Lady Good-for-Nothing: A Man's Portrait of a Woman

  Chapter XI.

  THE STOCKS.

  In the end they came to a compromise. That Dame Justice should behustled in this fashion--taken by the shoulders, so to speak, forced tocatch up her robe and skip--offended the Chief Magistrate's sense ofpropriety. It was unseemly in the last degree, he protested.Nevertheless it appeared certain that Captain Vyell had a right to betried and punished; and the Clerk's threat to set down the hearing foran adjourned sessions was promptly countered by the culprit's producingHis Majesty's Commission, which enjoined upon all and sundry "_toobserve the welfare of my faithful subject, Oliver John Dinham de CourcyVyell, now travelling on the business of this my Realm, and to furtherthat business with all zeal and expedition as required by him_"--acommand which might be all the more strictly construed for being looselyworded. To be sure the Court might by dilatory process linger out thehearing of the Weights and Measures cases--one of which was beingscandalously interrupted at this moment--or it might adjourn for dinnerand reassemble in the afternoon, by which time the sands of RuthJosselin's five hours' ignominy would be running out. But here Mr.Somershall had to be reckoned with. Mr. Somershall not only made it apractice to sit long at dinner and sleep after it; he invariably losthis temper if the dinner-hour were delayed; and, being deaf as well ashonest, he was capable of blurting out his mind in a fashion to confoundeither of these disingenuous courses. As for Mr. Wapshott, the wordingof the Commission had frightened him, and he wished himself at home.

  It was Mr. Trask who found the way out. Mr. Trask, his malevolent eyefixed on the Collector, opined that after all an hour or two in thestocks would be a salutary lesson for hot blood and pampered flesh.He suggested that, without insisting on a trial, the Captain might beobliged, and his legs given that lesson. He cited precedents.More than once a friend or relative had, by mercy of the Court, beenallowed to sit beside a culprit under punishment. If, a like leavebeing granted him, Captain Vyell preferred to have his anklesconfined--why, truly, Mr. Trask saw no reason for denying him theexperience. But the Captain, it was understood, must give his word ofhonour, first, to accept this as a free concession from the Bench, and,secondly, not to repent or demand release before the expiry of the fivehours.

  "With all my heart," promised Captain Vyell; and the Chief Magistratereluctantly gave way.

  Ruth Josselin sat in the stocks. She had come so far out of her swoonthat her pulse beat, her breath came and went, she felt the sun warm onher face, and was aware of some pain where the edge of the wood pressedinto her flesh, a little above the ankle-bones--of discomfort, rather,in comparison with the anguish throbbing and biting across hershoulder-blades. Some one--it may have been in unthinking mercy--haddrawn down the sackcloth over her stripes, and the coarse stuff,irritating the raw, was as a shirt of fire.

  She had come back to a sense of this torture, but not yet to completeconsciousness. She sat with eyes half closed, filmed with suffering.As they had closed in the moment of swooning, so and with the same lookof horror they awoke as the lids parted. But they saw nothing; neitherthe sunlight dappling the maple shadows nor the curious faces of thecrowd. She felt the sunlight; the crowd's presence she felt not at all.

  But misery she felt; a blank of misery through which her reviving soul--like the shoot of a plant trodden into mire--pushed feebly towards thesunlight that coaxed her eyes to open. Something it sought there . . .a face . . . yes, a face. . . .

  --Yes, of course, a face; lifted high above other faces that werehateful, hostile, mocking her misery--God knew why; a strong face, notvery pitiful--but so strong!--and yet it must be pitiful too, for itcondescended to help. It was moving down, bending, to help. . . .

  --What had become of it? . . . Ah, now (shame at length reawakening) sheremembered! She was hiding from him. He was strong, he was kind, butabove all he must not see her shame. Let the earth cover her and hideit! . . . and either the merciful earth had opened or a mercifuldarkness had descended. She remembered sinking into it--sinking--herhands held aloft, as by ropes. Then the ropes had parted. . . .She had fallen, plumb. . . .

  She was re-emerging now; and either shame lay far below, a cast-off weedin the depths, or shame had driven out shame as fire drives out fire.Her back was burning; her tongue was parched; her eyes were seared asthey half opened upon the crowd. The grinning faces--the mouths pulledawry, mocking a sorrow they did not understand--these were meaninglessto her. She did not, in any real sense, behold them. Her misery was asea about her, and in the trough of it she looked up, seeking one face.

  --And why not? It had shone far above her as a god's; but she had beensucked down as deep again, and there is an extreme of degradation maymeet even a god's altitude on equal terms. Stark mortal, stark god--itslimit of suffering past, humanity joins the celestial, clasping itsknees.

  Of a sudden, turning her eyes a little to the left, she saw him.

  He had come at a strolling pace across the square, with Manasseh and thedeputy-beadle walking wide beside him, and the Court-house rabble at hisheels, but keeping, in spite of themselves, a respectful distance.At the stocks he faced about, and they halted on the instant, as thoughhe had spoken a word of command. He smiled, seated himself leisurablyat the end of the bench on Ruth Josselin's left, and extended a leg forManasseh to draw off its riding-boot. At the back of the crowd a fewvoices chattered, but within the semicircle a hush had fallen.

  It was then that she turned her eyes and saw him.

  How came he here? What was he doing? . . . She could not comprehend atall. Only she felt her heart leap within her and stand still, as like awarm flood the consciousness of his presence stole through her, pouredover her, soothing away for the moment all physical anguish. She satvery still, her hands in her lap; afraid to move, afraid even to lookagain. This consciousness--it should have been shame, but it held noshame at all. It was hope. It came near, very near, to bliss.

  She was aware in a dull way of some one unlocking and lifting the upperbeam of the stocks. Were they releasing her? Surely her sentence hadbeen for five hours?--surely her faintness could not have lasted solong! This could not be the end? She did not wish to be released.She would not know what to do, where to go, when they set her free.She must walk home through the town, and that would be worst of all.

  Or perhaps _he_ was commanding them to release her? . . . No; the beamcreaked and dropped into place again. A moment ago his voice had beenspeaking; speaking very cheerfully, not to her. Now it was silent.After some minutes she gathered courage to turn her eyes again.

  Captain Vyell sat with his legs in durance. They were very shapelylegs, cased in stockings of flesh-coloured silk with crimson knee-ties.He sat in perfect patience, and rolled a tobacco-leaf between hisfingers. At his shoulder stood Manasseh like a statue, with faceimmobile as Marble--black marble--and a tinder-box ready in his hand.

  "Why? . . ."

  He could not be sure if it were a word, or merely a sigh, deep in herbreast, so faintly it reached him. She had murmured it as if toherself, yet it seemed to hang on a question. His ear was alert.

  "Hush!" he said, speaking low and without glancing towards her, for theeyes of the crowd were on them. "The faintness is over?"

  "Yes."

  "Do not talk at all. By-and-by we will talk. Now I am going to ask youa selfish question, and you are just to bend your head for 'yes' or'no.' Will the smell of tobacco distress you, or bring the faintnessback? These autumn flies sting abominably here, under the trees."

  She moved her head slowly. "I do not feel them," she said after awhile.

  He glanced at her compassionately before nodding to Manasseh for alight. "No, poor wretch, I'll be sworn you do not," he muttered betweenthe puffs. "Thank you, Manasseh; and now will you step down to the Inn,order the horses back to stable, and bring George and Harry back withyou? I may require them to break a head or two here, if there should betrouble. Tell Alexander"--this was the coachman--"to have an eye onMaster Dicky, and see that he get
s his dinner. The child is on noaccount to come here, or be told about this. His papa is detained onbusiness--you understand? Yes, and by the way, you may extract a bookfrom the valise--the Calderon, for choice, or if it come handier, thatsecond volume of Corneille. Don't waste time, though, in searching forthis or that. In the stocks I've no doubt a book is a book: theinstrument has a reputation for levelling."

  Manasseh departed on his errand, and for a while the Collector paid noheed to his companion. He and she were now unprotected, at the mercy ofthe mob if it intended mischief; and the next few minutes would becritical.

  He sat immersed apparently in his own thoughts, and by the look on hisface these were serious thoughts. He seemed to see and yet not to seethe ring of faces; to be aware of them, yet not concerned with them, nowhit afraid and quite as little defiant. True, he was smoking, butwithout a trace of affected insouciance or bravado; gravely rather,resting an elbow on his groin and leaning forward with a preoccupiedfrown. Two minutes passed in this silence, and he felt the dangerebbing. Mob insolence ever wants a lead, and--perhaps because with thereturn of fine weather the fishing-crews had put to sea early--this PortNassau crowd lacked a fugleman.

  "Are you here--because--of me?"

  "Hush, again," he answered quietly, not turning his head. "I like youto talk if you feel strong enough; but for the moment it will be betterif they do not perceive. . . . Yes, and no," he answered her questionafter a pause. "I am here to see that you get through this. You are inpain?"

  "Yes; but it is easier."

  "You are afraid of these people?"

  "Afraid?" She took some time considering this. "No," she said atlength. "I am not afraid of them. I do not see them. You are here."

  He took the tobacco-leaf from his lips, blew a thin cloud of smoke withgrave deliberateness, and in doing so contrived to glance at her face.

  "You have blood in you. That face, too, my beauty," he muttered,"never came to you but by gift of blood." Aloud he said, "That's brave.But take care when your senses clear and the strain comes back on you.Speak to me when you feel it coming; I don't want it to tauten you upwith a jerk. You understand?"

  "Yes. . . ."

  "I wonder now--" he began musingly, and broke off. The danger he hadbeen keeping account with was over; Manasseh had returned with the twogrooms, and they--perfectly trained servants on the English model--tooktheir posts without exhibiting surprise by so much as a twitch of theface. George in particular was a tight fellow with his fists, as thecrowd, should it offer annoyance, would assuredly learn. The Collectortook the volume which Manasseh brought him, and opened it, but did notbegin to read. "You despise these people?" he asked.

  He was puzzled with himself. He was here to protect her; and this, fromhim to her, implied a noble condescension. His fine manners, to besure, forbade his showing it; on no account would he have shown it.But the puzzle was, he could not feel it.

  She met his eyes. "No . . . why should I despise them?"

  "They are _canaille_."

  "What does that mean? . . . They have been cruel to me. Afterwards, Iexpect, they will be crueller still. But just now it does not matter,because you are here."

  "Does that make so much difference?" he asked thoughtlessly.

  She caught her breath upon a sob. "Ah, do not--" The voice died,strangled, in her throat. "Do not--" Again she could get no further,but sat shivering, her fingers interlocked and writhing.

  "Brute!" muttered the Collector to himself. He did not ask her pardon,but opened his Calderon, signed to Manasseh to roll a freshtobacco-leaf, and fell to reading his favourite _Alcalde de Zalamea_.

  The sun crept slowly to the right over the tops of the maples. It nolonger scorched their faces, but slanted in rays through the upperboughs, dappling the open walks with splashes of light which, as theyreceded in distance, took by a trick of the eyesight a pattern regularas diaper. By this time the Collector, when he glanced up from hisbook, had an ample view of the square, for the crowd had thinned.The punishment of the stocks was no such rare spectacle in Port Nassau;and five hours is a tedious while even for the onlooker--a very longwhile indeed to stand weighing the fun of throwing a handful of filthagainst the cost of a thrashing. The men-folk, reasoning thus, hadmelted away to their longshore avocations. The women, always morepatient--as to their nature the show was more piquant than to themen's--had withdrawn with their knitting to benches well withineyeshot. The children, playing around, grew more and more immersed intheir games; which, nevertheless, one or another would interrupt fromtime to time to point and ask a question. Above the Court-house thetown clock chimed its quarters across the afternoon heat.

  The Collector, glancing up in the act of turning a page, spied Mr. Traskhobbling down an alley towards the Jail. Mr. Trask, a martyr to gout,helped his progress with an oaken staff. He leaned on this as he haltedbefore the stocks.

  "Tired?" he asked.

  "Damnably!" answered the Collector with great cheerfulness. "It takesone in the back, you see. If ever the Town Fathers think of moving thismachine, you might put in a word for shifting it a foot or two back,against the prison wall."

  Mr. Trask grinned.

  "I suppose now," he said after a pause, "you think you are doing a finething, and doing it handsomely?"

  "I had some notion of the sort, but this confinement of the feet iswonderfully cooling to the brain. No--if you dispute it. Most humanactions are mixed."

  Mr. Trask eyed him, chin between two fingers and thumb. When he spokeagain it was with lowered voice. "Is it altogether kind to the girl?"he asked.

  "Eh?" The Collector in turn eyed Mr. Trask.

  "Or even quite fair to her?"

  "Oh, come!" said the Collector. "Tongues? I hadn't thought of that."

  "I dare say not." Mr. Trask glanced up at the windows of a two-storeyedhouse on the left, scarcely a stone's throw away, a respectable mansionwith a verandah and neat gateway of wrought iron. "But at the end ofthis what becomes of her?"

  The Collector shrugged his shoulders. "I have thought of _that_, at allevents. My coach will be here to take her home. It lies on my road.As for me, I shall have to mount at once and ride through the night--asecond test for the back-bone."

  "Ride and be hanged to you!" broke out Mr. Trask with a snarl of scorn."But for the rest, if your foppery leave you any room to consider thegirl, you couldn't put a worse finish on your injury. Drive her off inyour coach indeed!--and what then becomes of her reputation?"

  "--Of what you have left to her, you mean? Damn it--_you_ to talk likethis!"

  "Do not be profane, Captain Vyell. . . . We see things differently, andthis punishment was meted to her--if cruelly, as you would say--still inhonest concern for her soul's good. But if you, a loose-living man--"Mr. Trask paused.

  "Go on."

  "I thank you. For the moment I forgot that you are not at liberty.But I used not that plainness of speech to insult you; rather because itis part of the argument. If you, then, drive away with this child inpublic, through this town, you do her an injury for which merecarelessness is your best excuse; and the world will assign it a worse."

  "The world!"

  "I mean the world this young woman will have to live in. But we talk atcross-purposes. When I asked, 'What becomes of her at the end of this?'I was thinking of the harm you have already done. As a fact, I haveordered my cart to be ready to take her home."

  Captain Vyell considered for a few seconds. "Sir," he said, "sinceplain speech is allowed between us, I consider you a narrow bigot; but,I hasten to add, you are the best man I have met in Port Nassau. By theway--that house on our left--does it by chance belong to Mr. Wapshott?"

  "It does."

  "I thought so. For a couple of hours past, in the intervals of myreading, I have discovered a family of tall young women peeking at usfrom behind the windows and a barrier of furniture; and once, it seemedto me, I detected the wattles of your worthy fellow-magistrate.He ought no
t to strain that neck; you should warn him of the danger."

  "It should have warned you, sir, of what mischief you are doing."

  "I seem to remember," the Collector mused, "reading the words '_Honisoit qui mal y pense_' to-day written on the wall behind you. . . .Why, damn me, sir, for aught you or any of them can tell, I intend tomarry this girl! Why not? Go and tell them. Could there (you'll say)be a fairer betrothal? The reputable plight their troth with a singlering around the woman's finger; but here are four rings around the fourankles, and the bar locked. With your leave, which is the moresymbolical?"

  "You are a reprobate man, Captain Vyell," was the answer, "and I have norelish for your talk. I will only say this, When her punishment isdone, my cart shall be ready for her; and you, if you would vindicate anaction which--for I'll give you that credit--sprang from a generousimpulse, will go your ways and let this child live down herhumiliation."

  Mr. Trask turned and went his way up the alley, across which the sunmade level rays of flame. The Collector sat in thought.

  He turned his head, surprised by the sound of a sob. A small child haddrawn near--a toddle of four, trailing her wooden doll with its head inthe dust--and stood a few paces in front of Ruth Josselin, round-eyed,finger at mouth.

  "Steady, my girl. . . . Steady!"

  At the murmured warning she braced her body stiffly, and no second sobcame. But the tears ran--the first in all her long agony--and smallshivers, as light winds play on aspen, chased one another down herthroat. Almost you could guess them passing down her flesh beneath thesackcloth, rippling over its torn and purple ridges.

  He did not check her weeping. The child--small, innocent cause of it--stood round-eyed, wondering. "She has been naughty. What has she done,to be so naughty?"

  Over the maples the town clock slowly told the hour.

  They were free. The Collector tossed away the half-smokedtobacco-leaf--his twelfth--drew a long breath, and emitted it with a gaylaugh of relief. At the same moment he saw Mr. Trask's bullock-cartapproaching down the dappled avenue.