matter of fact, 
 I don't believe they know so very much about that busi- 
 ness !" 
 
 He went on reflectively : "I rather wish I 'd stayed 
 with the old man to-night. Somehow I don't know ! 
 He did n't seem as fit as usual. I wanted to, but he 
 would n't hear to it. He became his dear, stubborn
 
 126 SEA WRACK 
 
 self again and fairly hustled me out. These days I 
 sometimes feel he 's different with me. It may be my 
 imagination conceit, if you like! Yet such as I am, 
 I hope it 's something more than that, something 
 bigger. This evening, when I said good night to him, 
 I could almost swear he said 'my son.' . . . He put his 
 hand on my head, in that gentle way I have some- 
 times seen him touch a dog. 'My son !' ' 
 
 Later on that evening we went to the Smuggler's 
 Arms. You remember the place? It had been my 
 first introduction to Ditchling more than that, it had 
 been a sort of prelude to the entire rearranging of my 
 life. Curiously enough, though, I am prepared to 
 swear I was not the only person who had stayed 
 even for an hour between its crazy walls, and had 
 left on the highroad to fresh beginnings! Think 
 what you please, it was decidedly odd ! Such an insig- 
 nificant, comfortless sort of place, and yet so great a 
 magnet to all sorts and kinds of men. I say men, be- 
 cause I never remember meeting a woman there; but 
 of men! I tell you they packed it to its uttermost. 
 Not the village folk alone, mind you ! But from other 
 places along the Fens from Boston, even Freiston, 
 Butterwick, Wainfleet. They crammed the one room 
 to its tiniest corner. Stealthily by boat, noisily by 
 cart, lumpishly by foot. Each in their way took the 
 road to it. But of their kind not one of them had ever 
 stayed a night; even those who were fairly swollen
 
 SEA WRACK 127 
 
 with drink were pitched out drunken to sleep in the 
 gutter if they could not find their legs! 
 
 It must have been somewhere about ten when we got 
 to the inn. As usual it swarmed with life. A regular 
 fog of a room stenching with beer and tobacco, 
 stenching also of overmuch humanity and insufferably 
 hot from the same unpleasant reasons and the clamping 
 of the two low windows. There was a great old junk 
 of a lamp swinging on rusty chains from the rafters, a 
 great black pot of a thing, with a crooked, flaring 
 flame. Light of a kind also from two flaming torches 
 stuck either side of the high mantel-shelf, spluttering 
 and smelling vilely. 
 
 Grainger, the son, my old friend, if you remember 
 our first meeting, moodily served at the bar, with an 
 even more unhealthy-looking youth as his assistant. 
 The old woman was dead; her yellow petticoat and 
 naked legs were the last I ever saw of her. When I 
 got back from South America she had been separated 
 from her bottles and tucked away beneath the ground : 
 the rat of a son carried on. Neither did he make any 
 difference in the methods and customs. ... I am talk- 
 ing now of the inner and real existence of the inn; 
 which had been abruptly made clear to me that night, 
 years back, and was probably the reason that Grainger 
 was surprisingly civil with his tongue and my supplies 
 of spirits of a most excellent flavor! 
 
 He gave us a gloomy nod at our entrance, and to us 
 was the honor of personal attendance by the pimply 
 assistant.
 
 128 SEA WRACK 
 
 I told you there were all manners and kinds at this 
 place? I tell you that night it seemed as if from all 
 the corners of the earth its motley inhabitants had 
 drifted in! Sailors in gigantic topboots and jerseys 
 and two terrifically tough navy Jacks ; fishermen smell- 
 ing abominably of fish and some still in oilskins; a 
 grim-looking pilot in a trim-cut buttoned jacket and a 
 rakish cap, laying down the law on pilotage with an 
 enormous individual in an open shirt, soiled canvas 
 trousers, and naked feet thrust into an immense pair 
 of coarse boots, who might have been a pirate or a 
 dockyard navvy, or both ! A giant of a negro, all teeth 
 and shining ear-rings, his great chest naked and sweat- 
 ing, talking loudly and excitedly with a square, tiger- 
 ish looking little chap, with a swagger twist of a beard, 
 a colored handkerchief about his head, and a great 
 knife dangling against his hip. A poor devil of a red- 
 coat, a marine, sprawled heavily in a corner, mouth 
 agape, eyes closed, breathing hideously, and at inter- 
 vals bawling: 
 
 "Farewell and adieu-u-u to you, gay Spanish Ladi-e-e-es, 
 Farewell and adieu-u-u to you, Ladies of S-p-a-i-n. . . ." 
 
 To finish it (God be thanked) in one wild hiccup. 
 
 For my part, once my glass was comfortably filled 
 and my pipe well on the go, I devoted all my attention 
 to the tiger-like fellow, with the clip of a beard. A 
 jolly chap this! A bit of the desperado Pistol about 
 him, a touch of fire-eating Hotspur. He was all 
 bristles and scorn, with a way that was both attractive
 
 SEA WRACK 129 
 
 and insolent. You expected him to walk on tiptoe 
 quick, impatient steps, as befitting a man accustomed 
 to jerk out an oath and make up his mind all in one 
 breath. 
 
 You could have seen him in any age ; you would have 
 known him in any country. He is of the kind that 
 knows no change; he is of the folk who go on living 
 breathing again century after century, taking up life 
 as some forebear left it for what it is, for what it is 
 likely to be ; for how God or the devil may fix it up be- 
 tween them. Thus, if you close your eyes, he would 
 vision before you in some ancient Phenician craft, 
 bright with its painted sails, trading or fighting or both 
 from Tyre to Carthage, from Carthage to India. . . . 
 Well ! You have but to open them now at any dock in 
 any port ; you will find him there. He has but moved on 
 a space. Time has had little to do with him beyond 
 making known to him steam and tap-rooms. . . . The 
 law of women, the law of bargains, the law of the sea, 
 with such things there is no change. . . . The spirit 
 does but fly from one dead brother to make life in 
 some newly adventuring one. . . . 
 
 It was Andrew who awakened me from my un- 
 commonly pleasant dreams. "Poor old Grainger! 
 They 're ragging him like the deuce to-night." 
 
 I became instantly wide-awake. These bickerings 
 between Grainger and the inmates of his inn were 
 pretty frequent, and sometimes reached the most alarm- 
 ing heights. The fact was that poor old Grainger 
 stood in a most extraordinary position with the whole
 
 1 30 SEA WRACK 
 
 lot of them. No man, I suppose, was more hated ; or 
 rather of no man were they so utterly contemptuous. 
 To a certain extent they gave him a somewhat grudg- 
 ing respect for his cunning in the matter of all traffick- 
 ings he was a priceless bargainer, and a master of 
 such artfulness that possibly only the devil himself 
 could compete with him! But he had a rat-like way 
 with him, a pasty mean outlook, and all his qualities 
 were pasty and mean, with a slinking, sly smell about 
 his very breath. He was as full of suspicion as the 
 sea of fishes and as crammed with secretiveness as a 
 cask with beer. . . . And it was just that, I believe, 
 that drove them mad. He was n't their leader, yet 
 he had worked himself to such a position that they 
 could ply no trade without him. 
 
 Such a position. Not a jot of reckless enterprise 
 on his side. . . . But a most crafty fox, well up in 
 trickery of foxes and the covering of trails! In his 
 way, then, he was of certain importance. Perhaps 
 that is too large a word; let us say useful! That was 
 his actual position! Useful! In a sulky way they 
 knew this, and if it exasperated them, which it most 
 certainly did, they made up for it by teasing him like 
 the very deuce ! I tell you ! Given a full room and a 
 stomach full of liquor, they would use him like a per- 
 forming bear, until the poor devil cut capers in sheer 
 hysterical fury. 
 
 As Andrew had discovered, they were doing it now. 
 And in this case they were harping on a most ticklish 
 point. A thing that always got him on the raw and
 
 SEA WRACK 131 
 
 made him squirm. . . . The mention of police matters. 
 
 Better say at once that any hint at the word put the 
 fear of God into him. For you must know he stood 
 in a holy funk of the law; and spent his wretched life 
 planning and manoeuvring to keep both himself and 
 his tavern entirely virtuous and proper in their sight. 
 ... I think he succeeded. But those who knew, 
 knew also this carefulness only went as far as he 
 was concerned : for the rest, they might go hang ! 
 
 This particular night, those who ragged him had 
 the enjoyment of watching him rage even more than 
 usual. From his point of view, it was natural enough, 
 I suppose. All that part of the coast had lately re- 
 ceived unusual and unwelcome attention! A some- 
 what over-successful gang of rogues had been taking 
 a trifle too much interest in our direction. House- 
 breaking was their little game ; and I must say they 
 carried it out with remarkable cuteness. But they 
 overdid it in their zeal for other people's property, 
 and an old woman had been killed and a young man 
 badly smashed. No one had ever seen them and appar- 
 ently they left no clues, until at last some hint was 
 thrown out that they came by the sea, and the result 
 was that pretty nearly every night all manner and kind 
 of individuals, from plowboys to the chief constable 
 himself, would patrol the coast and the villages; and it 
 was this constant nearness of the police and the law 
 generally that fairly twisted the wretched Grainger' s 
 nervous system inside out. He was, in ,fact, one 
 bundle of quivering anticipation. If he had dared, I
 
 132 SEA WRACK 
 
 think he 'd have closed the inn, but he knew the place 
 would be virtually broken into by the men in the village, 
 apart from the rest of its usual visitors. And that 
 alone would probably mean inquisitive visiting on the 
 part of the police. So he remained open and spent 
 most of his time imploring them with the most passion- 
 ate oaths and cursings to be less wild and free in their 
 talk. To which, by way of an answer, they became 
 even more riotous and twisted the tail of Grainger to 
 their heart's content. 
 
 They were at him now with 
 
 "You should watch our Jesse play kiss-in-th'-ring 
 with th' blue-boys !" 
 
 "I say, Jesse! They got some o' they grand sharp 
 chaps smellin' round! Take you care they don't be 
 a-hiding in here." 
 
 And Grainger, with a wild stare round the room, 
 would shrill out at them: "Kep them bloody mouths 
 shut o' yourn ! They '11 fair rattle us t' hell, they 
 will!" 
 
 Here the extraordinary individual with the naked 
 feet and the hulking boots broke off his argument with 
 the pilot to drawl solemnly: "Don't 'ee be afeared fur 
 us not on yourn life, my son ! Not on yourn muddy 
 life. There be no track from us! There be sea an' 
 ships an' other land, all good things for the likes o' 
 we! Don't 'ee be upset fur us don't 'ee now!" 
 
 To which the wretched Grainger wailed aloud: 
 "Easy fur you ! What o' me ? You an' yourn blasted 
 shoutings you '11 ha' me in ! You '11 muck me life
 
 SEA WRACK 133 
 
 curse an' damn yourn babbling mouths !" There was 
 froth about his lips and sweat bubbling on his cheeks. 
 He was positively grotesque in his panic, and it was 
 exactly this grotesqueness, this coward buffoonery in 
 him, which led them on. His last outburst only made 
 them jeer back : 
 
 "What o' that rabbit hole o' yourn?" 
 
 "That 's it ! Where 's the HI' spot you an' the old 
 woman used to count th' bottles in?" 
 
 "Goard Almighty ! I 'd give a day's pay to see our 
 Jesse tuck away to cover. . . ." 
 
 I tell you, they mocked and goaded at him until even 
 I began to feel sorry for the poor devil ! And, anyway, 
 they made such a perfectly terrific noise that I was un- 
 commonly glad to hear Andrew shout, "I say, shall 
 we go? I shall be a deaf man in another second!" 
 
 I nodded, and emptied my glass to the very dregs. 
 And at that moment something happened. Happened 
 then and there as I replaced the tumbler on the table. 
 As swift as a flash of lightning as you might snap 
 your fingers. 
 
 It was unexpected, and it was that which made it 
 so startling. It was swiftness itself it was the most 
 violent and unforseen thing. The negro started it 
 the little man with the jutting beard and the colored 
 handkerchief finished it off. . . . The real beginnings 
 are vague enough there had been some talk from the 
 little man of his girl down Boston way; a trifle too
 
 134 SEA WRACK 
 
 much drink on the part of the nigger. ... A sneer 
 from him, followed by a boast an intoxicated state- 
 ment very likely true but a vile one. . . . And then, 
 with a yell like a maddened beast, the other had his one 
 hand curled about that great black throat and with his 
 free one caught up his full glass and brought it crash- 
 ing down on the negro's head so that the splinters cut 
 his face and the beer choked and blinded him. A 
 veritable tiger-cat, this fellow then! He stood snarl- 
 ing and spitting at the spluttering dark man : 
 
 "Come on, ye black son o' Satan! I '11 learn ye 
 I '11 give ye drink t' swallow. ..." 
 
 It was exactly this that occurred as I finished my 
 drink ; the rest came swifter still as I was about to put 
 the glass down. For the black had clutched at a table 
 to save himself from a complete fall ; and, clutched to 
 what he found there and still clutching, threw himself 
 on the other, screaming aloud with passion. While 
 from all sides went up the most violent shouts : 
 
 " 'E 's drawn a knife!" . . . "Look to yourself, 
 matey!" . . . "Ketch 'old on 'm, can't yer?" And 
 then to die away to harsh and sullen murmurings of 
 "Ah-h-h-h. . . ." 
 
 For the square, nimble- footed little man, sharp with 
 his eye, easy with his hand, had unloosened that clasp- 
 knife of his and brought it into play while the black 
 still struggled with his drunkenness to get his feet 
 steady. . . . Then they formed a ring about the two 
 of them. 
 
 It was amazing! Utterly extraordinary! In that
 
 SEA WRACK 135 
 
 one instant the whole place had changed. No noise! 
 Only the soft padding of feet; stealthy and horrible in 
 their movements. Not even any sign of excitement! 
 Simply a circle of eagle-eyed, keen, and perfectly col- 
 lected men, watching and muttering of one thing only 
 chance ! 
 
 Of course there was Grainger! Rather like a mangy 
 and hysterical crow, leaping and flapping and wailing 
 around that dispassionate ring. All whimpers and 
 shrieking panic. "Get 'em away, I say! Kep 'em off 
 it, can't ye. Blast and damn yer all you '11 git the 
 law on me, the law I say! Git 'em apart, won't ye? 
 Apart, I say. . . ." Then of a sudden his voice rose 
 to one wild scream . . . "J esus Christ ! 'E 's killed 
 'im! Killed 'im. . . ." 
 
 If there was any doubt at that gurgling, choking 
 cry, followed by a heavy thud, there was certainly no 
 mistaking the meaning of the thick triumphant voice 
 that rang through the room : 
 
 "My girl ! Mine, I tells ye ! And by Go' I '11 knife 
 any other rat who crosses 'er path or mine !" 
 
 Then some one asked, "What 's to be done wi' this?" 
 
 And Grainger's voice wailed on : "In my house, my 
 house ! Fiends, that 's what you be bloody fiends !" 
 
 And they simply took no notice of him and began to 
 talk violently among each other. 
 
 I turned to Andrew. He was standing on a chair 
 staring straight at the triumphant sailor. At that in- 
 stant the intensity of his look did not occur to me; 
 later I remember it came back to me. I am inclined
 
 136 SEA WRACK 
 
 to think that if the violence of this business was amaz- 
 ing, even more so was the behavior of the man. He 
 stood like a conqueror. In all this din, among all 
 this confusion, he seemed entirely unmoved, completely 
 aloof. With the handkerchief from his head he pro- 
 ceeded carefully and methodically to wipe and clean his 
 knife, to shut it with a click and fasten it to his belt; 
 to measure deliberately and thoughtfully neat 
 brandy into a glass, and drink it down, not at one 
 violent gulp, but slowly and lovingly, as if he were the 
 most fastidious epicurean, instead of another Cain, 
 with the devil in his heart and blood on his hands. 
 
 He had committed murder. What of it? Some- 
 thing had crossed his path, had offended him and his 
 love. Well! This was his answer. This was his 
 way. You knew he would put up no defense. He 
 was exactly the man who despised such a thought. It 
 was unnecessary it was more than that; it was blas- 
 phemy. It was a lie against his love it was a sin 
 against his principles. Oh, yes, principles ! And you 
 may fling the rope about his neck as your answer to 
 them. Well, I grant you that will be the end of the 
 body but not the spirit. 
 
 Ages back, terrific unknown ages, that spirit must 
 have lived with its kind ; hunted in packs as wolves do. 
 Hunted and loved and killed, even as now it will sud- 
 denly rise up red-hot once again to hunt and love and 
 kill ! Civilization has nothing to do with it ! It is too 
 old a matter, too overcharged with all the passions of 
 all the ages, to be got rid of. Once it must have been
 
 SEA WRACK 137 
 
 written down whether in sand or rock or tree, neither 
 you nor I can tell. But it was then what it is now 
 and always will be ! A sign, a mark, a writing on the 
 wall and the lettering exceedingly bloody. 
 
 And it was this little man, with the twist of a beard 
 and the dangling knife, perfectly nonchalant, most per- 
 fectly at ease, who stood now symbolical of that law. 
 So far as he was concerned the main business was 
 finished ! He stood aside ; the final clearing up was a 
 matter affecting his companions. And, from their point 
 of view, principally affecting Grainger. They simply 
 tackled on the unhappy man, and with threats and 
 snarls screwed him this way and that. 
 
 "You 've got a back way out o' this : spit it up, can't 
 you!" 
 
 "Open yourn mouth now! Open it up! By Gor', 
 will ye ha' us to do it for ye ?" 
 
 And at intervals Grainger's persistent wail: "In 
 my house, my house ! Fair ruined me ! Bloody f ules, 
 that you be ! Bloody, bloody f ules ! My house !" 
 
 And then an answering shout from the enormous 
 man with the enormous boots : "Who th' burning hell 
 cares o' yourn blooming house? I '11 burn it down, 
 break it up, an' you along wi' it speak, out, can't you ? 
 Move your coward jaw, will ye ? 'T is our skins as 
 well as yourn. Be you thinkin' we wants to gie 'em 
 away?" 
 
 I said to Andrew : '"Look here, we 'd better take 
 our chance and get out of this ! There 's no reason to 
 get mixed up."
 
 138 SEA WRACK 
 
 He was still standing on the chair staring at the man 
 who had caused this violent upheavel. He never 
 moved as he murmured, "How do you propose 
 we go?" 
 
 I answered almost impatiently : "They have n't 
 thought of bolting up yet. I think we could manage 
 it" 
 
 He suddenly looked down at me and then he seemed 
 different changed. At that moment I could not make 
 it out. Later. . . . 
 
 He got off the chair and replied : "I want to speak 
 to that man! I must, before I leave here. . . ." And 
 started to cross to him. He never did. Almost as he 
 moved there came a hideous shriek from the unhealthy 
 assistant, now pressing his face against the window : 
 
 "Gor' ha' mercy ! There 's lights and men all about 
 th' harbor. We 're done in right enough done in." 
 
 And from the man in the pilot coat, very sharp and 
 decisive in speech : "Hell on it ! Rounding up, that 's 
 their job! By the Lord, we 're bloody well trapped!" 
 
 As might have been expected, this perfectly calm re- 
 view of the situation was followed by the most violent 
 lamentations from Grainger. He spluttered out oath 
 upon oath; he called upon heaven and hell and every 
 single god and devil he could think of, and cursed and 
 screamed and jibbered like an ape, until I thought he 
 would fall in a fit on the floor. 
 
 He did n't ! On the contrary, he was suddenly lifted 
 clean off his feet and held by his neck at least a foot 
 from the ground by the little tiger-cat man. It was he
 
 SEA WRACK 139 
 
 who did the speaking now. Short-clipped sentences, 
 every bit as short and clipped as the fellow himself. 
 
 "Watch here, matey ! No slithering. Stretch yourn 
 ears an' do some hearing. I 've got to get clear o' this 
 so 's this lump of black rottenness. There be no 
 more time for squealing there be too much lost by it ! 
 Hark ye! I gie you your choice a knife in your 
 ribs or you spit out this quiet way o' yourn ! Got me, 
 hey? Which of 'em?" He lowered him so that his 
 feet touched the floor, but kept his hold and repeated : 
 "Which o' them? Shall you speak up? Nod your 
 head if so. 
 
 Such a thing with those hands holding him like a 
 vise seemed hardly possible. Yet in certain moments 
 and places all things are possible. This was one of 
 them. Grainger nodded. 
 
 Some one had fixed the bar across the door and shot 
 the bolts ; some one else had caught the rusty lamp and 
 trampled it out with hands and feet. In the small 
 space behind the bar a knot of them hustled Grainger 
 and heaved and wrestled with casks and cases. . . . 
 
 "Move away this barrel! Shove, damn yer, 
 shove. ..." 
 
 "Gie us a hand wi' this. . . ." 
 
 "You take th' head then. ..." 
 
 "That 's it! Lift, can't thee, lift. . . ." 
 
 If there was noise enough in the place it was equaled 
 now from the outside. They were battering at the 
 door kicking and beating against it, shouting and 
 bawling. . . .
 
 140 SEA WRACK 
 
 "Open up, open up! In the name of the law. . . . 
 Open, will you open. ..." 
 
 And then it was that the most dramatic, most fear- 
 ful thing happened. It was exactly as if the being of 
 Drama or Tragedy or both, suffering from lack of ex- 
 citement and overmuch boredom, rubbed her eyes and 
 yawned and gave a pettish poke at yet another of her 
 puppets, and this time it was the red-coated marine. 
 And he finished the trick nicely for her. 
 
 This sprawling soldier quite suddenly became drunk- 
 enly sober. He chose this moment for one of his 
 short wakings. He had no knowledge what had hap- 
 pened ; this thick fuddled brain neither saw nor under- 
 stood the desperate happenings in the room. . . . But 
 he heard. Across his heavy muddled wits came distinct 
 sounds. . . . Some one trying to come in, some one 
 crying, "Open, open." Well, why not? Was it a 
 game ? . . . A dirty game ! Why do a man out of his 
 glass ? Rotten trick ! Rotten crowd ! It did n't mat- 
 ter the dimness of the room; he could n't have seen if it 
 had been light. . . . He just heard the hammering at 
 the door and made a dash for it. Fell, and lurched and 
 clawed . . , and then, before any one had an idea 
 he had moved even, had it opened with the shout of 
 "Come 'long in, ri' in. It 's a blasted shame t' kep yef 
 from drink ! Tha 's wha' they try t' do wi' me. But 
 
 I show 'em I show " Then his wits gave out 
 
 and he fell to the ground, and the rushing men coming 
 into the place trampled on him as he sprawled. . . . 
 They came in with lanterns, held on high, some eight
 
 SEA WRACK 141 
 
 or nine of them coast-guards among them. They 
 rushed in crying, "What 's afoot here?" And one, his 
 light on high: "Blood on the floor. . . . Murder 
 done. . . . Shut that door! Shut it sharp! . . ." 
 But they had reckoned without the little tiger-man. 
 
 You see his position? You realize its grimness? 
 He was up against it. He was trapped. The way at 
 the back was narrow, and most securely blocked by 
 those carrying the negro. The front way ... it was 
 his only chance, and he took it. He was like a spitting 
 cat, and he fought like one. He sprang to the high 
 mantel-shelf and caught the two torches from their 
 place one in each hand and he used them as wea- 
 pons. Right and left he struck, right and left, and 
 hard and furiously. That knot of men at the door 
 fell back before him dazzled, scorched, blinded, swear- 
 ing ... he fairly plunged his way, blazing his path 
 
 . . . out to the road, out There was a man there 
 
 on horseback, the chief constable. Questioning, peer- 
 ing, directing. . . . And the tiger-man had reckoned 
 on anything but a horse. He brandished his weapons 
 and fought with them too well ; he butted clean into the 
 beast, and that creature, rearing with unexpected pain, 
 used his hoofs, used his teeth, unseated his rider, and 
 knocked the fighter straight on his back, where he lay 
 silent, inert, game for no more. . . . 
 
 In the confusion that followed the fighting and 
 struggling and wrestling all about and around and 
 within the door Andrew and I and a good few others 
 got clean away and raced up the village street. It was
 
 142 SEA WRACK 
 
 pure excitement that made us race so. There was no 
 sound or sight of any pursuers, and if there had been 
 it would have been of very little consequence to any of 
 us. They knew pretty well who had done the murder; 
 Grainger had taken great care to inform them. Im- 
 mediately they came in his voice could be heard bleat- 
 ing above the din. Thus there was nothing very 
 alarming in giving a name and address. But the whole 
 atmosphere seemed charged to the very pitch, overflow- 
 ing, and seething in a perfect whirlpool of disquiet. 
 Even I felt that, as I sped along. . . . Even I ! 
 Given somewhat to baldness and gout ! 
 
 Nevertheless, I was glad enough when we came to 
 my gate, and I fairly panted at Andrew: "Good 
 Lord, I never thought I could foot it like that ! I 'm 
 fairly dead, Andrew; come in for a drink before you 
 go on." 
 
 He did n't look at me. His head was turned away, 
 tilted upward to where the stars flamed and flared and 
 danced. And when he spoke his voice was thick 
 thick like a man near choking. He muttered : 
 
 ''Not now, Penrose, not now. I can't stay I 
 dare n't ! Let me go. Let me go. ... Ah, Christ ! 
 How much time I may have already lost." 
 
 He utterly bewildered me. He spoke in a new voice ; 
 he used new words. I put out a hand and caught his 
 arm, 
 
 "What 's the matter, boy ? What is it ? Come in 
 and talk awhile; it '11 do you good." 
 
 He cried with extraordinary passion, "It '11 do me
 
 SEA WRACK 143 
 
 wrong do me wrong !" And as, for a brief instant, 
 I saw his face, so I realized, with a start, what I had al- 
 ready observed in the inn; it 'had changed it was 
 amazingly different. Just as if some huge hand had 
 passed over his face and smeared it with numberless 
 signs had left it older, hungry, desolate, even fearful. 
 "Let me go, Penrose, let me go! I have so much to 
 catch up with ; so much to do this night ; so much I have 
 left undone! You cannot understand! While I, for 
 my part, have understood so little. ... So very, very 
 little !" He broke away from me and crossed the road 
 to a gate which led directly over the fields and so on to 
 the Wold. . . . 
 
 I watched him for a long time; running, stumbling 
 over the broken ground . . . until the stars, and the 
 blackness of the night, closing down, smothered him en- 
 tirely into their embrace. . . . 
 
 With the morning came the news of old Swinsco's 
 death.
 
 BOOK TWO
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 IT was rather a foolish youth, bringing a note to 
 the rector, who took the opportunity to startle the 
 village in his own bald-headed manner. 
 
 "The old man had been taken suddenly ill. He had 
 ridden for the doctor; no, not Mr. Ayerst, he and the 
 missus had stayed with the governor. Oh, yes, he got 
 the doctor right 'nuff. No! Mr. Andrew was not 
 there. He 'd gone out late last evening did n't get 
 back till near five in the morning. Oh, yes, the old 
 man was dead by then, an' the doctor been and gone. 
 No, he did n't know for certain how something to do 
 with the head. How did he know that much ? 'Cause 
 when he was waiting for the note he heard Mr. An- 
 drew a-asking of Mr. Ayerst. No, they did n't seem 
 so very upset. Missus anyway, in a fine old tear and 
 Mr. Ayerst humming away to hisself. Mr. Andrew? 
 Gone to the fields. Looked all funny-like. What did 
 he mean by that ? Well, it 's plain enough said surely ? 
 Looked as if he saw no one. Nearly run over him 
 hisself he did a-galloping old Ginger down the hill. 
 How for? Why, darn the man, a-cause he was walk- 
 ing bang in the middle and did n't hear ! No, nor 
 
 147
 
 148 SEA WRACK 
 
 did n't move when he shouted. Just went on a strid- 
 ing like as he 'd never seen a man stride afore as if 
 he 'd take ditches an' dike an' all nor never stop. Like 
 a dead man a-walking. How did he know dead men 
 walked? Oh, be derned for a simpleton, he didn't. 
 But he 'd reckon they was dumb and deaf, an' Mr. 
 Andrew he were all that and going like a dead 
 thing. . . ." 
 
 There you are, you see! Quite neatly put by the 
 foolish youth, and most significant of all, his almost 
 remarkable summing up of Andrew: "Like a dead 
 man!" For I tell you if Swinsco died in the body 
 the spirit, if you will something snapped and passed 
 out of Andrew also from that day from that day until 
 I sometimes thought eternity itself would come rather 
 than its return! 
 
 If I have spoken of a curious change about him that 
 night at the inn, of a mood that was strange to me 
 when he broke away over the Wold that night, I tell 
 you it was as nothing compared to the strange, inscrut- 
 able figure that I met the very next day, and knew in a 
 kind of dream as Andrew. 
 
 I expected some sort of difference; I knew how great 
 his affection had been for the old man ; and I knew that 
 the years must pass and pass again before he would 
 ever cease to remember. I knew that and somehow 
 or other thought I should understand his feelings. 
 
 Then, when he came to my cottage and I started 
 forward to meet him, the few words framed ready on 
 my lips died away into confused mutterings. I recog-
 
 SEA WRACK 149 
 
 nized I was speaking to him seeing him through some 
 dim obscure mist. I was meeting with some one who 
 moved and spoke in a dead, far-off fashion. I don't 
 think for one instant he noticed anything. He said 
 very little about old Swinsco's death, told me the date 
 of the funeral and the various business that had been 
 arranged. Of his own feelings and plans very little. 
 Of where he had spent that last night nothing at all. 
 Then it was that some accursed grain of curiosity 
 made me put that very question to him, and I remem- 
 ber even as I asked I would have given anything not 
 to hear his answer! For, you see, even before he re- 
 plied, I saw the lie slipping out. . . . He had been 
 tramping the Wold all the night. That was all. Yet 
 I knew there was something he would not tell could 
 not ! not even to me, his friend. Then when I 
 watched him later turn down the street muffled close 
 in obscurity, I hated myself for the sudden wrench 
 there had been at my heart ! Who was I to sit down 
 and wail my petty lamentations to the skies? Who 
 was I and in God's name what sort of a friend? 
 Rather let me put an iron band around my feelings and 
 wait my time in patience for the old Andrew to be 
 reborn. 
 
 They pitched earth upon old Swinsco in Ditchling 
 Churchyard, in the same grave with his wife and child. 
 They took him there in an old wagon, drawn by four 
 horses. Wise and trusted servants these, rendering
 
 ISO SEA WRACK 
 
 patient homage to their master, as possibly certain 
 parents of theirs had drawn that mistress; so now the 
 children played their quiet part in that great reunion. 
 That was his end, then. That was his way of pass- 
 ing. And the final finish, the arrival of some dusty 
 individual with chisel and hammer to chip beneath the 
 words : 
 
 ANN 
 
 BELOVED WIFE OF REUBEN SWINSCO 
 
 In her twenty-first year. 
 Also their infant son. . . . 
 
 Simply 
 
 REUBEN SWINSCO. Aged sixty-seven. 
 
 A long wait, eh? A great span of time before she 
 reached down to him. Bleak enough and even fright- 
 ening that interval ! But who can gainsay the triumph 
 at the end ? 
 
 3 
 
 I do not know to this day why I was asked to return 
 to the farm for the reading of the will. I cannot think 
 I was eager to go, and I am pretty certain Andrew 
 never pressed me; in fact, I do not think he ever made 
 any allusion to it. It was young Ayerst who suggested 
 it. Young Ayerst even more the toe-trickster than 
 ever, looking paler and longer and seeming to con- 
 sist principally of crape and braid. 
 
 So I went. Crushing myself into the carriage that
 
 SEA WRACK 151 
 
 consisted of Ayerst, Miss Swinsco, and one Boun- 
 derby, the solicitor, and smelling vilely of black kid 
 gloves and creaking boot leather. Andrew walked; 
 and as the horses plodded and he took to the fields, 
 we arrived pretty nearly together, for which I was 
 entirely grateful, for what with the complete silence of 
 'Miss Swinsco and the gentle murmuring of Ayerst, 
 together with certain mournful ejaculations from the 
 Bounderby man, my patience became jangled beyond 
 words. 
 
 I can't say I felt very much better when we were ar- 
 ranged about the table in the parlor. I did n't like the 
 almost sinister atmosphere about Ayerst and Miss 
 Swinsco, and I simply could not stand Bounderby. I 
 suppose all solicitors have shiny black bags and I sup- 
 pose at such a time these bags swell to the most terrific 
 importance. I believe, so far as that goes, their pos- 
 sessors become equally swollen. Mr. Bounderby was 
 not a big man; on the contrary, he was rather small 
 and drooping: but immediately he produced that bag 
 and placed it and himself at the head of the table, he 
 positively appeared to puff out with pride and personal 
 pomposity. 
 
 There was nothing remarkable about him; at the 
 first glance he appeared to be all mustache and no 
 lower part to his face at all. It was only when you 
 heard his voice and noticed that gigantic, ungainly hay- 
 stack move, you became assured he had a mouth at all. 
 I began to wonder how it was possible for him to 
 speak and his listeners to understand; yet sound did
 
 152 SEA WRACK 
 
 come from behind that straggling mass : and he started 
 off with many allusions to "this sad moment," "my old 
 client and friend," "the face we miss" ; and continued 
 in this strain of lamentation for quite half an hour I 
 admit the exaggeration, I suppose it was ten minutes ! 
 He paused to untwine the haystack and then made cer- 
 tain mention of the strange coincidence of the death, 
 also, only a few days before, of "my dear and valued 
 friend and partner, William Tegg." 
 
 "That er very morning my deceased and valued 
 partner had been closeted with er my deceased 
 friend and client on business. Business that we, hum, 
 ha, must reluctantly admit we do not know the er 
 gist of, and it is certain I regret to state er certain 
 we shall now never ah, that is, never now know. As 
 I am sure my friend and I hope er I may say client, 
 Mr. Ayerst; I ask pardon, I should say Mr. Swinsco, 
 already knows, our legal work is not only confined to 
 this neighborhood. We have much I may er say 
 extensive affairs in the great metropolis, and it was the 
 er call of duty; I repeat duty that took my er 
 deceased and valued partner there that very day, imme- 
 diately after his visit here." I fancy at this point the 
 mustache tripped him violently. His voice seemed to 
 disappear into space, and when it did once again make 
 itself fairly clear, it was with the following somewhat 
 bald statement: "The er calamity that befell him 
 on his arrival in the city, therefore, gave him no time ; 
 such, if I may be so bold as to say so such er are 
 the ways of the Almighty time er to communicate
 
 SEA WRACK 153 
 
 with me his business that morning with our deceased 
 and valued client. Neither among his papers could 
 any such notice be found. 
 
 "I have also questioned this er good lady" here 
 the haystack inclined toward Miss Swinsco, who replied 
 rather as a mechanical doll would jerk its wooden head. 
 "And er she assures me no one was called upon for 
 any such important matter as witnessing. Therefore, 
 as is natural, we must assume, that nothing of any 
 importance in fact I think I may use the word of no 
 consequence whatever was enacted between my deceased 
 partner and our late and highly revered client, Mr. 
 Swinsco. I think er we may assume that?" The 
 haystack inclined this time to Ayerst, on whose thin 
 lips there came a very pale smile and the murmured 
 agreement. 
 
 "As you think best, Mr. Bounderby; as you think 
 best." 
 
 This finished the speechifying, and with much bustle 
 and racket he commenced upon the reading of the will. 
 I remember at that particular instant there rushed, 
 busy and hot, into the room, a bee a perfectly huge 
 chap who, after a swirl about the room, settled dis- 
 contentedly at the window to hum and drone and gen- 
 erally let fly all his thoughts and feelings. I remember 
 also, as I listened, how uncommonly like that droning 
 bee the voice which moaned from beneath the hay- 
 stack was. There were the usual preliminaries, of 
 course. 
 
 "I, Reuben Swinsco, do hereby swear and declare,
 
 154 SEA WRACK 
 
 etc., etc. . . ." and all the usual lawyer's stuff; then, 
 in the same old dull way, we drifted into business. 
 "I leave and bequeath to my dearly loved adopted son, 
 Ayerst, all my estate and the issue thereof. . . ." 
 The droning tones went on with the usual explanatory 
 clauses as to the estate. So many acres of ground in 
 this part, in that part so many cottages, so much 
 cattle. ... It seemed insufferably hot, and I turned 
 idle eyes toward the bee panting about the glass, mur- 
 muring and muttering, now on a lazier note: I believe 
 my lids twitched the slightest ; it was an afternoon for 
 sleep. Then, as almost from a distance, I heard the 
 monotonous voice mumbling along. . . . "Also all 
 mortgage there may be upon the estate known as Col- 
 tons, in the village Colt-Harrow, property of Lieutenant 
 Carey, late royal navy. . . ." There came a sudden 
 interruption from Andrew ; he got abruptly to his feet 
 and, crossing to the muttering bee, caught it in the 
 one hand and thrust it out into the garden ; neither did 
 he move when Bounderby cleared his throat angrily 
 and noisily, but remained standing there staring into 
 the garden. For my part, I was so utterly astonished 
 at this announcement that I missed entirely the greater 
 part of the will until my ear was caught by the mention 
 of Andrew's name, and the moaning proceeded. . . . 
 "The sum of five hundred pounds and fifty acres of 
 whatever land my son may think right. . . ." 
 
 "With regard to this er legacy of land : a matter 
 which rests in the hands of my esteemed er I trust 
 I am not taking liberties when I use the word esteemed
 
 SEA WRACK 155 
 
 client. ..." His visage seemed to break up into one 
 large crack which presumably took the place of a smile. 
 He continued : "My esteemed client wishes me to state 
 he considers he will be carrying out the wishes of his 
 revered father, my er deceased client, by handing 
 over freely, and indeed eagerly, the land er known 
 as the Tilling land in the village of Ditchling. A most, 
 if I may say so er generous decision on his part; 
 some of this land being already cultivated, the rest 
 er most fertile and newly drained, while the position 
 is admirable." He stopped to fix frowning eyes on 
 Andrew's back. I am inclined to think it was from 
 this quarter he looked for polite and appropriate mur- 
 murs with which he could bring his own speechifying 
 to a highly proper end. Unfortunately for him there 
 came no sound or movement from Andrew, with the 
 result that Bounderby was left suddenly and abruptly 
 at a loose end, while the carefully polished remarks he 
 had kept so hopefully up his sleeve to let loose at the 
 correct time, simply stuttered forth now, a mass of 
 "humming and hawing," ending abruptly in pure noth- 
 ingness ! 
 
 "Ah, hum er that is to say, most generous offer. 
 Ah, I think then our task is at an end. . . ." He 
 threw a bitter and appealing glance at the very un- 
 yielding back in the window, and continuing his mum- 
 blings of, "Oh, yes, hum, ha ... at an end!" and sat 
 down the very figure of discontented law. 
 
 Precisely as he did so the mechanical wires that 
 worked Miss Swinsco shot her violently to her feet.
 
 156 SEA WRACK 
 
 She fixed him with her bead-like expression and in a 
 manner that strove to be gracious and savored some- 
 what of the humorous was indeed humorous on 
 account of its grinding note and hard sentences, and 
 told him: 
 
 "There is wine in the other room. You must need 
 it, I 'm sure." 
 
 In her way that woman was too much even for old 
 B,ounderby. He followed her rather like a startled 
 sheep, and indeed it was in the fashion of such an 
 animal she edged him from the room, while he made 
 unintelligible bleating noises into the haystack. 
 
 We three then were left alone :. Andrew, Ayerst, and 
 myself. And about us and about that room there 
 crept and swelled a most extraordinary stillness. I 
 had nearly said "frightful." Frightful stillness. And 
 I am not even now certain that that is not the better 
 word. Frightful. . . . 
 
 And then, quite suddenly, the whole atmosphere 
 cleared broke away and was gone, and I was listen- 
 ing to the very gentle voice of Ayerst. 
 
 "Well, old fellow, I suppose this is good-by; will 
 you stay with us to supper?" 
 
 I remember feeling for my pipe, because I know 
 that in certain moods the very touch of it beneath my 
 fingers comes as a remarkable relief. I wanted at that 
 moment to say a good deal to Ayerst yet I knew my 
 job was outside the circle. Andrew's the business that
 
 SEA WRACK 157 
 
 went on within. So I caught hold of my friend, empty 
 though it was, and dug my teeth hard upon its stem, 
 and then sat and waited. I looked at Ayerst Tilting 
 slightly as he sat in his chair, eyes half closed, lips 
 half opened lips that mocked, twitching the slightest 
 eyes that answered their mocking. . . . 
 
 When I looked away I saw that Andrew had turned 
 as he stood, and was now facing into the room. All 
 he could see of Ayerst was the back of that highly 
 polished gleaming head. He said, and there was some- 
 thing very like steel against steel in the tone of his 
 voice : 
 
 "Are you going to foreclose that mortgage, Ayerst ?" 
 
 There was not a shade of expression about that very 
 pale face. He might -have heard or he might have 
 been deaf for all you could tell of his feelings from it. 
 It was obvious he heard : he murmured very softly : 
 
 "Dear old fellow, what mortgage?" 
 
 "You know well enough Coltons." 
 
 Neither the name nor the questioning seemed to have 
 any effect, the voice was as smooth as ever as he an- 
 swered : 
 
 "I simply don't know, dear old boy I simply 
 could n't say." 
 
 I saw Andrew move the slightest by that move- 
 ment he might have advanced a little toward Ayerst: 
 in the changing shadows of the room it was difficult 
 to see. He said deliberately: 
 
 "That means you intend to ?" 
 
 This time the colorless eyes showed very wide for
 
 158 SEA WRACK 
 
 the fraction of a second and then shaded themselves 
 beneath their pallid lids. 
 
 He said, very softly, "It means nothing, my dear 
 Andrew as yet!" 
 
 Through the shadows Andrew's two hands suddenly 
 went out toward that glossy head and then, as if with 
 a tremendous effort, jerked themselves back to hold 
 and clutch the one at the other as if each would fight 
 with each and keep a check on their passion. He said 
 thickly : 
 
 "Your father, Ayerst! Your father. Are you go- 
 ing to smash all his ideals, because you 've nailed him 
 down in his coffin?" 
 
 Ayerst seemed quite to cheer up at that remark. 
 For once he opened his eyes and kept them open, wag- 
 gling a long ringer at no one in particular and speaking 
 quite brightly: 
 
 "Ah, my dear old Andrew, that is just it ! As you 
 say, e in his coffin' . . . . And yet from the way you 
 speak, upon my soul that 's the very thing you don't 
 seem to realize that he is dead." 
 
 It was then that something very nearly approaching 
 a cry of intense and most bitter agony went up from 
 Andrew : 
 
 "O my God! that is just what I do realize!" He 
 went on, racing his words on top of each other in a des- 
 perate, savage fashion, like some poor devil caught in 
 a trap and sending out a last and hopeless plea ! 
 
 "Ayerst ! Listen, listen and answer me ! What 
 devil's game have you got on about this mortgage?
 
 SEA WRACK 159 
 
 What are you going to do? How are you going to 
 act? Like your father or like like yourself? And 
 if you do, if you will, what will you say to those two 
 what will you say to Miss Carey? Answer me, 
 man, answer me!" 
 
 There was a most attentive expression about Ayerst. 
 For once he was a listening man; for once he was 
 weighing word against word, thought against thought. 
 When he answered, his voice was the softest and most 
 contented thing I Ve ever heard. He just murmured : 
 
 "Why not call her Tarnia dear old boy?" 
 
 If those hands had fought with one another before, 
 there was no hesitation about them now. For a second 
 they hovered above that sleek head, then with one 
 terrific swoop they shot down and curled about that 
 crafty neck. . . . And like a great saga I could hear 
 Andrew shouting: 
 
 "Tarnia, Tarnia, Tarnia ! And may God damn you 
 to hell if you ever call her so!" 
 
 And at that moment at that immediate instant! 
 I was back in the Smuggler's Arms hearing that blood- 
 stained little man shouting his victory to the roomful 
 of men. . . . "Mine, I tells ye! Mine! . . . And he 
 who comes atween her an' me shall get what that black 
 swine's worth. . . ." 
 
 Through the dim shadows of that night to this day 
 I heard Ayerst thick and guttural : 
 
 "I 've got you now, Andrew ; I Ve fixed you now ! 
 Dead I Ve got you ; alive and you 're mine. Both of 
 you utterly. . . ,"
 
 160 SEA WRACK 
 
 Andrew had him so that his feet were lifted clean 
 off the ground and stuck out like two long poles. I 
 could see his face whiter than ever, staring up at 
 Andrew's : I could see his long mouth twisted into 
 one long grin, showing teeth pointed like a wildcat's. 
 
 His own fingers were catching at Andrew's, yet 
 curiously enough not attempting to drag them away. 
 I think he wanted to spit out his fury not to spoil it 
 by mere fighting. I think, further, his hatred was 
 such as he would most willingly have been strangled 
 then and there that his mocking ghost might see his 
 enemy's hanging body and jeer at it ! 
 
 Andrew answered him : "Yes ! You 've cornered 
 me ; but, by God ! I shall corner you in time ! I shall 
 be your watch-dog, Ayerst! I shall sit at the foot 
 of the hills and see your goings and comings; I shall 
 watch the Wolds and see your passings and your ways 
 . . . your ways with her! And if you hurt her Oh, 
 by heaven, if you hurt her! Then I take my oath 
 your blood and my blood shall make one ruddy stream 
 of it together!" He released his hold with such vio- 
 lence that the chair crashed to the ground and Ayerst 
 with it. "Together !" he repeated, . . . "You remem- 
 ber that together !" 
 
 5 
 
 Ayerst, on the floor, was no pretty sight. He was, 
 in fact, highly ridiculous and even grotesque. He lay 
 there all a-sprawl; legs and arms heaped and hunched 
 beneath him on top of him. He made no attempt
 
 SEA WRACK 161 
 
 to move, but lay there staring up at Andrew, and it 
 was therefore the first time I saw him with eyes so 
 wide open, and there was something horrible in their 
 stare. 
 
 Then Andrew spoke, this time to me. 
 "Time we were going, Penrose; are you ready?" 
 I nodded being for the moment fairly occupied 
 with one eye on my flickering match, and the other 
 on the now slowly rising Ayerst. Then the door 
 opened and Miss Swinsco entered. She darted out 
 instantly at Andrew : 
 
 "Your things are packed ; the cart 's waiting." 
 I find it almost impossible to record her intense air 
 of triumph as she made this announcement. But you 
 knew, as each syllable fell from her round mouth, she 
 had waited her time to make it : this was her heyday, 
 if any was ! Then she noticed Ayerst and her manner 
 changed. She said, "Ayerst ! Why, Ayerst . . ." and 
 looked around on the three of us each one and separ- 
 ately ; then she went on, "What 's this ? Whose do- 
 ing?" And shot her breath out at Andrew to accuse. 
 "Yours? Yours I And his father scarce cold in his 
 grave !" 
 
 It was then Andrew spoke straight at her in his an- 
 swer and his voice seemed hardly above a whisper. 
 
 "I suppose it was a pretty long wait for you until 
 you could see him deep down underground ! Are you 
 satisfied now, I wonder! How I wonder!" 
 He went on in the same strained, tired voice : 
 "Now you 're rid of me as well ; that 's good for you,
 
 162 SEA WRACK 
 
 is n't it ? Mighty good. You '11 know where to find 
 me if you want me ever these days there 's no know- 
 ing. I shall be on the Fens, waiting, waiting. . . . 
 Like you like Ayerst waited for this day. . . ." 
 We went out and left them standing there. 
 
 It was one of those still, warm evenings when we 
 went down from Mellow Farm to Ditchling. Sun 
 that was still hot casting shadows over the fields; no 
 wind, no breeze, hardly, and above all no sound. We 
 were the only trespassers into that intense quiet, the 
 scrape of our feet on the dusty road the only noise. 
 Right below also shrouded in this perfect noiselessness 
 lay Ditchling. Scattered bits of color those cottages 
 and their surroundings; not unlike a handful of scat- 
 tered coins: brown with thatched roofs, yellow amid 
 buttercups and gorse ; silver where the dike cut about it. 
 
 It was at the foot of the hill, nearing Tilling Plain 
 and in good sight of the big dike and the village, that 
 Andrew stopped. He had n't spoken until then : all 
 this time he had walked in silence and I with him. 
 Now he paused to stare seaward. He said suddenly: 
 
 "I suppose it 's somewhere about twenty-five years 
 since you dragged me in from that sea. Why did n't 
 you let me stay there, eh, Penrose ? Why did n't you 
 let me be?" 
 
 He shocked me by his voice ; but I had to remember 
 this was the new Andrew speaking, and whatever 
 happened I had to get accustomed to him. So I replied
 
 SEA WRACK 163 
 
 grimly enough, "Because there are some things you 
 can't do, and one of them is to make mock of human 
 life and fling it on one side." 
 
 He looked at me with brooding eyes. "I should 
 have been better had you left me alone : I have played 
 a fool's game all these years. Such a game blind, 
 crazy game ! And I lost. To such a gamester, what 
 can you expect? Well, I was cheated: no man more 
 than I !" 
 
 I asked him curiously : "By whom, Andrew ?" 
 
 He said very simply: "Death! Death tricked me. 
 . . ." And then with a sudden passion: "Tricked me 
 all along, Penrose played cheat with me from the 
 beginning. Stole my very name and, because of the 
 lark of the thing, let me keep my breath : let me keep 
 it! What for; what, in God's name, for? I tell you 
 so that it could step in again and cheat me again, and 
 leave me living again! I ... who am so comic a 
 creature to be a comedy to all creation ! I, who must 
 go on living, living and losing! Living having lost !" 
 
 I do not remember saying much to him; I do not 
 think there was so very much that could be said. Later 
 I left him. Then, as I crossed the big dike, I turned 
 to look back. He stood there still on the very edge 
 of his land, head thrust a little forward, arms loose at 
 his side, shoulders slightly hunched; but still staring 
 across the marshes. As though from there he ex- 
 pected some message, as though from there would 
 come relief. So I left him, wrapped about in his own 
 obscurity alone. Brooding . . . solitary.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 I SUPPOSE I was then the most perplexed and 
 disturbed man possible to imagine. Tormented 
 with a thousand doubts and fears and utterly unable 
 to see clearly all those things I so longed to. Here 
 was this new Andrew quite suddenly it would seem 
 born afresh on that night at the Smuggler's, and 
 it was my job to accept him, my business to recognize 
 him quietly without any questionings! Well, it was 
 infernally hard, and yet I knew, however much it hurt, 
 the pain was set far deeper in Andrew than in me. 
 I knew that when I saw the agony of his passion with 
 Ayerst not so very long ago; I knew that when I 
 heard the grief in his voice as he called upon Tarnia : 
 and I knew also that the pith of it all was between 
 those two Tarnia and Andrew! And, so far as I 
 could see, was likely to remain secret for years and 
 years to come ! 
 
 And the curious part was that the more I tried to 
 piece things together the greater was my confusion; 
 and I know it was principally so because I kept on 
 getting away from all the events of the last weeks and 
 continually come back to Miss Swinsco. And at the 
 
 164
 
 SEA WRACK 165 
 
 time that irritated me, because up to now I never 
 thought of her as of much importance, abominable 
 creature as she was. And that was rather odd, be- 
 cause, as events showed, she was the beginning and 
 the end to the whole business. 
 
 I might have known it, for when you come to think 
 it out there is something highly suspicious about the 
 so-called Christian woman who uses her religion as 
 an excuse and a reason for every single thing she does. 
 You may be certain, had you asked her, there would 
 have been some sanctified reasoning behind that tri- 
 umphant ordering of Andrew from the house. That 
 was one sure thing about Miss Swinsco; you could 
 never catch her out! 
 
 I suppose the death of her brother gave her tre- 
 mendous relief, opening as it obviously did endless 
 possibilities to her religious thought and action. Yet 
 this extraordinary woman in her extraordinary way 
 did pray for his soul, did drape herself in black from 
 head to foot. With the door locked, curtains drawn, 
 she knelt at his bedside until the undertaker from 
 Boston came over knelt there and prayed her very 
 breath away. 
 
 And so you see it was her eyes which looked down 
 for the last time on that still face before they nailed 
 him in, peering at him finally in all his serenity before 
 they shrouded him close. . . . And yet words trrckled 
 through the village later on of much pious talk on 
 the ways of Providence, and how this last "obstacle" 
 was now removed from her way to the "holy church."
 
 166 SEA WRACK 
 
 Now indeed could she live to be called Blessed. . . . 
 But you will have enough of Miss Swinsco later on; 
 for the moment I want to try and tell you all I can 
 remember (and I do not think I have forgotten much) 
 of a conversation I had with Tarnia. 
 
 She was waiting for me at my cottage when I got 
 in. I imagine I was so heated with my own thoughts 
 in fact rather dazed that I never saw the 
 gray horse tethered outside, and when I walked 
 into my room and saw her sitting there, I fairly 
 gaped unexpected and very pleasant! She got 
 up from the window seat and came over to 
 me. 
 
 "Are you very surprised to see me?" And gave 
 me both her hands. "It was too hot in the garden 
 and delightfully cool in here. I am afraid I simply 
 lifted the latch and walked in!" 
 
 I held her hands; and it was after her friendly 
 warm manner that she made no attempt to draw them 
 away. There was something about those hands which 
 gave you courage; when I felt them in mine I knew 
 how badly I wanted it. 
 
 She said, "I had to see you I wanted to speak 
 to you." 
 
 She drew gently away and went back to her seat. 
 !For the moment neither of us spoke she, bending 
 forward, stared into the garden I, for my part, kept 
 my eyes on her.
 
 SEA WRACK 167 
 
 She asked, "Were you at Mellow Farm this after- 
 noon?" 
 
 I said with an effort, "Yes; oh, yes, I was up there." 
 
 She went on quietly: "Was there a will? Did you 
 hear it read?" 
 
 I answered dryly, "Yes, I heard the will!" 
 
 She moved so that her face came out of the shadow 
 of the window, and I saw it was tense and drawn. 
 She said : 
 
 "Is it good news or bad?" 
 
 It was curious, but I only thought of Andrew in 
 that inquiry. When I think how much that will con- 
 cerned her, how much it might mean, I am inclined 
 to think there was something almost selfish in the way 
 I forgot. I fancy I always forgot and thought only 
 of Andrew. 
 
 I looked at her very steadily before I replied, but 
 she made no attempt to turn away. She murmured 
 hopelessly : 
 
 "It is bad, then?" 
 
 Something made me ask, "What would you consider 
 bad? Are you with Andrew or against?" 
 
 She flushed faintly. "Don't you know me better? 
 Must you ask that sort of question?" 
 
 I replied : " I don't think I know either of you ! I 
 used to believe I did Andrew. Well, that was a com- 
 ical turn my fancy had ! And now, seemingly, I have 
 to wait until countless doors are opened or perhaps 
 shut! Not on me, but on this other Andrew, whom 
 I do not know. . ."
 
 1 68 SEA WRACK 
 
 Her hands went to her face tense, passionate hands 
 with thin and most beautiful fingers. She whispered: 
 
 "I think doors are closing all around ! Making cap- 
 tives of us prisoners of a kind." 
 
 I stared at her stupidly. And, because I could say 
 nothing, I know, in desperation I began to make her 
 some tea. She asked presently: 
 
 "Well, what did Andrew get?" 
 
 I clattered a cup, with unnecessary violence. "It 
 doesn't matter what he got compared to what Ayerst 
 graciously gave!" 
 
 She said vaguely, "You'll break that cup!" And 
 added, "So Ayerst had a say in it?" 
 
 I grunted back, "You couldn't very well expect 
 otherwise !" 
 
 She answered, "No, I suppose not." 
 
 I went on, "Ayerst is like an old man of the sea: 
 you '11 always find him on some one's back ; or like 
 a bad penny turning up!" I poured boiling water 
 on the tea-leaves until the pot brimmed over and 
 splashed over into a regular puddle on the table as I 
 shoved in the lid. Neither she nor I took any notice 
 of this deluge. I looked at her, the hot kettle still 
 in my hand, and the tea dripping now to the stone 
 floor, and went on: "Like his kind he has luck; like 
 his kind he slips through much that might be unpleas- 
 ant and comes out the other side all spick and span, 
 and no man can see the stains on him ! He has given 
 Tilling land to Andrew and as that dolt Bounderby 
 has it, 'a most generous gift!' So it is, in his eyes,
 
 SEA WRACK 169 
 
 and in the eyes of the village! But when you grow 
 up with a man as you would with a brother, do you 
 cart him out of your life with mud and slime? With 
 that land he has to make such a beginning as Adam 
 when God sent him out! Two years', less than two 
 years' growth to a small part of it the rest, a regular 
 refuse heap left by the sea, added to by the dikes, 
 part finished off by the village raggamuffins ! He is 
 to get his bread from that to pitch his tent on those 
 dung-heaps!" 
 
 She was staring as if fascinated at the thin trickle 
 of tea dripping still from the edge of the pot to the 
 table, and from thence to the ground. She whispered : 
 
 "How his father trusted him !" 
 
 In a most vehement manner I sloshed the tea in the 
 cups. 
 
 "So may fools plant their faith!" 
 
 She looked at me then, and her eyes gleamed. 
 
 "Not fools, Mr. Penrose, not a fool! Rather a 
 dreamer a man of love and truth. Yet, I think, it 
 is the most awful thing to let such things come into 
 your life." 
 
 The intense note in her voice somewhat cooled my 
 temper: mechanically I mopped away the stains. She 
 asked : 
 
 "Was anything definite left him?" 
 
 I told her, and she continued in the same strain : 
 
 "My God, is he always to be tied to that land?" 
 Such passion was there in that cry that I stared up 
 at her from my kneeling position with a very blank
 
 170 SEA WRACK 
 
 and surprised expression. She hardly seemed to no- 
 tice me and went on: 
 
 "I hate those marshes, just as I believe they hate 
 me! Once I thought there was some chance to get 
 away. Now chance has got us caught! caught! 
 caught !" 
 
 Her fingers were pressing her temples as though 
 she would dig right through in a helpless effort to 
 seek words to help her with her frenzy! 
 
 "I think there must be a curse upon it, or did I 
 bring that curse ? It traps you about and has its own 
 way its own time to get rid of you! Tilling land! 
 Oh, it might be a joke it might be the most comical 
 thing, to think of it as a generous gift! if it was not 
 the greatest tragedy I think I have ever known!" 
 
 I said gruffly, for her desperation hurt me more 
 than I cared to confess, "He will win through with it 
 yet." 
 
 Her hand fell in a hopeless gesture to her side. 
 
 "Yes, oh, yes, I believe that. But it may be too 
 late far too late!" 
 
 After that she drank some tea (I can remember yet 
 how filthy it was, though she never said so) and asked 
 me questions about old Swinsco, and I told her all 
 I knew. She spoke of him with extraordinary tender- 
 ness, and I gathered he had been uncommonly kind 
 to her father. She mentioned him too as "my little 
 father," "my dear little father." But she never al-
 
 SEA WRACK 171 
 
 luded to their early life. I recollect she said: "All 
 this" and she referred, you understand, to the death 
 of the old man "All this will make a difference to 
 my father, and me. You know, Farmer Swinsco was 
 remarkably kind to my father. I think he saw 
 what others have never seen how much there was 
 of the child adventurer in my little father's voyagings 
 with land." 
 
 You see she never forgot he was a sailor. In every- 
 thing she ever mentioned about their present life, she 
 only saw it as you might see a very young, impetuous 
 boy, sailing out on all kinds of expeditions. She said : 
 
 "You know it was all wrong, it was a mistake that 
 we ever came here. My little father never saw that; 
 he does n't see that even now. But he can't help it ! 
 People think of him sneeringly as 'old blood,' mean- 
 dering and fussy : they are so wrong ! It 's young 
 blood very young, doing foolish things as all young 
 creatures do! If they only knew, this talk of old age 
 as childish is only to say something infinitely sweet." 
 
 "Young blood!" So she would let it pass as that. 
 She would cover this father of hers with her gentle 
 cloak of protectiveness. Curious, the change! Once 
 that had been his way his most splendid part. Now 
 he stood at a distance she to be his shield, his de- 
 fense. "Young blood?" Well, well 
 
 I was turning this over in my mind, when I caught 
 her looking rather wistfully at me. She asked: 
 
 "You don't see that; you can't agree?" 
 
 I said uncomfortably: "That's a difficult question,
 
 172 SEA WRACK 
 
 difficultly put. I am thinking of you all the time, my 
 dear. I suppose I have n't your patience." 
 
 She asked suddenly, "In what light, I wonder, does 
 my father stand to you now?" 
 
 The truth was that until she had mentioned him 
 in fact until she put this question I had not so very 
 greatly troubled myself about the ex-lieutenant. You 
 must remember all the time my thoughts were of An- 
 drew. I was threshing out the meaning of the strange 
 oldness you will never know how old of manner, 
 of appearance even, that had so suddenly swooped 
 down and closed in and about him. I was blundering 
 around and trying to see reason; I was searching out 
 this person and that. I had simply skimmed over her 
 father! and now, even as she spoke, I was beginning 
 to see things more clearly too clearly! Her father! 
 And in an instant all those figurings of mine faded 
 away into space ; I saw there was only left that foolish, 
 fussy, crazy little man. Her father with his finger 
 on the vital spot, the one point the mortgage and 
 Ayerst ! 
 
 I can remember now the sudden sharp stab of pain 
 that simply jabbed into the very heart of me! I can 
 see again Tarnia looking at me with eyes that even 
 in that shadowed room seemed flooded like pools. 
 
 I tried very hard to get out of my chair. I remem- 
 ber muttering something about getting up. "I must 
 get up I will." But I could n't ! I closed my eyes 
 because I felt if I could shut out the light if I could 
 shut away that look of agony on her face I might
 
 SEA WRACK 173 
 
 think clearly and concisely and perhaps be of some 
 help. I could only hear again and again Andrew'^ 
 intense and passionate cry : "What will you do about 
 that mortgage, Ayerst?" And the answering snarl 
 that came back to him : "I 've got you now I 've you 
 fixed." 
 
 Foreclose that mortgage? And if he did? . . . 
 Or would there be some way out? One way perhaps 
 one way. 
 
 With a tremendous effort I opened my eyes. I was 
 alone. . . . She had slipped away. 
 
 I remember late that same night over a last pipe 
 at my bedroom window. I tried to think the thing 
 out reasonably and even defiantly; I tried to think 
 there was a mistake somewhere, and that it was not 
 so bad after all. But the mistake was with me only ; 
 it was infernally bad. You can't escape such things 
 as facts, and the whole matter smelled of them! 
 
 Fact No. i accounted for Tarnia and most im- 
 portant of all her father. That was bad enough, 
 but Fact No. 2 was even worse. Fact No. 2 explained 
 most correctly the head-over-heels method of that 
 father's crass stupidity. It was this No. 2 which shot 
 the ex-lieutenant a-sprawl in a perfect morass of bor- 
 rowing and lending, debts, ruin, and finally plunged 
 him straight into this mortgage. Fact No. 3 was the 
 death of old Swinsco, and brought swiftly with it Fact 
 No. 4, spelling out the dramatic entrance of Ayerst
 
 174 SEA WRACK 
 
 with hands outspread for everything and anything 
 that he could sweep into them. 
 
 Ayerst. And this world this little world of mine 
 made up of two people must now revolve as he 
 thought fit! 
 
 As he thought fit. ... I leaned farther from the 
 window and fairly sucked in the glory of the night. 
 As he as Ayerst thought! 
 
 Staring out into the beauty of that shadowed night. 
 Seeing it, seeing that wonderful earth girt around with 
 such mysterious stillness . . . content, gentle, sleep- 
 ing. It seemed a most frightful thing that each morn- 
 ing it must wake to bring closer and closer still all 
 the signs of such a catastrophe as it had been mine to 
 see the edge of, only a few hours back! . . . When 
 we rise up from sleep what things what frightful 
 things rise up with us and confront us over again? 
 
 If there was no chance that Ayerst would hold his 
 hand well, how could there be even the grain of a 
 chance that Tarnia would let that same hand over- 
 turn her father? Her eyes, her whole expression had 
 told me more than any words ! Had she been dragged 
 all those miles for this? Had fate or life or chance 
 brought her across that boundless sea to face this kind 
 of end? She had followed those wildly careering 
 heels of her father's with no sign or word of pro- 
 test. She had slipped between him and scornful words 
 time and again : was she to slip in once more pos- 
 sibly finally, this time between him and a very hungry 
 Ayerst ?
 
 SEA WRACK 175 
 
 What of her heart? What of the light that lay 
 smoldering and shadowed behind her eyes? What 
 of the passion that lay beneath her stillness? She 
 could hide much ; but she could not entirely make pris- 
 oner of that untamed spirit of hers! It was no easy 
 captive: times there were surely when it must fret 
 and pull on its chains ; times there were when I could 
 have sworn I had seen a glimpse of it! This flame 
 that was Tarnia the real Tarnia, the Tarnia born of 
 that mother of hers. Was it possible that no wind 
 had fanned that flame? Was it possible some other 
 fire had not seen its gleam and flared on high with it? 
 
 And it was these wretched thoughts I eventually 
 took to bed with me. While all the time I thought 
 of Andrew out in that hut of his, master magnifi- 
 cent master of that barren ground. Beggared at 
 the beginning, beggared to the very end. I had seen 
 him so fresh and eager with life all these past years; 
 was I to know him in the future solitary and desolate ? 
 One man's work, one man's way had made those years 
 heap up about and around him until they lay heavier 
 than the night upon his spirit. Possibly Tarnia had 
 said aright when she had spoken so violently against 
 the Fens. And yet she saw them all the time as disas- 
 trous to Andrew. In my troubled sleep they loomed 
 up with greater, far greater, ill omen toward Tarnia 
 herself. Like some vast place of sacrifice, and she 
 laid out upon them a peace offering to Ayerst a sanc- 
 tuary against destitution for her father! A Garden 
 of Gethsemane for Andrew.
 
 176 SEA WRACK 
 
 Then as the days dragged on I began to wonder 
 if all these thoughts were born of some vile night- 
 mare. Things seemed to progress much as usual : and 
 I would try and cheer myself a thousand times a day 
 with hopes : it was surely impossible that beneath it 
 all there could be such ominous rumblings? 
 
 I saw a lot of Andrew at that time; and pretty 
 nearly every night we had supper together. In my 
 way I was beginning to get accustomed to this new 
 Andrew : this young-old man who smiled very seldom 
 and laughed hardly at all. On whose face there was 
 intense brooding, about whose mouth there were sud- 
 den sharp defined lines. I was beginning to get used 
 to this new spirit. He had refused my suggestion 
 that he should sleep at my cottage ; he clung to the hut 
 the roughest of its kind, only erected for some 
 emergency. He slept there with his dog, and I be- 
 lieve there were nights when the stars gave him cov- 
 ering . . . and even times when the two of them 
 tramped the Fens for miles. All this you must see 
 was a part of the existence of the new Andrew. 
 
 I think I have said to you once how deeply, how 
 truly, 'he seemed to be one with Nature and all her 
 ways. Now I tell you it was more so! As if, in- 
 deed, she had bent to him and he upraised to herf If 
 she had wanted him; if she had seen in his strength 
 and tenderness the shape of some son of hers; well, 
 she had him now! No child gave itself so utterly
 
 SEA WRACK 177 
 
 and entirely up as Andrew to this great Mother. 
 In those days he became almost a super-man. You 
 never saw him away from that land of his ; you never 
 saw him idle. With the first sign of dawn he was up 
 and out and fighting with the earth ; with the last glim- 
 mer of light he was still bending, still wrestling, still 
 striving! Like the old man before him he was sow- 
 ing his seed; he was waiting to gather his sheaves. 
 
 6 
 
 "It was the hand of God!" he said to me once.- 
 "The hand of God that made the old governor start 
 on those acres when he did ! They 're my salvation, 
 Penrose, if you only knew it! With -them I can start 
 right off with my first harvest ! It '11 be the second 
 with that ground and not such a bad one ! A bit 
 of a thing, I grant you. But with any luck I '11 make 
 a mighty one some day!'* 
 
 It was part barley and part oats. And I was along 
 with him for that reaping; stood with him when we 
 cut the first sheaf. He had willing enough helpers 
 from the village to aid him, but no dancing -or merry- 
 making like there was up at Mellow Farm. It was a 
 sober affair with good English ale to help it down. 
 But up at Mellow Farm they made a regular feast 
 of it with champagne, ordered from London by that 
 splendid new master, Ayerst. Possibly in honor of 
 his guests, Tarnia and her father! Oh, yes, and old 
 camel- face Yardley and his daughter you have n't 
 forgotten her? Little Cathy
 
 178 SEA WRACK 
 
 Things were moving at Mellow Farm these days. 
 Very bright and cheerful from the point of view of 
 Miss Swinsco and Ayerst. Remarkably so in fact. 
 You never saw Ayerst in farm dress now ; he had got 
 above that. He was all boots and neckties, all pomade 
 and scent. He rode the countryside on a devil of a 
 horse with his hat wonderfully cocked to the side 
 just as he would cock that glossy head hat and all 
 in an attitude of amused interest when he passed An- 
 drew pitting his strength against the strength of his 
 land. 
 
 A glittering apparition this Ayerst! Apparition 
 indeed the very ghost of a gentleman. And I know 
 I only wished he might have carried out all the rules 
 and laws of specters and held that head beneath his 
 arm instead of it being stuck fast and sound between 
 his shoulders a very beacon of dazzling contentment. 
 
 These days, too, Miss Swincso seemed positively 
 to puff out with satisfaction and good living. To say 
 simply she grew fatter does n't describe her ! She 
 increased like a balloon, each day, each week, each 
 month: she expanded with amazing steadiness, until, 
 I rather think, she gave up all idea of walking in case 
 her legs refused to do the balancing, and she rolled 
 her distance! Believe me, she was the oddest thing! 
 If there had been even any visible joint between that 
 suet head and body, it certainly became less and less. 
 That bulging neck seemed to have sunk deeper and
 
 SEA WRACK 179 
 
 deeper until the complete mass disappeared into, and 
 at last did most surely become part of that massive 
 trunk. She was a wonder, that woman a sort of 
 grotesque egg. 
 
 It was about five months after her brother's death 
 she was received as a convert by the Roman Catholic 
 church. 
 
 I remember that day with remarkable clearness. 
 Not because of Miss Swinsco, but on account of an- 
 other matter. A matter of even more importance 
 than the outcome of her faith, yet both in their way 
 having a most significant relation to this story. 
 
 I remember the day. Cold, with a persistent driz- 
 zle of fine rain, and a persistent sea wind ;as well, 
 which helped the wetness to cling to you. Neverthe- 
 less, I turned out and walked over the Fen land and 
 up and across the Wold. I was now pretty solitary 
 in my tramping; Andrew hardly left his land except 
 on very rare occasions. 
 
 This time then I pushed through rain and wind 
 until I was like a hot sponge, if you can accept such 
 an illustration! Well, as I say, this humid and 
 somewhat out-of -temper sponge eventually came to a 
 halt at Colt-Harrow and found its way into the bit 
 of a church there with an idea of rest as much as in- 
 terest. 
 
 I might have sat there for the rest of the afternoon; 
 for I confess there is nothing I so much love as these 
 ancient village churches, full of old symbols of de- 
 parted and unknown souls, and with such a perfect
 
 i8o SEA WRACK 
 
 quiet as I defy you to find elsewhere. I suppose it 
 must be the hush of such a place, the prayers that are 
 hidden within its very stones, that fill you in turn 
 with such a hallowed peace and make you dream 
 gentle, quiet things. . . . And so might I have con- 
 tinued my afternoon if I had n't been disturbed by an 
 antiquated specimen of a sexton, who gave me the 
 full play of his doddering tongue and, as he was deaf 
 and toothless, his voice and my answered bawlings 
 fairly made peace tuck her wings and hustle away. 
 
 Of course I left. There was nothing else for me 
 to do; and I did it politely enough with a somewhat 
 moody reference to the placid nature of both village 
 and church. He understood this right enough and 
 fairly beamed away. 
 
 "Oh, aye oh, aye," he squeaked at my shoulder. 
 "Oh, aye, it do be quiet fur certain; parson he ha' 
 naught much to do but to kep hisself awake!" And 
 the old ass tittered and twittered away until he made 
 me positively hysterical. 
 
 He continued these jocular mumblings to the very 
 door, and I know for one instant I had a sort of panic 
 he intended to accompany me for the rest of my walk. 
 When he clawed at my arm suddenly, and such pride 
 was there in his voice that I had to stop again and 
 listen. 
 
 "Ah, but I were forgetting, there be grand doings 
 likely up here by and by; aye, rare doings fur cer- 
 tain."
 
 SEA WRACK 181 
 
 I stared at him with a sudden dull suspicion grow- 
 ing in my heart. 
 
 "Doings! What doings?" 
 
 I don't think he noticed the sharpness df my ques- 
 tion. He kept on in his doddering manner. 
 
 "Aye, fur sure. There be banns up in th' church 
 this next Sunday fur the first time . . . now, let me 
 se how many year aback was it afore th' last mar- 
 riage ..." 
 
 I asked savagely: "What marriage? What are 
 you talking about?" 
 
 He blinked at me with a fine show of hurt. 
 
 "I likes that ! Should n't I knows well enough 
 what I be talking? Why, our young lady up at th' 
 big house, Mr. Carey's daughter, an' young Mr. 
 Swinsco over at Ditchling!"
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 THEY were married that November, and went 
 immediately abroad. It was nearly three years 
 before their return before I again saw Tarnia. 
 
 No, I never went to their wedding. To this day 
 I do not know if, when the morning came round, I 
 might have put aside my bitterness and gone. The 
 point was, it would have been for one last glimpse of 
 Tarnia, and that at least I did have differently to my 
 expectations ; the night before she came herself to see 
 me. 
 
 That evening brought with it a most terrific wind; 
 no actual storm, but a tireless trumpeting thing burst- 
 ing out as if it had been chained over-long, and was 
 now most suddenly let loose. And I suppose it was 
 that wind which shut away all other sound as I sat 
 smoking and meditating at the fire. Because I know 
 the door opened quite suddenly, and with a start I 
 saw Tarnia standing there. We stared at each other 
 she and I for some time. She stood with her 
 back to the now closed door, wrapped about in furs, 
 rather white, rather tired, her lips slightly apart, her 
 eyes expressionless, mute appealing. As I gaped 
 
 182
 
 SEA WRACK 183 
 
 at her wonderingly, her hand slid from beneath the 
 darkness of her cloak and up to the soft fur hat 
 she wore pulled closely down on her head. She 
 took it off and let it fall from her nervous fingers to 
 the ground. It was an old action, that of hers. I 
 think if there ever came a time when I might forget 
 her face I could never forget that gesture. There 
 was something about it something boyish even, and 
 so infinitely young and careless that made me catch 
 my breath in such a way as to forget my voice. And 
 I suppose it was the same thing happening to me 
 now, for I remember speaking her name in a sort 
 of vacant whisper peering at her through the 
 gloom. 
 
 She came forward a little then, and her hands sud- 
 denly went out to me and I remember how, with a sort 
 of jerk, I caught my dancing senses and clasped at 
 those imploring hands. Just in time, so it seemed, for 
 with a suddenness that shocked me she had slipped to 
 the ground dropped to her knees still clutching at 
 me, her shoulders shaking, her whole body quivering. 
 
 I knew she was crying and cursed my whole being 
 for its inane uselessness. I could not even bend to 
 help her to touch that shaking form; she clung to 
 me too firmly. I could only stand muttering unin- 
 telligible sounds, looking all the while at that bowed 
 head and the faint show of white where her cloak 
 slipped away from her shoulders. 
 
 I can never describe the aw fulness of that sound- 
 less grief! Great God! it was a most frightful
 
 184 SEA WRACK 
 
 thing, most utterly fearful because J knew the depth 
 of that heart from which it had sprung. 
 
 When at last she raised her face to mine her eyes 
 were closed, but from beneath the white lids great 
 tears swelled out and trickled down her cheeks. She 
 whispered and I know I had to stoop to catch her 
 meaning : 
 
 "Oh, be kind to me 1 , be kind to me ! . . ." 
 
 The very simplicity of those words stirred me pro- 
 foundly. On her lips they betokened the most hope- 
 less desolation; even her tears could not hurt me as 
 much as that pitiful appeal. 
 
 I muttered : "How could I do otherwise? My dear, 
 what can you imagine?" 
 
 And she went on in the same dead strain : 
 
 "I have imagined too much, I think. I cannot, I 
 dare not think further." Her hands slid out of mine, 
 but she made no attempt to rise. She sat huddled on 
 the floor still staring up at me. She whispered: 
 
 "I have been with Andrew and yet I am to marry 
 Ayerst to-morrow." 
 
 I muttered in a dazed spit of manner: "Andrew! 
 Andrew! . . ." 
 
 She opened her eyes very widely and stared straight 
 up at me. "Would you rather it was Ayerst then?" 
 
 Not for one instant did her question shock me, but 
 I know I felt a sudden dull meaningless rage, not 
 against her in particular, but because I could not cope 
 any longer with the mystery of the thing. I caught at
 
 SEA WRACK 185 
 
 her two shoulders and my fingers slithered on the 
 soft fur. 
 
 "Why are you telling me this ? What does it mean 
 what are you doing to Andrew ?" 
 
 I believe in groping for a firm grasp on that fur I 
 must have held her with undue roughness. She never 
 seemed to notice it ; she breathed up at me in the same 
 hopeless fashion. 
 
 "Nothing but love him, and I have no excuse for 
 it! Did you never know?'" 
 
 I stood back from her, and I '11 swear at that in- 
 stant you could have counted the pounding of my 
 heart ! I stammered : 
 
 "I had thought I had hoped . . ." 
 
 She went on: "Do you think I am mad? Am I? 
 Can you tell me?" 
 
 How I hated that wind! 'Mocking, persistent devil 
 drumming now on the window a most maddening 
 tattoo! In a sudden fury I fairly plunged across the 
 room and slammed the shutters together as if I ex- 
 pected to see hundreds of demon fingers, and hundreds 
 of cackling faces mewling and mowling at the panes! 
 
 When I had crashed them together and turned again 
 to the room she had risen to her feet and was hud- 
 dled down in my big chair. The place seemed strangely 
 dim that evening : too many shadows for my purpose ; 
 little pools of light from the candles and from the 
 fire, but otherwise all shadows and even she a part 
 of them. From where I stood I could only see the
 
 1 86 SEA WRACK 
 
 pale outline of her face and her hands as they hung 
 loosely between her knees. There was a most pro- 
 found stillness about her then, and I know I wondered 
 in a dreamy fashion if it were not possible that still- 
 ness might remain I think I was frightened of words. 
 
 After all it was she who spoke first. She said : "It 
 is because of Andrew I am here. Because I must tell 
 you things you would never know otherwise he 
 would never tell you! And! he will want you now 
 more that he ever did. I am going away : therefore 
 it is different for me, possibly easier. But Andrew 
 will be here; Andrew will live all his days here be- 
 cause the very sorrow of the place will keep him. . . . 
 For me, I have no choice. Perhaps it is better for 
 him I shall be gone, and yet I suppose I will come back 
 one day ! Who knows ? . . . But it is to-morrow and 
 the day after and the day after that! Those days 
 that time for Andrew! That is what I am thinking 
 of ; that is why I am here ! Give me at last one grain 
 of comfort to know you will be seeing him, under- 
 standing cheering him on! Giving him what I can 
 never give him now courage! Courage! I was too 
 weak a creature to give it to him in its fullness ; how 
 was it possible when I could not hold it for myself?" 
 
 A doubtful questioning note crept into hef voice; 
 she had turned a little toward me as if she expected 
 some answ'er. I could think of nothing. 
 
 Then she suddenly cried with tremendous intensity :
 
 SEA WRACK 187 
 
 "You will do this; you will promise?" 
 
 With a great effort I captured my tongue and 
 forced it to retort, "What does it all mean what have 
 you promised?" 
 
 Instantly the eagerness died away. It may have 
 been a trick of the shadows, but there seemed a 
 look of something akin to horror darkening her face. 
 She whispered back: 
 
 "Half my life! No, all. . . . And Andrew's." 
 
 I asked her then what appeared to 1 me later a sense- 
 less enough question, for even in my heat I believe I 
 knew the answer right enough. 
 
 "Why have you done this? What are you do- 
 ing?" 
 
 She still whispered back at me through the shad- 
 ows. 
 
 "Loving too much! Too much! ..." And then 
 for the moment stopped and slid the heavy cloak 
 away from her shoulders as if it was weighing her 
 down. She repeated doubtfully: "Too much!" And 
 in an almost methodical reasoning manner she con- 
 tinued : "There is my father, and there is Andrew, and 
 here am I between! Not belonging either to the one 
 or the other, but standing midway!" She laughed 
 suddenly, and in that still room her sudden toneless 
 laughter jarred me violently. She muttered: "It 
 might be funny, mightn't it? Funny . . ." and her 
 voice trailed away. When she spoke again it was in 
 the same calm explanatory tones. She said : 
 
 "I could not see my father ruined; I could not see
 
 i88 SEA WRACK 
 
 him broken and turned adrift! You never knew my 
 little father you; never, saw him as I saw him as I 
 have but to close my eyes and see him again in those 
 old days! Out there! My father! My poor little 
 father! He was too romantic! You will never see 
 it, but it is that very romance that has broken his 
 life and mine! If you had seen him with my mother 
 if you had seen him with his men, you would have 
 known he was the very symbol of romance ! So it is 
 here. He can't see any farther than that : he believes 
 he always will believe he is still adventuring in the 
 old romantic way with his house, with his land. Oh, 
 yes, even with me, his daughter. Every bit as he did 
 those years back. So I suppose he will die romantic 
 at heart misunderstood utterly misunderstanding." 
 
 I cried with sudden passion: "And you ask me to 
 believe that you you the daughter of such a man, of 
 such a mother can smother the romance that is yours 
 that is you? Impossible! Impossible!" 
 
 She replied very quietly: "No. For that has been. 
 It is over, it is done with it has passed." She went 
 on : "There was no hope, none not even at the very 
 beginning. Yet there was one. That night on the 
 Wold . . . with Andrew." 
 
 She stopped and with an alrribst violent gesture cov- 
 ered 'her face with her hands. And I knew by the 
 way her fingers dug desperately into her flesh that 
 she was trying to blot out some vision some dream 
 which suddenly came hurrying back to her in that 
 frightening way that all Breams will. . , I could
 
 SEA WRACK 189 
 
 hear her mutter from between her tense fingers . . . 
 "Never mind. Never mind." And they fell passive 
 enough to her lap again. She continued: "Just one. 
 When Andrew knew, when I had told him about this 
 mortgage, what I guessed might follow, he went 
 back to plead, to talk to Farmer Swinsco. You know 
 what happened. . . . He was dead. ... So that last 
 hope vanished. Nothing really remained, .for it was 
 impossible that Andrew could support my father when 
 he could hardly support himself. Neither could he 
 and I leave this country and start again. . . . Jour- 
 neying now is impossible for my father." 
 
 I demanded savagely: "Did you never tell your 
 father? Does he know?" 
 
 She nodded. "Oh, yes, he knows. He does not 
 understand ; it simply dazed him it completely shocked 
 him, stupefied him. . . . Even as it stupefied me to see 
 him suddenly so nearly shattered to realize how little 
 he could really bear from life and how easily it could 
 be rid of him! How was it possible that I should 
 be the cause of its entire undoing?" 
 
 With a suddenness that almost surprised me, she 
 had risen to her feet, pulling the fur closely around 
 her, and crossed over to me. She stood so very near 
 that I could feel her warm breath; she stood very 
 quietly, hardly moving. She asked and her voice 
 was a mere whisper : 
 
 "Now I have told you now you know everything. 
 How much do you despise me? you are my judge!" 
 
 I could hardly answer her. The thing was too in-
 
 SEA WRACK 
 
 tense too frightful! She was asking me to judge 
 her! She was putting me in a position to which I 
 could lay no hold, because the agony was not mine, 
 but hers, and I knew she would be her own judge 
 her own most ruthless arbitrator all the days of her 
 life. I answered huskily: 
 
 "My dear, my dear, you make me feel very hum- 
 ble. . . ." 
 
 Her hands caught desperately at my coat; she cried 
 with sudden vehemence : "Be good to Andrew, be kind 
 to him; it is all I ask, all I beg of you! You are his 
 friend oh, for his sake for my poor sake, let me 
 know you will help him. Let me know you will be 
 with him here. . . . Here, in all these days these 
 frightful days to come. Stay with him, be near to 
 him! There is no one else no one else. . . ." 
 
 I put my hands over hers and held them tightly. 
 "I promise! My dear, I promise." 
 
 I felt her fingers loosen beneath mine, and her dark 
 head drooped forward listlessly. Very faintly came 
 her sigh : 
 
 "Oh, my love, my dear, dear love! . . ." 
 
 3 
 
 There must be something very extraordinary about 
 women. I know there was something very marvelous 
 about Tarnia. It is a very easy matter to say of a 
 woman, "She has suffered. She is suffering." But 
 it is a very different thing deliberately to put your- 
 self in her place to feel with her each thought, and
 
 SEA WRACK 191 
 
 bear with her each pain! That is a state I fancy 
 which is entirely out of one's reach! Sympathy, yes. 
 . . . But the finest understanding is a mere speck of 
 dust compared to the agony the gnawing, desperate 
 agony that can rend the very heart clean out of one 
 and split the soul across and across. . . . Even as when 
 those myriads of years back the veil of the temple 
 was rent and stripped, on Ghrist's cry of anguish to 
 His God : 
 
 Eli, Eli, lama sabach-thani. . . . 
 
 So Tarnia on her knees must have prayed must 
 have mourned. And this evening when she let me 
 see, dimly as if through strands of vapor, through 
 some faint mist, her heart in pieces, her soul in most 
 frightful torment, I could but marvel at her compo- 
 sure. I could but stand amazed at the enduring cour- 
 age, stoicism even, with which she faced this sorrow! 
 I, who could but guess only in a kind of haphazard 
 manner, because of the compassion I bore her, the 
 frightfulness of her suffering how utterly ghastly, 
 beyond all speech, beyond all explanation, was her real 
 pain her most hideous despair! She was drinking 
 such a cup then that she knew knew with every sip 
 she took would never pass, could never pass ! It was 
 a drink, I verily believe, would have stifled some, but 
 such as she was she held it ready to her lips, as if it 
 had been purest wine, instead of stuff likely to scorch 
 her very life. . . . 
 
 And it was this Tarnia this Tarnia whom with one
 
 192 SEA WRACK 
 
 jerk of the wrist Fate had turned into a woman heavy 
 with sorrow; even so could now turn to me gently, 
 gravely, even as a child might turn to say 
 good-by. . . . 
 
 Very stiffly I slid my tongue between my dry lips 
 in a most dejected effort to loose them. I heard a 
 sort of crackling sound and realized it was my own 
 voice muttering: "Not good-by; I shall see you again 
 some day." 
 
 She was fastening the clasp at her throat, and kept 
 her head lowered. "That can never be; this is the 
 last time you will see me. . . . Some one else some 
 other day, that is possible. Not me the real me, I 
 shall be gone." 
 
 I knew to what she was alluding; I knew the truth 
 of her words. It was a matter of burying, a business 
 of making a shroud ready now and folding it about 
 this Tarnia. She stretched both her hands out and 
 repeated, "Good-by." 
 
 I think at that instant I was as blind as I am dumb. 
 I know I could not speak, and I am sure I could not 
 see very clearly. I had a dull recollection of clasping 
 those hands and drawing them up to me: it was the 
 climax of the whole affair. It was the very end. But 
 she came a little nearer. She asked, very simply, very 
 gently : 
 
 "Won't you kiss me? Not just my hands but as 
 you would indeed have done had things been differ- 
 ent!" 
 
 She stood sideways to me, her head tilting back a
 
 SEA WRACK 193 
 
 little. There was something in its free poise, such as 
 you might expect with a child until you saw the gra- 
 vity of her eyes and knew in a flash how much there 
 was of the woman! It was, in fact, when you could 
 look right down into their depths as for one second 
 I was looking you realized how terrific a battle she 
 must have fought. How great a storm must have 
 passed within her ! It did not matter how much those 
 fine lids would shade them, that brooding flame that 
 was Egypt that Egypt of old, hot as its sand, free 
 like its desert, laying claim in its wild way to her 
 mother and certainly to her forebears fronted you 
 now from those wondrous pools of light. And yet 
 there was the marvel that she could shadow it down 
 close with infinite patience, that she could bind it se- 
 cure and hold it prisoner. So I kissed her cheek in 
 farewell, in homage. . . . 
 
 She told me some conveyance was going up to Col- 
 tons that night from Yardleys. It was to wait for 
 her; she would return by it. I intended at least to 
 accompany her there, but she would not hear of it. 
 
 "I am quite safe," she insisted. "It is n't so dark 
 that I cannot see; besides I have a light. I want 
 to think of you here in this room this room that for 
 many reasons is very dear to me. Let me keep it 
 fresh in my mind think of you in it as Andrew will 
 so often find you come to you!" 
 
 So she left me. And the last view I had of her was 
 the glimmer of light from her lantern held on high. 
 A light that moved and swayed as the wind caught it
 
 194 SEA WRACK 
 
 that old jeering mocking wind which in its mischief- 
 loving way had been the cause of Andrew's com- 
 ing, and even now would insist on a further racket 
 of merriment at Tarnia's going. And so with that for 
 her trumpeter the night at last swallowed her finally 
 from my sight. 
 
 4 
 
 And so it seemed as if these two Andrew and Tar- 
 nia were to be left with ghostly memories to keep 
 them company for all their days to be. Gray, haunt- 
 ing wraiths, fashioning themselves as is their manner 
 into all sorts of agonizing questions and thoughts: 
 "might have been," "is not," and "can never be." A 
 regular procession passing up and down, in and out, 
 to and fro lounging about, squatting around in that 
 indolent frightful way that is their fashion. Phan- 
 toms, shadows, bubbles thrown out haphazard from 
 blank and vanished dreams. There was nothing else 
 left. When Tarnia went her way I rather imagine 
 some troop of them trailed with her; so now Andrew, 
 digging the soil, saw them with every shovelful he 
 turned, watched them riding in the storm, or lazy in 
 the sun, wailing with the rain or laughing in the wind. 
 Pacing the room with him, twitching sleep from his 
 eyes, and when the night would pass, prancing in 
 again with the dawn these shadowy things he had 
 once thought so full of hope, these ghosts as he had 
 once believed so radiant with life. 
 
 He walked the Fens very seldom now; his free 
 time he spent chiefly with me. Talking very little
 
 SEA WRACK 195 
 
 certainly never of Tarnia. He wanted company, 
 that was all. Apologetically he told me that once. 
 
 "I never talk much, do I? Can you put up with 
 my silence? I ought to walk alone, I suppose; I 
 don't know why I never do. ... I believe I am 
 frightened frightened frightened of my own foot- 
 steps." 
 
 Nights we would sit he and I summer in the 
 garden, winter at my fire. Silently smoking, silently 
 thinking. He had a dog, I remember. One of those 
 big collies short of tail, massive in strength, amazing 
 in wisdom. He had reared him from a puppy, and 
 I knew as I imagine the village knew when you saw 
 the one there was certain to be the other. There was 
 an extraordinary code of understanding between them, 
 a link, a bond. Very full, very deep and if I can 
 see Andrew now with that big fellow Gulliver, as he 
 was named solemn and contented at his heels, I 
 think even more vividly do I remember those early 
 autumn days when we three sat at my fire and I 
 would be the one to drowse and nod and very possi- 
 bly snore, only to wake with a start and see Andrew 
 on the other side pipe out, arms folded, brooding 
 staring into those flames and beyond; and Gulliver at 
 his side as wakeful and staring as if he knew in the 
 heart of that blaze some* dream* lay shadowed neither 
 would it ever come out ; neither would he, in his eager, 
 loving fashion, catch it and bring it most priceless 
 capture to earth, to see again that beloved face 
 smile.
 
 196 SEA WRACK 
 
 I have spoken before of old camel- faced Yardley? 
 Corn chandler, wood merchant, and what not, holding 
 some position in the local affairs at Boston. A smooth- 
 faced man, rather long in the jaw and loose in the 
 throat; yet such details are of little importance the 
 only essential thing to make note of is that Cathy was 
 his daughter : now that is important. 
 
 Yardley, such as he was, ponderous, grossly aware 
 of his own position, or rather the position he con- 
 sidered he belonged to, had little or no time to spare 
 on any ordinary individual such as myself. There- 
 fore, you can imagine my surprise when one morning 
 he stopped me politely enough as I was passing his 
 place with all the suggestions of a conversation. Very 
 surprised, I can assure you, and not at all pleased. 
 For any talk with him was the one thing I did dis- 
 like. You see, he was a whisperer of the worst type. 
 I am not blaming the man, I don't suppose he could 
 help it, but it became a positive pain to make any 
 sense of the murmuring waves of sound that trickled 
 up. I have never understood how any one had pa- 
 tience with him; I can only suppose they must have 
 had a great deal more than I : at least I made no 
 pretense in that direction. 
 
 So I confess when his bulk crossed my path and 
 his bulging eyes fixed mine, I made weak attempts 
 at excuses. He cut them short. He surveyed me
 
 SEA WRACK 197 
 
 in his usual ponderous manner one large hand caress- 
 ing his chin and asked in his husky way : 
 
 "Now, with regard to young Andrew Sartor, what 
 would you say of him?" 
 
 Flabbergasting question this from a man who had 
 no interest whatsoever in Andrew, or as far as I knew 
 any person in the village ! I stared up at him blinking. 
 
 "What the deuce ?" 
 
 He caressed that egg-shaped chin with even more 
 tenderness. 
 
 "Nevertheless that is what I am asking. Do you 
 consider that young man able, worthy, reliable?" 
 
 This tickled my sense of humor. I laughed only 
 to ask amusedly: "Oh, come now, you know enough 
 of Andrew yourself." 
 
 He waggled his head doubtfully. "Much more de- 
 pends on it than you can imagine." 
 
 I began to wonder what the dickens he was driving 
 at. I said impatiently : "Can't you explain a bit more ? 
 What is it you want to know, and why?" 
 
 He suddenly took snuff with an unnecessary noise, 
 and then sneezed with such violence that I jumped 
 and glared angrily. He tapped the box with impres- 
 sive fingers. 
 
 "I have my reason. Oh, yes, I have indeed! A 
 father's reason, and that is of supreme importance. 
 This same young man, Andrew Sartor, has been 
 around after my daughter: my girl Cathy, just back 
 from visiting. That is the fact of the matter the
 
 198 SEA WRACK 
 
 exact fact, and you can't get away from it, either!" 
 He slipped the box into its correct place in his 
 pocket, and producing a handkerchief blew a dig- 
 nified note. 
 
 I could only stare at him, certain for the moment 
 his confounded whisperings had reached my ears in 
 a hopeless muddle. So I just laughed, threw back 
 my head and chuckled to my heart's content. Cathy 
 
 and Andrew It was funny, infernally funny! I 
 
 said: 
 
 "I say, I say! Haven't you been dreaming?" 
 He answered with a profound show of hurt: "I 
 have not! On the contrary, the young man has only 
 recently been speaking with me." 
 
 I spluttered; "This is very extraordinary!" 
 He waggled his head more than ever. "Most ex- 
 traordinary! Just what I say, and unsatisfactory al- 
 together." 
 
 He was talking Dutch so far as I was concerned, 
 but the tone of his voice fairly nettled me. I snorted 
 furiously: "Why, good God! man, what have you to 
 say against him?" 
 
 He puffed out his stupid sagging lips. "I do not 
 know; I am not sure. I am a father, and a father's 
 position is a responsible one." 
 
 I said bitterly, "Well, I suppose you act up to it!" 
 He murmured: "I do my best I always do my 
 best, but Cathy is not easy to manage; she can be 
 very trying very much so: I have had a most dis- 
 tressing scene with her,"
 
 SEA WRACK 199 
 
 I stared hard at him. "Distressing? With Cathy? 
 Do you mean about Andrew?" 
 
 He nodded, and went on gloomily, "Exactly. It 
 seems, therefore, that I have no alternative; a father's 
 lot is indeed full of perplexity." 
 
 There was something quite startling in this sudden 
 fresh revelation of Cathy. I had put her down all 
 along as a flirt, and here she was displaying qualities 
 I never thought possible with her. I asked dully: 
 
 "What did Andrew say?" 
 
 "He was very frank ; yes, indeed, most candid. He 
 stated his position very clearly. I cannot think it is 
 such as I would like for my girl, but he may rise to 
 bigger things ; I profoundly hope so." 
 
 I muttered: "You needn't be afraid of that. An- 
 drew was made for big things; he will rise to them 
 
 as he has always done when they come his way " 
 
 Then I stopped, I was saying too much. 
 
 Yardley did n't understand. I doubt if he listened. 
 He continued to lament. "He seems to have started 
 well enough. But it 's all a risk a very great risk 
 for a father to stand by and watch and say noth- 
 ing." 
 
 I burst out, "Then why, in heaven's name, have n't 
 you said something?" 
 
 He looked extremely hurt. 
 
 "I 'm afraid you don't seem to understand. I can- 
 not see my child suffer. I am not like that!" 
 
 I snapped back at him : "The truth is that you 're 
 afraid of your daughter, and you know perfectly
 
 200 SEA WRACK 
 
 well if you refused outright she 'd very likely fool 
 you somehow!" 
 
 He looked decidedly glum, but he took my temper 
 mildly enough. "She is a dear child, but she is wilful. 
 I fear she is sometimes painfully so. She will not 
 listen to me: she is so sure that I suppose it must be 
 as she says. But it is not what I wished: it is far 
 from my hopes?" 
 
 I demanded, "What hopes?" 
 
 He told me dejectedly, "There was Ayerst Swinsco ; 
 now that would have been a marriage !" 
 
 If I had n't felt so confoundly angry at this com- 
 parison of Ayerst with Andrew, I think I could have 
 almost condoled with him : as a fellow-dreamer in his 
 way with me! Somehow or other I saw a link be- 
 tween the two of us. As it was I cried hotly: 
 
 "She 's a million times better off with Andrew, I 
 can tell you that !" 
 
 He looked at me as if I were a fool, and I sup- 
 pose I was, judged by his ideas. He answered sadly : 
 "If only that young man had been on better terms with 
 Ayerst! He might have had something better than 
 that waste of land." 
 
 I told him stiffly, "You had better speak to Andrew 
 about that!" 
 
 He didn't seem to hear me. He said in a glum 
 sort of way, "Still, there's Cathy " 
 
 I asked, "Well, what of her?" 
 
 He made much display of smoothing his entire face 
 with both hands. He throated : "She 's strange.
 
 SEA WRACK 201 
 
 Lately she 's been in London. Seemingly it 's upset 
 her. She 's excitable, is Cathy full of fancies and 
 then just as tired of them! How do I know this 
 is n't just a fancy on her part?" 
 
 I had thought that all along, and I asked him irri- 
 tably : "Well, what if it is? What do you propose do- 
 ing or Andrew?" 
 
 He sighed. "I don't like it. I don't like it! It 's 
 unexpected, sudden." 
 
 I said savagely, "Then why don't you stop it?" 
 
 He had thrust one finger into his mouth and stood 
 there rather like an overgrown sulky child. He drew 
 it out with a slow, sucking noise, staring at it as if 
 he had been fishing and expected a catch, and whis- 
 pered rather to it than me. "I suppose she 's spoiled. 
 And yet she 's my daughter, and she '11 not take no for 
 an answer once she 's got her mind fixed on something. 
 She does n't see risks as I do. That 's through being 
 young; that 's what it is." 
 
 I turned away disgusted and left him still staring 
 at his finger with that ponderous, unsatisfied helpless 
 expression that might mean anything, but far more 
 likely meant nothing. 
 
 I went in search of Andrew, and found him mak- 
 ing a pigsty. He waved his hand as I came up, and 
 shouted a "Good morning," adding, as he continued 
 hammering, "Don't mind me not stopping, will you? 
 I 've the dickens of a day to get through. I have n't
 
 202 SEA WRACK 
 
 even the time to be polite; sit on that bucket if you can 
 stay a bit." 
 
 I asked: "Like me to? Do you want to be alone?" 
 HQ jerked back, "Do I ever want that?" 
 I took him at his word and perched on the up- 
 turned pail. He was measuring planks and sawing 
 them to fit. He had extraordinary deft ways with his 
 fingers, and in this there was not the fraction of a 
 second lost in the fitting, shaping, and nailing. Be- 
 neath his hands every tool he used fairly sped about 
 its job. 
 
 I said, because I could think of nothing else, "You '11 
 swallow those nails!" 
 
 He grunted ungraciously, "Is that all you 've got to 
 say?" 
 
 I watched a blue pencil shoot down a length of 
 white wood before I answered; then the tear of the 
 saw gave me encouragement. I told him : 
 "I met Yardley as I came along." 
 The jagging teeth were cutting deeper into the 
 timber; the sound had taken on a harsher note. He 
 answered casually: 
 
 "What had you to say to each other?" 
 I went on, "He 's coming to see you some time." 
 The plank fell apart and was up into position as he 
 replied, "Was that all he told you?" 
 I muttered, "Not quite." 
 He said, "What else, I wonder?" 
 I answered, "I imagine you know well enough." 
 He said beneath his breath, "Possibly possibly!"
 
 SEA WRACK 203 
 
 He turned suddenly and stared up at me, his eyes very 
 blue and gleaming beneath his thick dark brows. He 
 asked softly: 
 
 "What manner of man do you think me, Penrose? 
 How have you fixed me up in your mind, eh?" I was 
 about to make some answer when he interrupted me: 
 "I suppose somewhere somewhere in that kindly heart 
 of yours, you have me pigeonholed you have me 
 gently, generously put away ! Well, I could n't do 
 
 without your affection. And yet How much do 
 
 you know me? How do you see if ever my moods 
 and what, in God's name, if you did, would you say 
 to them?" 
 
 I said bluntly, "Pretty much the same as I do to 
 you in your e very-day life!" 
 
 He got suddenly to his feet and came and stood 
 beside me, peering down, his whole face very intent 
 and grim. 
 
 "I have been trying to escape from myself : to 
 get away from a part of me that had no business to 
 exist ! I have been crossing chasms to do that ; never 
 mind of what kind, remember just this; they were ut- 
 terly terrific; they frightened me because they were so 
 frightful in their meaning! Well, I am getting away 
 from them; I am passing on. I have dug into my- 
 self and found some other hitherto unknown part. 
 Well, I am going to build on it, Penrose; I am going 
 to mold it and fashion it into some sort or kind of 
 shape, and know it for myself : this husk, this body 
 this other self! It will eat and drink and work and
 
 204 SEA WRACK 
 
 play. All these things it will do, and possibly do them 
 quite well; and you will know it for me you must 
 acknowledge it as me. You are to forget as I am 
 forgetting all those dark chasms and all that lies 
 behind them! You must promise that, Penrose. 
 You see, I shall want your help." 
 
 I asked desperately: "And this new life ?" 
 
 "Does not know Tarnia, remembers her only as a 
 part of that dead Andrew, whom we are to forget, 
 whom we must not dare to remember. She made 
 part of that dead Andrew, whom we are to forget, 
 his soul, his brain, his life became one with him as 
 he with her. Now, she is gone, as he is gone buried 
 in silence interminable. And yet there must be some 
 movement in my home, some sound to break the still- 
 ness. The stillness sometimes I think it will make 
 me crazed then my own maddening thoughts ! Just 
 to sit as I do in the evenings listening to the drip, drip, 
 drip of the rain, or the branches of the trees tapping at 
 the window, rustling ever and ever rustling, as voices 
 whisper! And all the time, in and out of the shad- 
 ows there is Ayerst grinning, leering, tantalizing. 
 He flung out his arms in suddenly passionate fury. 
 "Movement ! I tell you I must have something to lis- 
 ten to that is alive alive, not dead ; do you hear me ? 
 Not dead as memories are ! Think what you like, but 
 Cathy is to be my refuge; I can be good to her. Ah, 
 I swear, so good, and she, she has some faith in me, 
 some trust. If you knew how humble that made 
 me ! If you knew how utterly grateful I am, Penrose ! 
 Penrose, I want a child, a son my own son!"
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 IT must have been about six months after their 
 marriage that rumors leaked through the village 
 of Miss Swinco's health. Mere gossip at first, then 
 as the weeks passed to take on a more significant mean- 
 ing, a more deadly truth. She was desperately ill; 
 she was on her way to becoming bedridden she 
 might live a very short time, or she might linger in- 
 definitely; she had dropsy. 
 
 I had better say straight off I never had a spark of 
 sympathy for her. You may put me down as cold- 
 blooded and hard-hearted it is how you please; the 
 fact remains, I certainly had no other feeling beyond 
 a sort of curious interest than she who, to my mind 
 anyway, had led such a grotesque existence, should fin- 
 ish it off with an equally grotesque end. 
 
 You may not approve of this somewhat unpleasant 
 idea! I am sorry, I cannot help it; but on the other 
 hand, you never knew Miss Swinsco, and you pos- 
 sibly cannot, therefore, ever understand how deep an 
 antipathy I had to that hard, cold, calculating woman, 
 to whom no kind of circumstances no, I '11 swear not 
 
 205
 
 206 SEA WRACK 
 
 even the blare of the Last Trump could ever, or 
 would ever, make the slightest difference in her whole 
 outlook. You could not view her with pity you 
 could not ! Or if you insist, then I tell you the nearest 
 approach to such a thing came from the village itself; 
 came in the form of a morbid curiosity! Until now 
 I doubt if any one had given her so much as a 
 thought. She dwelt apart like an extraordinary idol. 
 She hardly ever came near them, not even to* attend 
 their church that, of course, had nade a very wide 
 gap. If they had had any feelings at all, it was one 
 of suspicion dislike, indifference. Now they became 
 as bees round a honey-pot! They collected in groups 
 catching at any passer-by who might have been near 
 the farm ; they panted to its very gate, and stared and 
 gaped and muttered ; they became full of alarms, 
 discussions and excitements. I tell you they were in 
 a fever of a way simply because this unfortunate 
 woman showed gruesome resemblance to a pumpkin 
 mounted on two marrows ! 
 
 Death did n't so much matter : men and women fell 
 ill, died, and were buried, that was the end of the 
 thing; but I suppose there was some kind of fascina- 
 tion in this frightful and virtually unknown (to them, 
 that is) disease of Miss Swinsco. This frightful hap- 
 pening to her; and they were as vultures croaking and 
 pecking and fluttering, ready to swoop in at the last 
 terrific moment and see the final setting to it all. Yet, 
 when that time did come a great many months hence, 
 I remember they became almost melancholy in their
 
 SEA WRACK 207 
 
 distress : the thrill had passed all too soon, you see ! 
 
 I kept out of it as much as I could, you may be 
 sure; there were other things at that time to interest 
 me. Andrew was just settling into the cottage Yard- 
 ley had had built; settling into life with Cathy de- 
 mure, pretty, and full of importance, and still ap- 
 parently enraptured with being a bride. 
 
 I think she was rather enjoying life; rather enjoy- 
 ing this grave steady man, rather proud of his constant 
 attention, his protective ways and extraordinary gen- 
 tleness. It was just that sudden gentle strain in so 
 hot a nature that had always shone out as the finest 
 part in Andrew, but now there was something almost 
 surprising in this quiet show of patience with Cathy; 
 she was not an easy little person, you may have guessed 
 that and he was quick and impatient in his moods. 
 Yet I would observe him at times looking at her with 
 grave reflective eyes as if puzzling out something, 
 and as if that something was forever eluding him. 
 Then he would start suddenly to life again as she 
 reminded him supper was getting cold and chaffed 
 him for his dreaminess. 
 
 Plenty to think about, I can assure you! And 
 then one day even more than usual when, to my sur- 
 prise, there came a messenger from Mellow Farm 
 from Miss Swinsco. An urgent demand to the ef- 
 fect that I go and see her that very evening. 
 
 I very nearly refused. To begin with, it was a
 
 208 SEA WRACK 
 
 pretty long stretch to the farm, and I am bound to con- 
 fess with her as my goal there was nothing very thril- 
 ling about it. To go on with, there never had been, 
 and never would be, any love lost between us. It 
 seemed ridiculous that she should want to see me so 
 suddenly and with' so much earnestness : I felt both 
 puzzled and irritated but nevertheless I went. 
 
 I was hot and grumbling by the time I reached 
 the farm. I had hoped to have seen Andrew when 
 I passed his place, but he did not seem in sight. Cathy 
 was by the gate bonneted and all, looking remarkably 
 pretty, but engrossed in her own thoughts. She 
 nodded carelessly as I went by, and I am afraid 
 I was too cross even to trouble to ask' after An- 
 drew. It did n't matter as it turned out, because 
 he was the first person I saw as I went in at 
 the drive. 
 
 I stared at him, decidedly out of breath by this 
 time, and considerably surprised. 
 
 "Hullo ! I thought you never came up here !" 
 
 He said, "Well, I don't, but neither do you for 
 that matter." 
 
 I grunted back, "Miss Swinsco has some idea she 
 wants to see me." 
 
 "To see you?" He turned to me perplexed. "Why, 
 that 's what she wanted of me." 
 
 I answered crossly: "Some whim of hers, I suppose. 
 That hill was n't made for me, and she might have 
 known it!" 
 
 He moved on : "Well, let 's get it over. . . ."
 
 SEA WRACK 209 
 
 Apart from Miss Swinsco herself, there was only 
 one thing of any consequence in her room, and that 
 was the bed. I think it was the most enormous affair 
 I have ever seen. There was something even terrifying 
 in its vast structure; it stood in the very center like a 
 great barge. Its ungainly canopy supported on lump- 
 ish posts fairly pressed up against the dingy ceiling; 
 its dull red drapery confused with a multitude of mat- 
 tresses, bolsters, blankets that heaped and spread all 
 over its gigantic space. 
 
 In its way it was like its owner; in its attitude it 
 remained a symbol of her attitude. Grim, heavy, for- 
 bidding; I suppose she had lain on it many nights, 
 crouched by it -many days. Between these two mas- 
 sive shapes there must have been a very pleasant un- 
 derstanding. 
 
 Huddled round as she was now, securely wadded in, 
 she lay massive and inexorable; her face heavy and 
 mottled, her eyes glittering and hungry. She said im- 
 mediately, "Those two chairs be sitting, please; I 
 can see you better." 
 
 A sudden rustle startled me: from the shadows of 
 the bed, in which she had been almost completely hid- 
 den, a black-robed nun, very gentle and silent, slipped 
 by its head and appeared to vanish into a smaller 
 room or annex beyond; I heard the click of a door. 
 
 Miss Swinsco, noticing this, muttered, "Sister Bea- 
 trice she will not hear."
 
 210 SEA WRACK 
 
 I perched awkwardly on the hard chair in the very 
 little space that was allotted to it between the window 
 and the bed. I glanced over at Andrew occupying a 
 similar position at the other side of the door. He was 
 staring at her perplexed, and exceedingly uncomfor- 
 table; he asked slowly: 
 
 "Do you want anything of me? Why have you 
 sent for me in this way?" 
 
 Her eyes were fixed on his face. Pig's eyes ; fixing 
 hi-m down like gimlet points, pricking and stabbing 
 him through and through. She seemed to be holding 
 her breath, for she let it out in a most violent spasm 
 with the words : "It 's cost me much : what it 's cost 
 me you '11 never know " 
 
 He leaned toward her perplexed. "Then why have 
 me here ? Why see me at all ?" 
 
 For the moment she did not speak. Her two hands 
 came silently from beneath the sheets to fold on her 
 breast and held there a big ebony crucifix. I cannot 
 explain why, but there seemed something distasteful, 
 if not frightful, in those swollen fingers clutching 
 that symbol. No humility, no devotion! But a 
 sort of heavy self-satisfaction a blatant security, 
 in fact. 
 
 I pushed my chair a little away from the bed; its 
 scraping seemed to rouse her to speak again. She 
 whispered : 
 
 "Strange-like it may seem to you to come again; 
 nothing as it is to me. . . . Nothing! Things have 
 gone out of my reckoning, out of the Lord's! But
 
 SEA WRACK 211 
 
 it strikes at me it strikes me cruelly to tell all I 
 must tell, to such as you !" 
 
 Andrew said gently : "But look here, why say any- 
 thing at all ? You and I we 've nothing to do with 
 each other." 
 
 She moved her head restlessly on her pillow. 
 
 "More than you think; more than I ever thought." 
 With suddenly sharpness, she demanded : "So you 're 
 married! What fool's trick was that?" 
 
 I saw the sudden color rise to his face. "That 's 
 my business," he told her quietly enough, "my af- 
 fair!" 
 
 She said impatiently : "Quick like you always were ! 
 That 's the way of simpletons !" 
 
 He asked stiffly, "Is that all you have to say?" 
 
 Her eyes closed suddenly; she drew the crucifix 
 closer. "You must wait you must wait." 
 
 The room was insufferably hot, for you must re- 
 member it was August, and an August afternoon in 
 a bit of- a room, closed in on every side by door and 
 window, hanging sodden and fetid with that stale, 
 heavy smell which always seems to cling about a sick- 
 room, is no very pleasant thing. The atmosphere 
 seemed to stick in my throat and clog my eyes. I 
 know I longed to stretch a hand and shoot open 
 the casement, and get rid of this deadly stagnant feel ! 
 Of course I couldn't! I mopped with my handker- 
 chief and loosened my collar. 
 
 Miss Swinsco lay perfectly still, her eyes tightly 
 shut, her lips slightly moving; even Andrew appeared
 
 212 SEA WRACK 
 
 disinterested and silent. Then just as I felt I must 
 do something, even if to jerk unceremoniously to my 
 feet and get out of it all, those beady eyes uncovered 
 and found their mark, this time full on me. 
 
 She said sharply, "See what she 's doing. . . ." 
 
 I caught my fuddled wits and found my legs at 
 the same time; in a tiptoeing way I slipped to the 
 door to the other room, opened it, and peered in. 
 
 The nun was on her knees at a little statue of the 
 Virgin, in front of which she had placed a bowl of 
 flowers. Her mild face was upraised with extraor- 
 dinary intensity and passion, her delicate fingers moved 
 lightly on her rosary.. There was something infinitely 
 humble, extraordinarily faithful in that swathed figure. 
 I felt a trespasser on holy ground; a spy sent on an 
 errand of curiosity! A kind of blind fury took hold 
 of me against Miss Swinsco and her hymn of hum- 
 bug. I shut the door again gently and slid back to 
 my seat. I imagine my temper was pretty strong at 
 that moment, for I remember the tremendous control 
 it took me to keep my tongue even civil. I said gruffly. 
 
 "You need n't be afraid ; she has n't forgotten you !" 
 
 That seemed to fire her up. "Why should she? 
 Why not for me as- much as any other sinner ?" 
 
 It was on the tip of my tongue to reply, "So you 
 do own to your sins, eh? 1 " Needless to say, I did n't. 
 I could not swear what I said; I suppose I gave out 
 some kind of insipid reply. 
 
 But she had me under fixed observation by now. 
 She shrilled on, "You were always against me !"
 
 SEA WRACK 213 
 
 I said mildly, "Well, you know I am rather fond of 
 Andrew!" 
 
 There must have been something rather tactless in 
 this remark of mine; if expressions count for anything 
 she seemed to be on the very verge of some kind of 
 paroxysm : she did not seem to be able to speak clearly 
 even ; she simply choked out : 
 
 "Sentiment ! Sentiment ! And you must needs fish 
 him out of the sea for it! This softness this maw- 
 kish talk of 'feelings' ! Reuben : he was swallowed up 
 by it first with that wife, then with young Ayerst, 
 and lastly with you! You!" 
 
 She paused for want of breath, and I am bound to 
 say she needed it badly : she looked frightful. On that 
 huge mottled face the nets of purple veins seemed 
 suddenly pumped out to a bursting-point, and violent 
 little rolls of perspiration too were trickling down 
 from her forehead. But neither that nor her state 
 seemed to disturb her. She forced words out, muf- 
 fled and strained though they were. "You, you !" and 
 became more gooseberry-eyed than ever as she pierced 
 Andrew. 
 
 "Waif and outcast from the beginning: such as 
 you were, so you should have been to the end; so 
 Ayrest wished, so he planned! He bluffed you you 
 know how well. Now he thinks to put his smooth 
 dodging ways against mine! He forgot .... He 
 forgot I had no lick of sentiment! I tell you he's 
 forgotten a lot, and it 's time he remembered. That 's 
 for you to do; that's what I got you here for!"
 
 214 SEA WRACK 
 
 Andrew was on his feet and close up to her pillow 
 before she had finished. "What do I care how much 
 he has forgotten ? What in God's name is his memory 
 to me ? I '11 remind him of nothing because there is 
 only one thing worth reminding him of! Only one 
 thing, and he knows I pray to live long enough to 
 thrust it down his throat one day. Get some one 
 else to do your messages, for my business with Ayerst 
 is too big to touch on other things!" 
 
 She never moved her eyes from his face ; she made 
 no sign or movement: she was not one jot persuaded 
 by this outburst. She said in her most waspish man- 
 ner: "Boys' talk and boys' quarrels. No more and 
 no less do you get from petticoats! And if I tell 
 you this is of her as much as you you '11 but cock 
 your brows and listen because of your sentiment! 
 Are you to be fooled to your grave? This much 
 learn : I' 11 be giving you some reason to yelp after 
 Ayerst for!" 
 
 Andrew repeated heavily: "Reason? Can you find 
 me a better one than my own?" 
 
 She retorted : "Have n't I said so? Does n't it stick 
 like a knife into the very bowels of me to look on you 
 even ?" 
 
 She paused to turn the crucifix and tilt it slightly up- 
 ward and to her so that she was peering directly at 
 that patient face and hanging body. 
 
 She went on; "Feelings! Well, if others, why not
 
 SEA WRACK 215 
 
 me ? That 's what Reuben forgot ; he 'd no thought 
 but for his own ideas he pushed me and mine to one 
 side, and I was his sister. He 's gone his way now, 
 and so has Tegg; little whipper-snapper Tegg " 
 
 Andrew struck in bewildered: "Tegg? Who on 
 earth " 
 
 She retorted crossly: "Have I to remind you all 
 along the way? Tegg get your mind back a bit: 
 that day that morning months ago years by 
 now; Tegg, he came over from Lincoln; you met him 
 in the yard when he was going. Like you to forget! 
 He could n't do enough for you fondling and fuss- 
 ing ; asking you here, asking you there ; did n't it 
 strike you odd ? Did you see nothing ! Tegg, who 'd 
 never given you one glance before, now to turn so, 
 and be as flint to me and Ayerst? Had you peeled 
 your eyes before, who knows the happenings? Tegg, 
 then : what do you suppose he 'd come about ? How 
 many times did he ever come over? Once possibly 
 twice maybe, when rents and the like were due, but 
 that day was neither quarter nor half-year, not any 
 particular time or season. That morning he came 
 in answer to a special summons, and, as you know, 
 went straight on to London and was killed in a cab 
 accident that was his finish. That, at least, you knew. 
 You heard mumbling Bounder-by say so; you heard 
 him also explain there was no note or record left by 
 Tegg of the business done that morning when he came 
 over. . . . Neither note nor record: yet there was, and 
 for all Bounderby's law he could n't find it."
 
 216 SEA WRACK 
 
 Andrew bent to her earnestly : "What, what ?" 
 
 For one instant she took her eyes from the Christ 
 to glance at him ; for a second only, then she had them 
 riveted again. 
 
 "There was a will," she said. "That 's what I 
 knew, for I witnessed it ; that 's what Tegg knew, for 
 he drew it up. The one kept over at Lincoln was to 
 be destroyed when he got back. The other one " 
 
 Andrew murmured, "Yes, yes " 
 
 She said: "In my keeping. I took it the night 
 Reuben died." 
 
 Andrew whispered: "You took it? You but 
 why?" 
 
 Quite suddenly her whole face seemed to swell out 
 like a kind of monstrous balloon, the eyes dwindling 
 until they seemed no bigger than tiny sparks, and red- 
 dish at that. She said thickly: "Because everything 
 was for you, because your name was the only one 
 mentioned ; and I hated you, young Andrew ! I hated 
 you from the day I first set eyes on you; from the 
 day I saw you 'like an obstacle between my Lord and 
 me!" 
 
 '5 
 
 In the silence that followed I could hear quite dis- 
 tinctly the faint clicking of the nun at prayer with 
 her beads. I know involuntarily I covered my face, 
 because at that moment it seemed I wanted to shut 
 out all sound and sight. And I know even then I 
 thought that funny, because there was nothing to hear,
 
 SEA WRACK 217 
 
 because a thick kind of mist seemed to have come down 
 between me and Miss Swinsco, Andrew, and that 
 bed. . . . Then all of a sudden I could both hear and 
 see. I could hear Andrew speaking in a voice that 
 seemed to come from a very great distance and ap- 
 peared to be shot out of him in gasps; through that 
 distance also I could see something of an intense white- 
 ness ; in a dim way I recognized it as his face muffled 
 about with dense shadows. 
 
 He was saying: "To me you say everything 
 was left to me ? What is it you mean ? 
 Why don't you explain ?" 
 
 And then things grew more distinct. I could quite 
 clearly see the multitude of veins on Miss Swinsco' s 
 face. I could also hear easily the terrific force of 
 her breathing, so that even the monster bed quivered 
 beneath it. I observed also her sudden fury had 
 passed; it was in her usual sullen manner that she 
 answered : 
 
 "There is no more to explain. You had it all : 
 lock, stock, and barrel; from the last born lamb to 
 Coltons in the Wold!" 
 
 When at last Andrew answered, his* voice cut me 
 to the very quick. It was not a man speaking, but 
 a desolate child sending out one lost forlorn appeal. 
 "No, not Not that O my God! You don't mean 
 Coltons? Say you don't; I beg of you to tell me 
 that?" 
 
 I tell you I could not stand that tragic cry. I 
 bawled at Miss Swinsco sick or dying, what did I
 
 218 SEA WRACK 
 
 care ? Was n't this * my son, my child, caught most 
 villainously on the rack and twisted and torn by the 
 red-hot screws that pinned him there? I tell you. I 
 fairly shouted at her: 
 
 "Tell him, can't you? Open your mouth, woman; 
 open it out, I say!" 
 
 She snapped back : "What 's more to be said ? 
 Was n't the place tied fast enough in this ? It was all 
 one; they went together as such." She went on in an 
 oddly reminiscent strain: "Easy enough the whole 
 thing, with him lying dead and you out and likely 
 to be out all that night. Easier still, maybe, if it 
 hadn't been for Ayerst!" She spoke his name with 
 increased rancor. "No spunk in him, there is n't : 
 only for nursing his respectable skin at some one 
 else's expense ! He 'd have done me in that night ; 
 he 'd have been ready with a mouthful of lies. 
 He would n't ha' done it at all had he been alone ! 
 The slightest creak of a board, the squeaking of the 
 mice, and he would let out with a squeal and a clatter 
 as if Reuben himself had come to 'life and was clamping 
 down the stairs. He got me on edge even, for we 
 could n't find the thing, and every moment I ex- 
 pected the doctor 'd be coming; we searched him in the 
 end." 
 
 "Searched searched! What Farmer " I 
 
 broke in, dumfounded. "Who do you mean? Who 
 did you search?" 
 
 She snapped in on my stammerings, and grunted 
 scornfully.
 
 SEA WRACK 219 
 
 "Reuben, of course; why, who else? And Ayerst 
 twittering and shivering away in the passage until he 
 made my fingers all thumbs. So I had to fly out 
 sharp at him and fairly drag him in to help. Reuben 
 was no small man, you see, and I could but move him, 
 and it was under the mattress I wanted to look. Must 
 have been luck itself we ever did the thing as we 
 did. I have never seen a man so fearful as Ayerst 
 then ; he 'd hardly touch the body, and when he did 
 his hands were like the palsy, his face running with 
 water, and he 'd not stay to arrange the clothes, but 
 was out of the room as though all the dead men in the 
 world were after him ! He was n't worth the trouble ; 
 I told him that. I 'd tell him again." 
 
 She paused, grumbling and muttering silently to her- 
 self, oblivious for the moment of us, surging against 
 Ayerst. 
 
 I asked, "Did you find it?" 
 
 She surveyed me moodily. "In the Bible; I might 
 have known it and saved myself fuming over Ayerst." 
 
 Suddenly Andrew said : " What happened then ? 
 What did you do ... ?" 
 
 She appeared puzzled: "Do? With what?" 
 
 Then, as it dawned on her, she remarked irritably: 
 "Well, what should I do with such a thing? Not 
 what Ayerst expected, you may be sure. Ayerst with 
 all his artful ways couldn't use 'em against me; what 
 Ayerst thought, I took good care not to do. He 
 thinks the will ashes. I thought othenvise. I 've 
 kept it close, here!"
 
 220 SEA WRACK 
 
 And she fumbled beneath her pillow and brought 
 out a bit of paper; she hardly even glanced at it, but 
 extended it to Andrew, and as he did not take it she 
 let it drop on the bed-clothes. "That 's it," she mut- 
 tered. "That 's it ; that 's it ! You 've to take it ; it 's 
 yours." 
 
 He simply did not touch it. He did not move, but 
 remained hunched up on his chair, his arms stretching 
 down at its two sides, his body loose and sunken. 
 He sat as I have seen old men sit, or old women, help- 
 less aged figures depending on no strength for sup- 
 port, but shaken down in their sitting as if life had 
 become too heavy for them and they would wish it 
 gone to give them peace ! 
 
 Old people! . . . Young Andrew! 
 
 He only stared at it as if he expected it to take on a 
 human shape: to rise up and mock him for the very 
 joke of it. When he answered there was positive 
 wonderment in his voice. 
 
 "Why why did you do this thing? What have 
 I done to you what was I ever likely to do?" 
 
 She retorted grimly: "What my brother did: stand 
 between me and my Lord. I wanted land and money, 
 plenty of both to give to my church to leave in my 
 name. You knew Reuben's ways hard, bigoted ways 
 as they were, up against the Lord, up against my pray- 
 ers ! Could I expect different from you you ? You 
 with your ideas and Reuben hot in your memory?" 
 I thought she was off again on one of her tempests, 
 but she only mumbled; "Npt you, not you! Ayerst
 
 SEA WRACK 221 
 
 was the likely one; Ayerst wanted Coltons! Ayerst 
 with his sudden idea of lords and ladies; Ayerst with 
 his lying promises and talk!" 
 
 Then the passion did catch her; her fingers coiled 
 and clung to the cross until I though she would snap 
 it clean in half. She choked out : "God's curse on him ! 
 May the wrath of the Almighty smite him deep and 
 down !" She gasped at Andrew, and I thought for the 
 moment she was on the verge of some kind of seiz- 
 ure. . . . "You Ve got to do that ! 'Tis out of 
 my hands now; you for that you to make him ac- 
 cursed and lie him low in the dust!" 
 
 Andrew stared back at her blankly; he only asked, 
 "What made you keep this thing?" 
 
 She panted out : "Did you think I would trust him 
 with it? Ayerst and his smooth face and his smooth 
 ways ?" 
 
 He did n't seem to hear her ; his whole face was 
 blank, expressionless. I thought of him then as that 
 foolish farm-hand had said : "Like a dead man. . . ." 
 I tell you, to all intents and purposes he sat there dead, 
 lifeless. 
 
 He whispered to her: "What have you done; what 
 frightful thing have you done? What frightful, 
 frightful thing are you asking me?" 
 
 She did n't seem to understand ; she croaked on : 
 "He swore to me that all Mellow land was for me: 
 no man made a bigger oath, nor yet a holier one, 
 for I made him on the Bible ; I made him by the cross. 
 Then he sends me the deed, sends it to me on my
 
 222 SEA WRACK 
 
 bed on my dying bed; sends it as a joke, laughing 
 the while in all his slyness ! Mine while I live ! 
 That 's what 's been sealed while I live! And then 
 not a stick, not a stone am I to put on it without his 
 consent! And once in my grave it is his again : his ! 
 Signed and sealed and drawn up : this oath he made 
 that artful, lying oath." 
 
 I was hardly listening. I was watching Andrew, 
 waiting for some movement, some sign of life, from 
 that still figure. He was staring forward at her, and 
 there was something painfully reminiscent of a dog's 
 look in his face: dumbly beseeching with an air of 
 expectancy. He asked tonelessly: 
 
 "Is that all? Have you finished?" And waited 
 again as a dog would wait. She grunted back: 
 
 "More? .What more could there be; 't is enough, 
 I reckon." 
 
 He got unsteadily to his feet, rattling the chair back 
 to the wall. "Then I will go there is nothing to 
 stay for." 
 
 She said shrilly : "Take this take it !" And jerked 
 the paper at him. 
 
 He had backed up against the door and stood there 
 rather as a man, caught suddenly in some desperate 
 trap, will stand for his last fight. His whole body 
 was taut and stiffened to the last degree; but I could 
 see that this fingers pressed at the panels quivered 
 the slightest. The paper lay again on the bed where 
 she had let it fall, with a sort of winking air about 
 its crumpledness, letting out little wriggling move-
 
 SEA WRACK 223 
 
 ments as Miss Swinsco fidgeted with the sheets. It 
 was this he was looking at; and again I had that 
 thought . . . "Why, the thing might be alive and 
 ready to spring, by his look !" 
 
 And there was some truth in it too, for as Miss 
 Swinsco, with a sudden violent pull at the coverlet, 
 sent it skimming to the floor, even- as it fell Andrew 
 had thrust out his hands, using them as a kind of 
 shield a very defense against some predestined at- 
 tack. Thrust out most violently and then wrenched 
 open the door and was gone. 
 
 I could hear his footsteps echoing farther and far- 
 ther down the passage and then disappearing alto- 
 gether; I could also hear Miss .Swinsco squalling: 
 "He 's not taken it ; he 's forgotten ! -Go after him, 
 can't you? Run with it give it him; hurry, 
 hurry!" 
 
 And she heaved and jerked on the bed until I 
 thought she would fall out. I said roughly: 
 
 "Do you think I 'm going to stop him now ? Keep 
 on reminding him? Give him peace for the while 
 give him a little ease!" 
 
 She glared at me : "You '11 take it though ; swear to 
 me you '11 take it him immediately !" 
 
 "I 'm going to let him alone," I retorted. "I 'm go- 
 ing to let him alone. You don't know what you 've 
 done, because there 's no heart in you ! You could 
 never care either, because you don't know what car-
 
 224 SEA WRACK 
 
 ing means! You call upon God. What when God 
 calls upon you ?" 
 
 I think I hit her there. I believe for the first time 
 in her life she felt some fear; or was it merely most 
 bitter indignation? I hope not; I think not. Sud- 
 den livid patches of white showed on her face; I know 
 against that heavy colored flesh they appeared with 
 startling clearness. She dug with her tongue against 
 her teeth, forced it slowly between them again and 
 again before she spoke. 
 
 She said thickly : ''You tell me that you?" 
 
 I laughed then ; I could n't help it. There was 
 something positively funny in the way she hurled that 
 final "you" at my head. 
 
 I was positively grinning as I told her: "Don't 
 you think you 've had your say ? Is n't it time some 
 one else got a word in?" 
 
 She seemed to have somewhat recovered herself; 
 she retorted with her usual vigor, "Have you no shame 
 for the words you use?" 
 
 "No more than you!" I returned viciously. 
 "There 's at least one tie between us." 
 
 She asked with sudden sharpness, "But you '11 take 
 that will to Andrew?" 
 
 I grunted an assent. And when I saw the trium- 
 phant gleam in her eyes I think I hated her more 
 than ever! For she guessed and was even positive 
 that out of sheer love for Andrew I might use the 
 thing myself if he refused! And I knew the truth
 
 SEA WRACK 225 
 
 of that, but just one thing more. How frightfully 
 my hands were tied by that very love itself ! 
 
 So I took the paper with the best possible grace 
 and left the room. There was nothing else to be done 
 or said with her : only with Andrew.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 YOU must imagine all the way back to the village 
 me fingering that infernal bit of paper as it lay 
 in my pocket, and thinking with a sort of furious joy, 
 "If I had you now, Ay erst, I would march you to the 
 village, and every man and every woman should know 
 you for the infamous dog you are !" 
 
 And you must think of me even as it crunched and 
 crackled beneath my touch, whispering despondently: 
 "Yet I should but pass you by! Let you go without 
 one word, because of Andrew and his trust in me! 
 Let you go and wait wait until Andrew moves An- 
 drew speaks!" And I remember standing still and 
 crying aloud : "When will that be ? How soon, how 
 soon?" And a ragged number of rooks croaking and 
 cawing near by seomed to give me my answer : "Never, 
 never, never." 
 
 All the way down to the village I kept on staring 
 over the fields, hoping to catch some glimpse of him. 
 I went to his cottage, battered on the door, and peered 
 in at the windows, wondering crossly where Cathy 
 was, until I remembered there had been some idea of 
 
 226
 
 SEA WRACK 227 
 
 her staying a night with the famous Boston relations 
 on account of some wedding. I supposed this was the 
 time; she had been probably on the outlook for the 
 carrier's cart when I had passed her some hours be- 
 fore. I slammed away from it and then stood for a 
 moment staring from the dike bridge. Such as my 
 mood was then, I felt a sudden loathing against the 
 quiet of the place, and you who know me and my love 
 of peace can understand the strangeness of that feel- 
 ing. It was the very stillness that jarred me harshly 
 as I stood : I felt a sudden unexplainable yearning 
 for some sound, some noise. . . . 
 
 Here, there seemed too much mist, too many shad- 
 ows, silent creeping things forever hovering over the 
 marshes', too much empty blank space stretching out 
 mile upon mile, slushing monotonously out to the sea ! 
 And even that sea seemed one mighty hush; even the 
 sluggish water, usually grumbling as it turned about 
 the sluice-gates, stirred now whispering and easy. . . . 
 Peace? Was the old monster guardian of the Fens 
 sleeping? Lying still there, churning over memories 
 of bygone days; and if memories, why not brooding 
 afresh on things to come? 
 
 I have no particular recollection of the things I did 
 when I got back to my own place; I only know my 
 supper that night was of the most haphazard kind; a 
 bit here and a drink there sometimes in my garden 
 peering down the lane, sometimes in the bedroom from
 
 228 SEA WRACK 
 
 where I could scan pretty nearly the whole countryside. 
 Waiting about, idling round, watching the shadows, in 
 that placid gradual way of theirs, immerse into one 
 vast darkened shape, seeing the sun vanish with sur- 
 prising abruptness, leaving a long ruddy streak in its 
 wake for all the world like a gaping wound in a 
 man's side, trailing the blood in great stains be- 
 hind. . . . Night coming up ; pressing out across the 
 heaven in all its somber splendor, dragging behind it 
 sleepy-eyed silver stars; so the day passed. . . . 
 
 For something better to do I set about lighting every 
 candle in the room. The pewter candelabrum on the 
 mantel-shelf a great solid thing with twisted branches 
 and other single ones of Italian china, planted 
 at odd corners about the room; each bearing tall 
 colored candles, yellow, green, scarlet, and blue. I 
 know I had some foolish idea they might be a kind 
 of beacon to Andrew out on the marshes. Then I set 
 the door wide open, and settled into a chair with my 
 pipe to wait again. . . . 
 
 I kept on dozing and waking in that fretful, uneasy 
 manner, twitching and shivering, though the night 
 was hot enough. Once, I know a great white moth 
 plunged me swearing to my feet, and I chased it out 
 into the garden; one or two of the candles were gut- 
 tering abominably, and I snuffed them dejected before 
 settling down again and, I regret to say, slept this time 
 soundly. . . . Later much later I did wake, this 
 time wide-eyed and keen-eared. From the corner of 
 the room, where a huge pitcher of water stood, there
 
 SEA WRACK 229 
 
 came the sound of heavy sloshing, drinking; peering 
 into the corner I saw it was a dog, Gulliver. He stood 
 with heaving dusty sides gulping down the water so 
 that it floundered over the brim to the floor, every now 
 and then raised his great head and stood with it cocked 
 to one side as if listening, then, even as I stared, he 
 took one final mouthful, was out of the room and down 
 the path, had leaped the gate, and was gone toward 
 the marshes. In a lordly, hurricane way he had an- 
 nounced the approach of Andrew; this was to fetch 
 him. 
 
 It was quite light then, that gentle soft light that 
 is the dawn and floods the world with its mild caresses. 
 There was something very wonderful in that faint 
 flushing of the sky; delicate butterfly wings fluttering 
 their tranquil beauty where once the stars had 
 lazed. . . . 
 
 The candles had burnt well down into their sockets ; 
 there was not much left of them but spluttering grease : 
 I went from one to the other and pressed them out; 
 in the back kitchen I heaped the sticks ready and set 
 about with a fire for the kettle; just as they blazed 
 well up, Andrew came in. 
 
 He leaned against the doorway, and I, from the 
 other side, stared across at him. And the only sound 
 between us was the lapping of the dog again at the 
 jug and the fainter crackling of the sticks. And I 
 know I thought, "Is this Andrew?" And I know
 
 230 SEA WRACK 
 
 I wondered, "Good God! What can I say to 
 him ... ?" 
 
 He did not so much strike you as a man who had 
 passed through some catastrophe, but rather as one 
 who had spent torturous hours seeking for that which 
 had deliberately avoided him; and yet and there was 
 the trickery of it somewhere, somehow, it had en- 
 snared him and pounded ruthlessly on his face that 
 hunted, fugitive expression. All the brown of that 
 face seemed to have been swept clean away; it showed 
 no more in that early light than a ghostly gray, with 
 staring stricken eyes and unsteady mouth. 
 
 Yet he was the one to speak first to clench his arms 
 to his sides and advance, with a threatening kind of 
 gesture. 
 
 "You know I 've not come for sympathy, Penrose !" 
 
 Both of us were at that moment pretty strung up, 
 though I believe I realized it the most; I told him 
 with something of an effort : 
 
 "You can take what you please from me : you know 
 that well enough." 
 
 Then I turned from him sharply and went back into 
 the kitchen to wrestle with the fire. When I returned 
 the break had come; he had flung himself into a chair, 
 and was sprawled half across the table, his head buried 
 down in his arms, in so careless an attitude I had often 
 seen him sleeping after his work. Sleeping! How 
 the word mocked him ! There was no rest in that boy- 
 ish position, no quiet ; but through his body there swept 
 tremendous shudderings rather like the swell of an
 
 SEA WRACK 231 
 
 otherwise silent sea, violent tremblings that shook 
 him from head to foot and made the very table quiver 
 as they caught him beneath their tremors. The pain 
 had Andrew now tighter, I fancy, than during his 
 wanderings that night; it was screwing him down, 
 pitching into his strength like a live thing, shaking him 
 like a man with an ague. . . . 
 
 I would have left him and tiptoed away; but I fancy 
 he must have heard my movement, for he was sud- 
 denly on his feet shouting aloud with panic: 
 
 "Penrose! I say, Penrose, you must n't go; you 've 
 got to stay here and help me; do you understand, help 
 me ? I'm tricked, I 'm cornered ; you '11 stay, won't 
 you ? Something something 's got to be done !" 
 
 He was more than ever flushed now, with the crim- 
 son standing out here and there in uneven blotches, 
 breathing hard and digging furiously with furious 
 fingers into his palms. 
 
 I said bluntly, "The first thing to be done is for you 
 to drink up some coffee." 
 
 But he positively snarled back: "Coffee! Great 
 God, man, is that all you can offer?" 
 
 I retorted sharply, "It 's more than you deserve if 
 you take it in that light." 
 
 And he collapsed into the chair again, lolling for- 
 ward, swaying the slightest. "You don't understand ! 
 You simply can't!" 
 
 I had thought he was going to break down again, 
 but he sat silent enough, rather stiff in the back and 
 tight in the jaw; neither did he look at me again until
 
 232 SEA WRACK 
 
 I was actually standing over him with a cup. 
 
 "I want you to swallow this down," I told him 
 firmly ; "it '11 put some punch into you. We '11 talk 
 then. . . ." 
 
 He glowered up at me, but I did not move; he 
 started to speak, but I pushed it at him steadily, so that 
 he could hardly do anything but clutch it, and his mum- 
 blings were lost in its depths. 
 
 He drank in great gulps, and something like a sigh 
 went up from him when he had drained it: then, as 
 I proceeded to take it empty from his hands, he caught 
 me by the wrists, his face upturned: "You must help 
 me, Penrose," he burst out. "Because, before God, I 
 can't help myself!" 
 
 I could feel my arm and fingers growing numb be- 
 neath those iron grasps; all the blood seemed driven 
 out I might say burnt out, for his own flesh was as 
 hot as fire and seemed to burn deep down into mine. 
 
 I answered him as I might have a small child : 
 "Steady, old man, steady ! Both of us we '11 see 
 things through!" 
 
 He dropped my hands with a groan. "Oh, talk, 
 talk ! The thing 's too deep ; even you can't see how 
 deep." 
 
 I said, sharply, "Look here, Andrew, you must pull 
 yourself together, you must face this thing out " 
 
 And he broke in on me to cry violently: 
 
 "Face it out ? What do you think I 've been doing 
 out there all this night? What do you imagine? 
 Walking? Laughing? Idling? I tell you I 've been
 
 SEA WRACK 233 
 
 through hell, and lower lower than that if possible! 
 Trying to get a thing and watching it avoid me ; seek- 
 ing for an answer a way out of all this confusion, 
 and staring all the time into utter darkness! Such a 
 blackness that it frightens me, puts panic into my very 
 soul ! You can sit there and tell me to 'face the thing' ! 
 Pretty talk damnable chatter ! The thing 's too big 
 too big, I say I 'm fighting with my heart, my love, 
 my whole being existence ! And you tell me to face 
 it out. . . . God in heaven, if I could, I 'd turn my 
 back and run screaming away! Now, now tell me 
 to face it out in that calm methodical manner you 
 fancy!" 
 
 It cost me a great deal to answer as I did then; 
 nevertheless I managed it. I replied with as much 
 coolness as I could summon, "Yes, that is just what 
 I do tell you to do !" 
 
 I thought he was going to strike me, for his arm 
 crooked up savagely hut never reached its mark, for 
 he dropped it wretchedly to his side. 
 
 "I suppose you think I 'm a cowardly skunk?" 
 
 I shook my head. "No. For I judge you by your 
 honor, not by your moods !" 
 
 He said bitterly, "Oh, that, that!" 
 
 "Just that," I told him; "and whatever you say or 
 think, it is men of your kind who can't live without 
 it." 
 
 He said furiously, "Honorable with Ayerst; is that 
 it?" 
 
 I groped for my pipe in a cupbo'ard before I an-
 
 234 SEA WRACK 
 
 swered. "Ayerst is of no account," I replied. 
 "It is yourself I am thinking of. Your honor." 
 
 He was silent for a very long time before he spoke, 
 again. He sat staring through the open door into 
 the garden, more himself again by now; tighter about 
 the mouth, steadier in his eyes. 
 
 You must know I never thought of him as anything 
 approaching the heroic. To begin with, I look upon 
 the word with some indifference; we make heroes of 
 men for littler things than big deeds, endurance or the 
 like : the word has become commonplace enough, the 
 old swagger has died, the old meaning is passed. . . . 
 Man carves his own destiny, makes his own way; you 
 may name him what you will, it does not matter; suf- 
 ficient he is of the right stuff, it will place him on 
 a footing with the gods. . . . 
 
 Andrew, then, had just that dogged determination 
 that adventurers have; he was hot enough to continue 
 his path wherever it might lead him. At one time 
 that might have been part of the excitement; now it 
 had become a certain wistful pride which urged him 
 to track the thing to its very end, no matter the cost. 
 
 Nothing of the hero, you see ! Yet there may have 
 been a few who would have dubbed him idealist. . . . 
 
 He began to speak very low in the voice, very hur- 
 ried. 
 
 "It 's my fault, you know, Penrose ; my fault all 
 the way through. I was a fool, and I played a fool's 
 game; I bottled myself up with all manner and kind
 
 SEA WRACK 235 
 
 of thoughts ; thoughts that in my crass stupidity I con- 
 sidered so right and proper ! Thoughts that have beg- 
 gared me lost me everything, lost. . . . O my God! 
 those very thoughts have even made a sacrifice of my 
 beloved ! I had no pluck, Penrose, no courage ! That 
 man, that sailor at the inn why, I had to go to him 
 to be taught the real meaning of love. He did n't 
 hesitate ; he did n't hang about mouthing this idea and 
 that ! He knew his worth ; he knew hers ! And such 
 as it was, he fought, he murdered for the thing: I tell 
 you he was worth a thousand of me with all my 
 ponderings!" 
 
 He was shaking all over again a big man, yet ap- 
 pearing suddenly pinched and shriveled. He went on : 
 
 "I knew I was too late when I went to her that 
 night; something kept on telling me that, making me 
 run, run keep on running, chased over the Wold 
 by that new terror. I had already lost. . . . She told 
 you more, I imagine, than I can. It does n't matter 
 now ; it 's over, done with finished !'' 
 
 He laughed wildly : "And the joke is Miss Swinsco ! 
 She fancies she 's pitchforked me out of some thou- 
 sand acres or so, and she thinks I 'm ready and gasp- 
 ing to snatch on to them ! What do you think it mat- 
 ters to me how much more, or how much less, is mine ? 
 What do you suppose I care? Not a damn! Not 
 one solitary damn!" 
 
 I suppose I did then the crudest thing that it was 
 possible to do to any man in such a state as Andrew 
 at that moment. You had only to look at him and see
 
 236 SEA WRACK 
 
 the desperate look of appeal in his eyes, the pinched 
 and tragic look about his mouth and know in some 
 frantic way he was trying to bluff himself into this 
 reckless attitude; to laugh at the thing as a joke, put 
 it aside as a sheer impossibility, pass it over with all 
 the ease in the world. . . . To say nothing, and let 
 Andrew go off about his work while at some still 
 moment that crackling bit of paper in my pocket 
 would make capital firing for my hearth! It was so 
 easy, so pitifully easy. . . . Yet with Andrew the 
 Andrew I knew and honored so hideously impos- 
 sible ! With an effort that cost me much I caught hold 
 of the hateful thing and fairly clapped it on the table 
 with the remark : 
 
 "You may not, but Cathy what of Cathy?" 
 
 All the excitement died out of his face, leaving ic 
 mask-like and vacant: he pressed with the back of 
 his hand against his forehead as if the lines there 
 pained him and he would ease them away. He said 
 very wearily: 
 
 "I know, I know ; I had n't forgotten." And then 
 asked violently, "Why did you bring it? Why, why, 
 why?" 
 
 I told him: "You know well enough; one day you 
 might be forced to regret your carelessness. . . ." 
 
 He stared at me blankly. "What day?" 
 
 "The day your child is born, the very hour you 
 first see your son. . . ."
 
 SEA WRACK 237 
 
 He whispered brokenly, "O my God, my God!" 
 
 Because I could n't look at him then, I turned and 
 stared away through the open door, and I know it 
 struck me there was something horribly ironic, to turn 
 from him to the calm of that morning, to know that 
 men, women, and even beasts were now setting about 
 their business regardless, heedless, unknowing and 
 if knowing not caring while within some few feet 
 of me there sat Andrew caught up in the most dread- 
 ful torment! . . . Of course it was none of these 
 things. The world will not stop spinning because one 
 man is in agony against its pricks. Yet I was con- 
 vulsed with sudden .savageness against an unfortunate 
 drove of cows that went by at that moment. I know 
 I got up and slammed the door hard. 
 
 I heard Andrew saying very loudly: 
 
 "One thing, Penrose and you may damn me for- 
 ever ; I '11 not hurt Tarnia over this. You can talk 
 of laws, morals, and the like; I tell you they may go 
 hang. . . . There are some things a man can't do, 
 and this is one of them." 
 
 There was something tremendously grim about that 
 rigid jaw, a relentless gleam in those steady blue eyes; 
 no touch of the dreamer here, no thought of a care- 
 less mind all the toughness of his heart and brain 
 held on high for all the world to see. Mind you, 
 I knew then, so far as Andrew was concerned, the 
 matter was finished; I defy any moralist to work 
 through that great chunk of stolid determination once 
 it was uppermost : but it did n't prevent me from say-
 
 238 SEA WRACK 
 
 ing testing him in fact: "I am not so old I do not 
 know that; or for that matter, so dull. Yet life had 
 a- plain enough way to it, and if you want to alter it 
 you 've got to think it out pretty squarely first. . . . 
 Conviction God ! They 've* to be answered, you 
 know." 
 
 He retorted : "As to that, I '11 take my chance with 
 God, as it would seem He has staked it with me! 
 Conviction In my muscle and health, in my endur- 
 ance and the hands that are mine to aid me endure! 
 For I tell you this, I can heap up a better offering 
 yes, and a finer one to my child through this body 
 of mine than all the splendor of Coltons with its ill- 
 gotten gain and damnable memories!" 
 
 I said slowly, "Still, there is Cathy " 
 
 He jerked out, "And you judge me because of her?" 
 He went on vehemently : "You do, you do ! That you 
 can't deny, and I 'm not saying you should. But 
 things have happened vile things, hideous things! 
 They 've twisted my world into an impossible shape ; 
 they 've marked it down with the most terrifying 
 shadows! Shadows, Penrose, that will track me to 
 my grave. ..." He spread his hands very wide on 
 the table and looked at -me, his mouth twitching. He 
 said abruptly, "Did you ever love, Penrose?" He 
 went on dreamily,. "It 's too much for me, that 's the 
 truth: too big a thing to pitch up against: it is im- 
 mense, immense!" He paused; then continued: 
 "You can't say, 'Do this do that; this is right, that 
 is wrong!' Up in those heights such words don't
 
 SEA WRACK 239 
 
 seem to reach you! How can they?" He stared at 
 me fiercely, bewildered a little. "How can they? 
 
 Impossible, impossible! Cathy It was different. 
 
 She seems happy I think, I hope; for my part 1 
 marvel at her patience, for I am very far from the 
 husband she wanted. A dull brute, really, you know, 
 with dull ways : she her very prettiness needs brighter 
 things than this farm existence. Still, she knew that 
 well enough; she knew how much and how little I 
 could give. Yet I have wondered at many things. 
 Most of all, I think, at the very thing in her that ap- 
 pealed to me so. Her loneliness. You may smile, 
 but before we married that is how she appeared to 
 me, dejected, friendless even; somehow it touched me, 
 and it was my own desolation that answered. There 
 is comfort from woman, Penrose, there is supreme 
 comfort in two solitary souls, brought together. I 
 owe her much for that: soon, I may owe her more." 
 
 I stared at him incredulously. "Cathy! Lonely? 
 Is n't it rather odd ?" 
 
 He nodded. "I suppose so. Moods are queer 
 things; that was hers then. . . ." He fumbled for 
 his old brier-wood and commenced to clean it, stab- 
 bing at the bowl, with random jerks, then settling 
 down to scrape it with methodical fingers. 
 
 He said suddenly: "You made me read the Bible, 
 Penrose; you swore to me it would make me sleep. 
 I 'm thinking you were wrong, for I tell you the 
 mystery in it is too great a thing to close your eyes 
 on! Even those prophets coated in wisdom they
 
 2 4 o SEA WRACK 
 
 could but stumble in the darkness of their own won- 
 dering! Wisdom!" . . . He laughed savagely: "Not 
 for lovers! They were too old, those prophets; love 
 is too strange; even the serpent won over God!" He 
 shut the knife with a snap and leaned toward me, 
 breathing quickly, his dark brows bunched together. 
 
 "See here, Penrose, was it not Solomon who wrote 
 the Proverbs? Solomon who cried out for wisdom, 
 whom men called magnified? Yet even that great 
 Solomon sitting at his tablets could only write: 
 'Three things be too wonderful for me, yea four which 
 I know not ! . . . The way of a man with a maid !' ' 
 
 The knife slid into his pocket, and his fingers knotted 
 into one tremendous fist: "You see, you see! And 
 I am not Solomon ; I have not been blessed by heaven ! 
 Who am I, then, to do marvelous things, great things, 
 proper things?" 
 
 He thrust his hands out toward me strong brown 
 hands, hard and thin, with wrists of steel, and veins 
 that showed like narrow blue cord. 
 
 "These hands," he said, and I observed there crept 
 into his voice a note of great humility : "These hands. 
 Look at them, man. Let them be my judge, my pride. 
 For me, for my wife, for my child; they shall work; 
 plow and dig and bruise and fight; but never, never, 
 never turn against that first love of mine, that one 
 woman, and see her outcast from her own house! 
 Hiding her face her dear face because of this 
 wrong Ayerst has done, because of that lie he has 
 told to her to me."
 
 SEA WRACK 241 
 
 I said violently: "Are you sure of this? Are you 
 certain?" 
 
 "Utterly, utterly!" He paused a moment, then 
 went on: "All night, all those hours I have been up 
 against the thing. I have been righting my God, 
 how I have fought to see light, to do the right 
 thing." He looked at me earnestly: "I knew in this 
 I could not even turn to you or any man ! How was 
 it possible? The answer lay in me, I had to probe it 
 out ! The iron burnt in my soul ; I had to find water 
 to quench it! Cut off from the world and yet, O 
 marvelous jest I had to answer the world! Well, 
 here 's my reply. Tame enough, weak enough, worth- 
 less, too; this I know: if the day should happen I 
 will be ready enough to answer my son." 
 
 He had filled his pipe and paused for a, while as 
 he used the match. "You, now," he demanded. 
 "You, what have you to say?" 
 
 "Not much," I told him. "Not so very much. 
 Keep at peace with yourself: that is the whole wis- 
 dom of man." 
 
 He retorted a trifle bitterly: "Brave words, brave 
 philosophy! Peace? Not here, not here. . . . And 
 even afterward who knows that my poor ghost will 
 not tramp these Fens?" 
 
 I asked bluntly, "And the will itself, what of that?" 
 
 He stared at it gloomily. "Oh, I would see it dust ! 
 Better you had let Miss Swinsco hug it in her coffin!" 
 
 I shook my head grimly. "Wrong, wrong ut- 
 terly wrong ! Look here, Andrew, I see, I understand
 
 242 SEA WRACK 
 
 many things. Possibly I believe: I do not know! 
 But one thing I am certain of that paper!" And 
 I flicked it with my pipe-stem. "That paper, you can't 
 let hold of it ! Ah, don't interrupt, I know how well 
 you hate that thought, yet acknowledge it you must. 
 Put out your whole strength and grasp it ; it 's abso- 
 lutely vital vital to your name, to your peace of 
 mind. For see here : life does n't stand still, though 
 a good many of us are apt to think so it moves 
 apace ; we step away, not back, remember that. What 
 may not signify now may be of most violent conse- 
 quence in the future! To-day, to-morrow; the 
 months and years to come, are your business; you sit 
 in charge for your own existence, more especially for 
 your wife and your child; let that be: I, who know 
 you well, know how brave an answer you yet may 
 stand and give them. But there are others yet to fol- 
 low down after you others who will look to you for 
 what you have left bless you for it, hate you for it, 
 know you only as some distant figure belonging to 
 a dim past, yet tied to you don't forget that; tied 
 to you and therefore laying some claim. Time and 
 events move and change quickly terrifically! What 
 you may not want, these followers at your heels may 
 cry out for; well, you must be ready. You can't de- 
 stroy that secret ; it 's not your to destroy, only to 
 hold on to in trust. . . ." 
 
 He looked at me stormily, and then down to where 
 it lay. 
 
 "Sometimes I hate you and your philosophies!"
 
 SEA WRACK 243 
 
 "Better that than yourself," I told him. 
 
 He only heaved his shoulders in contempt, and 
 stretched an unwilling hand to the paper. 
 
 "What's to do with it, eh?" 
 
 I said, "There 's my desk : it 's tough enough both 
 of lock and wood." 
 
 He shook his head doubtfully. "No good. I must 
 be keeper!" 
 
 I said amazed: "You? That's a frightful risk." 
 
 He went on doggedly: "It had better be mine than 
 yours, a most heavy one and you know it. I 'm of 
 poor enough stuff, but at least not so poor I can't 
 shoulder my own responsibility." 
 
 I made foolish efforts to argue with him, but he 
 was stolid on the point. 
 
 "Too unfair, too rotten -a position, to put you in; 
 if you lost it, if it in some way got known why, good 
 Lord! No! No! I '11 take the chances !" 
 
 "You've no hiding-holes in your place," I reminded 
 him irritably. "You 've got to show some discretion, 
 you know!" 
 
 He relapsed into a fit of musing and then came out 
 of it with an exclamation: "I have it, my coat!" 
 And began to slip it off. 
 
 I said blankly, "Your coat ?" 
 
 He replied : "Oh, it 's useful, more than you imag- 
 ine." And spread it out on the table. "You watch, 
 this sort of fashion . . ." 
 
 He had the pocket-knife open, and with a curious 
 deftness slit the lining just beneath the armpit. I
 
 244 SEA WRACK 
 
 noticed then there was yet another of a soft leather 
 and a kind of thin oilskin beneath that. 
 
 He continued: "You see. Just in here, between 
 these two linings, and if you get me a needle and 
 thread, I '11 give it a stitch to keep it in place." 
 
 I found both for him, and he settled to it in a most 
 decided way, folding and patting the paper into place, 
 catching it there with remarkable cuteness and stitch- 
 ing the seam again with a perfectness that was skil- 
 ful from so big a man. 
 
 "You see," he told me, "needlecraft is a good bit 
 part of my life : in fact, I rather think it 's hatched 
 out of loneliness, and I know nothing so useful." 
 He help up the coat and stared at his workmanship 
 with approving eyes. "A good coat this," he re- 
 marked. "I had it made, and with the old dog it 's 
 proved companionable enough. Now, it 's even more 
 a part of me, now: we hold a link between us, this 
 old jacket and I ! . . . Funny, funny world, eh, Pen- 
 rose? Hands that wove this stuff together, little did 
 they know to what strange purpose it would lend itself. 
 .... Now, when I carry it on my back, I carry also 
 
 something more than wool and leather " He 
 
 broke off and stared away with unseeing eyes as if 
 he caught a glimpse of some forbidden vision. 
 
 "Memory!" he said suddenly. "Just that mem- 
 ory."
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 IT was at the end of October his child was born, 
 and I have even now a very distinct memory of 
 the night it happened. A very clear remembrance of 
 stones rattling against my window and Andrew star- 
 ing up as I leaned out, his voice echoing through the 
 still air. 
 
 "It 's a son, Penrose ! Is n't it wonderful ? A boy 
 of my own, my very own !" 
 
 Very clear. ... Of the snow lying thick and white 
 over the Fens, with here and there a skeleton tree 
 showing dismal and bleak against the whiteness of 
 a moon that shone out in lonely splendor rather like 
 a gleaming mirror, immobile and steadfast in all that 
 boundless space; of sleepy murmur ings from the 
 sea drifting inward on a sluggish breeze; all these 
 things, they stand out crystal-clear in my vision- 
 ings! And most of all, that young, impatient voice: 
 "I have a son, Penrose is n't it wonderful, a 
 son. . . . ?" 
 
 I went down to speak to him, and he came in for 
 a moment or so : cold and fresh and almost spellbound 
 at this marvelous thing! talking in excited, hurried 
 
 245
 
 246 SEA WRACK 
 
 sentences, stopping every minute to cock his head anx- 
 iously to one side as if for all the world a-listening 
 that even at that distance some sound or other might 
 fall upon his ear to recall him. He could n't sit ; it 
 seemed impossible he could smoke even: he simply 
 walked up and down the room full of restless and im- 
 patient planning even at that early hour so much 
 that was wonderful for that little life. 
 
 He went on impulsively: "They let me see him, 
 Penrose let me hold him for a second. Such a tiny 
 thing you 'd never believe, such a scrap that became 
 almost lost in my great hands!" He laughed de- 
 lightedly at the recollection. "How strange, how 
 strange that so small a thing grows into so much! 
 What traffic there is in life, eh, Penrose? What traf- 
 fic ! Such goings and comings, such adventurings and 
 voyages !" He whispered below his breath : "Won- 
 derful, wonderful." And remained silent awhile. 
 He swung round suddenly to cry out. 
 
 "Oh, one thing, one mighty important thing his 
 name; I had an idea, and Cathy why, Cathy quite 
 liked it too. We we 're going to call him 'John' ; 
 good name that, eh ? Ah, but listen ; you '11 see what 
 I mean. Last Sunckiy there came that bit from the 
 New Testament for the Gospel: you know when 
 Gabriel visits that old fellow what 's his name ? 
 Zacharias ! that 's it Zacharias, and speaks of his com- 
 ing son. It 's the way he trumpets it out that takes me 
 so ; the terrific swagger with which he blazons his an- 
 nouncement! .
 
 SEA WRACK 247 
 
 " 'And thou shalt call him John. . . . For he will be 
 great in the sight of the Lord. . . .'" 
 
 He was staring down at me with most passionate 
 intensity : "There 's a fine swing about that a won- 
 derful touch of courage! 'Great in the sight of the 
 Lord!' Not as me! God forbid he should ever take 
 me for an example, but as that John ; a man of tougher 
 substance than I ; a man of purer heart than I could 
 ever have!" He laughed suddenly and I could trace 
 therein a note of bitterness. He said violently: "Oh, 
 I dream, I dream! Poor, soft fool that I am, how I 
 dream !" 
 
 I replied roughly, "I 'm inclined to think the time is 
 ripe for you to count your blessings !" 
 
 He stared at me wistfully. "I wonder. Some- 
 times I am afraid." 
 
 I asked quickly, "What of?" 
 
 "Am I wronging him ? Am I ? Cheating him out 
 of his birthright, even as I was cheated?" 
 
 I shook my head severely. "Wrong thought that! 
 Get it out of your head, man; drive it out from your 
 brain ! You 've enough to give him now ; I see you 
 giving him more by the time he 's ready for school- 
 ing. This son He 's fixed pleasantly enough. 
 
 How goes it with Cathy?" 
 
 He said slowly, "Why, I think she 's pleased !" He 
 flung a hasty glance to me, then fell to rearranging 
 his muffler with hurried fingers. 
 
 "It 's hard on women that sort of thing. Easy 
 for us to talk, easy to rejoice; it costs them more than
 
 248 SEA WRACK 
 
 it ever does us. I only saw her an instant; she 
 seemed " 
 
 He paused, stumbling for the word, then shot it 
 out: "Relieved. Well, so am I for her. All these 
 past weeks, they 've dragged on her, I 'm afraid ; I 
 used to think it was wrong wrong this should have 
 happened. After all, what are my desires to her pain? 
 When she first told me I was the gladdest thing alive 
 until I noticed her face, and then I reproached my 
 eagerness. ..." 
 
 I asked curiously: "What do you mean 're- 
 proached' ?" 
 
 He looked uneasy. "Why, she 's a little thing, you 
 know, Penrose young: and full of young ways: 
 somehow I thought then it seemed hard. I said so: 
 I told her that that she should be so distressed it 
 seemed unkind, unfair. I think then she thought I 
 was mad." He colored up as he spoke. "For she 
 stared very wide-eyed and laughed. I could hardly 
 expect otherwise; it must have been sheer absurdity 
 to her." He smiled somewhat ruefully. 
 
 I questioned, "And now?" 
 
 "As I tell you, relieved. They assure me it was all 
 pretty easy, but doctors and nurses they all talk." 
 
 So John came, you see ; heralded by snow and chris- 
 tened while it still lay thick on the ground. They 
 made me a godfather, and I saw to it there was no 
 hitch about the young man's name, but for that mat-
 
 SEA WRACK 249 
 
 ter it was never really used in all its full splendor: 
 somehow or other it twisted into all sorts and kinds of 
 derivations. . . . Johnnie, of course; then suddenly 
 Jock, and even more suddenly Jockey : and that finally 
 stuck to him. He grew and he thrived with due nicety ; 
 there was nothing about him that pointed to a likeness 
 of Andrew, or for that matter of Cathy, though he 
 was every bit as fair as she, if not more so, and I 
 know her father persisted he had her eyes. I never 
 noticed that : Cathy's were uncommonly bright and 
 of a much lighter blue than Andrew's, turquoise I 
 believe is the right word, and very pretty at that : 
 but the boy's showed even fainter in tint, and showed 
 also just a streak of solemnity which marked him 
 with a gentler air than she. He was thin and small, 
 with hair the shade of corn, and a straight mild little 
 mouth with a sudden upward tilt when he laughed 
 which for one instant seemed to transfigure him into 
 happiness itself. 
 
 It goes without saying he was the glory of Andrew. 
 He was such a big fellow Andrew; Jockey such a 
 bit of humanity, taken it seemed from the very edge 
 of life: and yet between these two, as between him- 
 self and Gulliver, there existed an undying love, a 
 wonderful understanding. As with the dog, he would 
 talk to the child in that grave grown-up fashion he 
 used to all animals and children. I have seen Andrew 
 when the boy was still crawling lying full length on 
 the rug by the fire, the child encircled by his arms 
 and whispering to him by the hour his day's work.
 
 250 SEA WRACK 
 
 Such conversations! Such distorted fragments \ 
 Broken only by the thudding of the dog's tail as he 
 caught his master's eye. . . . You would hear Andrew 
 say: 
 
 "Good luck to-day, little chap, mighty good ! Fancy 
 this now. ..." 
 
 And then I would lose a bit, either because his voice 
 would sink away into a kind of drone, or because I 
 had become so fascinated in watching the two of them, 
 I lost all sense of hearing. Then, above the ticking 
 of the clock once again further waves of sound would 
 reach me. . . . 
 
 "Splendid, wasn't it? Thirty acres at such a silly 
 price, ready drained and all, you know, young man; 
 ask Gulliver, he '11 tell you ! Drained and cleaned and 
 ready for sowing ! I tell you we '11 have you bobbing 
 on the plow before your strong young toes know how 
 to move over the ground. . . ." 
 
 And the thin face of the boy would break up sud- 
 denly on its chirrup of laughter and he would dab out 
 at that intensely thick head of hair so tantalizingly 
 close, and then relapse into his old gravity waiting 
 for more wonder words to come from this wonder 
 father. 
 
 Romance! Ah, forever romance! From the day 
 he had bawled out his lungs in passionate appeal to 
 mankind when the sea would have none of him and 
 he was flung head first ashore to see what the earth 
 might do from the night when he and Tarnia held 
 each other close on the Wold and all the stars crowned
 
 SEA WRACK 251 
 
 them in their worldly, wise, loving fashion. ... So 
 now, this same romance tilted the bowl in her old 
 alluring way and bade him drink drink and dream 
 again with this beloved joy clasped tightly in his arms. 
 
 3 
 
 I know it was that very talk with the child which 
 seemed to annoy Cathy so one night. I suppose she 
 must have overheard some of it when she came to 
 fetch him for the bath; later, when she came down 
 again just before supper, she questioned Andrew. 
 
 "What 's this about another heap of land you 're 
 buying?" 
 
 He looked surprised. "Why, I told you at dinner- 
 time." 
 
 "It was as much as I could do to listen then," she 
 retorted. "There 's enough to do with the seeing to 
 of the men's meal. I can't settle to think!" 
 
 He asked mildly, "Why don't you leave that for 
 the girl?" 
 
 "Because I can't," she said sharply, "She 'd give 
 them the larder full, and you know it!" 
 
 Andrew looked uncomfortable. "Oh, well," he 
 muttered. "This land though. It 's crown property 
 just up for sale, and I was infernally lucky to get it 
 at so low a price. It 's likely to be good business for 
 us!" 
 
 I saw Cathy's brows shoot up nearly to her hair; 
 she exclaimed somewhat shrilly: 
 
 "You don't mean to say you 've wasted your
 
 252 SEA WRACK 
 
 money on those mud-flats? Why they're right up 
 against the sea-wall." 
 
 "It 's better conditioned land than some nearer 
 in," Andrew told her. "Those surveyor chaps have 
 made a remarkably good job of it. I tell you 
 they 're uncommon proud and they 've a right to 
 be!" 
 
 Cathy, stitching at some frock, bit the cotton with 
 a decided snap of her teeth. "You 're always won 
 over by any sort of talk ! That 's so like you, Andrew ; 
 it makes me tired. Better ground going all around 
 you and you pick on the worse! Silly, I call it; just 
 as well toss your coin into the sea!" 
 
 Andrew flushed very red. "Oh, come now, Cathy, 
 give me credit for some intelligence. I do know some- 
 thing about land, you know. Besides, you 've got to 
 remember I 'm not in so rich a state as to be able to 
 pick on any field I may want." 
 
 She screwed her eyes very small indeed, to see bet- 
 ter the needle head she was about to thread; then 
 speared the cotton into shape and jabbed it through 
 with lightning speed. 
 
 "That 's rubbish," she said crossly. "Some acres 
 were Ayerst Swinsco's, you could have got them had 
 you pushed a bit; proper land they were, ready sown 
 and all. For that matter," she fixed him inquisitively. 
 "For that matter, I can't think why you don't try for 
 the whole farm. Now old Miss Swinsco 's dead and 
 they 've got that great place at Colt-Harrow, he 'd 
 have been only too glad to sell, and probably will ; and
 
 SEA WRACK 253 
 
 even then I suppose you '11 be all stand-offish and not 
 make a single offer." 
 
 Andrew said quietly, "I 'm afraid so, Cathy ; there 
 can be no buying or selling between Ayerst and me." 
 
 She said very crossly: "I always did say you were 
 as silly as they make them to quarrel with him. And 
 whatever it was about I can't think; after all he was 
 the heir: 't was n't as if you'd any cause " 
 
 Andrew muttered, "No, I suppose not. . . ." And 
 kicked at the fire with his boot. 
 
 That seemed to vex her even more. "Then you 're 
 a simpleton," she cried. "Ayerst as your friend, and 
 you might be living in something better than a bit 
 of a cottage." 
 
 Beneath his breath I heard Andrew whisper, "Al- 
 ways Ayerst, always Ayerst " 
 
 I don't think she heard him; she was jamming her 
 things into a box preparatory to laying the table. She 
 went on irritably: 
 
 "You could have had it for the trying; you don't 
 suppose she with all her grand ways will want to live 
 there ? It '11 remain shut up and empty, and you 'd 
 have done better as his bailiff than spending good 
 money on rubbishy government waste. ..." And 
 she had whisked through the door rather like a pretty 
 but decidedly mettlesome kitten. 
 
 That you see was the way with Cathy; and I have 
 picked on this particular incident as a fair example of
 
 254 SEA WRACK 
 
 her attitude to Andrew and the farm. Be it under- 
 stood, I am not blaming her ; somehow I do not think 
 it possible ever to do so ! And when I think of her now 
 "stamping" through life, a perfect whirlwind of pet- 
 ticoats and impetuosity, I cannot for the life of me 
 mark her down as blameworthy; only infinitely sad, 
 painfully tragic. I suppose you would call her wil- 
 ful; I suppose when you saw her bright so very 
 bright yet highly inquisitive eyes, you could 
 but sigh because of the very waywardness that showed 
 there. Moods, whims, fancies I tell you she was 
 chock-full with them! Such a bubbling peevish little 
 person; magnificently aware of her own importance, 
 her own ideas, her own intelligence. Forever show- 
 ing, on the slightest provocation, a kind of offended 
 bitterness as if somehow or other all her genteel 
 tastes and notions had been unpleasantly jarred by the 
 rude enthusiasm, the rough venturings, of the man 
 she married. And it used to make me think devilish 
 hard how great a distaster might be brought about 
 by any showing of that vagrant bit of paper. . . . 
 
 Those years I think the gods bent kindly toward 
 Andrew; those years he went forward apace, pressing 
 out his path with giant strides. Always I believe 
 the earth had delighted in him, marking him down 
 not as a mere tiller of the soil, but rather as some hus- 
 bandman watching and nursing its mysteries. Now 
 in its quiet way it opened up to him, stirred beneath 
 his strong hands, his indomitable patience, and gave 
 him back, bit by bit, inch by inch, most gracious an-
 
 SEA WRACK 255 
 
 swering to his ceaseless labor. . . . Those fields, those 
 dreary mud-beds, they spread their ways serene in the 
 beauty of their greenery, tranquil with pride before 
 those gleaming yellow spears of corn, glorying not a 
 little in the wonder and magic of the seed that would go 
 out in great sacks to feed the cities. . . . 
 
 Pushing forward! By the time the child was two, 
 he had built on another room to the cottage, roofed 
 and painted the old barn, and turned it into a capable 
 cow-shed, and added a spick-and-span neat-looking 
 dairy. This last was the result of very shrewd fore- 
 sight on his side, and the installing of three placid cows ! 
 That there was even the shade of a risk to this scheme 
 I very much doubt ; the village had milk from Mellow 
 Farm, and a few kept goats; lately there were num- 
 erous instructions by Ayerst that that side of the farm 
 was to be given up. Andrew then came as an an- 
 swer to their puzzlements : apart from that he was con- 
 veniently near. From the very first the scheme went 
 forward; yet I remember it annoyed Cathy exceed- 
 ingly: in fact, she very nearly spoiled it. Andrew, 
 you see, had the happy and entirely wrong idea this at 
 least would have been of interest ; to that end he looked 
 to her to take charge of all the butter-creamery busi- 
 ness. Truth be told, it only caused her high indig- 
 nation. I suppose it struck her as being unreason- 
 able, with the boy to look after and the one little maid 
 to drive helter-skelter, here and there : it also seemed 
 highly unpleasant to all her dainty ideas. She per- 
 plexed Andrew by this attitude : he never seemed quite
 
 256 SEA WRACK 
 
 to understand her objections: but I know he looked 
 remarkably uncomfortable and even distressed; I 
 think he imagined he had committed some thoughtless 
 blunder, and settled the matter by hiring a girl from 
 the village to take over the job, and incidentally did 
 without a cow-man. 
 
 By the time Jockey was four, then, he could look to 
 a prosperous enough father and a jolly big place for 
 his small legs to waddle about in. I know even old 
 Yardley admitted this; I caught him one day lugu- 
 briously watching the efforts of Andrew and a boy 
 pursuing half a dozen pigs about the yard in the vain 
 attempt to get them penned and ready for market the 
 next day. When I had said all the necessary polite 
 things, I remarked cheerfully : 
 
 "Getting on, eh? Something to be proud of now, 
 this place!" 
 
 He nodded moodily, "Doutbless, doubtless, but I 
 think one should not be overconfident." 
 
 I said, exasperated, "Well, he can't go back, that 's 
 obvious ; and you must agree there 's no reason on 
 earth he should n't go forward !" 
 
 He pressed in his loose puffing lips with one large 
 forefinger as if all the weight of the world lay on 
 his shoulders. 
 
 "I suppose not," he murmured doubtfully. "Nev- 
 ertheless, enthusiasm " He released the lips and 
 
 puffed them out more than ever: "Enthusiasm can at 
 times be overreached." 
 
 Here a pig butted against the paling, pressing there
 
 SEA WRACK 257 
 
 with tremendous passion, to be followed by a shout 
 from Andrew: "Catch him, Penrose get hold of him 
 sir" this obviously to the stately Yardley. "Lay on 
 to him, can't you?" 
 
 When with a squeal and a scuttle it scooted away in 
 the opposite direction before the astonished Yardley 
 had even become aware of it and I was releasing my 
 legs from the hot, tight fingers of Jockey, who had 
 apparently sprung out of nowhere and was bent on em- 
 bracing them, I heard the wrathful bawl from An- 
 drew: "Butter-fingers, butter-fingers!" And the in- 
 dignant protest from Yardley: "Amazing, amazing!" 
 
 Jockey and I had one famous quality in common 
 a sense of humor; so far as that I remember we had 
 our own private laugh, a thing of immense secret be- 
 tween us : at that particular moment the stunned ex- 
 pression on Yardley's face did, I regret to say, bring 
 it most excitedly into force ! He took refuge in clear- 
 ing his throat with tremendous solemnity : 
 
 "When I was our age," he muffled out, "I was in 
 bed each evening at six." 
 
 He thrust with his waistcoat at the earnest little face 
 peering up at him. "Six," he repeated heavily. "And 
 it is now six forty-five!" He produced an enormous 
 clock (I suppose it was a watch) from his pocket, 
 and breathed again. "Six forty-five !" 
 
 The culprit and I stared at each other, and I know I 
 felt as if in some manner I was also to blame for this 
 frightful hour, only at that moment Andrew came 
 panting up, "What about six forty-five, eh?" And
 
 258 SEA WRACK 
 
 put out his arms to the boy. "Hullo, monkey, learning 
 the time? My ! What brains !" 
 
 And once again I could discern that curious light 
 which seemed to transfigure that thin little face, as 
 if somewhere behind it a candle had been lit: as he 
 dug with his tiny fingers into his father's shirt and 
 snuggled his head sure of his security beneath that 
 strong throat. Andrew began to murmur. . . . 
 "Now if you know, if you were a proper son, you 'd 
 have flown around and have caught those pigs! But 
 of course you're not a proper son, are you? Quite 
 impossible with those bits of feet. . . ." (Here they 
 were thrust out for inspection.) "They're not much 
 good, are they? Seem to have a trick of sliding 
 away and letting you drop; jolly unkind of 'em, really, 
 when you come to think of it; what about seeing if we 
 can't buy another lot, eh?" . . . And the small head 
 was suddenly flung back on a burst of gleeful chuck- 
 ling, rising again with dancing eyes and the bit of a 
 mouth pressed upward to meet the very brown face 
 bending so happily down. . . . 
 
 Then with a rush and a flounce Cathy appeared, 
 rather flushed and sparkling: "Oh, there you are!" 
 she cried crossly. "There you are and your bath get- 
 ting cold ! Goodness gracious me, how you do dawdle 
 with the child, Andrew ; you know it 's his bedtime 
 and all." 
 
 "Exactly what I was saying," came the ponderous 
 whisper from Yardley : "I was in bed at six o'clock !" 
 And he seemed to swell in the most righteous fashion.
 
 SEA WRACK 259 
 
 Cathy tossed her head and collected Jockey from his 
 father. 
 
 "Oh, I 'm sure we all know about that, and more !" 
 she retorted irritably. "Anyway you kept me up to 
 it, well enough!" 
 
 Andrew said amusedly : "Seems to me I 'm at the 
 bottom of this ! Young man, what sort of truant are 
 you to keep that poor mother of yours waiting about, 
 eh?" 
 
 Cathy started to turn up the path. "Oh, I sent him 
 out to say good-night," she remarked pettishly, "but 
 not to stay and hear all your nonsense; I suppose I 
 shall have to put a kettle on again." 
 
 She went in through the door, her voice rising from 
 the inner room on the shrill cry of "Katie! Katie! 
 another kettle sharp as anything. ..." 
 
 I supposed she was fond of the child: I do believe 
 in her own way she felt a certain amount of irritable, 
 impatient affection. Whether anything of a finer, 
 deeper kind ever stirred behind it all I could never 
 say. There was nothing very extraordinary about 
 Jockey; on the other hand you could not help observ- 
 ing the gentle dreamy little spirit tucked away in a 
 delicate, sensitive little body, but just how much that 
 queer small nature appealed to her is difficult to say. 
 I don't think she ever quite pretended to understand, 
 yet there have been moments when she smiled; there 
 was something uncommon pretty about her when you 
 caught that smile. . . . On the other hand, her shrewd 
 brain did mark him down as decidedly different from
 
 260 SEA WRACK 
 
 the village children, and particularly from the lanky vi- 
 car's equally lanky dissatisfied twins : it caused her in- 
 tense satisfaction if not pride, and she set about to 
 make her small position a very certain one in Ditchling. 
 Thus it was on certain occasions she would become 
 regardless of the wants of the household and Jockey 
 himself, solely to put all her unwilling energy into 
 putting frills into some summer jacket for him and 
 tucks to a print frock of her own : and however cross 
 and painful its doing made her (for she abominated 
 sewing above all things) it would be well worth while 
 when she could step stiffly up the aisle the next Sun- 
 day with Jockey in tow, blis fully aware of the com- 
 pleteness of a decidedly dainty picture! 
 
 But love ? Cathy complicated your wonderings from 
 the first; the more you thought it out the more unsat- 
 isfactory the answer. There was something akin to 
 the swallow in her, that darting, heedless flight to this 
 thing and that, for that whim and this fancy; I do 
 not think she could ever make up her mind to any feel- 
 ing that demanded so much, be it mother-love, or the 
 very height of some great passion: she was too un- 
 settled, too uncertain; and if it were possible for such 
 a thing to be, I think it would but pass as suddenly as 
 it came worn away by the very excitement itself, 
 leaving her fretted and bored, looking about for some- 
 thing else, different, fresh. 
 
 5 
 It was at the end of that year Tarnia and Ayerst
 
 SEA WRACK 261 
 
 came back to Colt-Harrow. Just in time for a great 
 Christmas display, and just after Jockey had cele- 
 brated his fourth birthday. 
 
 Something of a difference, this home-coming, to 
 when she had returned many, many years back to 
 the weeds and cobwebs of her father's welcome. Had 
 he lamented then at the bitter turn fate had given his 
 plans and hopes, the tremendous doings now on hand 
 must have made up for it. Or was he too blind, too 
 deaf, to hear or see? Too deadened in spirit and flesh 
 to understand? The place could only flaunt him for 
 what he was now, a crazy and broken old man ; flaunt 
 him in all its newly found splendor ; that very splendor 
 he had so madly tried to win, that very splendor he 
 had bought at so frightful a price! Somehow I do 
 not think he noticed such things, I do not believe he 
 realized with what speed these home matters went 
 spinning about him ; rather I think he sat mooning and 
 nodding over the fire in that dim odd way old people 
 have, while his groping brain felt and peered into those 
 dead and distant years he had at one time nearly for- 
 gotten. Forgotten. . . . Was it possible? Little 
 things, rare, distorted glimpses of old so old mem- 
 ories and things ! The first uniform and with it the 
 first marvelous breathless feeling as he put it on; his 
 first ship he could not remember her name, but he 
 would remember as if it were yesterday the whiteness 
 of her decks and the gleam of her sails; navy oaths 
 and navy ways, sudden fights and sudden calm; that 
 great crowd of canvas whiter than the clouds in the
 
 262 SEA WRACK 
 
 heaven ; that vivid blue sea and the silently moving line 
 of ship as his own followed Codrington at Navarino. 
 . . . How could he forget ? Blurred and maybe even 
 unsatisfactory to his groping mind, but part of him, 
 part of his wild romantic heart. . . . Smell of orange- 
 trees and hot, hot sun; scent of burning sea and mur- 
 mur of strange tongues; somewhere near to him a 
 glimmer of a white dress, somewhere so very near 
 the gentle beauty of one face . . . always that one. 
 So as he dreamt I can picture him whimpering in 
 childish dismay to see that face then clearer, whimper- 
 ing in bitter anguish because the waking must come, 
 and it would have gone. . . . 
 
 Trumpets and bonfires! What in God's name did 
 they matter? The old swagger had passed long ago; 
 it only remained for Time to sweep away the crumb- 
 ling body. . . . 
 
 For my part neither did I see that home-coming : ex- 
 cept the glare in the sky from the conflagration and 
 the solitary swoop of a rocket above the distant hills. 
 I watched these vague flares with Jockey wrapped 
 round in a blanket perched on my shoulder; they fas- 
 cinated him, and I believe in some unaccountable way 
 they fascinated me. For I know I went on staring from 
 my window long after they had ceased, and there was 
 no other light to be seen but a few odd stars. Star- 
 ing, with endless thought and speculation, one side of 
 me up in arms against the contriving of destiny; the 
 other uneasy, unsatisfied, seeing more shadows like 
 great live things stalking in endless procession over
 
 SEA WRACK 263 
 
 the Wold from Coltons to Andrew's bedside. . . . 
 
 But I went to see Tarnia. Not in the eager fashion 
 you might expect, but hesitating, reluctant unde- 
 cided. It goes without saying that from the moment 
 I knew she had returned I wanted quite desperately 
 to see her, but you must remember there was Ayerst 
 to be reckoned with as well; somehow my palate sick- 
 ened at the thought of that meeting. ... A new Ay- 
 erst this; a new and frightful Ayerst with new and 
 frightful markings about him. I think I would have 
 touched a leper rather than those coward hands which 
 had searched the bed and body of a dead man to turn 
 thief for his own ends, and live on those thievings! 
 And he was Tarnia's husband. . . . 
 
 Of course he was there the day I went over; and 
 of course he clung like a limpet to the room as if there 
 was some cunning scheme in the back of his mind; I 
 should not be alone with Tarnia at that first meeting, 
 anyway. The same Ayerst you may be sure of 
 that! Resplendent in velveteens and colored waist- 
 coat, glossier than ever of hair, smoother about the 
 face; with just the usual stealthy way of placing his 
 feet, and the old unsteadiness on those crooked lips. 
 He seemed to arrange his back against the mantel- 
 shelf, and once there was at his usual balancing tricks 
 with his toes, pricking this way and that with his 
 gleaming head, buffoonery forever marking the corn- 
 ers of his twisted mouth. You could n't talk with 
 him there! I knew that; so did Tarnia: no one for 
 that matter knew it better than Ayerst himself.
 
 264 SEA WRACK 
 
 Heaven knows what we talked about at first ; we threw 
 about words oblivious as to their meaning, at least I 
 did, trying in a stupid way to learn something from 
 Tarnia and learning nothing; aware all the time how 
 apparent this knowledge was to Ayerst, mesmerized af- 
 ter a fashion by the mocking lights that flickered and 
 dodged within those intensely pale eyes. 
 
 In the end I fell into a kind of dogged silence, won- 
 dering all the time why on earth I did n't go, yet 
 clinging on as a drowning man with a straw to the 
 vain belief that possibly in some roundabout way fate 
 would be kind and let me hear one secret word from 
 Tarnia. Ayerst took up the threads then; in his old 
 apologetic manner he started all kinds of vague ques- 
 tionings, murmured all sorts of deprecating remarks. 
 
 "Poor Aunt Swinsco," he said mournfully. "Poor 
 Aunt Swinsco, a great loss that, you know; so many 
 years of constant help to my dead father I had 
 
 hoped, when we returned " He lowered himself 
 
 sadly to his heels level with the floor again, and mur- 
 mured on : "Sad, so sad and sudden." 
 
 I suddenly found .he was surveying me through the 
 very slightest slit in his pale eyes; then catching my 
 own staring intently up, he closed them wearily, as if 
 such an effort caused perpetual distress and ques- 
 tioned softly, "But you would hardly have seen her." 
 
 I thought, "I '11 surprise you now, Master Ayerst," 
 and snapped up at him delightfully. "Once!" and a 
 spurt of grim enjoyment shot through me, as I marked 
 the slightest twitch to that uneven mouth; but he
 
 SEA WRACK 265 
 
 might have been a mere dressed-up image had I looked 
 for any further sign of agitation which by the way 
 I had n't ! I knew my Ayerst. Curiously it was from 
 Tarnia herself a more direct question came, the very 
 one I am prepared to swear Ayerst longed to ask, and 
 shied at it: she said quietly, "I thought the two of 
 you did nothing but quarrel? Had you made it up, 
 or did you have one final dispute?" 
 
 I could not see her face, only the smooth shape 
 of her head as she bent over some embroidery: I 
 know she had on a dress of some black stuff and about 
 her lap were numerous skeins of silks, a rainbow of 
 colors heaped carelessly there. I wondered then was 
 it some strange fluke that made her ask this very ques- 
 tion, or some still stranger force that prompted her 
 to speak suddenly on the one thing that concerned her 
 did she but know it ! sitting there ; unassuming, pa- 
 tient ; the shadow of some olden-time woman, nursing 
 her desire until the gods should beckon her forward. 
 Somehow the proud bent to that head hurt me most 
 terribly; I believe at that moment I was capable of 
 shouting away every vow I had ever made Andrew : 
 then she suddenly looked up at me for one instant with 
 one of her old rare strange smiles : "Well?" she asked : 
 "well?" 
 
 I pushed back my chair, and I know it scraped most 
 
 hideously on the flagged floor we were in the big 
 
 hall and I gulped back all my big words so that they 
 
 burnt my throat : I grunted at random, "Religion. 
 
 . . ." And glowered up at the silent Ayerst. It
 
 266 SEA WRACK 
 
 seemed to satisfy him, and he drawled lazily, "Ah, 
 yes, my dear aunt ; so reverent a life, so faithful." 
 
 I saw something like a shiver pass through Tarnia, 
 and for my own part I had a vision of that vindictive 
 swollen creature clinging to her crucifix, contorted with 
 passion against this so ft- footed, smooth-tongued 
 jackal ; carried at last to her grave by chanting priests 
 content she had opened wide a most certain pit for 
 him to be sent crashing into : content, too, that she had 
 left poison enough to snare him in his own game; 
 content her plottings marked out a clear way for her 
 soaring soul. . . . 
 
 I suddenly became aware Ayerst was regarding me 
 with head cocked to one side, and twinkling and 
 twitching eyes : he said with gentle humor, "So our 
 friend Andrew is married ?" 
 
 I said stubbornly, hating the man then as I have 
 never hated him before, "Yes, yes; what of it?" 
 
 He crooked his head to the other side, so that the 
 pale eyes darted to Tarnia and rested there flickering. 
 "Why, what indeed?" He murmured on, "Cathy, eh? 
 Little Cathy Yardley." He shot himself upright on 
 his toes and twinkled round in my direction again, 
 "Cathy Yardley. . . ." 
 
 I suddenly began wondering what man or woman 
 could have borne such a son: had another Ayerst be- 
 trayed his mother, or some female of his kind trapped 
 the father, or both ? Somewhere there must have been 
 the poison. Did he take it when he suckled or heard 
 it oathed hideously upon him ? That hardly mattered :
 
 SEA WRACK 267 
 
 it bubbled easily and well through his veins, it helped 
 most admirably to oil his subtle tongue. ... I said 
 doggedly : "You 've got the name with perfect cor- 
 rectness a friend of yours, I believe, at one time?" 
 
 He lowered himself with gentle grace to the floor 
 again, and let out what might have been an apologetic 
 sigh. "In the same village, you know." He repeated 
 with gentle resignation, "The same village. But An- 
 drew old Andrew. . . ." He shook his head re- 
 proachfully. "Such an odd fellow, old Andrew." 
 
 I flashed back at him: "What of your father, eh? 
 'Odd' do you call him? He left a brave enough mark 
 behind for all that oddness!" 
 
 That only tickled Ayerst, and somewhere behind the 
 smooth, sympathetic mask I knew he was chirruping 
 gleefully to himself. He said soothingly : 
 
 "Oh, yes, that is so, that is indeed so! A splendid 
 fellow, dear old Andrew quick possibly like my poor 
 father, but a good fellow, a dear good fellow." 
 
 He paused, snapping down his pale lids with such 
 unusual swiftness that I almost expected to hear a 
 sharp click as if somewhere within some mechanical 
 wire worked. He continued faintly to murmur: 
 "... A dear good fellow," over and over again 
 rather like a sleepy parrot. Then he suddenly opened 
 his eyes very wide and twinkling the question politely, 
 "Surely, there is a child?" 
 
 I retorted gruffly, "A boy." 
 
 "In-deed." He waggled his head as if in deep sur- 
 prise, "/w-deed: the old rascal! A boy, well, well:
 
 268 SEA WRACK 
 
 dear old Andrew; how very splendid!" He went on 
 waggling that glossy edifice now at Tarnia, his sleek 
 voice droning through the gaunt hall : "You hear that, 
 my dear ? Dear old Andrew with a boy. That should 
 please you, it should indeed." He turned apologeti- 
 cally to me. "Tarnia just loves little children. Just 
 loves them." 
 
 Marvelous joke that to him; splendid touch of hu- 
 rrfor there! If you could have seen the gentle meiri- 
 ment twisting that long mouth, if you- could have 
 counted those scoffing, flickering lights tokens of 
 this jolly fun frisking away within those colorless 
 eyes! I had had enough, and bent to grope for my 
 hat; I had heard enough seen enough; I only wanted 
 to clear out, and clear out quick. I got to my feet 
 looking at my watch. ... It was at that moment 
 some polite individual man-servant, valet or some- 
 thing of that species appeared from the shadows and 
 muttered some few subdued sentences to Ayerst, who 
 thereupon assumed an air of weary importance and 
 with many murmurings slithered away through the 
 door. It was pretty evident he had no objection to my 
 being alone now with Tarnia: in so suibtle a manner 
 had he paved out the first part of my visit, he had 
 no fears for the tail-end. 
 
 There he was right : I could only stare at her dejected 
 and spiritless: there was no heart left in me to say 
 the many things I had so eagerly hoped to. Had I
 
 SEA WRACK 269 
 
 expected anything from her which by this time I did 
 not think possible I was disappointed : she caught me 
 by the arm and whispered under her breath, "It was 
 good of you to come : for me you can't think how 
 good! But not again: believe me that is best; in the 
 end it can only make the hurt worse." 
 
 I didn't question her: what was there left to ques- 
 tion? I only mumbled, "All right, all right," and 
 pressed her hand as it lay on my arm. She came to 
 the great door and stood silent as I opened it, and 
 then stood, still motionless, at the top of the steps 
 beside me. It was when I turned to say "Good-by," 
 she suddenly asked in curiously level tones : 
 
 "Does she make him happy?" 
 
 I had a sudden fleeting vision of that Andrew of 
 old enthusiastic, hot at heart, splendid in laughter, 
 splendid in love : that old impulsive Andrew who surely 
 at some time had lain in the earth and let the sun bake 
 him there! Well, the soil still marked him with her 
 color, but it was the husk of that Andrew who walked 
 the plains, a patient moving body pushed on by some 
 dogged, persistent force: playing so tragic a "make- 
 believe" for the sake of his small son. ... I could 
 not tell her that; I simply slid away from any direct 
 answer to the question : "Why, there is the child. ..." 
 
 She asked in the same quiet manner, "Are they like 
 each other?" 
 
 I mumbled something about a "little lad" ; I made 
 vague attempt at description; I wound up with the 
 truthful enough admission I had never been able to
 
 270 SEA WRACK 
 
 liken him to any one "except himself," which was 
 the most idiotic remark I fancy I have ever made. 
 
 I don't think she heard; I hardly believe she lis- 
 tened: beneath her breath I heard her whisper, "That 
 does n't matter : it is his his very own." 
 
 With a sudden quick gesture she put her hands to 
 her face and stared away over the pale bleak garden; 
 she went on in the same quiet way : 
 
 "I am not so very old, you knaw; I could have 
 loved a child. Sometimes when I think too much 
 it seems hard O my God, so hard that other wo- 
 men should have what I have never known! And 
 yet, do you know, I am glad, glad for that child's 
 sake, do you understand? Can you realize how great 
 
 my fear was in case ? Do you think it wrong of 
 
 me to say such things?" 
 
 There was something profoundly touching about 
 that pitiful question about the manner in which she 
 asked it ; but she continued before I could speak : 
 
 "Not you, I am sure not youf Like everything 
 else, it is a joke to Ayerst; sometimes he twits me 
 with it; there is so much which appeals to his comic 
 side that is one of them." She looked at me with 
 the faintest vestige of a smile on her lips. "You see," 
 she murmured. "We have our amusement he and I ; 
 he thinks I want so much; and all the time I hug 
 my dream to my heart, and in my way, laugh my own 
 laugh." 
 
 With a sudden quick movement she came a little 
 closer, bending her head, breathing her words :
 
 SEA WRACK 271 
 
 "That child " she began, and then paused, but 
 
 kept her eyes full on my face those strange, un- 
 fathomable eyes, with mysterious strange lights. She 
 repeated again softly, "That child when you are next 
 there be sure to give my love my dear love !" 
 
 Lest you should think I had any scruple about that 
 message, let me assure you I had none. It stood out 
 fresh and clear in my mind and would stay there until 
 my chance came to deliver it. And a gleam from An- 
 drew's window as I passed bade me try my luck then 
 and there, that very evening. It so happened Jockey 
 greeted me, a warm chuckling, talkative young Jockey, 
 full" of immense excitement concerning the sundry do- 
 ings marvelous ones seemingly that "farver" had 
 been up to. He kept me alive with them until An- 
 drew himself appeared, rather like a tumbled-looking 
 school-boy, with an enormous jug in his hand and 
 terrifically bare arms. 
 
 He shouted out : "Hulloa, old Penrose ! You 've 
 come in time for a most astounding event; I 'm bath- 
 man and nurse all in one to-night ; Cathy 's with her 
 father; come along and witness the amazing thing!" 
 
 There came further hoarse chucklings from Jockey, 
 who proceeded to double himself inside my thick coat 
 and nest there ; letting out at intervals stupendous wrig- 
 gles. Andrew went on: "Look at young Columbus! 
 Did you ever see such a toad-in-the-hole ? That 's be- 
 cause he smells soap! To tell you the truth," he 
 went on in a somewhat shamefaced manner, "I can 
 only do the trick by pretending to be a groom and
 
 272 SEA WRACK 
 
 hissing away until I nearly blow my teeth out. He 
 knows that, the young villain : that 's why we behave 
 like a regular circus." 
 
 He was pouring water from a gigantic kettle into 
 the can, peering at me through the heat and steam, clat- 
 tering with the numerous pots and pans, shouting out 
 stray remarks at stray intervals : "Glad you came in ; 
 where have you been all this time ? You '11 stay on 
 to supper?" 
 
 He seemed suddenly to have completely disappeared 
 behirtd the clouds of vapor that flooded around him and 
 even his voice seemed muffled up in it. I took my 
 courage in my hands and said very slowly : 
 
 "I was up at Coltons this afternoon." 
 
 The water stopped pouring, and there came a sud- 
 den silence broken only by the hissing of a kettle. The 
 steam seemed to clear a little and I saw Andrew stand- 
 ing very straight, staring directly at me, his arms 
 tight at his sides, his fists knotted very white and 
 sharp about the knuckles; a great tightness about his 
 jaw so that the bone seemed to cut out of the brown 
 flesh like steel. He said grimly : 
 
 "You were up at Coltons ?" 
 
 I nodded. "Yes . . . you 'd better know it ; also 
 that I saw Ayerst." 
 
 The color seemed to shoot up in his face like a 
 great flame and to kindle in his eyes with that swift- 
 ness I know a torch will give light to a beacon. He 
 stammered back furiously: 
 
 "Good for him it was you, not me. I sometimes
 
 SEA WRACK 273 
 
 think my fingers will burst their flesh to get out at him. 
 I would like to see each one of them mark him mark 
 him for the bloody dog he is !" 
 
 I said gently, glancing down at Jockey, still burrow- 
 ing in my waistcoat, "Steady, steady on, old fellow." 
 
 He shouted out, "Ah, you would stand up for him." 
 
 I knew his mood and I answered to it, "Well, you 
 can put it how you like." 
 
 His voice seemed to twist suddenly, to break up and 
 end in a kind of desperate struggle. He tried an at- 
 tempt to laugh, but it was something nearer a sob 
 that broke from his quivering lips. He spluttered 
 out: "Sorry, sorry; I didn't mean that; you know 
 me better. ... I meant, meant " 
 
 The flame had died out of his face; he might have 
 been a boy, tongue-tied, blundering desperately with 
 stumbling words, that could not, and would not, give 
 any clear utterance. I could read his eyes, read the 
 dumb appeal that was set there : in what clumsy fash- 
 ion I could I gave him answer. Heaving up Jockey 
 so he stood upon my knees and keeping my eyes on his 
 all the time, I just told him. 
 
 "W 7 hy, she asked after this monkey of a fellow; she 
 sent her love, her dear love." 
 
 In the moment's silence that followed I could hear 
 the kettle spitting its wrath very loudly and sharply; 
 I could also feel the steady tattoo of small feet on my 
 thighs; then Andrew suddenly stepped over and 
 caoight hold of him and swung him up in his arms. 
 
 "There, give me the boy," he said roughly, and 
 swung him out of the room.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 ALL this, mark you, before the coming of the New 
 Year; all this atop of Jockey's birthday and 
 just before the tenants' dance held at Coltons on Christ- 
 mas eve. Very grand that, from all accounts; very 
 much the big affair to liven up the villages and be 
 the one and only topic for days afterward. Cathy 
 went : pomposity Yardley as her escort not Andrew, 
 you understand. When the invitation came he said 
 nothing either one way or the other to Cathy's going : 
 he only made it very clear that she must do without 
 him, and I know that put her in a high state of indig- 
 nation. She had a great deal to say about his "nasty 
 stubborn ways," and all those "silly high-flown ideas" ; 
 but I know when the evening came around she'd for- 
 gotten her vexation in the huge delight of her dress 
 and slippers and all such other dainty things. She 
 went off with her father, pink with excitement, very 
 pretty and very important. 
 
 Andrew and I then spent our Christmas eve smok- 
 ing silent pipes over the fire until much later, when 
 we crept in stockinged feet to the bedroom rather like 
 two conspirators, to hatch many secrets with number- 
 
 274
 
 SEA WRACK 275 
 
 less stockings which we hung in rows round about the 
 cot where Jockey lay. We stood there awhile after 
 this tremendous thing had been accomplished, staring 
 down at the dreamer who lay there, until Andrew 
 muttered softly: "Funny little beggar, eh, Penrose?" 
 
 And as I tiptoed to the door I heard him murmur 
 with infinite compassion: "Little blessing, wonderful 
 little lad. . . ." 
 
 Tarnia I never saw again until well, never mind, 
 let me go directly ahead with the thing. Ayerst did 
 occasionally appear, sometimes perched very high in a 
 glittering dog-cart, sometimes very lanky and grotes- 
 que on horseback : always very quizzical and polite, 
 always gently amused at apparently nothing whatso- 
 ever. Once or twice I caught him with Cathy, and 
 I know that had angered me intensely; somehow it 
 seemed so blatantly disloyal to Andrew. For however 
 little she knew of the real state of affairs, she did at 
 least know his feelings, and she knew that the village 
 knew them too and approved of them, hearing of 
 Ayerst's brotherliness immediately upon his father's 
 death. Once, too, I had caught him staring little 
 Jockey out of countenance until he fled like a small 
 scared rabbit up the path, and Ayerst, seeing me at 
 the same moment, cocked his head to one side in greet- 
 ing, and set those pale cold eyes flickering and twitch- 
 ing in their same odd way. . . . 
 
 But all this is merely by the way; spring followed, 
 and hot and blazing on her heels a sweltering, baking 
 summer, bent on doing mischief and scorching the life
 
 276 SEA WRACK 
 
 out of things. Grass that was n't grass, but merely 
 rusty-colored bits of wire jutting up from burnt and 
 splitting earth ; green stuffs that simply could n't grow 
 and did n't, but stuck about withered and crackling 
 like so many thorns scorched in their very roots, 
 scorched as soon as they stared out at the red-hot sun. 
 A straw-colored world, it seemed, those days, with 
 sweating, panting men wrestling and struggling on 
 top of it. Of course the usual prayers went up for 
 rain, and though you couldn't talk of a drought it 
 was a pretty near thing, and a regular sigh of thank- 
 fulness went out when it did swirl down on that baking 
 earth. 
 
 Then of course it went to the opposite extreme, and 
 people began to grumble at this most lengthy flood- 
 ing of streams and pools, to say nothing of the dikes, 
 which began to fill up and overflow in some parts. 
 The keepers at the big sluice-gates higher up the dike 
 were always poking 'and watching the smaller one at 
 Tilling Plain, and the farming folk, having shaken 
 their fists at the sun, now shook their heads at this 
 never-ceasing downpour, and gave up the last vestige 
 of hope for a promising harvest. For my part I 
 reveled in it; there was something tremendously ex- 
 citing in watching that driving rain, to see it batter 
 in upon that dry, crusted earth, to see it spurt and gush 
 like a waterspout out of those great gaunt cracks; to 
 watch a sudden life movement behind it all! I used 
 to sit in the hay-loft with Jockey and see it streaming 
 muddy through the farm-yard ; we had one great game
 
 SEA WRACK 277 
 
 in making absurd .and skittish little boats from match- 
 boxes, with one match for a mast, when they would 
 be dropped carefully into one special rivulet and sent 
 whirling away wrecked or cunningly upright down 
 to the dike! Great days those. I remember how we 
 used to chuckle wickedly at "farver's gloomy moan- 
 ings." Ah, such jolly, jolly days! 
 
 Gradually it seemed to pass, and we did hope for a 
 somewhat kinder summer, neither so infernally hot, 
 nor so wretchedly wet. One particular day and night 
 brought a shower or so, only to be followed by a morn- 
 ing that was dry enough, but sluggish and threatening ! 
 and almighty hot! Thick clouds! great gaunt ink- 
 black things that pressed dumb and menacing very 
 low down to the swamped, steaming earth. Hothouse 
 heat that day! suffocating, choking heat that seemed 
 to block up each vein, and stifle your nostrils. An- 
 drew and I met at dinner-time, and sat gasping in 
 shirt-sleeves, steadily bent on emptying the cask of 
 cider. It was a pretty silent meal from what I remem- 
 ber; only Jockey, as usual, was beaming away, ex- 
 citedly eating, excitedly explaining some extraordinary 
 new game he had contrived in the barn. He was the 
 first to leave the table, then Cathy she went up- 
 stairs. Andrew and I, frankly indolent and thirstier 
 than ever, still sat on, and I know I thought yearningly 
 of some cool stack of straw and a very pleasant after- 
 noon's sleep.
 
 278 SEA WRACK 
 
 Outside there came the sullen drone of bees and 
 farther away the humming of some reaping-machine, 
 overhead much clattering from Cathy as she moved 
 about the room ; and I know I wondered drowsily why 
 on earth she wore such high heels, and then became 
 dreamier than ever over the prospect of that straw. 
 Andrew muttered, "Be damned to it, I believe there 's 
 more rain coming." 
 
 I made a sleepy attempt to be concerned : "Dash 
 it all, I hope not." 
 
 Andrew laughed and stretched his arms very wide : 
 "Yawn a little, it may relieve you!" 
 
 I murmured contentedly, "That cider was delicious." 
 
 From the barn there came the tiny singing voice of 
 Jockey, sometimes very shrill and high, then dropping 
 away to a sudden and rather breathless end. There 
 was something very pleasant about that little voice, 
 and I know it might have lulled me quite a* lot if I 
 had n't become so sensitive to Cathy and all her "tap- 
 perings" above. In the end they positively fasci- 
 nated me in that absurdly irritated way one can sud- 
 denly become over-attentive to a matter of no account 
 whatsoever. And I simply sat there like a stuck pig, 
 listening all the while with the utmost solemnity to 
 those aggravating feet going tap-tap, tap-tap, tap-tap, 
 until I wondered if Cathy ever intended to sit down. 
 I know when a sudden silence did at last come, I 
 heaved a sigh of relief, only to hear it broken again 
 by further and even more excitable heel-tappings which
 
 SEA WRACK 279 
 
 took on a sharper, angrier note, and at last came flying 
 down-stairs with such a tap-a-tap, tap-a-tap, tap-a-tap, 
 that I fairly wrinWed up my forehead in dismay. 
 Then the door shot open and Cathy rushed pell-mell 
 into the room, very flushed, very sparkling, very shrill, 
 to exclaim loudly: 
 
 "This, this! what have you to say to this? Now 
 I 've found out, now I understand ! What can you say ; 
 what can you dare to say ?" 
 
 There was no need to question or show bewilder- 
 ment; the whole think was so tragically simple, there 
 was a coat on her arm, a crumpled paper in her 
 hand : the complete answer. . . . 
 
 She went on in her furious, lashing way : 
 
 "Cheat you 've been to me ! -Cheated me all along, 
 that 's what you 've done ! Kept me out of my rights, 
 kept me pinching and starving, living on here in this 
 poky bit of a hole, working my fingers to the bone, 
 so you can fling your money away on these wretched 
 old fields! Fine sport of me you've made; fine sort 
 of husband you make!" 
 
 I don't think her breath could carry her on any 
 further, for she ended with a kind of hysterical gasp. 
 I had n't the courage to look at Andrew, and I did n't ; 
 but I heard him say, and I marveled at the quiet of 
 his voice, "Cathy, let me explain. I beg of you, let 
 me explain." 
 
 But she was hard then, hard as two flints and as piti- 
 less. All the pretty pointed look seemed to have died
 
 280 SEA WRACK 
 
 clean away seemed to have sharpened her face and 
 put an edge to it, narrowed 'her mouth exactly to fit 
 the stabs and cuts she shrilled out. 
 
 "Explain?" I tell you that tongue had a two-edged 
 cut to it! "Explain? Thank you, thank you very 
 much indeed ! but you* can keep your explanations to 
 yourself ! There 's enough here for me, plenty for any 
 day, I can promise you. You can talk as much as you 
 like, and I dare say you Ve got a pretty lot to say, 
 but you can save yourself the trouble. I can read, and 
 that 's all I care about." 
 
 And Andrew still went on: "Cathy, I don't think 
 you understand; I don't want to make excuses, but I 
 want to explain. I want to tell you how how this 
 thing came about. Let me ! please let me !" 
 
 I looked up at him sharply, for it seemed incredible 
 that he could ever imagine that Cathy would possibly 
 understand everything anything that had to do with 
 Tarnia. And yet, was there something else to ex- 
 plain? And how else was it possible to account for 
 that strangely wistful expression: an expression that 
 might even show signs of intense eagerness? 
 
 I think his steady persistence maddened her all the 
 more; she took him up sharply and violently; she cried 
 out: 
 
 "Then I don't want to understand; you can't talk 
 me over, and the sooner you learn that the better! 
 You did the asking ; did n't you ? And a precious lit- 
 tle you had to offer: why, if it had n't been for father 
 giving us a roof, wherabouts would you have put
 
 SEA WRACK '281 
 
 me, I 'd like to know ? The cunning of you ! You 
 with a place as big as a castle at your back! I sup- 
 pose I was n't good enough for it ? That 's about all 
 you 've got to explain !" 
 
 I could n't stick that. She might refuse to listen to 
 Andrew, but I swore I 'd make her hear me. I ex- 
 claimed passionately : 
 
 "Now, that's wrong; that's an infamous wrong! 
 There was never a lie about Andrew. He had what 
 he had, and little as it was he offered it you, and you 
 accepted. He was lied over with this, lied and cheated 
 even, right and left, never mind how, but he was; it 
 was only when Miss Swinsco died he knew : she told 
 him ; it was her way to spite Ayerst. That 's when 
 he knew ; that 's the explanation." 
 
 She gave a sort of laugh, very high and treble in 
 tone. 
 
 "So you were in this, were you? I might have 
 known that ; you always had something up against me ; 
 you 'd like to do me out of all you could. That 's the 
 truth, is it? Pretty sort of truth, I think. We were 
 married then ; I suppose you put him up to these ideas 
 how to treat a wife?" 
 
 Then Andrew boomed at my shoulder: "By God. 
 Penrose, will you keepr out of this? I'll do the 
 speaking, see? It's my job, not yours!" And he 
 shoved me with a brown naked arm back against the 
 window. He cried out to Cathy : "I say, Cathy, this 
 is terrible, utterly terrible! You must think the most 
 hideous things of me, and you 're right enough to
 
 282 SEA WRACK 
 
 think them! No, I'm not going to defend myself; 
 but I want to tell you tell you and I hope you may 
 understand, tell you " 
 
 But she was in at him again, crying shrilly: "I tell 
 you I don't care ! I don't ! I don't ! I don't ! You 
 had some reason, some mad reason; you're full of 
 them, but it's nothing to me; nothing, do you hear, 
 nothing!" 
 
 Then quite suddenly her whole face, her whole atti- 
 tude, seemed to change, to become screwed and pinched 
 with suspicion and passion. She cried out savagely : 
 
 "But I know, I do know; you can't fool me! It 
 was her, because of her you did it, some plot between 
 the two of you; that 's what it was! That 's why you 
 would n't go to the dance ; that 's why you 'd never go 
 near the place ! I might have known. I did know : 
 there was plenty of artfulness behind her quiet ways; 
 she liked you well enough as a lover, but she took 
 good care to have Ayerst and his money-bags to keep 
 house with her !" 
 
 Somehow Andrew had got hold of her thin wrists, 
 forcing her up against him. He said thickly : "Ca- 
 thy, Cathy, you must stop, do you hear? You 're not 
 to say those things ! They 're lies, lies, and not for 
 you to speak. You Ve got to go easier, think easier ; 
 you must, you simply don't realize all you 're saying!" 
 
 She pulled away from him furiously. 
 
 "Realize ! that 's just what I do, lots of things now, 
 and one of 'em you can't deny; you had a liking for 
 her, that you can't!"
 
 SEA WRACK 283 
 
 Andrew let her go, turning away to the door; he put 
 his hand up to his forehead and pushed away the hair 
 that had tumbled there. 
 
 "That 's so," he answered drearily: "That's so. I 
 
 don't deny it " He checked himself, then on a 
 
 sudden impulse said quietly : "And you 'd better know 
 I should never want to." 
 
 Cathy stood watching him, rubbing her wrists with 
 swift kneading fingers, not speaking for the moment, 
 but so tight about the mouth that you could virtually 
 see her busy little mind sharpening itself to the last de- 
 gree before breaking out afresh : 
 
 "You've a way of saying things, haven't you? 
 Pity I did n't learn it ; pity I have n't said a bit more 
 all this time back; might have done you some good; 
 might have put some end to all your high ways. You 
 thought you were clever, keeping your likings from 
 me ; tried to hide it up behind Jockey ; made out you 
 were a devoted father! You! . . ." She laughed 
 and flung back her head : "Father, you ! Why, it 
 makes me laugh laugh. I '11 show you how it makes 
 me laugh." 
 
 And she whisked through the door and was calling, 
 "Jockey, Jockey! where are you? Come here now, 
 sharply, can't you?*' 
 
 And came back dragging the child with her, a rather 
 mystified, panting Jiockey, with hay clinging to him 
 and m'ud on his jersey. Andrew cried out with some 
 show of temper: "Look here, Cathy, I'll not have 
 Jockey brought into this!"
 
 284 SEA WRACK 
 
 Her eyes mocked him; she said scornfully: "You 
 won't, won't you ? You Ve got to ! To look at your 
 son you poor fool you, your son!" 
 
 And she laughed again and twisted the little chap's 
 face up to Andrew, now staring in bewilderment. 
 "Your son, eh?" she went on. "Like you, isn't he? 
 Like as two peas, are n'-t you ? Like me a little, p'raps, 
 but a bigger likeness I 'm thinking to some one else : 
 what do you say of Ayerst, fool? What have you got 
 to say to that name? How would you like to hear 
 him called 'father'?" 
 
 Andrew muttered: "Ayerst, Ayerst?" and looked 
 blank. 
 
 She went on ruthlessly. "Deaf, are you? Ayerst, 
 that 's what I said; 'father,' that 's what I mean. . . ." 
 
 It was trying to rain : heavy fat drops splashing with 
 a sickly lumpishness on the stones in the yard. I be- 
 gan to be stupidly attentive to its sound, wondering 
 whether it would break out again: even counting it 
 in a sort of dogged, determined way. 
 
 "One, two, three," I made out, then a pause. 
 "Four," I muttered, "five, six, seven," all rather hur- 
 ried and breathless, then a dead stop. I strained ea- 
 gerly, "Eight, nine . . ." "Ten," I whispered glee- 
 fully, "ten," and waited with every nerve on the 
 alert in most frantic desire it would start again, and 
 let me be occupied wtih some other trifle to shut out 
 all sound, all thought. "Ten," I repeated huskily: 
 "Ten. . . ," It had ceased. Instead of anything
 
 SEA WRACK 285 
 
 so sweet as falling rain I heard Andrew's voice 
 cracked, stammering: 
 
 "You are telling me telling me. . . ." 
 
 Then Cathy, impatient and short : "I 've told : 
 you Ve but to look and use your eyes ; it 's plain 
 enough!" 
 
 And Andrew his face covered, his body bowed and 
 shaking: "I can't, I can't!" 
 
 She was looking at him half scornfully, half boast- 
 fully: hands on her hips, with the palms turned out- 
 ward, pressing up against the table with its soiled 
 crockery. Jockey had slipped into a far corner with 
 Gulliver, raising the flaps of those soft ears to croon 
 into them. There was still the same peaceful, slumber- 
 ous air about the room as when Andrew and I had 
 lounged over cider only a short time ago. You 
 would have thought nothing had happened, nothing had 
 changed, until you saw that crouching figure up against 
 the wall. . . . 
 
 She answered tartly: "Well, if you won't, you 
 won't!" She drew a hair-pin from her head and be- 
 gan to jab at her hair with it. She went on sharply: 
 "You thought you would fool me; well, I fooled 
 you first, and I fancy I fooled her into the bar- 
 gain!" 
 
 She stabbed the pin back into her head and leaned 
 forward on the table, her voice taking on a high trium- 
 phant note. 
 
 "Right under your nose ! I had my chance, I took
 
 286 SEA WRACK 
 
 it, in London; they were honeymooning, I was there 
 with cousins. She can be as proud as she likes and 
 as fine : too fine for Ay erst, that was it ; too much of 
 a good thing for him. He and I we got on together; 
 that 's how it was." She stopped: for an instant she 
 was more the petulant, irritated Cathy of old, cross as 
 two sticks because there was a hitch over something, 
 but mighty set on getting it her own way somehow. 
 She said viciously : "Need n't think I 'm ashamed ; I 'm 
 not ; you 'd better know that. Why should I be ? He 
 took me out ; where 's the reason that I should n't go ? 
 I drove with him ; dined with him, too : why should n't 
 I? I like a bit of fun: who wouldn't? He was 
 dull : I made up to him that 's all ! Afterward well, 
 the rest was easy, easier than I thought. You were 
 so serious so serious and so blind! I knew what 
 you wanted, more than you thought I knew; well, I 
 gave you it, did n't I ? Properly, too, as it turns 
 out; you poor loon of a man!" 
 
 The sting in her voice would have made the least 
 sensitive of men flinch my God, it was frightful ! It 
 must have cut Andrew: bitten into him like a salted 
 lash, for I never saw a man's face so knotted and 
 drawn, so twisted and seamed with unbearable suffer- 
 ing. He had spun round on her, shrieking out : "Stop ! 
 stop! stop! stop, I say! My God, my God, will you 
 not have done?" He stood staring at her like a man 
 tranfixed by some terrible spectacle, his fingers knot- 
 ted, and bunched up against his mouth, his eyes strain- 
 ing out from their sockets as if he could see her clear
 
 SEA WRACK 287 
 
 enough. He said slowly, speaking with caution, as if 
 contemplating each word as it left his lips : 
 
 "You 're lying, you must be ; how could it be other- 
 wise ? Lying and you 're going to confess that lie 
 before you leave this room. A bit of bravado, per- 
 haps ! some joke some foolish, boastful joke-. Well, 
 I don't understand your sort of fun : something about 
 me can't seem to see it. But I '11 laugh with you, 
 Cathy ! That 's what I want to do laugh the roof 
 off! But be sure first be sure of you, of myself 
 of Jockey. Be certain of this fun." 
 
 He stopped suddenly. His face alive with fear, pa- 
 nic, the veins standing out on his neck like corded pur- 
 ple streaks. In a sort of flash he had hold of her 
 shoulders, pressing them hard and shouting: 
 
 "You can't speak, can you ? There 's no answer to 
 to give, is that it? No joke left between us because 
 you 've had it, no laugh to be laughed because you 've 
 had that also with Ayerst with Ayerst; the two of 
 you!" 
 
 She was struggling and fighting in a vain endeavor 
 to free herself. 
 
 "Let me go, take your hands away ; you beast, beast, 
 you're hurting, hurting!" 
 
 He let her go ; he said very quietly : "I see. It 's 
 written in your face, in your eyes. I understand; 
 I was a fool to have believed thought as I did 
 your eyes, they can't lie, can't lie." 
 
 Cathy was still exclaiming, whimpering and furious. 
 "Beast, beast, beast !"
 
 288 SEA WRACK 
 
 He looked at her strangely. "Things seem to come 
 in come in. ... Is this the end? It must be, must 
 be! I have waited long enough. Endured. . . ." 
 He checked himself, turned on his heel and out of the 
 door; I could hear his feet clattering on the stones, 
 then growing to a softer thudding as he reached the 
 farther yard. 
 
 I must have stood for a long time stupefied and 
 dazed, staring out of the window: at least it seemed 
 ages to me, though I imagine only a matter of a few 
 minutes. I wanted, you see, to go after Andrew: I 
 had a sort of vague idea I ought to keep him in sight, 
 it was n't good for him to be alone, and yet I 
 seemed to be fixed and stuck where I was, revolving 
 innumerable thoughts and questions unable even to 
 understand them, much less find any answer. Then I 
 heard Cathy speaking, rather defiant and bitter : 
 
 "S'pose you think I 've acted badly? Ill treated 
 him or something ! I 've paid him back in his own 
 coin, that's all ; he did a rotten thing on me. I 'm no 
 worse." 
 
 I said, "No worse?" And stared at her dumbly. 
 "No worse?" 
 
 She looked very sullen. "Of course you take his 
 side." 
 
 "It 's pretty different, is n't it ? He 's not wronged 
 you so deeply as that : he would n't ask you to forgive 
 him, you know. You 've said hard things. I suppose
 
 SEA WRACK 289 
 
 you thought them right ones. You 've smashed him 
 down down, deeper than you or I can ever imagine. 
 Well, I suppose you know best. If it was revenge 
 you were after, you 've won all through." 
 
 She answered in the same sulky way : "Why should 
 I be done out of my due ? Why should I do without 
 because of her? He put her before me. ... I 'm 
 in for my own now !" 
 
 I said doubtfully : "You 've never wanted, Cathy ; 
 you 've not been grudged anything. You may have 
 started here in a small way, but it 's grown to a big 
 enough one : he worked for you, give him that credit ; 
 he never idled a single day, so as to make the next a 
 better one!" 
 
 She retorted snappishly: "Do you think I wanted 
 a working-man for a husband all my life? Ayerst is 
 a gentleman up there ; she 's a rare lady ! Andrew may 
 own the whole land round here, for all I care ; there 's 
 a difference right enough. Why should I do without 
 it? That 's what I want to know." 
 
 I said heavily, "Well, I suppose you Ve got it right 
 enough." 
 
 She nodded triumphantly. "I 'm going to make 
 sure of it!" She caught hold of Jockey, making an 
 attempt to slide past her. "No, you don't ; you 're 
 coming with me upstairs first, though: I want you 
 cleaner than that. Sharp 's the word for you." 
 
 I stammered out, "Cathy, Cathy, what are you go- 
 ing to do?" 
 
 She was pushing the reluctant Jockey out of the
 
 290 SEA WRACK 
 
 room; she paused as she followed to cry over her 
 shoulder : 
 
 "What do you think? Do you think I'm going to 
 let things hang on until Andrew thinks proper? Not 
 I ! Up to Coltons I 'm going, to have a word with 
 her, and one or two with Ayerst for that matter. I 'm 
 not for leaving any stone unturned." 
 
 She had slammed the door in my face, and I heard 
 her scolding Jockey up the stairs. She was going on 
 with the business, then; going on. ... 
 
 I went after Andrew ; I could n't find him. I found, 
 instead, some hot and sweating farm laborer drinking 
 cold tea from a can, who gave me his whereabouts. 
 Down to the blacksmith to get the horse which had 
 been left there; he 'd wheeled the gig along with him, 
 striding along at no end of a pace, going on some- 
 where, that was certain. ... I might catch up with 
 him before he started if I 'd race for it. I did liter- 
 ally my feet bounded over the road. I cursed myself 
 for uselessly staying with Cathy. I ought to have 
 been with Andrew ; it was there I was wanted : at his 
 side not hers. I caught him driving at a furious 
 rate up the village street : I knew that sort of driving. 
 I planted myself full in front of the racing horse and 
 trap : he pulled to one side, shouting furiously : 
 
 "Damn you, Penrose, keep out of my way." 
 
 I caught at the side and shouted back, "A word with 
 you first, Andrew." 
 
 He laughed in my face. "Not one, before God, 
 not one!" And pulled at the horse so that the brute
 
 SEA WRACK 291 
 
 swung up with its head and plunged to the middle of 
 the road again, dragging me with it, jolting up against 
 the side of the cart. He cried furiously: "Get away, 
 you fool ! Keep your hands off !" 
 
 I persisted breathlessly : "You 're going to see Ay- 
 erst?" 
 
 "What if I am; what if I am?" 
 
 I answered him ; "Then I '11 come with you ; I swear 
 I will!" 
 
 He went very white, and then very red. "I '11 swear 
 you don't ! I have a word with Ayerst, and I '11 say 
 it alone ! I 've something to give Ayerst ; I '11 do it 
 by myself, with my own hands ; there 's no need for 
 the two of us." 
 
 I cried passionately, "Think, man, think." 
 
 "I 've finished with that ! I 'm doing now doing, 
 do you hear? I've done with thoughts!" 
 
 I put my foot upon the wheel's axle. "I 'm with 
 you, Andrew!" 
 
 "You 're not, you 're not ! Get your foot off that 
 wheel." 
 
 I cried out at him, "I '11 not let you go alone !" 
 
 "I '11 ride you down first !" 
 
 "I tell you I 'm coming up!" 
 
 He flamed down at me, "Out of my way, out of it, 
 I say." 
 
 I made another attempt : "You 're forgetting." 
 
 But he pulled at the reins. "No one, no one ! Not 
 even Ayerst!" And let the horse out with a lash of 
 the whip. The violence of that plunge sent me flying
 
 292 SEA WRACK 
 
 on the grassy bank, but I was too tough to notice the 
 stumble, and on my feet again staring up the road 
 after the racing cart. Even then he had turned and 
 yelled something back: in that rattle of wheels and 
 choking dust I just heard it. 
 
 "Look after Jockey; he '11 need you." 
 
 I know I observed with some surprise at the end 
 of the lane he branched off to the left, away from Colt- 
 Harrow, not toward it. Then I remembered it was 
 market day at Spilsbury, and a particular holiday af- 
 fair with Ayerst, when he would arrive at the George 
 in time for an ample dinner, and remain in the town 
 until well after supper, leaving at a pretty late hour. 
 He always treated this jaunt with a kind of flourish, 
 rattling by on the high dog-cart, with a gentle look of 
 inquiry in the direction of the cottage, returning with 
 a glimmer of lamps in the darkness and an extra crack 
 of the whip as a kind of salute. 
 
 I remember also how with a kind of patient dog- 
 gedness Andrew had labored through those days with 
 making schemes to avoid him : getting away early in 
 the morning, cutting back by some rough bridle-path, 
 keeping his head away in the market-place. Once 
 when I had been with him he explained this with the 
 apologetic remark, "I can't trust myself if I come to 
 close quarters ; it 's best to keep a good space between 
 us, for the boy's sake, anyway." 
 
 And the irony of fate had it that it should be on,
 
 SEA WRACK 293 
 
 account of that child he was out now deliberately to 
 make that meeting! I began to wonder where he 
 would find Ayerst: in the market-place itself, in the 
 streets, in the George, on the road back? I could see 
 them both; Ayerst with the queer twist to his crooked 
 mouth, and the odd flicker of amused inquiry beneath 
 his pale lids. Andrew ... I shut my eyes hard and 
 tight as if the picture was too real, too terrible. I 
 could only see those great strong brown hands, burnt 
 by the sun, hard by the earth, compassionate with all 
 the compassion of a woman, but frightful, horrible to 
 behold, when raised to punish! 
 
 "An eye lor an eye, a tooth for a tooth. ..." 
 How many years back had that been carved on tablets 
 of stone? Not so very long, surely; it was too fresh, 
 too ready to leap into its own! So many times and 
 the thing had been flaunted before my eyes; so many 
 times . . . Once, anyway, that night at the Smuggler's 
 Arms; twice the thing was positive, with Andrew 
 racing down the road, seeing it marked blood-red be- 
 fore his eyes as he drove. . . . 
 
 It was the carrier's cart that aroused me, ambling 
 up the lane from Ditchling "Old." This lumbering 
 thing did business between Colt-Harrow and Boston, 
 calling at most of the villages on its way ; just in time 
 for me, I thought. I wanted to get to Coltons ; in my 
 poor way I might be some good there : here I could 
 do nothing but wait, scan the road, and count the 
 minutes, watching and waiting, not daring hardly to 
 think what it was that I actually waited for.
 
 294 SEA WRACK 
 
 The jolting of the cart sent my thoughts whirling 
 round again, this time with Cathy. I supposed she 
 was with Tarnia ; she might even have left. That did 
 not matter : Tarnia knew knew. 
 
 Frightful, frightful knowledge. I thought of Cathy 
 telling; I thought of that violent grain of commonness 
 that had so suddenly made itself clear in each word 
 she had spoken that very afternoon. It was astonish- 
 ing how it had leaked out, in every sentence, in every 
 word; and I could hear it again between the creaking 
 of the wheels slamming out in its boastful vulgar way 
 as she told this hideous truth to Tarnia. And yet be- 
 tween these two women so oddly matched there was 
 something in common: for I know it struck me how 
 strange a thing it was that each in her own way grudged 
 the other so much. . . . 
 
 You can picture me, then, heavily trudging up the 
 sodden drive to the house, with a leaden heart and 
 every particle of spirit I ever had hopelessly gone 
 from me. 
 
 Tarnia herself met me at the door; Tarnia herself 
 led me into some room and to a seat in the win- 
 dow. . . . Led me? Oh, yes, that is right enough! 
 I was suddenly completely dependent on her not she 
 on me! I was suddenly looking to her for comfort, 
 realizing I was too old, far, far too old a man, aware 
 of thick, painful chokings in my throat and hot burn- 
 ing tears from my eyes. So we sat, the two of us, 
 me with my foolish head buried close in my arms, she 
 with one hand on my shoulder, saying all manner of
 
 SEA WRACK 295 
 
 gentle things, compassionate things, to me poor help- 
 less old fool that I was to me ! who had gone to her 
 so hoping to offer the one thing she now gave so fully 
 support, courage ! I could hear her whispering over 
 and over again, "O my friend, my good friend my 
 very good friend! . . ." 
 
 And then after a little while, "I wish I could cry. 
 Oh, how I wish it !" 
 
 Between my fingers I muttered : "O my God, my 
 God ! this is frightful, frightful !" With a wild effort 
 I stammered out at her: 
 
 "You 've seen Cathy, seen her?" 
 
 She nodded. "She 's just gone." 
 
 I blew my nose with a most terrific blow. "I never 
 saw her on the way." 
 
 "She went through the garden, taking the field path; 
 it 's a rather shorter way back." 
 
 I suddenly was obsessed with a mad desire to laugh. 
 The whole thing seemed ridiculous, utterly comic: 
 hardly a few hours back and this most fearful hap- 
 pening, now Tarnia and I sitting side by side, the 
 one with absurd womanly tears, the other explaining 
 quietly matters of direction and short cuts ! It seemed 
 ludicrous, it was ludicrous. I gave a kind of croak that 
 might have been a cry or a laugh. I said very loud, 
 too loud: 
 
 "How is it going to end ? that 's what I want to 
 know. How can it possibly end ?" 
 
 She leaned back a little in her chair shading her 
 face with her hand.
 
 296 SEA WRACK 
 
 "That is why I am glad you came ; I want to talk 
 it out with you. There is so much that must be 
 done." 
 
 I was amazed at her fortitude, and I could only stare 
 at her blankly. I said desperately: "I would have 
 spared you if I could. I wish to heaven I had been 
 able to see you before Cathy." 
 
 She answered quietly: "I think it was better from 
 her. . . ." She said with a sharp intake of breath: 
 "Quicker said, quicker finished. . . ." 
 
 I knew that quickness! I exclaimed, "You can 
 trust Cathy for that!" 
 
 She said gravely, as if making an effort to excuse 
 that bitter tongue : "She saw Ayerst, you see ; I don't 
 think she expected that. It seemed to make her lose 
 all control." 
 
 I asked startled : "Ayerst ? Was n't he in Spils- 
 bury?" 
 
 "Not to-day: there was a horse he wanted to buy; 
 it was brought over for trial, so he stayed away. Why 
 do you ask?" 
 
 I muttered, coward-fashion : "Nothing, nothing." 
 
 She looked puzzled. She went on, "Ayerst had 
 wronged her all through." She repeated, "Yes, Ay- 
 erst." She seemed suddenly to start into most domin- 
 ant life. "Where is Andrew? You have n't told me. 
 How did you leave him?" She paused, her fingers 
 pleating this way and that the soft stuff of her dress. 
 "Why did you leave him?" She whispered furiously: 
 "Why?"
 
 SEA WRACK 297 
 
 There was something startling in this sudden change, 
 something that took me unawares and made me stam- 
 mer feebly: "Why? Why? . . . He would not 
 have me with him." 
 
 She asked again, "Then where has he gone ? What 
 is he doing?" 
 
 I tried to pull myself out of this most depressing 
 state of lethargy which held on to me so fast. I 
 blurted out: "To Spilsbury; he went to Spilsbury." 
 Then I suppose I must have realized how I had said 
 more than I ever intended to; I cried out in sudden 
 alarm rather for her sake than Andrew's : "But, if 
 Ayerst is not there, it does n't matter; it 's all right 
 bound to be all right!" 
 
 She retorted impatiently: "Is it? Is it? Do you 
 think it matters to Andrew where Ayerst may be? 
 Because he is not at one place, will he stop looking in 
 another?" 
 
 I said desperately, "Why, there will be time at 
 least. ..." 
 
 She broke in on me passionately : "Time for what ? 
 Too much of it, I tell you! Too much!" She bent 
 nearer to me, crying out, "Ayerst! Where do you 
 think Ayerst is now?" 
 
 I only stared at her stupidly and she went on : 
 "Out there, out there somewhere doing something, 
 planning something: Ayerst once again pitting him- 
 self against Andrew! And you let him go out; you 
 let him go alone ! O my God, this is too horrible, hor- 
 rible!"
 
 298 SEA WRACK 
 
 I cried out, "Ayerst! Why, my dear, what chance 
 do you think Ayerst has against Andrew?" 
 
 She beat the palms of her, hands on the polished 
 arms of her chair. 
 
 "Fool, fool! Have you not learned of him yet? I 
 tell you I know Ayerst, if you have forgotten. What 
 is Andrew, for all his strength, his bigness, if you like 
 what has he ever been against the cunning of Ay- 
 erst? Nothing, I tell you nothing!" 
 
 I know I stared at her literally aghast. Why had I 
 been so wrapped up in Andrew and what he might do 
 to Ayerst, as to forget all that he in turn might do to 
 Andrew? Mad, mad, crazily mad to have forgotten, 
 to have passed over so much that was now so poignantly 
 obvious ! 
 
 I stammered out, "What makes you think this? 
 Did Ayerst say anything, show any signs?" 
 
 She shook her head. "Do you think I don't 
 know?" She went on: "There is something about 
 Ayerst. . . . Had you seen him with Cathy, had you 
 watched his face, seen it change, and change again, 
 you would know better what I mean. He was fright- 
 ened horribly frightened. ..." 
 
 There was something ghostly in the silence that fol- 
 lowed. We both sat staring at each other, and if 
 there was horror in her eyes, I swear she could see it 
 reflected in mine. And all the time between our two 
 faces I seemed to see a vision of that other Ayerst 
 Hangdog Ayerst slinking and trembling at every
 
 SEA WRACK 299 
 
 footstep; white- faced and shambling, sweating in 
 every part of his body; seemingly hunted to earth, yet 
 all the time sharpening his cunning sharpening this 
 way and that, this way and that. 
 
 I got to my feet, and I know my hand was shaking 
 as I reached out for my hat. "I had better go," I 
 muttered. . . . "Do something." 
 
 I heard Tarnia murmur in most commonplace fash- 
 ion : "It is raining again ; you '11 get very wet." And 
 then she changed to sudden furious energy, as she ex- 
 claimed : 
 
 "Get hold of Andrew; that is what you must do. 
 Find him, stay with him; don't leave him never 
 leave him ; and I swear to you I will do the same with 
 Ayerst !" 
 
 I could actually feel my eyebrows tickling my bald 
 head. I gasped back, "With Ayerst? You will do 
 that, knowing his mood?" 
 
 She retorted scornfully, "Who else? Who else?" 
 She flung out her arms as if with sudden complete 
 abandon she at that moment flung hope and all its min- 
 ions from her, to cry desperately: "Oh, this rain! 
 It terrifies, terrifies ! . . . I think of those two follow- 
 ing each other round in its very midst, blinded by it, 
 drowned by it ! Who would have thought there could 
 be so much horror in falling rain ? . . ." 
 
 I tried to soothe her by inarticulate, meaningless 
 sounds, so empty and crazy you could not take them 
 for words: they simply do not matter; I only know
 
 3 oo SEA WRACK 
 
 neither of us spoke again until I stood at the foot of 
 those entrance steps, when she called after me: 
 
 "He cringed as he spoke to Cathy he left here 
 cringing."
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 CRINGING! That was exactly it; that was ex- 
 actly the frightful word that aroused all too 
 frightful thoughts in my mind in Tarnia's. Cring- 
 ing: as he had been when he forged that check and 
 crushed, with one frantic hammer-blow, his father's 
 life; as he had been when he fumbled and sweated in 
 coward-panic with that same father's body not so many 
 years back. Cringing! Horrible, horrible word! . . . 
 
 For virtually half the way down the slope, that was 
 the only thought which held my mind. It seemed as if 
 a thousand ghostlike fingers were bent on pressing it 
 and it alone, in and out of my frozen brain. . . . 
 "Ayerst cringing! Do you hear, do you understand? 
 Cringing: and out of that what may happen? Out of 
 that how much may come?" 
 
 In a most desperate fashion I tried to shake myself 
 free of this horror, to get away from it and face things 
 with a calmer, steadier spirit; to clear up my mind for 
 a meeting with Andrew, for some plan some reason- 
 able scheme to keep him with me when I saw him once 
 again. Yet all the time it was Ayerst, Ayerst ! Ay- 
 erst only I kept on seeing, hearing, watching, dread- 
 
 301
 
 302 SEA WRACK 
 
 ing! That white twitching face, the pale mockery 
 twinkling out from beneath those paler lids, that odd 
 twisted mouth and the selfsame odd twisted smile. 
 . . . Here, at my side, as I staggered along, keeping 
 step with me in every step I took : Ayerst, Ayerst, 
 forever Ayerst! 
 
 I stood still for a moment partly to get back some of 
 my breath, for this driving rain made walking no 
 easy matter, partly to see if it was possible to catch 
 sight of Cathy and the boy; for although they had 
 had the start on me, yet I judged myself a sturdier 
 walker even in this infernal deluge than either of them ! 
 
 There was mighty little I could make out through 
 that curtain of rain; I had to peer and peer again, see- 
 ing precious little farther than a yard or so beyond, 
 rain getting behind my glasses and forcing its way 
 into my eyes shutting them up and making me blink 
 and smart and blinder than ever; rain crawling down 
 my coat tickling my spine and making my shirt cling 
 to my skin in most depressing, clammy patches; rain 
 everywhere, cutting, tearing, stabbing rain. . . . 
 
 And it was just as I gave it up as a bad job and pre- 
 pared to stagger on that something happened, some- 
 thing entirely terrific happened, then and there as I 
 stood. 
 
 From out of that rain, from the very midst of its 
 immensity, thundered a horse. Huge, blundering 
 beast, with huge tearing hoofs clawing and slithering 
 at the sodden ground, sending stones and mud helter- 
 skelter behind them, water from its mane, water from
 
 SEA WRACK 303 
 
 its tail; the sweat of its body and the rain that had 
 drenched it, making great ruddles all about its sorrel 
 coat. . . . Quick as it had come, quicker still had it 
 passed ! But not before I had recognized one strangely 
 bewildering thing its fear, its mad, mad terror! In 
 a flash and it had gone, disappearing into the rain 
 with the same speed as it had appeared out of it, yet 
 there had been time enough to mark down the panic 
 of that rush. . . . Great straining eyeballs staring in 
 the most wild and passionate frenzy, lumps and strands 
 of froth over its chest and legs, stained bloody where 
 it clung about that swollen tongue flopping sideways 
 from that gaping mouth: flattened ears something 
 very frightful in the way those ears were pressed rigid 
 and flat to the top of its head something very fright- 
 ful, too, in its way of breathing: not merely that gasp- 
 ing breath of some spent runner, but breath that was 
 literally coughed out in great racking sobs . . . sobs 
 of fear, of horror that was it horror, unknown, 
 mysterious horror. 
 
 Let it be said at once I knew the horse, a stallion re- 
 cently purchased by Andrew, and greatly prized by 
 him; but I rather think that knowledge perplexed me 
 all the more. What in the name of everything was 
 a horse of his doing up here? And why that wild 
 gallop? Why? Why? Why? 
 
 And all at once I found myself echoing Tarnia's 
 despair: "I hate this rain, it terrifies, terrifies . . ."
 
 3 o 4 SEA WRACK 
 
 Now now it did terrify. It was too thick, too heavy ; 
 it muffled out sound; it cut away sight! Behind it, 
 what was behind . . . ? I started to peer again for 
 Cathy; somehow I felt I must see the two of them, 
 must for the very reason I was so sure they could not 
 yet have reached the cottage. I think then a kind of 
 panic must have seized me. I began to do all manner 
 of foolish things in a completely foolish way: to run 
 a few steps down the lane, and then stop and fumble 
 off my spectacles and wipe them and put them on again 
 and start forward again ; and it was then, as I stumbled 
 and stared, I began to hear something, be aware of 
 other sounds over and above the beating rain : different 
 quite different. ... I listened again : a kind of dull 
 booming noise, a faint rumble in the far distance. I 
 thought, "Guns," and immediately knew the folly of 
 such an idea. I muttered, "Thunder," and stared up- 
 ward with most sickly desperation. An immense sky, 
 that was all, stretching far and away on> all sides of 
 me : vast, black, enormous and yet, it was n't thunder, 
 I knew that. I think I was as certain then as I had 
 been . . . from the first. Not thunder . . . 
 
 And I was suddenly most painfully aware that I 
 could see, rather well, if not distinctly for this time 
 the wall of rain seemed to have thinned the vapor that 
 clung to it and to the earth, to have cleared; I was 
 seeing seeing. . . . No land, but beneath me, as I 
 stood, water, immense plains of rushing water, im- 
 mense movement of surging water. ... I think at 
 that instant my heart stood still and I with it! I be-
 
 SEA WRACK 305 
 
 lieve now the rain was tearing down with even greater 
 violence than before: I didn't notice it; how could I? 
 Right ahead of me it was as if the sea itself had 
 broken up to the foot of the Wold! Rushing, rush- 
 ing, forever rushing. I could see it now; my God! 
 how clearly I could see ! On, on, on ! Would it never 
 stop? Now rising up like a mountain, now sweeping 
 forward like some vast plain, leaving behind gigantic 
 bubbles of white froth; shooting out on its front nar- 
 row steams, only to be gathered time and again into 
 that advancing sheet of churning water. . . . 
 
 It was then I saw a goodish bit below, and, to my 
 right as I stood, Cathy and the boy buffeting along 
 down the hill. Even as I looked she had bent and 
 picked up Jockey, yet only to stagger still on down- 
 ward down to the death-giving water. Was she 
 blinder than I had been ? Deafer than I ? So wrapped 
 in her thoughts she could n't see, would n't listen ? 
 
 I began to run, run as I have never run before, slip- 
 ping and stumbling zigzag down the slope, cupping 
 my hands as I raced, to shriek aloud, tearing my coat 
 from me to get along easier. Once I slipped and fell 
 full on my face and was up again and on again and 
 screaming aloud again, and all the time my shouting 
 seemed to be drowned by the shouting of that water 
 ... '7 come, I come! I am death! I am 
 death! . . ." 
 
 You may think I am mad ; possibly then I was mad ; 
 but I say, and will say to my dying day, it was as 
 if that enormous flood deliberately pitched its voice
 
 306 SEA WRACK 
 
 against mine, chanted it on high, I tell you chanted 
 it out to the world in the madness of its race : "I come, 
 I come! I am death, I am death, I come, I come! . . ." 
 I screamed aloud: "Cathy! Cathy! . . ." But 
 the words only seemed to be hurtled back in my face : 
 "Cathy, Cathy! ..." I don't know if she heard, but 
 something stopped her and then I believe she realized 
 It was as she stood that the thing happened, as she 
 turned and I saw the tragic whiteness of her face look' 
 ing back at me ; I suppose she slipped, or Jockey wrig- 
 gled ... I shall never know. But in one second she 
 was down on her knees; in one second the boy was 
 out of her arms, and spinning down the slope. In 
 one second she had grasped him, missed and on that 
 mud and slime went pitching and sliding after him. 
 ... In one second, and the water had them. Held 
 them on high, and spun them round, flung them apart 
 and sucked them down, down, down. . . . Once I saw 
 them the green of Cathy's frock flung out wide like 
 a flag on the great face of that water; twice I saw 
 them one small hand tossed out dumbly protesting 
 against that howling fury; and that was all. All, 
 and there was only left that great waste of sea now 
 supreme in its desolation, supreme in its challenge, 
 its mockery its laughter: "Hal ha! ha! Here I 
 come, here I come! Ha! ha! ha! . . ." 
 
 3 
 
 I have always imagined that something broke up 
 inside me and gave way absolutely, entirely. I re-
 
 SEA WRACK 307 
 
 member how that soaked ground seemed to rise up 
 and hit me in the face. I remember how, in a kind 
 of frenzy, I dug my fingers into its slime and clung 
 there choking out all manner and kind of prayers and 
 oaths both to God and the devil. And all the time 
 my heart was crying aloud . . . "Jockey, Jockey! 
 Given into my charge, given into my care and what 
 have I done? Christ above, what can I say to An- 
 drew ... ?" Then, in my coward way yearning 
 for that climbing flood to reach out to me, yet realiz- 
 ing I was too high up too high up and having not 
 a grain of pluck to roll farther down! Despicable, 
 vile ! . . . Can you point out a man more vile ? And 
 it seemed as if I was strapped to the earth, held there 
 fast, unable to move, unable to stir kept there in a 
 kind of damnable stupor, sobbing into my mud-stained 
 fingers: "Jockey, Jockey! Into my charge, into my 
 charge! Jockey, Jockey! . . ." 
 
 And it was in the midst of this torment I heard 
 Tarnia, felt her fingers pulling at me as I sprawled. 
 She was crying; "Thank God, you're here, thank 
 God!" And as I made no sign to move she went on: 
 "You mustn't lie there; you mustn't! You're 
 drenched, simply drenched!" 
 
 With an effort I rolled over and stared up at her 
 as she knelt at my side. I croaked out : "You must 
 let me be, do you hear? Let me be! I'm waiting, 
 waiting for the water the water to rise." 
 
 Even in my anguish, I knew she was crying then. 
 I knew the water that poured down her face was not
 
 308 SEA WRACK 
 
 rain, but tears, great heavy tears. And yet her voice 
 was steady, steadier than mine, and rough even. . . . 
 Somehow I appreciated that roughness. "That 's not 
 like you," she was saying. "Not you ; you would n't 
 say that : you know too well there 's no good in wait- 
 ing." 
 
 I laughed in her face at that. "Why, that 's bravely 
 said ! No good in waiting for water that won't climb ; 
 no good in talking when your body won't move, when 
 your spirit funks !" 
 
 I saw her wince at that ; she cried out imploringly : 
 "No, no, I did n't mean that ; you know I did n't ! 
 But . . . drowned, what 's the good ? You 're 
 wanted even I may be wanted ; there 's Andrew ; we 
 must n't forget Andrew !" 
 
 I whispered, "Of course, Andrew; poor Andrew, 
 poor trusting Andrew!" 
 
 She went on, "Let me help you." And then called 
 out, "Come here, one of you, and help me with Mr. 
 Penrose." And I saw there were two or three men 
 with her standing about, staring and pointing and mut- 
 tering; one of them came over and gave me a hand. 
 I was shaking all over like any fool girl, trembling 
 at the knees, while my whole body was jarred by the 
 persistent rattling of every tooth in my head. I know 
 Tarnia had a great shawl, a kind of plaid, and she 
 swung it round me before I could protest, muffling 
 me hand and foot like a trussed fowl. 
 
 If you could have seen that great desert of flooded 
 land as I saw it then! If you could have watched
 
 SEA WRACK 309 
 
 that frightful, frightful riot of water as I watched it 
 from the Wold! . . . Empty of life, empty! yet 
 carrying its dead tearing and hurrying on and on with 
 its dead. . . . Not a roof, not a chimney, not a tree! 
 Only that tremendous space of leaping, mouthing 
 water ! Sometimes it was just possible to discern great 
 whirling, plunging masses thundering up against each 
 other, breaking apart and darting away in terrific dis- 
 order. Once, I remember, the carcass of a cow, its 
 heavy vacant face, with twisted horns, jammed secure 
 in what was apparently once its shed. Once, I remem- 
 ber, solitary and aloof, a wicker chair, bobbing along as 
 if at peace with all the world, serene even in the midst 
 of this tumult. . . . 
 
 I heard Tarnia speaking, her mouth very close up 
 to my ear: "There may have been some chance in 
 Ditchling: they had boats." 
 
 What did I care about Ditchling? I could only 
 cry in my despair, "Why not here ; why not up here ?" 
 
 She knew my thoughts, and I felt her press nearer 
 to me, and there was sudden comfort from the warmth 
 of her body. She answered, "I know, I know !" And 
 then beneath her breath I could faintly make out her 
 whisper, "Thank God, Andrew went inland. Thank 
 God, he went to Spilsbury." 
 
 She asked suddenly, "How did you think this hap- 
 pened? This awful thing how do you suppose?" 
 
 I said drearily, "All this rain something gave out, 
 I suppose." 
 
 She said cautiously, "Those men." And made a
 
 3 io SEA WRACK 
 
 movement in their direction. "They don't think that; 
 they say they Ve known worse weather than this ; they 
 say . . . things all manner of things. ..." 
 
 I repeated dully, "What about? What do you 
 mean?" 
 
 I could just hear her muffled reply: "I don't know; 
 I dare n't think." 
 
 There was something foreign about her voice that 
 made me turn and stare at her sharply : foreign and 
 I noticed it on her face; some expression that seemed 
 strange, new; and I could not or would not under- 
 stand it. I said savagely: "What does it matter how 
 the thing happened? What do I care? Those two 
 those two . . . and I faithless to my charge!" 
 
 She said with even greater persistence : "There were 
 others; don't forget those others. . . ." 
 
 I cried, "What others? What do you mean?" 
 
 She said steadily: "These men relations, friends 
 of theirs possibly drowned. My gardener, his 
 mother he keeps on asking what of his mother?" 
 
 I muttered, "Well, well?" 
 
 "They can't understand why the dike flooded! 
 They won't understand! They seem to have implicit 
 faith in the sluice-gates. ..." 
 
 She came nearer to me; I could feel her lips touch- 
 ing my neck: 
 
 "They know of the weather better than you or I: 
 how did this come about, then ? That 's what they 
 want to know; that's what I want to know! If it 
 wasn't rain, what was it_ . . . Who was it who?"
 
 SEA WRACK 311 
 
 She held me dumb with her questions ; she held me 
 in most dread apprehension. The roaring of the flood 
 passed into mere nothing. I felt suddenly as if I 
 stood on some immense void, hearing nothing, seeing 
 nothing but one gigantic menacing question . . . 
 Who? 
 
 It was an exclamation from one of the men that 
 brought me somewhat to myself again he was shout- 
 ing out: "Bloody red; that 's what it is; look ye." 
 
 The rain had ceased, and with it most of the black- 
 ness seemed to have pretty well given over; now, with 
 amazing swiftness, there came the sun, the dying sun. 
 Most terrific ball of fire, with thick crimson streaks 
 streaming away from it on all sides, mingling into that 
 immensity of swarthy sky. . . . And all about that 
 great sheet of water there danced and glimmered and 
 moved its most terrible reflection! Blood-red . . . 
 blood-red water moving over the face of the plain; 
 great crimson patches rising and falling; great ruddy 
 smears, impatient and boisterous, leaping and tumbling 
 over each other. . . . Not from the sun, not from 
 that flaring sky, but from death itself; from Cathy and 
 Jockey . . . Jockey! Ah, most merciful God! from 
 Jockey ! 
 
 I heard one man cry, "I 'm for getting a raft or 
 the like and getting across. ... I want to see yonder." 
 And he rushed by me, the fellow Tarnia had called 
 her gardener. 
 
 Not so very far away a flock of sheep, scenting, I 
 suppose, apparent danger to themselves despite the
 
 3 i2 SEA WRACK 
 
 fact they were safe enough on the hills, were setting 
 up most desolate wailing. It was pretty certain my 
 mind must have been very nearly unhinged and cracked, 
 for I know, in a mad sort of way, those piteous bleat- 
 ings seemed to me nothing more or less than human 
 human cries sent on high in desperate appeal for 
 aid and succor. . . . Trapped souls! Trapped and 
 drowned and sucked beneath that raging flood! Was 
 it possible already their tragic ghosts were sobbing out 
 their protest . . . ? 
 
 I have often blamed myself for that distorted im- 
 agination and wondered if in some surprising way 
 it showed on my face and gave the thought to Tarnia ; 
 for suddenly she had rounded on me, her ringers thrust 
 in her ears a ghost herself, if one may go by color 
 to cry out wildly : "Those sheep, I can't bear them ! 
 They seem like voices voices everywhere. . . . And 
 we can do nothing, nothing ! Let 's get away from 
 here, for pity's sake! To listen . . . just to stand 
 about and listen! I can't, I can't!" 
 
 4 
 
 When one looks back on all the years of labor and 
 scheming at that great dike at all the patient drain- 
 ing of those Fens surely it was the supreme mockery 
 of fate that one man could pit his panic-stricken body 
 his trembling thought against that marvelous 
 structure and win win! 
 
 One man. . . . Yes, Ayerst; I doubt very much 
 if any other could have thought out so inglorious a
 
 SEA WRACK 313 
 
 plan. I have often wondered if it had ever entered 
 his mind before, whether somewhere or other deep 
 down in that black pit I suppose was his soul the 
 thought had lain buried deep down, very deep but 
 not too secure to prevent it springing into life, into ac- 
 tion, when the time came. Right in front of Andrew's 
 cottage, that big dike, right past his door, right past 
 through his land ; and every time Ayerst rode to mar- 
 ket he passed that cottage, every time Jie took the 
 road to Spilsbury he crossed the bridge probably 
 flicked with his whip the great handles that moved 
 the sluice-gates beneath, possibly at different times 
 watched the man working them; watched . . . and 
 pondered in his comic, quizzical way; thinking out 
 things, humming little tunes as he thought them and 
 seeing all the time the spreading of this hated An- 
 drew's land. Here, very likely, the thought was sown; 
 it only remained for the time : well, that came soon 
 enough, when his coward heart bumped and rocked 
 with fear because of Cathy and Cathy's way, and 
 Cathy's tongue; and how to stop it ... it, and An- 
 drew's; once and for all; once and for all. . . . 
 
 To my mind there can have been nothing so fright- 
 ful as that white- faced figure lopping its way over the 
 sousing Wold to get that thought out of his mind, 
 to bring it into action! Peering over his shoulder 
 this side and that, peering through the beating rain, 
 ready to dodge Andrew, ready to dodge Cathy, ready 
 to dodge any man or woman, and get that thought 
 over and done with ! Judging Andrew in hig
 
 314 SEA WRACK 
 
 judging him anyway somewhere out on the plain. 
 And Cathy, Cathy even now would be hurrying down 
 hard on his heels he would see to it she should never 
 go up again. 
 
 Hurrying, scrambling, panting Ayerst; pitching on 
 his feet as he stuck in the mud, knocking his knees in 
 his panic that panic which made him start and stum- 
 ble and whimper in his running! At that bridge itself 
 he was probably easier, though I can fancy his fingers 
 were clammy and fumbling when he clutched the cold 
 iron handle bending his gawky body and sjioving and 
 sobbing and sweating, stopping to listen for the trickle 
 of running water, for the sloshing as of the violent 
 emptying of a jug for the rumble and the snarl; 
 bending at the handle bending it round and round 
 and round and moving those gates inch by inch, up, 
 up, forever up. . . . 
 
 I always imagine he intended to get away himself 
 by the boat (it was Andrew's) that was tethered fhere. 
 Whether he was reaching out for it and slipped, or 
 whether the water rose with such force it hurled him 
 down the bank, no one will ever know; his, though, 
 was the first body they found when the waters went 
 back, suspended by a hook from the bridge, on which 
 he had evidently fallen, and had been held by it right 
 through the back of his coat while the great tumult 
 of unchained water smashed him full in the face, broke 
 and crushed his body into unrecognizable nothing- 
 ness. . . . 
 
 Two days, I think it was, before any one was able
 
 SEA WRACK 315 
 
 to get over to those submerged villages. Two days, 
 though I know a few more reckless souls got together 
 some kind of raft and made the attempt. It was in 
 that way three men and a boy from Colt-Harrows met 
 their brave death: with the greatest ease their bit of 
 a craft was smashed like an egg-shell once it whirled 
 out into, and was caught by, that seething flood. They 
 gave it up after that; took on a more sober attitude, 
 and waited and watched for smoother water. The 
 second day, then, we got the first news of Ditchling; 
 there were five souls drowned, not counting Cathy and 
 Jockey, seven in all. One lot of them, a maddened 
 boat-load, bent on getting to safety and the Wold; 
 the others caught like rats in a trap, before they could 
 beat their front door open. Nearly from the top end 
 of the village, where safety lay not in boats, of which 
 they had not one, unlike those luckier ones in Ditch- 
 ling "Old," to whom it mattered very little if it were 
 dike water or sea water that came their way, they 
 took to the boats with the greatest ease and spent the 
 night out with lanterns, paddling the streets to see 
 what they could find and how they could help. 
 
 We were searchers with them Tarnia and I : we 
 had our share of mourning, our business among them ; 
 questioning, peering, full of hopes, full of fears. . . . 
 Cathy, Jockey, Ayerst. . . . And somewhere surely 
 Andrew, a living Andrew. Of Cathy and Jockey 
 there was no sign ; the flood had seen to that. Some- 
 where I suppose they must have found a final resting- 
 place after many, many miles of travel; taken in at
 
 3 i6 SEA WRACK 
 
 last by the sea; kept by it, fondled by it; part of its 
 treasure. Ayerst, as I have already said, was the very 
 first found; and the manner of that finding told also 
 the manner of the breaking open of the sluice-gates; 
 only a few hours after and the thing was known 
 throughout the village; only a short time passed be- 
 fore the request was given out and handed on to 
 Tarnia ; his burial should be in some other place than 
 the village neither was he put away in Colt-Harrow, 
 but in a virtually disused churchyard, a derelict tum- 
 bling spot tucked away in the wildest part of the Fens ; 
 only Tarnia and I were his mourners and one gloomy 
 individual part fisherman, part grave-digger stub- 
 bornly turning his back on any fee, as did the clergy- 
 man. . . . 
 
 Of Andrew word eventually did come! bawled out 
 by a passing boatman. He had seen him, oh, yes, 
 there was no mistake. . . . "White-headed. Sure of 
 it; as white as th' wing of a goose; and crazy-like 
 crazy it would seem certain an' dumb wi' it! I see 
 him an' others you ask? Kneeling on th' seat of 
 th' boat pressing so soft wi' the oar it scarce moved; 
 digging in at th' reeds, peering in -at th' mud-pools; 
 twisting of his head this side and that, not seeing 
 ahead not seeing behind; only on th' water as if his 
 eyes were catched there . . . as if he could n't see fur 
 enough, deep enough." 
 
 And then, some days afterward, when the land was 
 reduced to merely swamps and pools, and the water 
 still oozed between the. bricks of my floor, he came
 
 SEA WRACK 317 
 
 back. Dragging with his naked feet as he walked, 
 blooded about the face and arms, unshaven, with his 
 bones sticking out like the naked ribs of a building 
 ship. When he spoke, there was no feel to his voice ; 
 do you know what I mean? No quality, no mood 
 just a dead sound breaking emptily through the room. 
 
 "I 'm hungry," said the voice. "Hungry; some- 
 thing to eat to drink." And pitched into a chair, and 
 I remember how the table shuddered and gasped be- 
 neath the weight of his body as he leaned up against 
 it. In a blind way I fetched out meat and drink. 
 
 I know all the time I waited for the soup to boil my 
 eyes would turn and turn again in mute inquiry to that 
 motionless figure ; I think I was transfixed by that tra- 
 gic head of whitened hair. I think I was transfixed by 
 the frightful persistency of my own agonized thought : 
 "Is this Andrew? Can it be possible Andrew?" 
 
 When I had set out the meal on the table he seemed 
 to be sleeping; he did n't notice, did n't hear: I shook 
 him at first gently, then roughly, when he woke with 
 a start and fell on it with a kind of savage fury. 
 There was something rather terrible in the way he 
 tore and gulped at his meat and drink; more like a 
 wolf a starving, stricken wolf. . . . 
 
 Immediately he finished he dropped back to his for- 
 mer position, sitting there sitting on through the 
 night until the first glimmer of day, his feet curved 
 round the legs of his chair, his head deep buried down 
 in his arms, hardly breathing, utterly still. Sleeping? 
 Well, I prayed it might be possible, but somehow with
 
 3i8 SEA WRACK 
 
 Andrew it seemed so hideously impossible ; I believe he 
 just sat there, closing his eyes in a pathetic attempt 
 at a make-believe sleep; while all the time in front of 
 them there passed and shifted clearly and with great 
 steadiness scenes and memories and thoughts terrible, 
 terrible thoughts; a compact and vast army of shapes 
 and shadows passing and repassing in most perfect 
 order and array. ... As he had looked those past 
 days, and nights for the bodies of Cathy and Jockey, 
 silently, tirelessly, without end, so now in another 
 way, through the darkness, visions from the past 
 climbed up before him, challenged him one by one, 
 passing on to give way to others, treading on their 
 heels. . . . Once I remember in a kind of frenzy I 
 stumbled through the darkness and caught his shoul- 
 der, shouting out: 
 
 "Andrew ! Andrew, for the love of God, can't you 
 say something. ... ?" When I felt a sort of shiver 
 run through his body and the faintest sight reached my 
 ears ! I slunk back to my seat half ashamed, half re- 
 lieved, waiting for the light, praying it might be soon. 
 
 Possibly I may have dozed. Morning, when it did 
 come, seemed very sudden, though very pale; I stole 
 a glance at Andrew still at the table, and went out into 
 the back kitchen to pump water over my head and start 
 the kettle : I could n't have been gone for many min- 
 utes ; when I returned he was gone. I stared wonder- 
 ing at the empty chair and open door, and then, pos- 
 sibly because I was seething with dissatisfaction and 
 all manner and kind of alarms, I went out in hot haste
 
 SEA WRACK 319 
 
 to bring him back; and, instead of catching up 
 with him, at the top of the lane I came upon 
 Tarnia. . . . 
 
 Tarnia, on the great gray horse and that strange old- 
 fashioned riding-dress; Tarnia, looking more the old- 
 time barbarian woman than before : and as I stared up 
 at her I know it struck me in a vague kind of way, 
 as if some change had come upon her face; less of the 
 old mysterious shadowing about her eye, more light 
 from there; more flooding of their depths with unusual 
 radiance : it seemed also there -was the faintest smile 
 on her lips ; somehow that annoyed me. I could n't 
 see room for smiling just then. She drew up her 
 horse and spoke at once, her voice, very clear (so it 
 seemed to me), almost eager: 
 
 "Andrew is back at last?" 
 
 I looked at her puzzled ; how on earth did she know ? 
 "Who told you?" 
 
 She dropped the reins on the horse's neck and began 
 gently to pull off her long gauntlets. "No one," she 
 answered. "Somehow, I expected it." 
 
 She was looking at me in her old brooding fashion, 
 her brows drawn into a thin dark line beneath her 
 broad-brimmed hat; little lines, too, along her fore- 
 head as if she was coming to some tremendous 
 decision, thinking it out with tremendous intentness. 
 
 I asked her curiously, "Well. ... ?" And stood 
 still, expectant for some answer. Rather to my sur- 
 prise, she got off the horse and stood leaning against 
 its comfortable flanks, regardless of the extreme boggi-
 
 3 20 SEA WRACK 
 
 ness of the road, into which her boots sunk well above 
 the heel. 
 
 She asked quietly, "Where is Andrew now?" 
 
 I told her shortly: "Wandering like a ghost over 
 the flats. Is that to continue all his life? Can noth- 
 ing be contrived to show him hope somehow?" 
 
 She repeated softly, "Hope. ..." She was look- 
 ing, not at me but across the Fen land over the im- 
 mense desolation of those fields as they lay naked, strip- 
 ped of all their loveliness, stripped of all growing 
 things, bearing now upon their barren breasts huge 
 pools of water, torn and derelict trees, despairing 
 heaps of wreckage that might have meant anything, 
 that possibly at one time did mean something. . . . 
 It seemed impossible the yellow garment of the dawn 
 could touch that stricken land with such marvelous 
 tenderness! Glimmer about it ajicl touch it here and 
 there with golden gleaming lights, soften and enfold 
 it with such endearing beauty, weave about it all man- 
 ner of many-hued lights with as much delicacy as a 
 spider works its webs. . . . Here where there had 
 been so much drunken riot of water; here, where a 
 mad god of destruction had for some brief time held 
 his furious sway! . . . Here 
 
 Then, suddenly, I was aware that Tarnia had turned 
 to me with her hands on my shoulders, speaking aloud 
 with extraordinary earnestness. 
 
 "I have come for Andrew," she said. "Come for 
 him, do you understand ? Do you know what I mean ? 
 Both of us, you and I we talk of hope, of light, we
 
 SEA WRACK 321 
 
 wish for it; long for it out of this chaos, out of 
 this f rightfulness ! He and I, together there can be 
 light for us there is there must be! All these 
 years long, long years, not just the time we have 
 known each other, not only that but before, long be- 
 fore, and sometimes I think before that in dim re- 
 mote ages, he and I were groping groping, the one 
 for the other. . . . Now, now why must we grope 
 any longer? Can you tell me that; can you answer? 
 Not you; least of all you! I have waited. O my 
 God! how I have waited! Surely this is my time; 
 mine and Andrew's, together to search for that light." 
 
 Her voice seemed to have changed, even as I think 
 her face had ; it seemed to ring out with a trumpet note, 
 which seemed extraordinarily strange and yet extraor- 
 dinarily familiar. Familiar because in my fancying, 
 roaming mind I could hear in it the echo of all lovers 
 of all the ages; I could vision dimly before me that 
 multitude of women peering for one second from the 
 mysterious past guardians in their shadowy way of 
 this one loved woman now facing me. 
 
 I could not stop that triumphant voice. I did not 
 want to! Somehow at that moment I felt at peace 
 with all the world. I simply wanted to stand and lis- 
 ten. 
 
 She continued more softly: 
 
 "People can talk they will, I know that ; with them 
 there are such things as conventions rights and 
 
 wrongs; with God " She cried out vehemently: 
 
 "Somehow I think things are different with God!"
 
 3 22 SEA WRACK 
 
 She stopped abruptly, and her face then was very 
 wonderful as wonderful, I think, as that rising dawn. 
 I heard her whisper very low, "You see I said he would 
 come. ..." 
 
 And, following her gaze, I saw Andrew his back 
 toward us, his head bowed, standing solitary on the 
 other side of the swollen dike just where his cottage 
 had been. 
 
 She didn't speak again, nor turn the slightest to- 
 ward me; she simply walked to where he stood. 
 Walked to his side and let her hand move up over his 
 shoulder and rest there. . . . For an instant longer I 
 watched them ; watched his face turn to hers, and her 
 hand slip into his; watched them suddenly, of one as- 
 sent, bend and kneel side by side on the very ground 
 where Jockey had so frequently played . . . those two 
 kneeling there together, palm to palm, cheek against 
 cheek, while the morning stretched wide its arms to 
 salute the glory of the sun. . . . 
 
 Then I turned and left them. . . .
 
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