He went out with the Tide

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He Went Out With The Tide Page HE WENT OUT WITH THE TIDE BY GUY EDEN AUTHOR OF "THE CRY OF THE CURLEW" London . $obn /Ifeacqueen Hastings house, Norfolk street, strand 1896 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED In gratitude for many known and unknown kindnesses I affectionately dedicate this little volume to my cousin, MARY USSHER. I was on the point of asking him if he knew me, when he tried to stretch out his arm, and said to me, distinctly, with a pleasant smile : " Barkis is willin' ! " And, it being low water, he went out with the tide.

Chapter I

" It were vain to hide it again — the sorrow Of the sweet, lost love and the sad, sharp pain, For at sound of a voice if it spoke to-morrow, It would break from the deeps of its tomb again " So I let it stand where I needs must see it — Like the dead man guest at an old-time feast — Till at last no more I shall seek to find it, When my old, wild dread of its power has ceased." Waithman. I think that there are few of my old companions-in arms who would believe that I, Tom Gascoigne, late Colonel of Her Most Gracious Majesty's Loyal Lon doners, should find the need of a confidant. I had never been noted for that characteristic — so common among men, and especially women — of pouring my joys and sorrows into the ears of others, not even at times when the midnight wassail is apt to open the heart and E dull the discretion of a man.

And yet to-night I feel that I am driven to take the world into my confidence — or, rather, that infinitesimal fraction of my fellow creatures who are willing to listen. It is a wonderful thing, that sympathy — whether spoken or unspoken — that we all at times crave for. I remember well a very dear friend of mine — a woman, who was not happy in her home life. She had married a man with grown-up daughters, and the daughters in the arrogance of their teens, and the knowledge of a crushing numerical superiority, took care to let her understand her position. It was an unequal struggle ! Selfish self-assertion on the one side, chivalrous self denial and womanly sweetness on the other. In the end, after many years, goodness prevailed, but it had been a heartrending struggle, and, at times, when the cup was too bitter even for Mary Sinclair's heroic fortitude, she would come to me.

" Oh, Tom," she used to sa}-, " don't look so stern and unbending. I don't ask much ! I only want you to listen." To-night is the third anniversary of the greatest sorrow of my life. For three long years I have brooded over my suffering. All the means that are commonly supposed to bring forgetfulness I have tried till I am weary of them all. I have travelled over the world, sought change in men and countries, lost myself momentarily in the history of ages and the wonders that have been ; but, with the return to every-day life, has come the old pain and the gnawing recollection. Chancing the other day to open a book of verses that lay on my Club library table, I read the lines that head this chapter. There was music in the wording, and the idea was new to me ! Every hour the thought would recur, why not try the plan here suggested ? — why not take my sorrow from the hollow where it has lain, and place it where it may be seen, till sight and brain grow accustomed to the grim spectacle ?

All other ways having proved, useless, I have, at last, de termined to try this one. That is how I come now to write this short history of a life that constituted my world. Perhaps as I fully and spontaneously recall the old scenes that I have lived through, the old faces that I knew so well, the old joys and the old sorrows, I ma}', at least, dull the keen edge of memory I I can only pray God that it may be so ! I would ask any who care to follow me in my retro spect of "the days that have been," to come back with me to the night ofthe 19th May, in the year of Our Lord 188 — , for from this time my story — if I may call it such — may be said to date. Dear me ! what a night it was ! As I stood in the hall of my diggings in Half-Moon Street, tucking in the b— muffler that good Mrs. Tindale insisted on flinging round my neck, the outlook was cheerless enough in all conscience.

(By the way, I have often since wondered whether the anxiety on my behalf, exhibited by this good lady, was due to my indisputable pre-eminence as the " first-floor front," or whether she regarded me in the light of a possible successor to the dear departed Tindale. There was that in her eye at times, that suggested soul-stirring possibilities, and made me very uncomfortable.) From the menacing streaks of rain that flashed in the light from the hall lamp, I felt pretty certain in my own mind, that had I been under sentence of any other engagement I should have crept quietly back to my snug little smoking room and thought out a comfortable prevarication to account for my enforced detention at home. A hansom was awaiting me, and as the door swung open at the touch of some mechanical contrivance worked by the dripping figure on top, I lowered my umbrella sharply and sprang in with an agility worthy of a light-weight, although I had on that very afternoon turned the Club scales at fourteen stone, and left eight and fifty years of a tolerably comfortable existence away behind me.

A moment's pause as the hoarse voice of the driver sought instructions through the sliding panel on top, and we were off. It is a curious fact that so many people — for the most part idle people — should regulate their temperament by the state of the weather. How many men there are to whom a wet day is the signal for abject despondency — visions of gout, rheumatic fever, influenza, and other attendant horrors make life a burden to them and their friends. A series of fine, cloudless days suggest visions of a protracted drought, a rise in the price of grain, and a consequent loosening of the purse strings, whereas a fog affords only a grim cheerful ness in the prospect of a rapid choking and a con sequently speedy death. It is a strange fallacy — for if there is a natural satisfaction in finding the days to your liking, and if the brightness of a morning does act as a moral tonic — after all the state of the feelings makes the weather, and not the weather the feelings as those gentlemen I have referred to would have.

On this night, with the wind hissing through the grooves of the cab windows, the heavy raindrops driving against the glass, and the rushing stream that sped along the gutters, splashing and churning in devil fish glee, I felt unspeakably happy. What did the clatter of the raindrops mean to me ? Only a merry chorus to my song of thankfulness. What did the howling of the wind mean but an answering burst to the harmony of my feelings ? And how did I read that ex pression on the white face of a passer-by that gleamed for a moment beneath the gas-lamp, but as an answering smile ? Perhaps, if I had looked down, I might have noticed that this dripping pedestrian had no mackin tosh, or even the semblance of an overcoat, and that his face was drawn with suffering rom a twelve hours' spell without food, and the first pang of a re-awakened rheumatism that would rack his limbs through the long night spent 'neath some lonely arch.

But I had no time to notice all this, for the world held but two beings for me that evening — my boy Roy, and myself. It was at breakfast that morning that I had received his telegram, " Shall arrive this afternoon. Dinner at my old rooms, seven-thirty. Come. — Roy." Need I say what a fluster of excitement I had been in all day, and how the time seemed to drag? No lover awaiting the hour of the tryst could have shown greater impa tience — and now the eventful moment had almost arrived. Piccadilly has been left far behind, Grosvenor Place has faded in the distance, Buckingham Palace Road has shot its bolt, and now St. George's Road remains only to be accomplished. Another minute or two, and the cab swings round into Lupus Street, the horse is pulled up suddenly, a trembling hand thrusts a fare through the hole in the roof — cabby has no cause to regret his wetting — and in another instant I have run the gauntlet of a furious downpour, and standon the steps awaiting the answer to my clamorous peal.

Now that the supreme moment had come, I almost shrank from it, as one does sometimes shrink when about to grasp the prize that has been so long watched and waited for. Down came the rain with tropical vehemence ; but, though I was without shelter, I heeded it not. Brain and body seemed on fire, though the night was cheerless enough. Presently the door was opened, and a soft voice bade me enter. Almost prostrating myself over a step that the architect, with beautiful forethought, had constructed just within the door, as a pleasant surprise to the un wary, I gropingly followed the small figure with a lighted candle. Blunderingly I climbed the narrow winding staircase, and reached the first landing, when another door suddenly opened, a stream of welcoming light rushed forth, and in another instant, amidst broken exclamations, born of sobs and laughter, I was wringing the great brown hands of Roy Bingham.

Ah, me ! how well I ean remember that night. Every thing in connection with it seems to take shape, and stand out before me as though drawn up and posed for reproduction on the pages of my manuscript. Were I a cold-blooded biographer, with the task before me of setting down the story of Roy's life, this particular scene should afford no difficulty ; no effort of imagination would be required, no trial of memory, no searching amongst dusty papers or relics; for the whole scene, like the writing on the wall of Balshazzar, looms out clearly and sharply defined ; but when I lift my gaze to it I find that there is a strange film dancing before my eyes, leaving everything dim and blurred. "Days of happiness ! hours of play I Time has carted you all away ; Stored you by like the scented hay, Oh, happy days, heigho !"

Days of happiness ! Hours of play ! 1 often think what a*wonderful dispensation of Pro vidence it is that when a man, such as n^-self, looks back after man}- years on the seasons that have rolled by within his recollection ; the shoals that have been barely steered clear of, the rocky headlands that have almost scattered the fragments of life's ship to the waves of disappointment, failure, and hopeless self-abandon ment ; the battles that have been fought, and, perhaps, won — though alas ! too often lost ; the wasted hours that have added too surely to the march of years, without leaving one single, lasting record of moral, intellectual, or spiritual achievement, there remains to him, in his retrospect only the moments that were most delicious, the lasting friendships made, the triumphs gained !

What man is there who, looking back upon his school days, recalls the many little grievances and difficulties that looked so stupendous at the time ? They are all for gotten, but will he ever forget the joy ofthe moment when his remove into the shell (with its privileges of " fag ging ") was read out by that grim, spare, white-chokered old man, so terrible in the solemnity of his office as the Head-Master, so loveable in his character of fellow-man ! the ecstacy of that never-to-be-forgotten moment when, after a fine dribble down the left wing, he centred the ball, only to see it driven through the posts — an im possible " save " for any goal-keeper — by that grandest of centre-forwards, his best chum, Tom Egmont ; the delirium of that triumphal moment, when, after a pretty back cut between third man and extra slip, the match was won, the ground was rushed, and he felt himself borne shoulder-high to the pavilion by his yelling schoolfellows.

When the great Eumenes lay a prisoner in the dun geons of Antigonus, crushed with the weight of his heavy manacles, and guarded by the officers in accor dance with their master's instructions — " as they would guard a lion " — do you think that, when harassed most by the pangs of bondage, and the still greater pangs of confidence betrayed, he ever forgot "the glory of that moment when he was unanimously called upon by those very men whose base treachery was afterwards the cause of his downfall, to take up the mantle of the great and glorious Alexander, his beloved master. Captivity I venture to think, would shrink into nothingness in the effulgence of that great da}', and the chained hero would even smile on the grim walls that encircled him. And so, when the past surges up in the front rank of bygone scenes that marshal themselves before me, I seem to see moments such as those, when, dripping with rain, I looked into the flashing eyes of my dear Roy, and felt the clasp of his hands.

I see him a bright, merry, laughing urchin popping over a fence on his little ponj', and calling to me in tones of exultation to pick up the whip that he had dropped — a cool re quest, by the way, but the young rascal knew " his old Toby," as he used to call me. The hours that we have lived together, bright with a promise never to be ful filled, throng, pell-mell, through my confused old brain, and I find it hard to remember times such as that when I saw him standing, tense and still, with the firelight playing on the dear face, that had left me only one short hour before, bright with the triumphant gleam of a great purpose, now drawn and aged almost beyond my loving recognition 1 Ah, well, in all things there is the good and the bad, and we must jumble them up in a sort of hotch-potch, and make the best we can ofthe result.

"Et ego in Arcadia vixi " is the thought that should console us ; but I question if there are any words in any language with a sadder significance. Roy Bingham was nine years old when his father died. Dear old Pat Bingham, my truest of friends and brother officers, on his death-bed, charged me solemnly to keep an eye to the motherless boy, and I gladly accepted the responsibility, chiefly because of my love for my old comrade, and also because of the affection that the boy himself, little as I had seen of him, had in spired in me — for I was a bachelor, and felt the want of someone to care for, and, as I prayed, to care for me. I was not a rich man, judging by the standard of the present day, but could justly be said to be fairly well off, as my income, all told, amounted to about £2,000 a-year.

Poor old Pat had never been blessed with a super abundance of riches, but he had managed to scrape together sufficient to leave his only son £400 a year, to come to him on his twenty-fifth birthday — two hundred per annum of which was to be employed by me, as guardian for the boy's education. I had left the service and taken a small house at Haslemere after Pat's death, and there my boy came to live with me and to be the bright star in my little firmament. In due course he went to Westminster, coming back to me at each holiday time with that physical and intellectual stamp which the life and traditions of a great school indelibly impress on its offspring. Those holidays were the red-letter days of my life at that time, and though it may, perhaps, appear strange that a hardened old bachelor, surrounded by the creature comforts that a modest fondness for luxury would allow, should have looked forward with such eager longing to the coming of a schoolboy — and one to whom he could lay not the smallest claim of kinship — yet the fact remained that I loved him with a love that surprised myself ; and that my love was returned, after events will show.

His schooldays over, Roy went to Christchurch, and there achieved lasting fame as the most popular man, the finest all-round 'Varsity cricketer, and the champion heavy-weight boxer of his time. — "What about the schools ? " some grim father may ask, not without reason. To such a question I can only answer that my boy took his degree with credit to himself and his tutors, and though, perhaps, there was nothing startling in this yet it satisfied me, and I can go further and say that I felt a keener joy when I saw him knock up his seventy runs in as many minutes against Cambridge, to the ringing plaudits of an enthusiastic throng of spectators — you know what a sporting body the Lords' people are ! — than if he had come back to me hollow cheeked and heavy-eyed, with a double first to his name.

I have said that I was not a rich man, but my income was a good deal in excess of the expenditure of a quiet country life such as mine was. I had determined, there fore, from the first, that of the £200 a year allowed me for Roy's education, £100 only should be spent annually for that purpose, whatever was necessary in addition to this amount to be supplied from my own pocket, whilst the other £ioo should be laid aside each year, as an unexpected "nest egg" when he should come of age. Consequently, you may well imagine what a pleasur able surprise it was to him when he discovered, on attaining his majority, there was a tidy little sum of ;£l,6oo odd awaiting him, in addition to the small fortune that he had always known himself to be en titled to. Prior to this, Roy had eaten his dinners, after coming down from the 'Varsity, and been entered at the Inner Temple, for he had long made up his mind to join the higher branch of the legal profession.

I made no attempt to thwart him in this; indeed, I strongly en encouraged him, as I have always looked upon the Advocate's profession as one eminently suited to a gentleman ; not only because of its association with the higher intellectual life, but because of the fact that, in the practise of his profession, a young barrister rubs shoulders with those, who, in nine cases out of ten, are of heavier mental calibre than himself. Apart from this, I felt that, as a barrister-at-law, my boy would have the path to future distinction opened up to him in a way that few other professions could offer. Before settling down to his profession, Roy had decided, at my suggestion, on travelling for a year or two. I remember well with what difficulty I induced him to act on my advice, and how he protested against the idea of leaving me.

He little thought how I secretly rejoiced at his unwillingness to go, and how each ob jection, though sternly overruled by me, came as balm to my soul. Had he known how I dreaded the day of his departure, he would never have left me ; and then 1 well, perhaps the future might have been different, and all would have been well. God knows ! it's always the old time-worn cry with us all, " Had we only known, how different it would have been ; " but we don't know, and we can't judge, so we can only act to the best of our poor powers. If Pat could have looked down from Heaven, and have read my heart, he would have felt no bitterness with me. One word more, and my introduction is ended. Roy went off on his travels, saw the wonders of the world, and, after two years' absence, plunged me into a tur moil of bewilderment by the sudden announcement of his return.

How the news affected me has already been shown, so, if there are any who care to follow what I have to relate, let them come with me to that moment when I stood nervous with excitement on the landing: of the little room in Lupus Street, and heard the welcoming tones of a voice that contained sweeter music for me than the sweetest of melodies. " My dear old Toby, how delighted I am to see you I Why you must be chilled to death, your coat is wet through. Now, not a word until we have made you quite comfortable." Had I wished it there would have been little use in resisting those great sinewy arms that were drawing me with affectionate impetus into the room. In less time than it takes to write, my overcoat that was suffering only from those few moments on the door step, lay stretched on the sofa — for Roy could not bring himself to have a fire in May — and I was planted in an easy chair, where he insisted on my taking off my boots, and donning a pair of comfortable slippers.

" Stand where you are, and let me see you ; " I at length stammered, when I found myself able to speak. He laughed, and drew himself to attention with mock solemnity. Dear heart, what a man he was ! I could barely realise that this strapping fellow, with his six feet and odd inch of manhood, great square shoulders, strong brown hands, and easy athletic grace was the boy that I used to take on my knee in the days gone by ; but there was no mistaking the face that had changed so little in its transition from boyhood to manhood. Un hidden by beard or moustache, the same sweet smile that was ever there in his happier moments played round the lips, and took from them the somewhat stern expression that marked the face in repose, while the same tenderness gleamed upon me from the grey eyes. I must have gazed at him long, for the sight of him was a joy to me, and none could have gainsaid that he was a goodly figure to look upon.

But I was at last roused from my dreamings by a sudden slap on the shoulder, and the weight of his arm was not a matter to be lightly disregarded. " Great Scott, Toby ! you dear old goose. You're drawing the very life blood from me with those tragic eyes. Remove them, you magnetic old rascal, or I shall have to — Hurrah ! here is dinner. Would you care to wash your hands ? Done so already ? All right, let me hear that you haven't forgotten the grace that I taught you, and then we'll set to." Delightful it was to me to hear of all that he had seen ; how he had hunted big game in South Africa, shot the rapids of American rivers in a fragile canoe, tripped a light fandango with dark-eyed, bewitching Spanish senhoritas. It seemed to me so vivid were his descriptions, that I had lived the life with him.

The blood pulsed through my veins with tingling excite ment at mention of that glorious gallop over the long, trackless plains of Australia, when, after an hour's hard riding, the " old man " kangaroo, true grit to the last, planted his massive back against a dead gum-tree, and faced the death that was written in the eyes of men and dogs alike ; or of those madly exciting moments when the wild scrub cattle were wheeled back to the yards, with a rattling echo of stock-whips and good British oaths. How young it made me feel to hear him ! My old muscles seemed to tighten, my eyes sparkled, and, for a space, I seemed to live in those days " When the hardest day was never too hard: Or the longest day too long." Afterwards we sat and enjoyed our pipes, but he was too excited to rest long, and began to pace the room, laughing and chuckling over some incident of his travels or some story that had delighted a sympathetic group of listeners, in the smoking-room of the mail boat, coming home.

" By the way, how did you enjoy the trip home, in the new Orient Liner ? You've said nothing about it — any pleasant passengers ? " I asked, as he paused for a moment to light his pipe. Roy seemed to require a long time to answer a simple question, or his tobacco must have been wet, for the lighting of that pipe was a lengthy process. So much so that I turned to look at him. It struck me that he looked flushed, and I attributed this to the wave of light that fell upon his features at each puff, but I was undeceived as he presently tossed the match aside, and, coming round, stood in front of c me, his arm resting on the mantelpiece, whilst a rich colour, perceptible beneath the dark tan, crimsoned his face. The action was so deliberate, and his expression so altered from one of light carelessness to a steady re solve, that I felt strangely uncomfortable ; a sense of impending danger thrilled through me, and my face must have looked as grave as his, though my pulses beat the faster.

Straightening himself a little, he slipped his hand into his breast coat pocket : my eyes fixed on his every movement with a strange fascina tion. In another moment he had placed a photograph in my hands, and then leant back to watch me. I knew that his eyes were upon me though I could not raise my head. My gaze was centred on the face that looked at me from the photograph with a glance of life-like intensity. It was the face of a woman worthy of a strong man's love. Worthy of my boy's love, for I read the story all too well ! The large dark eyes that seemed to flash defiance, the low forehead on which the hair clustered ere it fell back in a heavy coil on the statuesque neck, the finely cut lips set in a half-mocking smile, the regal poise of the head, the slim, beautifully moulded figure — ■ all were there, yet there was something lacking, I thought; something of that tenderness that goes to the making of " a womanly woman."

My thoughts flew to the poet's "Maud." " Faultily faultless, icily regular, splendidly null — Dead perfection ; no more ; " But I said nothing as I returned the photograph — after reading the name " Helen," signed in bold letters at the foot. "There is no need to explain ? " he asked, and as I shook my head, he continued, hurriedly : " I love her, Toby. We met on board ship coming home. Of course you would like to hear the story ? " A passionate disclaimer rose to my lips, but still I could answer nothing, and he proceeded in low voice : " At first she held herself aloof from us all, and it was pain to me, for I had loved her from the moment that my eyes fell upon her regal beauty. You know what I am, Toby," he added, with a faint smile — " the greater the obstacle, the firmer my determination to conquer it.

There is no need to tell you how I over came her reserve in spite of herself, and how at last she came to look forward to the long evenings (she told me this afterwards), when with chairs drawn side by side, we oftentimes drifted into that dangerous ground, that means death or life to one or both. She had been out to Sydney on a visit to her uncle, the Governor of the Colony, and was returning with her maid under the captain's charge. The father is a big gun at home here : an ex-Cabinet Minister and immensely wealthy, I understand. Rather a tall flight for a briefless barrister, c — don't you think, Toby ? but I couldn't stop to consider that ; somehow one doesn't think of Cabinet Ministers and banking accounts away out at sea, with the soft foam gliding by and a gentle breeze wafting gentler words to one's ear from lips the sweetest in the world 1 What my lord will say is perhaps another matter."

The prospect of the ministerial wrath failed to arouse a fitting solemnity, for he laughed the old ringing laugh. I tried to smile, but my lips twitched in a helpless sort of way, and the smile would not come. " It all happened as we dragged slowly through the canal. The night was perfect ; just such a night as a lover would choose. On either side the sand shimmered in the moonlight ; hardly a sound broke the stillness. For at least a fortnight it had been a recognised thing amongst the others that we should be undisturbed ; there is a sort of unwritten code on board a mail boat with regard to ' les affaires du cœur,' and on this par ticular evening, as we sat near the taffrail on the star board side, no one came near us. I had had a presentiment all day that something would happen, and now that we were alone I felt that the time had come.