CHAPTER XLVIII.
IN WHICH CUTHBERT BEGINS TO SEE THINGS IN A NEW LIGHT.
The stream at Ravenshoe was as low as they had ever seen it, said thekeeper's boys, who were allowed to take artists and strangers up to seethe waterfall in the wood. The artists said that it was more beautifulthan ever; for now, instead of roaring headlong over the rocks in onegreat sheet beneath the quivering oak leaves, it streamed and spoutedover and among the black slabs of slate in a million interlacing jets.Yes, the artists were quite satisfied with the state of things; but thefew happy souls who had dared to ask Cuthbert for a day or so ofsalmon-fishing were not so well satisfied by any means. While theartists were saying that this sort of thing, you know, was the sort ofthing to show one how true it was that beauty, life, and art, were termsco-ordinate, synonymous, inseparable--that these made up the sum ofexistence--that the end of existence was love, and what was love but theworship of the beautiful (or something of this sort, for your artist isbut a mortal man, like the rest of us, and is apt, if you give himplenty of tobacco on a hot day, to get uncommon hazy in histalk)--while, I say, the artists were working away like mad, anduttering the most beautiful sentiments in the world, the anglers were,as old Master Lee up to Slarrow would have said, "dratting" the scenery,the water, the weather, the beer, and existence generally, because itwouldn't rain. If it had rained, you see, the artists would have lefttalking about the beautiful, and begun "dratting" in turn; leaving theanglers to talk about the beautiful as best they might. Which fact givesrise to moral reflections of the profoundest sort. But every one, exceptthe discontented anglers, would have said that it was heavenly summerweather. The hay was all got in without one drop of rain on it. And now,as one glorious, cloudless day succeeded another, all the land seemedsilently swelling with the wealth of the harvest. Fed by gentle dews atnight, warmed by the genial sun by day, the corn began to turn from greyto gold, and the distant valleys which spread away inland, folded in themighty grey arms of the moor, shone out gallantly with acre beyond acreof yellow wheat and barley. A still, happy time.
And the sea! Who shall tell the beauty of the restless Atlantic in suchweather? For nearly three weeks there was a gentle wind, now here, nowthere, which just curled the water, and made a purple shadow for suchlight clouds as crept across the blue sky above. Night and morning thefishing-boats crept out and in. Never was such a fishing season. Themouth of the stream was crowded with salmon, waiting to get up the firstfresh. You might see them as you sailed across the shallow sand-bank,the delta of the stream, which had never risen above the water for fortyyears, yet which now, so still had been the bay for three weeks, waswithin a foot of the surface at low tide.
A quiet, happy time. The three old Master Lees lay all day on the sand,where the fishing-boats were drawn up, and had their meals brought tothem by young male relatives, who immediately pulled off every rag ofclothes they had, and went into the water for an hour or two. Theminding of these 'ere clothes, and the looking out to sea, was quiteenough employment for these three old cronies. They never fell out oncefor three weeks. They used to talk about the war, or the cholera, whichwas said to be here, or there, or coming, or gone. But they cared littleabout that. Ravenshoe was not a cholera place. It had never come therebefore, and they did not think that it was coming now. They were quiteright; it never came. Cuthbert used his influence, and got the folks tomove some cabbage stalks, and rotten fish, just to make sure, as hesaid. They would have done more for him than that just now; so it wassoon accomplished. The juvenile population, which is the pretty way ofsaying the children, might have offered considerable opposition tocertain articles of merchandise being removed without due leave obtainedand given; but, when it was done, they were all in the water as naked asthey were born. When it was over they had good sense enough to see thatit could not be helped. These sweeping measures of reform, however, areapt to bear hard on particular cases. For instance, young James Lee,great-grandson of Master James Lee up to Slarrow, lost six dozen (somesay nine, but that I don't believe) of oyster-shells, which he wasstoring up for a grotto. Cuthbert very properly refunded the price ofthem, which amounted to twopence.
"Nonsense, again," you say. Why, no! What I have written above is notnonsense. The whims and oddities of a village; which one has seen withone's own eyes, and heard with one's own ears, are not nonsense. I knew,when I began, what I had to say in this chapter, and I have justfollowed on a train of images. And the more readily, because I know thatwhat I have to say in this chapter must be said without effort to besaid well.
If I thought I was writing for a reader who was going to criticiseclosely my way of telling my story, I tell you the honest truth, Ishould tell my story very poorly indeed. Of course I must submit to thesame criticism as my betters. But there are times when I feel that Imust have my reader go hand in hand with me. To do so, he must followthe same train of ideas as I do. At such times I write as naturally as Ican. I see that greater men than I have done the same. I see thatCaptain Marryat, for instance, at a particular part of his noblestnovel, "The King's Own," has put in a chapter about his grandmother andthe spring tides, which, for perfect English and rough humour, it ishard to match anywhere.
I have not dared to play the fool, as he has, for two reasons. Thefirst, that I could not play it so well, and the second, that I have nofrightful tragedy to put before you, to counterbalance it, as he had.Well, it is time that this rambling came to an end. I hope that I havenot rambled too far, and bored you. That would be very unfortunate justnow.
Ravenshoe Bay again, then--in the pleasant summer drought I have beenspeaking of before. Father Mackworth and the two Tiernays were lying onthe sand, looking to the sea. Cuthbert had gone off to send away someboys who were bathing too near the mouth of the stream and hunting hisprecious salmon. The younger Tiernay had recently taken to collect"common objects of the shore"--a pleasant, healthy mania which prevailedabout that time. He had been dabbling among the rocks at the western endof the bay, and had just joined his brother and Father Mackworth with atin-box full of all sorts of creatures, and he turned them out on thesand and called their attention to them.
"A very good morning's work, my brother," he said. "These anemones areall good and rare ones."
"Bedad," said the jolly priest, "they'd need be of some value, for theyain't pretty to look at; what's this cockle now wid the long red spikecoming out of him?"
"Cardium tuberculatum."
"See here, Mackworth," said Tiernay, rolling over toward him on the sandwith the shell in his hand.
"Here's the rid-nosed oysther of Carlingford. Ye remember the legendabout it, surely?"
"I don't, indeed," said Mackworth, angrily, pretty sure that FatherTiernay was going to talk nonsense, but not exactly knowing how to stophim.
"Not know the legend!" said Father Tiernay. "Why, when Saint Bridget washurrying across the sand, to attend St. Patrick in his last illness,poor dear, this divvle of a oysther was sunning himself on the shore,and, as she went by, he winked at her holiness with the wicked eye of'um, and he says, says he, 'Nate ankles enough, anyhow,' he says. 'Ye'redrunk, ye spalpeen,' says St. Bridget, 'to talk like that to an honestgentlewoman.' 'Sorra a bit of me,' says the oysther. 'Ye're alwaysdrunk,' says St. Bridget. 'Drunk yourself,' says the oysther; 'I'mfastin from licker since the tide went down.' 'What makes your nose sored, ye scoundrel?' says St. Bridget: 'No ridder nor yer own,' says theoysther, getting angry. For the Saint was stricken in years, andred-nosed by rayson of being out in all weathers, seeing to this and tothat. 'Yer nose is red through drink,' says she, 'and yer nose shallstay as rid as mine is now, till the day of judgment.' And that's thelegend about St. Bridget and the Carlingford oysther, and ye ought to beashamed that ye never heard it before."
"I wish, sir," said Mackworth, "that you could possibly stop yourselffrom talking this preposterous, indecent nonsense. Surely the first andnoblest of Irish Saints may claim exemption from your clumsy wit."
"Begorra, I'm catching it, Mr. Ravens
hoe," said Tiernay.
"What for?" said Cuthbert, who had just come up.
"Why, for telling a legend. Sure, I made it up on the spot. But it isnone the worse for that; d'ye think so, now?"
"Not much the better, I should think," said Cuthbert, laughing.
"Allow me to say," said Mackworth, "that I never heard such shameless,blasphemous nonsense in my life."
The younger Tiernay was frightened, and began gathering up his shellsand weeds. His handsome weak face was turned towards the great, strong,coarse face of his brother, with a look of terror, and his fingerstrembled as he put the sea-spoils into his box. Cuthbert, watching themboth, guessed that sometimes Father Tiernay could show a violent,headlong temper, and that his brother had seen an outbreak of this kindand trembled for one now. It was only a guess, probably a good one; butthere were no signs of such an outbreak now. Father Tiernay only layback on the sand and laughed, without a cloud on his face.
"Bedad," he said, "I've been lying on the sand, and the sun has got intomy stomach and made me talk nonsense. When I was a gossoon, I used tosleep with the pig; and it was a poor, feeble-minded pig, as never gotfat on petaty skins. If folly's catchin', I must have caught it fromthat pig. Did ye ever hear the legend of St. Laurence O'Toole'swooden-legged sow, Mackworth?"
It was evident, after this, that the more Mackworth fulminated againstgood Father Tiernay's unutterable nonsense, the more he would talk; sohe rose and moved sulkily away. Cuthbert asked him, laughing, what thestory was.
"Faix," said Tiernay, "I ain't sure, principally because I haven't hadtime to invent it; but we've got rid of Mackworth, and can now discoursereasonable."
Cuthbert sent a boy up to the hall for some towels, and then lay down onthe sand beside Tiernay. He was very fond of that man in spite of hisreckless Irish habit of talking nonsense. He was not alone there. Ithink that every one who knew Tiernay liked him.
They lay on the sand together those three; and, when Father Mackworth'sanger had evaporated, he came back and lay beside him. Tiernay put hishand out to him, and Mackworth shook it, and they were reconciled. Ibelieve Mackworth esteemed Tiernay, though they were so utterly unlikein character and feeling. I know that Tiernay had a certain admirationfor Mackworth.
"Do you think, now," said Tiernay, "that you Englishmen enjoy such ascene and such a time as this as much as we Irishmen do? I cannot tell.You talk better about it. You have a dozen poets to our one. Our bestpoet, I take it, is Tommy Moore. You class him as third-rate; but Idoubt, mind you, whether you feel nature as acutely as we do."
"I think we do," said Cuthbert, eagerly. "I cannot think that you canfeel the beauty of the scene we are looking at more deeply than I do.You feel nature as in 'Silent O'Moyle'; we feel it as in Keats' 'St.Agnes' Eve!'"
He was sitting up on the sand, with his elbows on his knees, and hisface buried in his hands. None of them spoke for a time; and he, lookingseaward, said idly, in a low voice--
"'St. Agnes' Eve. Ah! bitter chill it was. The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold; The hare limped, trembling, through the frozen grass; And drowsy was the flock in woolly fold.'"
What was the poor lad thinking of? God knows. There are times when onecan't follow the train of a man's thoughts--only treasure up theirspoken words as priceless relics.
His beautiful face was turned towards the dying sun, and in that facethere was a look of such kindly, quiet peace, that they who watched itwere silent, and waited to hear what he would say.
The western headland was black before the afternoon sun, and, far tosea, Lundy lay asleep in a golden haze. All before them the summer seaheaved between the capes, and along the sand, and broke in short crispsurf at their feet, gently moving the seaweed, the sand, and the shells.
"'St. Agnes' Eve,'" he said again. "Ah, yes! that is one of the poemswritten by Protestants which help to make men Catholics. Nine-tenths oftheir highest religious imagery is taken from Catholicism. The Englishpoets have nothing to supply the place of it. Milton felt it, and wroteabout it; yes, after ranging through all heathendom for images he comeshome, to us at last:--
"'Let my due feet never fail To walk the studious cloisters pale, And love the high embowed roof, With antique pillars massy proof, And storied windows, richly dight, Casting a dim religious light.'"
"Yes; he could feel for that cloister life. The highest form of humanhappiness! We have the poets with us, at all events. Why, what is themost perfect bijou of a poem in the English language? Tennyson's 'St.Agnes.' He had to come to us."
The poor fellow looked across the sea, which was breaking in crispripples at his feet among the seaweed, the sand, and the shells; and asthey listened, they heard him say, almost passionately--
"'Break up the heavens, oh, Lord! and far Through all yon starlight keen Draw me, thy bride, a glittering star In raiment white and clean.'
"They have taken our churches from us, and driven us intoBirmingham-built chapels. They sneer at us, but they forget that webuilt their arches and stained their glass for them. Art has revengedherself on them for their sacrilege by quitting earth in disgust. Theyhave robbed us of our churches and our revenues, and turned us out onthe world. Ay, but we are revenged. They don't know the use of them nowthey have got them; and the only men who could teach them, theTractarians, are abused and persecuted by them for their superiorknowledge."
So he rambled on, looking seaward; at his feet the surf playing with thesand, the seaweed, and the shells.
He made a very long pause, and then, when they thought that he wasthinking of something quite different, he suddenly said--
"I don't believe it matters whether a man is buried in the chancel orout of it. But they are mad to discourage such a feeling as that, andnot make use of it. Am I the worse man because I fancy that, when I laythere so quiet, I shall hear above my head the footfalls of those who goto kneel around the altar? What is it one of them says--
"'Or where the kneeling hamlet drains The chalice of the grapes of God.'"
He very seldom spoke so much as this. They were surprised to hear himramble on so; but it was an afternoon in which it was natural to situpon the shore and talk, saying straight on just what came uppermost--aquiet, pleasant afternoon; an afternoon to lie upon the sand and conjureup old memories.
"I have been rambling, haven't I," he said presently. "Have I beentalking aloud, or only thinking?"
"You have been talking," said Tiernay, wondering at such a question.
"Have I? I thought I had been only thinking. I will go and bathe, Ithink, and clear my head from dreams. I must have been quoting poetry,then," he added, smiling.
"Ay, and quoting it well, too," said Tiernay.
A young fisherman was waiting with a boat, and the lad had come with histowels. He stepped lazily across the sand to the boat, and they shovedoff.
Besides the murmur of the surf upon the sand, playing with the shellsand seaweed; besides the shouting of the bathing boys; besides thevoices of the home-returning fishermen, carried sharp and distinct alongthe water; besides the gentle chafing of the stream among the pebbles,was there no other sound upon the beach that afternoon? Yes, a sounddifferent to all these. A loud-sounding alarm drum, beating more rapidlyand furiously each moment, but only heard by one man, and not heeded byhim.
The tide drawing eastward, and a gentle wind following it, hardly enoughto fill the sails of the lazy fishing-boats and keep them to theircourse. Here and there among the leeward part of the fleet, you mighthear the sound of an oar working in the row-locks, sleepily coming overthe sea and mingling harmoniously with the rest.
The young man with Cuthbert rowed out a little distance, and then theysaw Cuthbert standing in the prow undressing himself. The fishing-boatsnear him luffed and hurriedly put out oars, to keep away. The Squire wasgoing to bathe, and no Ravenshoe man was ill-mannered enough to comenear.
Those on the shore saw him standing stripped for one mom
ent--a tallmajestic figure. Then they saw him plunge into the water and beginswimming.
And then;--it is an easy task to tell it. They saw his head go underwater, and, though they started on their feet and waited till secondsgrew to minutes and hope was dead, it never rose again. Without one cry,without one struggle, without even one last farewell wave of the hand,as the familiar old landscape faded on his eyes for ever, poor Cuthbertwent down; to be seen no more until the sea gave up its dead. The poorwild, passionate heart had fluttered itself to rest for ever.
The surf still gently playing with the sand, the sea changing frompurple to grey, and from grey to black, under the fading twilight. Thetide sweeping westward towards the tall black headland, towards theslender-curved thread of the new moon, which grew more brilliant as thesun dipped to his rest in the red Atlantic.
Groups of fishermen and sea boys and servants, that followed the ebbingtide as it went westward, peering into the crisping surf to seesomething they knew was there. One group that paused among the tumbledboulders on the edge of the retreating surges, under the darkpromontory, and bent over something which lay at their feet.
The naked corpse of a young man, calm and beautiful in death, lyingquiet and still between two rocks, softly pillowed on a bed of green andpurple seaweed. And a priest that stood upon the shore, and cried wildlyto the four winds of heaven. "Oh, my God, I loved him! My God! my God! Iloved him!"