Loyalty George

Chapter I

On her way back to the Cot, Loyalty was filled with a tumult of emotion. Every thing in life seemed changed, unsettled, unreal. What might happen next she did not know. In spite of the doubts she had expressed to the Captain, a something told her that what he said was true ; not the instinct which he had desired, but the recollection of her grandfather's vile abuse, the curses and imprecations she had heard him utter, vol. m. never against Kellow, whom at times he mentioned, but always against her father. And one especially vituperative epithet came back that, when his rage had been at its height, the brutal old man had used to wards her, this now came back with a significance that left her little doubt. Suddenly her heart would beat in a sort of ecstasy, and she would hold her head up high, to be followed by a chill brought by the fresh disgrace cast on her ; and her steps would lose their elasticity, and her whole figure would seem to relax and droop.

To have it out with her grandfather — that was her main object now. This even ing he was unluckily away. Wakeham had sent for him to go to the Mewstone, and a message from him meant that some ni«ht-work was coming; on. Loyalty was forced to go off to bed without there being any sign of old George's return. When she awoke the next morning it was to find that he had evidently come back, but had gone again. A cross piece of wood significantly placed in a particular spot indicated what was on hand, and was a sign to Loyalty to make the preparations which fell to her share. These occupied her until the afternoon, when, with the prospect that Roger might come, she made herself what she termed " tidy and all-a-tant-o." Fresh and sweet as a rose in June, she took her way to the Cliff, in expectation that her lover would come.

The hope of seeing him was not quite its usual unalloj^d bliss. Loyalty could not help feeling that unless the Captain had spoken there was something that for the present she must conceal. It was a secret not her own, neither had she yet arrived at a decision of how much it would be right for her to tell. Would it make any difference to Roger ? Would it make him think less or more of her ? While debating this question she did not hide herself as yesterday she had done, but with strained eyes stood looking out afar, her heart beating quickly, when, after a time, she saw Roger coming along. " So you thought to see me ? " he said ; and Loyalty was glad that her face was still hidden against his, when he went on to say, " You was in the tantrums, I reckon, when I didn't come yesterday afternoon ?

" " I 'spected you was kept by somethink, or that somebody wanted 'ee," she said hesitatingly. Roger laughed. "Tish, these gentle folks ! " he said, " they is amusin'. They don't know what next to be up to their selves, nor what to set them about 'em doin'. Nothin' else 'ud serve my lord down there, but to send me buznackin' off after some dog he'd left up to Thancks. Such a fool's errant to go on ! They reg'larly guffawed, all of 'em up there. But they know what he is, and for that matter, so do I. In a deal he does, there's many a deuced sight worse ; and in others, there ain't many better." Loyalty, by this time assured that the Captain's visit was unknown, was able to look at Roger. She managed her deception very cleverly, and would have defended herself by saying she had served a whole apprenticeship to the acting of lies.

" You gets on with un very well ? " " First-rate ; capital. He's always very chummy with me." "Does he ever make any mention of grandfer?" She did not dare to say "of >j me. " No, never, but once ; he asked me if I knowed him ; that was all." "Is he in any ways a gay sort o' man ; " Well, 'bout that I can't give not a right down plain yes or no. 'Tisn't that I've seen anything, still, for all that, I ain't so prepared to give my consent to his havin' Miss Anne." Miss Anne ! Could Miss Anne know ? — was this the meaning of her kindness ? Loyalty's silence was interpreted by Roger as pain ; and to soften it he added, " 'Tis only my misgivin's, remember — I've nothin' to go by." And the conversation slid away from this topic to their own affairs, just then very engrossing to both of them. Roger was going home to see his mother.

Somehow he couldn't help fancying, he said, that she was coming round ; he thought he saw a difference in her. Poor Roger I This wish was so para mount in him, that he was constantly catching at some straw of hope. Mrs. Coode's disappointment had been cruel, the more bitter to bear, because of the certainty with which she had buoyed herself. It had taken all the time of Roger's absence to school herself to play the part she meant to, for come what might, she was determined that no one, least of all her son, should see the anguish his two decisions gave her. The first time that Roger came home, he was anxious and eager to enter into expla nations, but Mrs. Coode on the very threshold silenced him. She had no wish, she said, to be told any more than she already knew. He had settled his own affairs as best pleased him, that was enough for her.

" 'Tis your own life, Roger," she said, " though I gived it to you ; and the way it's spent, you'll have to answer for, not me. Also the woman you choose for wife ; you marries her, I don't. You've got to live with her ; thank the Lord, I haven't. While breath is spared me, I shan't never forget you'm my son — the only son of his mother, and she a widow." This was said with a poignancy that went through Roger like a stab. " Neither am I in any way afeard that I shall lose that respect you've always gived to me. So long as I've the shelter of a roof, to that home you'll be as ever welcome. What I'm possessed of in this world's goods will all be yours, only you'll have to wait for it 'til it pleases God to take me. And this being understood between us, there's never no need to go back to it again.

There'll be plenty to talk 'bout in what's goin' on around ; we can leave bygones to be byn gones. This speech of Mrs. Coode's had been carefully prepared, thought out, considered, prayed over. Once delivered, she could by no artifice of her son's be brought back again to one of the subjects it contained. She did, as she said, talk of everybody and everything ; but Roger felt that be tween his mother and him the great wall of China had been built up, and they were as far apart as though she lived in Europe, and he in Asia. The estrangement pained him ; it took away the relish of coming home, and he would go from her with his heart heavy or hot with anger. And having given him a frigid good-bye, Mrs. Coode would hasten to the upper window, and there stealthily watch him out of sight. The fulness which came ready to choke her she resolutely pressed down ; even to herself she would not admit the anguish which was making every hour of her life more bitter.

Her neighbours, chilled by the austerity of her demeanour, spoke of her as taking " her trouble hard." Some of the more daring spirits tried by a word of sympathy to stick a pin or so into her pride ; but Mrs. Coode's armour was invulnerable ; and they left her saying she was " a most onnatural woman, they didn't believe she'd got any feeling, or knew what it was to be sick or sorry." Naturally, the incident had caused an unacknowledged breach between her and Phœbe. Old Rowe, too, was not over cordial to her. Circumstances had made it seem more desirable than ever that he should have Roger as a partner, and, like the small-natured creature he was, he felt sure the failure was the fault of somebody. It was Mrs. Coode's, Phœbe's, of either or both, so long as he could con tinue to nag, nag and worry.

And Phœbe — true daughter of such a father — followed the same plan, so that the two of them were constantly quarrelling. When later in the evening Roger again met Loyalty, he told her he couldn't say for certain when he should be over again. "I've been turnin' it over in my mind," he said, " and I don't feel so sure that sendin' me off after that there dogmightn't ha' been a bit of a hint for me not to ask for leave quite so often ; and as I shall want a day or so soon — well, about Christmas, say Here the anticipation of that event for which the leave would be needed gave rise to so much interruption that Roger, careful not to keep Loyalty out with him too late, hurried to say good-bye. " Then I shan't see 'ee for .ever so long ? " she said. "No." " But you'll come if you can ? " " AVell, if he says I must, I shall have to."

" Shall I go and coax un to let 'ee, eh ? " " Let me catch 'ee at it." And shaking his head at her, Roger turned away ; and swiftly Loyalty recol lected of whom she was speaking — in the happiness of the hours she had been pass ing with Roger, the startling announce ment of the day before had slipped her memory. It was too late that night to begin speaking to her grandfather, added to which, if he had returned, it was not certain that he would be alone. Except what her sharpness and the knowledge of her earlier years led her to guess at, very little connected with these " secret runs " was known to her now, most of the active work being carried on by Wakeham at the Mewstone. That something was up she was certain by " that boy o' Wakeham's hanging about the Cot, as for days he'd done. She would have to make sure he was out o' the way before she spoke, for the young ferrit 'ud suck in every word you let fall."

As she foresaw, Jake George was not at home when his granddaughter returned, neither did she see him until the afternoon of the following day ; then, coming in with a load of wrood which she had been along the shore collecting, she came upon the old man sitting by the fireside. Unable to rid herself of the fear ' in which she stood of him, now he was there face to face for her to speak to, her courage began to ooze awav. " Oh lors ! " she groaned inwardly, " won't he out with a volley o' oaths the minute I lets fire," and her eyes glanced rapidly round to see that there was nothing in the way handy for him to fling in case he was minded to. " I'd best go out and see if that boy's anyways near," she thought ; in reality to give herself a further respite, and she lingered, looking rather aimlessly around while she debated how she should best begin.

With a sudden bolt forward she was indoors. "Look here," she said, in the rough loud tone which had become habitual to her when speaking to her grandfather, " I wants to hear from you wdiat there's to tell about mother and my father. Who was he, eh ? " George laid down his pipe, and slowly turning round, looked at her. Satisfied apparently that there was nothing new or strange in her appearance, he as slowly turned round again and resumed his smoking. " Come," she said, this time her voice a little unsteady, "you heerd what I axed — just you give me a answer. The name o' he I's got the rights to call father ? " He uttered a half-smothered savage yell like the infuriated howl of a wild animal ; then jumping up, he seized by its back the seat he had been sitting on, and raising it, made as if he would dash it at her.

The violence of the action, and the murderous expression which accompanied it, would have made most women faint with fear ; it was what Loyalty needed to steady her. In an instant her nerves were iron ; she felt within her the courage of a lion, and that she possessed a lion's strength too. She caught at the chair, wrenched it from out his hand, and flung it to the far end of the room. "Have 'ee forgot who you'm standin' up agenst 1 I ain't now the poor little helpless maid you've many's the time half murdered. Where I've a pitched that settle I could pitch you, and won't say I shan't do it, too, unless you gives me my answer." Choking with rage, the old man could not utter a word. Every limb shook as if palsied, and from his throat came a click, click, but no articulate sound. " Tiger cat !

" he hissed out at last. " Iss," she said, " anythin' you likes to call what you've made me, I am." " Who've ye bin with," he stammered breathlessly ; " who've ye bin talkin' to?" " The man whose wife I hopes to be — Roger Coode. But he ain't got nothin' to do with the question I wants a answer to. Now I knows the meanin' o' the name you called me by" — and she leaned towards him, drawing in her breath as if the recalling of that name still scorched her. "Now I can tell why 'tis you hated, ill-used me ; taught me all the evil you did, and would ha' gloated if I'd but fell into the pits you see'd set for me all around. I was his child — that was it — the child o' he whose ears was set tinglin' with the curses you called down on un, the hell fire you hoped to see un burnin' in — and had no claim for father 3S VOL. on the poor soul as was strung up for dealin' un a blow."

Helpless as a caged beast, the old man beat his fists on the table, pouring out the most blood-curdling oaths and imprecations. " Why didn't I tear ye limb from limb when you was born ? " he cried. " What did I suffer ye to live for ? Oh, Susan, Susan ! " and he dropped suddenly down and buried his face in his arms. " Why didn't 'ee ? " she said remorse lessly ; " you'd ha' been doin' a service then to child aud mother." " It's false," he said furiously ; " 'twas the promise I made her then that spared ye ; the oath I took and sealed on her dying lips, that come what might I'd hide her shame — that's kept me silent all the years to now." Again his head was bowed down, his quivering twitching face hidden from view, and Loyalty stood looking at him. Gradu ally there came over her a change — a soften ing, womanizing change — her eyelids trembled, her nostrils worked, the corners of her mouth drooped low.

She stretched out her hand, then drew it back, to put it out again and lay it on the old man's back. " Grandfer," she said, " you needn't say no more. Things shall bide as they be. You've kept her secret well ; no livin' soul shall ever hear it breathed by me." He gave no sign that he had heard. " Whoever else's child I am," she added, " I'm hers. Can't 'ee think o' that some times, and let it draw 'ee to me ? You'm got up an ole man, grandfer, now ; you ain't got the strength in 'ee you had." "'Tis true," he said, starting up; "there ain't no time to lose." " 'Bout what ? " "Taking now the vengeance that's my due." " No, no," and she forced him into his seat again ; "there mustn't be no talk like that. I'll go to — the one who spoke to me and make un swear a Bible oath never to breathe no word of what he told to me again.

And, grandfer, us must be differ'nt, you and me. Us as got somethin' to share in now. Think o' me as her child, and I'll never forget so long as I draw breath that you're her father." And saying this, Loyalty's eyes welled over, so that without waiting for a reply she went out to where her tears might flow freely. The old man heard the creak of the door, and felt the puff of keen sea air. He raised his head to see that he was alone. With difficulty, for his failing limbs would scarcely support him, he rose to his feet, dragged himself by the table to the tiny window, and looking out saw Loyalty, her back turned to him, standing out, below the steps, there. And raising his trembling hand he clenched his fist, and, shaking it, called down the wrath of Heaven upon her.

Chapter II

Old Dunchy was sitting disconsolately in front of his tumble-down cottage, which, jammed in a cleft like the nest of a bird, overlooked the ferry. Loyalty, coming from behind, suddenly caught sight of him. "Oh, here's you be," she said, "lookin' so happy as if the cat had 'ee." " And that's just 'bout how I feels," was Dunchy's melancholy reply. " Why, what's up ? — what have 'ee been doin' of ? " " Well, mostly tryin' to persuade them I see, that they wanted to go over 'cross there. But, lors, so well whistle psalms to the taffrail ! Not they — nobody don't want to do nothin' now, 'ceptin' 'tis what they can do theyselves." " Now that ain't true," and she sat down beside him, changing her position after a moment, so that she might face him, by kneeling on a smooth, worn stone below — " there's a somethin' I can't do, and I wants you to do it for me."

"All right," said the old man, trying to maintain his moody expression ; " I s'poses I shall hav' to. What is it, eh ? " "Well," and Loyalty took a deep-drawn breath, as if what she was about to say cost her an effort — " I wants 'ee to go to Dock for me." "Awh, certingly!"— Dunchy's features were unknitted, ready -to smile — "an bring yer sweetheart home to 'ee ? Be careful of un," and he dandled his arms before her. " Trate un as if he was a new-born babbie, or Missy's waxen-faced doll." " Here, you stow that jabber ! " and she gave him a little push, smiling at him as she did so. " No ; but, Dunchy, listen. 'Tis very partick'ler what I wants you to do ■ — somethink no livin' soul must know ; and I couldn't trust to none but you." " All right. If 'tis to be done, I'll do it." She gave a nod in assurance of his fidelity, and leaning her elbows on his knees, so that her mouth was brought close to him, she said, speaking slowly and dis tinctly — " Do 'ee know of a place to Dock called Baker's Place ?

" " Baker's Place ! Seems I've heerd tell o' the name. Is there any grog shop you knows of near by ? " Loyalty shook her head. " No ; but it's in Richmond Walk, not far from Mount Wise landing-steps ; and if you gets out and climbs up, over past where Daddy Johns's lets his boats out to, you'm all but there." " I see. Well " Well, then you must look 'long the houses for number three, and when you finds it, take the knocker and knock, and ax to see Cap'en Hamlyn as lives there." " Get alongs with 'ee ! " exclaimed Dunchy, thinking he was being made the object of a practical joke; "you habn't a-got up dreamin' 'tis Apirl fool's day, have 'ee ? " " Sit still," she said, for in his impatience he had half-risen. "I'm sayin' what I means, and what you'm to do." " You is ? " and he stared at her in bewilderment.

" The Cap'en ! Ax for he ! Why, what do 'ee think he'll do when he sees who 'tis ? " "He'll know," she said significantly. " All that's to say is, * Her'll come o' Friday. Get the rids o' Roger.' ' Dunchy's jaw fell ; his mouth gradually opened wide ; speech seemed to fail him. " What do 'ee look at me like that for ? " she said, quickly grasping the suspicion that had entered into the old man's mind. " You bain't thinkin' evil of me, Dunchy, be 'ee ? Awh ! " There was anguish, regret, reproach in the groan. " No," cried Dunchy eagerly, his face clearing — " no, I'd trust 'ee anywheres ! I don't believe the king upon his throne could lead 'ee astray ; only — well, 't has pretty nigh took all the wind out o' me." " I knowed you'd think it strange ; and if I could, I'd tell 'ee what 'tis about. 'Taint that I don't put trust in 'ee, but Roger even ain't to know."

" What, never ? " " No, I've tooked a solemn oath not to telL" " H'm," said Dunchy, " when you'm married, I dunno. If I was you, I should, be what it may. 'Sides which, there ain't no reason not to ; you'm two now, then you'll be one. 'Tain't no breakin' o' oath's then, what you tells 'he. What's yourn is his'n, and what's his'n's yourn." A beam of joy burst over Loyalty's face. To feel she might tell Roger lifted off half her burden ; and soon, too, he might know — very soon ; directly they were married she would tell him. " Oh, Dunchy," she said, " whenever I brings any trouble to you, you always sets it right, and gives me proper advice what to do." The culpable old boatman, whose baseness of morals gave scandal to most around, was in Loyalty's eyes a mentor, and the respect he knew she gave him kept him from losing all for himself.

" Bless 'ee, the Lord love 'ee ! " he said, with a laugh of incredulity, patting her peach-like cheek with his horny hand. " And that toad Roger's goin' to get 'ee gived to un, and p'r'aps ull take 'ee away. You mustn't now cast off the old Dunchy, you know. You must give me sometimes a sight of 'ee." " 0' course," she said, with a pretended bridle of her head. " Shan't I have to deal for my fish with 'ee ? There'll be a chance for passin' off a smelly lot." "No, no, now; none o' that!" said Dunchy, wincing under an imputation he was occasionally given credit for. "I knows all about it," she continued teasingly — "rushin' the water through 'em, and trimmin' up their gills with a little bit o' salt. You'll never be like the old Mr. Vizzick, who told Mr. Yabsley he was dyin' so easy as a feather bed could make un, all through feelin' he never cheated nobody in coals, nor gived 'em short weight."

" Don't you fear," said Dunchy huffily. " My dyin' won't be made oneasy by countin' up the manys stale fish I's passed off. There's so precious few I can ever find any where's to take 'em of me ! 'Tis sniff, sniff 'fore I gets time to hoist down the basket off my shoulders." " Come, don't 'ee be chuff," she said, taking him by the sleeve. " Now let's hear that you knows where 'tis you'm goin' to, and what's to say when you gets there." " ' Baker's Place, Richmond Walk, Number three.' " "Iss." " ' Her'll come o' Friday. Get the rids o' Roger.' ' " That's it. Hallo ! " she cried, turning suddenly round ; " what's that ? Who's there ? " A rustle in the trees, which fringe the river, seemed to be quite near. There was a crackle as if a rotten branch had given way. " 'Tain't anybody ; they couldn't clamber up here. 'Tis them drabbited roosters up agen amidst my nets, that's what you heerd.

If that Jimmy Ducks don't come along soon I'll wring the necks o' some o' they, and bury their bodies where they can't find 'em." And he winked knowingly towards Loyalty, who was bending over, almost losing her balance in her endeavours to catch sight of anything moving inshore. " Quack, quack, quack," she heard presently, and drawing back as if the sound satisfied her, she said — " And 'tis what I should do too, and if you'll send me word I'll come to dinner with 'ee." Never having been questioned as to where she was going, or what she was going to do, or having any interest shown in what con cerned or befell her, it did not strike Loyalty as strange that twice on turning round as she went from the Cot to see Dunchy, she noticed at a distance, coming the same way, Wakeham's boy. Wakeham's boy did not mean that he was Wakeham's son.

He was simply a waif picked up no one knew where, who had gradually come to do the fetching, carrying, spying, which any illicit trade makes neces sary. Sharp far beyond his years, greedy, vicious, he was by turns kicked, cuffed, knocked about, or allowed a freedom which should have been denied him. In an in credibly short time he knew every house where a keg of spirit was dropped, every shop that would welcome lace, gloves, or any light article worth smuggling. The names of the " free " landlords were at his fingers' ends, and the faces of all the revenue men were known to him. It was to this young limb of Satan that Jake George turned, telling him to follow Loyalty and bring him back word what she was up to. " Oh, you'll get somethin' for your work, you bloodsuckin' varmint, you." George had rightly interpreted the hesitation to obey, and on this assurance, Banyan, for so he was nicknamed, shot off like an arrow, to return a few hours later with the gist of the conversation which he had overheard.

When he came to the message which Dunchy was to deliver, and repeated the words, old George's violent agitation scared him ; for some minutes he feared the old man was seized with a fit, and that he should lose the money promised to him. Staggering back, George leaned for support against a piled-up heap of wrack and sea weed, and this letting him sink in, his feet slid away so as to leave him half prostrate with no power to recover his balance. " He's bin on the drink, I 'spects, and 's took with the horrors. I wish I knowed where he keeps what he's worth," thought Banyan, impressed by an idea prevalent among the smuggling crew that George, not being a drinker, must be a miser with a hoard of hidden-away money. But while vol. in. he was debating whether he would not go and make search, Jake opened his eyes and staggered up.

" Be off," he said, fumbling for the pence which when put into Banyan's hand he from habit looked at with dissatisfaction. In reality it was more than he expected to get, in token of which he said — Shan't 'ee waut no more o' me ? " "When I does I'll tell ye," said Jake gruffly ; and he made a movement of his head which repeated his desire to be relieved of Banyan's company. Left alone, the miserable man sat down drawn in a heap together, his whole body quivering and twitching. Down his fur rowed cheek the tears in great drops came rolling, and every now and again there escaped him an uncontrollable choking sob. The prostration following on his sudden violent emotion had mastered him. He realised that, mad for revenge, filled with the fury of a wild beast, he was weak and powerless as a child.

He looked at his hands — those sinews of strength that had helped to many a deed of violence — he could not clench them tight, they had not the -power then to hold a cup. His legs, tottering, refused to bear his weight ; in place of carrying him, he dragged them after him now. His sobs became a howd of helpless, hopeless agony. And the hardened old miscreant in his despair proffered a prayer, imploring strength to do his work of mur derous revenge. That finished, He who gave it might take the life which had been spent in defying its Creator every day. The calm which gradually came to him gave him a little fresh courage ; by degrees he got back his shattered senses, and began trying to weave some settled schemes. This involved recalling all that Banyan had told him, and he found himself repeating over and over again the message to be given by Dunchy : " Her'll come on Friday.