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The Ship of Stars by Arthur Thomas Quiller Couch

A >> Arthur Thomas Quiller Couch >> The Ship of Stars




"I must go away; that's what 'tis. My burden is too great for me to
bear."

"Why," said Mr. Raymond, who had grown surprisingly tolerant during
the last twelve months, "what cause have you, of all men, to feel
dejected? You can set the folk here on fire like flax." He sighed.

"That's azactly the reason--I can set 'em afire with a breath, but I
can't hold 'em under. I make 'em too strong for me--_and I'm
afeard_. Parson, dear, it's the gospel truth; for two years I've a
been strivin' agen myself, wrastlin' upon my knees, and all to hold
this parish in." He mopped his face. "'Tis like fightin' with
beasts at Ephesus," he said.

"Do you want to hold them in?"

"I do, and I don't. I've got to try, anyway. Sometimes I tell
mysel' 'tis putting a hand to the plough and turning back; and then I
reckon I'll go on. But when the time comes I can't. I'm afeard, I
tell 'ee." He paused. "I've laid it before the Lord, but He don't
seem to help. There's two voices inside o' me. 'Tis a terrible
responsibility."

"But the people: what are you afraid of their doing?"

"I don't know. You don't know what a runaway hoss will do, but
you're afeared all the same." He sank his voice. "There's
wantonness, for one thing--six love-children born in the parish this
year, and more coming. They do say that Vashti Clemow destroyed her
child. And Old Man Johns--him they found dead on the rocks under the
Island--he didn't go there by accident. 'Twas a calm day, too."

As often as not Taffy worked late and blew his forge-fire alone in
the church, the tap of his hammer making hollow music in the desolate
aisles. He was working thus one windy night in February, when the
door rattled open and in walked a totally unexpected visitor--Sir
Harry Vyell.

"Good evening! I was riding by and saw your light in the windows
dancing up and down. I thought I would hitch up the mare and drop in
for a chat. But go on with your work."

Taffy wondered what had brought him so far from his home at that time
of night, but asked no questions. And Sir Harry placed a hassock on
one of the belfry steps, and taking his seat, watched for a while in
silence. He wore his long riding-boots and an overcoat with the
collar turned up about a neckcloth less nattily folded than usual.

"I wish," he said at length, "that my boy George was clever like you.
You were great friends once--you remember Plymouth, hey? But I dare
say you've not seen much of each other lately."

Taffy shook his head.

"George is a bit wild. Oxford might have done something for him;
made a man of him, I mean. But he wouldn't go. I believe in wild
oats to a certain extent. I have told him from the first he must
look after himself and decide for himself. That's my theory.
It makes a youngster self-reliant. He goes and comes as he likes.
If he comes home late from hunting I ask no questions; I don't wait
dinner. Don't you agree with me?"

"I don't know," Taffy answered, wondering why he should be consulted.

"Self-reliance is what a man wants."

"Couldn't he have learnt that at school?"

Sir Harry fidgeted with the riding-crop in his hands. "Well, you
see, he's an only son--I dare say it was selfish of me. You don't
mind my talking about George?"

Taffy laughed. "I like it. But--"

Sir Harry laughed too, in an embarrassed way. "But you don't suppose
I rode over from Carwithiel for that? Well, well! The fact is--one
gets foolish as one grows old--George went out hunting this morning,
and didn't turn up for dinner. I kept to my rule and dined alone.
Nine o'clock came; half-past; no George. At ten Hoskins locked up as
usual, and off I went to bed. But I couldn't sleep. After a while
it struck me that he might be sleeping here over at Tredinnis; that
is, if no accident had happened. No sleep for me until I made sure;
so I jumped out, dressed, slipped down to the stables, saddled the
mare and rode over. I left the mare by Tredinnis great gates and
crept down to Moyle's stables like a housebreaker, looked in through
the window, and sure enough there was George's grey in the loose box
to the right. So George is sleeping there, and I'm easy in my mind.
No doubt you think me an old fool?"

But Taffy was not thinking anything of the sort.

"I couldn't wish better than that. You understand?"

"Not quite."

"He lost his mother early. He wants a woman to look after him, and
for him to think about. If he and Honoria would only make up a
match. . . . And Carwithiel would be quite a different house."

Taffy hesitated, with a hand on the forge-bellows.

"I dare say it's news to you, what I'm telling. But it has been in
my mind this long while. Why don't you blow up the fire? I bet Miss
Honoria has thought of it too: girls are deep. She has a head on her
shoulders. I'll warrant she sends half a dozen of my servants
packing within a week. As it is, they rob me to a stair. I know it,
and I haven't the pluck to interfere."

"What does the old Squire say?" Taffy managed to ask.

"It has never come to _saying_ anything. But I believe he thinks of
it, too, when he happens to think of anything but his soul. He'll be
pleased; everyone will be pleased. The properties touch, you see."

"I see."

"To tell you the truth, he's failing fast. This religion of his is a
symptom: all of his family have taken to it in the end. If he hadn't
the constitution of a horse, he'd have been converted ten years
before this. What puzzles me is, he's so quiet. You mark my words
"--Sir Harry rose, buttoned his coat and shook his riding-crop
prophetically--"he's brewing up for something. There'll be the devil
of a flare-up before he has done."


It came with the Midsummer bonfires. At nine o'clock on St. John's
Eve, Mr. Raymond read prayers in the church. It was his rule to
celebrate thus the vigils of all saints in the English calendar and
some few Cornish saints besides; and he regularly announced these
services on the preceding Sundays: but no parishioner dreamed of
attending them.

To-night, as usual, he and Taffy had prayed alone: and the lad was
standing after service at the church door, with his surplice on his
arm (for he always wore a surplice and read the lessons on these
vigils), when the flame of the first bonfire shot up from the
headland over Innis village.

Almost on the moment, a flame answered it from the point where the
lighthouse stood; and, within ten minutes, the horizon of the towans
was cressetted with these beacon-fires: surely (thought Taffy) with
many more than usual. And he remembered that Jacky Pascoe had thrown
out a hint of a great revival to be held on Baal-fire Night (as he
called it).

The night was sultry and all but windless. For once the tormented
sands had rest. The flame of the bonfires shone yellow--
orange-yellow--and steady. He could see the dark figures of men and
women, passing between him and the nearest, on the high wastrel in
front of Tredinnis great gates. Their voices reached him in a
confused murmur, broken now and then by a child's scream of delight.
And yet a hush seemed to hang over sea and land: an expectant hush.
For weeks the sky had not rained. Day after day, a dull indigo blue
possessed it, deepening with night into duller purple, as if the
whole heavens were gathering into one big thundercloud, which menaced
but never broke. And in the hush of those nights a listener could
almost fancy he heard, between whiles, the rabbits stirring uneasily
in their burrows.

By-and-by the bonfire on the wastrel appeared to be giving out sparks
of light which blazed independently; yet without decreasing its own
volume of flame. The sparks came dancing, nearer and larger: the
voices grew more distinct. The revellers had kindled torches and
were advancing in procession to visit other bonfires. The torches,
too, were supposed to bless the fields they passed across. Small
blessing had they ever brought to the barren towans.

The procession rose and sank as it came over the uneven ridges like a
fiery snake; topped the nearest ridge and came pouring down past the
churchyard wall. At its head danced Lizzie Pezzack, shrieking like a
creature possessed, her hair loose and streaming while she whirled
her torch. Taffy knew these torches; bundles of canvas steeped in
tar and fastened in the middle to a stout stick or piece of chain.
Lizzie's was fastened to a chain; and as he watched her uplifted arm
swinging the blazing mass he found time to wonder how she escaped
setting her hair on fire. Other torch-bearers tossed their arms and
shouted as they passed. The smoke was suffocating, and across the
patch of quiet graveyard the heat smote on Taffy's face. But in the
crowd he saw two figures clearly--Jacky Pascoe and Squire Moyle; and
the Bryanite's face was agitated and white in the infernal glare.
He had given an arm to the Squire, who was clearly the centre of the
procession and tottered forward with jaws working and cavernous eyes.

"He's saved!" a voice shouted.

Others took up the cry. "Saved!" "The Squire's saved!"
"Saved to-night--saved to glory!"

The Squire paused, still leaning on the Bryanite's arm. While the
procession swayed around him, he gazed across the gate as a man who
had lost his bearings. No glint of torchlight reached his cavernous
eyes; but the sight of Mr. Raymond's surpliced figure standing behind
Taff's shoulder in the full glare seemed to rouse him. He lifted a
fist and shook it slowly.

"Com'st along, sir!" urged the Bryanite. But the Squire stood
irresolute, muttering to himself.

"Com'st along, sir!"

"Lev' me be, I tell 'ee!" He laid both hands on the gate and spoke
across it to Mr. Raymond, his head nodding while his voice rose.

"D'ee hear what they say? I'm saved. I'm the Squire of this parish,
and I'm goin' to Heaven. I make no account of you and your church.
Old Satan's the fellow I'm after, and I'm going to have him out o'
this parish to-night or my name's not Squire Moyle."

"That's of it, Squire!" "Hunt 'en!" "Out with 'en!"

He turned on the crowd.

"Hunt 'en? Iss fay I will! Come along, boys--back to Tredinnis!
No, no"--this to the Bryanite--"we'll go back. I'll show 'ee sport--
we'll hunt th' old Divvle by scent and view to-night. I'm Squire
Moyle, ain't I? And I've a pack o' hounds, ha'n't I? Back, boys--
back, I tell 'ee!"

Lizzie Pezzack swung her torch. "Back--back to Tredinnis!" The
crowd took up the cry, "Back to Tredinnis!" The old man shook off
the Bryanite's hand, and as the procession wheeled and reformed
itself confusedly, rushed to the head of it, waving his hat--

"Back!--Back to Tredinnis!"

"God help them!" said Mr. Raymond; and taking Taffy by the arm, drew
him back into the church.


The shouting died away up the road. For three-quarters of an hour
father and son worked in silence. The reddened sky shed its glow
gently through the clear glass windows, suffusing the shadows beneath
the arched roof. And in the silence the lad wondered what was
happening up at Tredinnis.


Jim the Whip took oath afterward that it was no fault of his. He had
suspected three of the hounds for a day or two--Chorister, White Boy,
and Bellman--and had separated them from the pack. That very evening
he had done the same with Rifler, who was chewing at the straw in a
queer fashion and seemed quarrelsome. He had said nothing to the
Squire, whose temper had been ugly for a week past. He had hoped it
was a false alarm--had thought it better to wait, and so on.

The Squire went down to the kennels with a lantern, Jim shivering
behind him. They had their horses saddled outside and ready, and the
crowd was waiting along the drive and up by the great gates.
The Squire saw at a glance that two couples were missing, and in two
seconds had their names on his tongue. He was like a madman.
He shouted to Jim to open the doors. "Better not, maister!" pleaded
Jim. The old man cursed, smote him across the neck with the butt-end
of his whip, and unlocked the doors himself. Jim, though half
stunned, staggered forward to prevent him, and took another blow,
which felled him. He dropped across the threshold of Chorister's
kennel; the doors of all opened outwards, and the weight of his body
kept this one shut. But he saw the other three hounds run out, saw
the Squire turn with a ghastly face, drop the lantern, and run for it
as White Boy snapped at his boot. Jim heard the crash of the lantern
and the snap of teeth, and with that he fainted off in the darkness.
He had cut his forehead against the bars of the big kennel, and when
he came to himself one of the hounds was licking his face through the
grating.


Men told for years after how the old Squire came galloping up the
drive that night, hoof to belly, his chin almost on mare Nonsuch's
neck, his face like a man's who hears hell cracking behind him, and
of the three dusky hounds which followed (the tale said) with
clapping jaws and eyes like coach-lamps.

Down in the quiet church Taffy heard the outcry, and, laying down his
plane, looked up and saw that his father had heard it too.
Mr. Raymond's mild eyes, shining through his spectacles, asked as
plainly as words: "What was _that?_"

"Listen!"

For a minute--two minutes--they heard nothing more. Then out of the
silence broke a rapid, muffled beat of hoofs, and Mr. Raymond
clutched Taffy's arm as a yell--a cry not human, or if human,
insane--ripped the night as you might rip linen, and fetched them to
their feet. Taffy gained the porch first; and just at that moment a
black shadow heaved itself on the churchyard wall and came hurling
over with a thud--a clatter of dropping stones--then a groan.

Before they could grasp what was happening the old Squire had
extricated himself from the fallen mare, and came staggering across
the graves.

"Hide me!--"

He came with both arms outstretched, his face turned sideways.
Behind him, from the far side of the wall, came sounds--horrible
shuffling sounds--and in the dusk they saw the head of one of the
hounds above the coping and his forepaws clinging as he strained to
heave himself over.

"Off! Keep 'en off!"

They caught him by both hands, dragged him within, and slammed the
door.

"Hide me! Hi--!"

The word ended with a thud as he pitched headlong on the slate
pavement. Through the barred door the scream of the mare Nonesuch
answered it.



CHAPTER XVIII.


THE BARRIERS FALL.

There were marks of teeth on his right boot, but no marks at all on
his body. Fright--or fright following on that evening's frenzy--had
killed him.

He was buried three days later, and Mr. Raymond read the service.
No rain had fallen, and the blood of the three hounds still stained
the gravel dividing the grave from the porch, where the crowd had
shot them down.

For a while his death made small difference to the family at the
Parsonage. They had fought his enmity and proved it not formidable
for brave hearts. But they had scarcely realised their success, and
wondered why his death did not affect them more.

About this time Taffy began to carry out a scheme which he and his
father had often discussed, but hitherto had found no leisure for--
the setting up of wooden crosses on the graves of the drowned
sailormen. They had wished for slate, but good slate was expensive
and hard to come by, and Taffy had no skill in stone-cutting.
Since wood it must be, he resolved to put his best work into it.
The names, etc., should be engraved, not painted merely. Some of the
pew-fronts in the church had panels elaborately carved in flat and
shallow relief--fine Jacobean designs, all of them. He took careful
rubbings of their traceries, and set to work to copy them on the face
of his crosses.

One afternoon, some three weeks after the Squire's funeral, he
happened to return to the house for a tracing which he had forgotten,
and found Honoria seated in the kitchen and talking with his father
and mother. She was dressed in black, of course, and either this or
the solemnity of her visit gave her quite a grown-up look. But, to
be sure, she was mistress of Tredinnis now, and a child no longer.

Taffy guessed the meaning of her visit at once. And no doubt this
act of formal reconciliation between Tredinnis House and the
Parsonage had cost her some nervousness. As Taffy entered his
parents stood up and seemed just as awkward as their visitor.
"Another time, perhaps," he heard his father say. Honoria rose
almost at once, and would not stay to drink tea, though Humility
pressed her.

"I suppose," said Taffy next day, looking up from his Virgil,
"I suppose Miss Honoria wants to make friends now and help on the
restoration?"

Mr. Raymond, who was on his knees fastening a loose hinge in a
pew-door, took a screw from between his lips.

"Yes, she proposed that."

"It must be splendid for you, dad!"

"I don't quite see," answered Mr. Raymond, with his head well inside
the pew.

Taffy stood up, put his hands in his pockets, and took a turn up and
down the aisle.

"Why," said he, coming to a halt, "it means that you have won.
It's victory, dad, and _I_ call it glorious!" His lip trembled.
He wanted to put a hand on his father's shoulder; but his abominable
shyness stood between.

"We won long ago, my boy." And Mr. Raymond wheeled round on his
knees, pushed up his spectacles, and quoted the famous lines, very
solemnly and slowly:

"'And not by eastern windows only,
When daylight comes, comes in the light;
In front the sun climbs slow, how slowly!
But westward, look, the land is bright!'"

"I see," Taffy nodded. "And--I say, that's jolly. Who wrote it?"

"A man I used to see in the streets of Oxford and always turned to
stare after: a man with big ugly shaped feet and the face of a god--a
young tormented god. Those were days when young men's thoughts
tormented them. Taffy," he asked abruptly, "should you like to go to
Oxford?"

"Don't, father!" The boy bit his lip to keep back the tears.
"Talk of something else--something cheerful. It has been a splendid
fight, just splendid! And now it's over I'm almost sorry."

"What is over?"

"Well, I suppose--now that Honoria wants to help--we can hire workmen
and have the whole job finished in a month, or two at farthest: and
you--"

Mr. Raymond stood up, and leaning against a bench-end, examined the
thread of the screw between his fingers.

"That is one way of looking at it, no doubt," he said slowly; "and I
hope God will forgive me if I have put my own pride before His
service. But a man desires to leave some completed work behind him--
something to which people may point and say, '_he_ did it.'
There was my book, now: for years I thought that was to be my work.
But God thought otherwise and (to correct my pride, perhaps) chose
this task instead. To set a small forsaken country church in order
and make it worthy of His presence--that is not the mission I should
have chosen. But so be it: I have accepted it. Only, to let others
step in at the last and finish even this--I say He must forgive me,
but I cannot."

"Your book--you can go back to it and finish it."

"I have burnt it."

"Dad!"

"I burned it. I had to. It was a temptation to me, and until I
lifted it from the grate and the flakes crumbled in my hands the
surrender was not complete."

Taffy felt a sudden gush of pity. And as he pitied suddenly he
understood his father.

"It had to be complete?"

"Either the book or the surrender. My boy"--and in his voice there
echoed the aspiration and the despair of the true scholar, who abhors
imperfection and incompleteness in a world where nothing is either
perfect or complete; "it is different with you. I borrowed you, so
to say, for the time. Without you I must have failed; but this was
never your work. For myself, I have learnt my lessons; but, please
God, you shall be my Solomon and be granted a temple to build."

Taffy had lost his shyness now. He laid a hand on his father's
sleeve.

"We will go on then."

"Yes, we will go on."

"And Jacky? Where has he been? I haven't seen him since the Squire
died."

Mr. Raymond searched in his coat-pocket and handed over a crumpled
letter. It ran:--

"Dear friend,--this is to say that you will not see me no more.
The dear Lord tells me that I have made a cauch of it.
He don't say how, all He says is go and do better somewheres
else.

"Seems to me a terrable thing to think _Religion_ can be bad for
any man. It have done me such powars of good. The late Moyle
esq he was like a dirty pan all the milk turned sour no matter
what. Dear friend I pored Praise into him and it come out
Prayer and all for him self. But the dear Lord says I was to
blame as much as Moyle esq so must do better next time but feel
terrable timid.

"My respects to Masr Taffy. Dear friend I done my best I come
like _Nicodemus_ by night. Seeming to me when Christians fall
out tis over what they pray for. When they _praise God_ forget
diffnses and I cant think where the quaraling comes in and so
no more at present from

"Yours respffly

"J. Pascoe."

After supper that night, in the Parsonage kitchen Humility kept
rising from her chair, and laying her needlework aside to re-arrange
the pans and kettles on the hearth. This restlessness was so unusual
that Taffy, seated in the ingle with a book on his knee, had half
raised his head to twit her when he felt a hand laid softly on his
hair, and looked up into his mother's eyes.

"Taffy, should you like to go to Oxford?"

"Don't, mother!"

"But you can." The tears in her eyes answered his at once.
She turned to his father. "Tell him!"

"Yes, my boy, you can go," said Mr. Raymond; "that is, if you can win
a scholarship. Your mother and I have been talking it over."

"But--" Taffy began, and could get no further.

"We have money enough--with care," said Mr. Raymond.

But the boy's eyes were on his mother. Her cheeks, usually so pale,
were flushed; but she turned her face away and walked slowly back to
her chair. "The lace-work," he heard her say: "I have been saving--
from the beginning--"

"For this?" He followed and took her hand. With the other she
covered her eyes; but nodded.

"O mother--mother!" He knelt and let his brow drop on her lap.
She ceased to weep; her palms rested on his bowed head, but now and
then her body shook. And but for the ticking of the tall clock there
was silence in the room.

It was wonderful; and the wonder of it grew when they recovered
themselves and fell to discussing their plans. In spite of his
idolatry, Mr. Raymond could not help remembering certain slights
which he, a poor miller's son, had undergone at Christ Church.
He had chosen Magdalen, which Taffy knew to be the most beautiful of
all the colleges; and the news that his name had been entered on the
college books for years past gave him a delicious shock. It was now
July. He would matriculate in the October term, and in January enter
for a demyship. But (the marvels followed so fast on each other's
heels) there would be an examination held in ten days' time--actually
in ten days' time--a "certificate" examination, Mr. Raymond called
it--which would excuse the boy not only the ordinary Matriculation
test, but Responsions too. And, in short, Taffy was to pack his box
and go.

"But the subjects?"

"You have been reading them and the prescribed books for four months
past. And I have had sets of the old papers by me for a guide.
Your mathematics are shaky--but I think you should do well enough."

It was now Humility's turn, and the discussion plunged among shirts
and collars. Never had evening been so happy; and whether they
talked of mathematics or of collars, Taffy could not help observing
how from time to time his father's and mother's eyes would meet and
say, as plainly as words, "We have done rightly." "Yes, we have done
rightly."

And the wonder of it remained next morning, when he awoke to a
changed world and took down his books with a new purpose.
Already his box had been carried into old Mrs. Venning's room, and
his mother and grandmother were busy, the one packing and repacking,
the other making a new and important suggestion every minute.

He was to go up alone, and to lodge in Trinity College, where an old
friend of Mr. Raymond's, a resident fellow just then abroad and
spending his Long Vacation in the Tyrol, had placed his own room at
the boy's service.

To see Oxford--to be lodging in college! He had to hug his mother in
the midst of her packing.

"You will be going by the Great Western," she said. "You won't be
seeing Honiton on your way."

When the great morning came, Mr. Raymond travelled with him in the
van to Truro, to see him off. Humility went upstairs to her mother's
room, and the two women prayed together--

"They also serve who only stand and wait."



CHAPTER XIX.


OXFORD.

"Know you her secret none can utter?
Hers of the Book, the tripled Crown?"

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