Complete Works of Hall Caine, page 550
But just then O’Sullivan came up and whispered that a priest and a nun were asking to speak to me, and he believed they had news of Mary.
The priest proved to be dear old Father Dan, and the nun to be Sister Veronica, whom my dear one calls Mildred. At the first sight of their sad-joyful faces something gripped me by the throat, for I knew what they had come to say before they said it — that my darling was lost, and Father Dan (after some priestly qualms) had concluded that I was the first man who ought to be told of it.
Although this was exactly what I had expected, it fell on me like a thunderbolt, and in spite of the warmth of my welcome home, I believe in my soul I was the most downhearted man alive.
Nevertheless I bundled Father Dan and the Sister and O’Sullivan into the automobile, and jumping in after them, told the chauffeur to drive like the deuce to the hotel.
He could not do that, though, for the crowd in the station-yard surrounded the car and shouted for a speech. I gave them one, saying heaven knows what, except that their welcome made me ashamed of not having got down to the Pole, but please God I should get there next time or leave my bones on the way.
We got to the hotel at last (the same that my poor stricken darling had stayed at after her honeymoon), and as soon as we reached my room I locked the door and said:
“Now out with it. And please tell me everything.”
Father Dan was the first to speak, but his pulpit style was too slow for me in my present stress of thoughts and feelings. He had hardly got further than his difference with his Bishop, and the oath he had sworn by him who died for us to come to London and never go back until he had found my darling, when I shook his old hand and looked towards the Sister.
She was quicker by a good deal, and in a few minutes I knew something of my dear one’s story — how she had fled from home on my account, and for my sake had become poor; how she had lodged for a while in Bloomsbury; how hard she had been hit by the report of the loss of my ship; and how (Oh my poor, suffering, heroic, little woman!) she had disappeared on the approach of another event of still more serious consequence.
It was no time for modesty, not from me at all events, so while the Father’s head was down, I asked plainly if there was a child, and was told there was, and the fear of having it taken from her (I could understand that) was perhaps the reason my poor darling had hidden herself away.
“And now, when, where, and by whom was she seen last?” I asked.
“Last week, and again to-day, to-night, here in the West End — by a fallen woman,” answered the Sister.
“And what conclusion do you draw from that?”
The Sister hesitated for a moment and then said:
“That her child is dead; that she does not know you are alive; and that she is throwing herself away, thinking there is nothing left to live for.”
“What?” I cried. “You believe that? Because she left that brute of a husband . . . and because she came to me . . . you believe that she could. . . . Never! Not Mary O’Neill! She would beg her bread, or die in the streets first.”
I dare say my thickening voice was betraying me; but when I looked at Mildred and saw the tears rolling down her cheeks and heard her excuses (it was “what hundreds of poor women were driven to every day”), I was ashamed and said so, and she put her kind hand in my hand in token of her forgiveness.
“But what’s to be done now?” she asked.
O’Sullivan was for sending for the police, but I would not hear of that. I was beginning to feel as I used to do when I lost a comrade in a blizzard down south, and (without a fact or a clue to guide me) sent a score of men in a broad circle from the camp (like spokes in a wheel) to find him or follow back on their tracks.
There were only four of us, but I mapped out our courses, where we were to go, when we were to return, and what we were to do if any of us found my lost one — take her to Sister’s flat, which she gave the address of.
It was half-past eleven when we started on our search, and I dare say our good old Father Dan, after his fruitless journeys, thought it a hopeless quest. But I had found myself at last. My spirits which had been down to zero had gone up with a bound. I had no ghost of an idea that I had been called home from the 88th latitude for nothing. And I had no fear that I had come too late.
Call it frenzy if you like — I don’t much mind what people call it. But I was as sure as I have ever been of anything in this life, or ever expect to be, that the sufferings of my poor martyred darling were at an end, and that within an hour I should be holding her in my arms.
M.C.
[END OF MARTIN CONRAD’S MEMORANDUM]
ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTH CHAPTER
There must be a physical power in fierce emotion to deprive us of the use of our senses of hearing and even of sight, for my memory of what happened after I left the Jew’s has blank places in it.
Trying to recall the incidents of that night is like travelling on a moorland road under a flying moon, with sometimes the whitest light in which everything is clearly seen, and then the blackest darkness.
I remember taking the electric car going west, and seeing the Whitechapel Road shooting by me, with its surging crowds of pedestrians, its public-houses, its Cinema shows, and its Jewish theatres.
I remember getting down at Aldgate Pump, and walking through that dead belt of the City, which, lying between east and west, is alive like a beehive by day and silent and deserted by night.
I remember seeing an old man, with a face like a rat’s, picking up cigar-ends from the gutters before the dark Banks, and then a flock of sheep bleating before a barking dog as they were driven through the echoing streets from the river-side towards the slaughter-houses near Smithfield Market.
I remember that when I came to St. Paul’s the precincts of the cathedral were very quiet and the big clock was striking nine. But on Ludgate Hill the traffic was thick, and when I reached Fleet Street crowds of people were standing in front of the newspaper offices, reading large placards in written characters which were pasted on the windows.
I remember that I did not look at these placards, thinking their news was nothing to me, who had not seen a newspaper for months and for whom the world was now eclipsed, but that as I stepped round one of the crowds, which extended to the middle of the street, somebody said:
“He has landed at Southampton, it seems.”
I remember that when I reached Charing Cross I found myself on the fringe of another and much larger crowd, and that the people, who seemed to be waiting for somebody and were chatting with a noise like the crackling of thorns under a pot, were saying:
“His train is fifty minutes late, so we’ve half an hour to wait yet.”
Then I remember that walking at random round St Martin’s Church into Leicester Square I came upon three “public women” who were swinging along with a high step and laughing loudly, and that one of them was Angela, and that she stopped on seeing me and cried:
“Hello! Here I am again, you see! Giovanni’s dead, and I don’t care a damn!”
I remember that she said something else — it was about Sister Mildred, but my mind did not take it in — and at the next moment she left me, and I heard her laughter once more as she swept round the corner.
I hardly know what happened next, for here comes one of the blank places in my memory, with nothing to light it except vague thoughts of Martin (and that soulless night in Bloomsbury when the newspapers announced that he was lost), until, wandering aimlessly through streets and streets of people — such multitudes of people, no end of people — I found myself back at Charing Cross.
The waiting crowd was now larger and more excited than before, and the traffic at both sides of the station was stopped.
“He’s coming! He’s coming! Here he is!” the people cried, and then there were deafening shouts and cheers.
I recall the sight of a line of policemen pushing people back (I was myself pushed back); I recall the sight of a big motor-car containing three men and a woman, ploughing its way through; I recall the sight of one of the men raising his cap; of the crowd rushing to shake hands with him; then of the car swinging away, and of the people running after it with a noise like that of the racing of a noisy river.
It is the literal truth that never once did I ask myself what this tumult was about, and that for some time after it was over — a full hour at least — I had a sense of walking in my sleep, as if my body were passing through the streets of the West End of London while my soul was somewhere else altogether.
Thus at one moment, as I was going by the National Gallery and thought I caught the sound of Martin’s name, I felt as if I were back in Glen Raa, and it was I myself who had been calling it.
At another moment, when I was standing at the edge of the pavement in Piccadilly Circus, which was ablaze with electric light and thronged with people (for the theatres and music-halls were emptying, men in uniform were running about with whistles, policemen were directing the traffic, and streams of carriages were flowing by), I felt as if I were back in my native island, where I was alone on the dark shore while the sea was smiting me.
Again, after a brusque voice had said, “Move on, please,” I followed the current of pedestrians down Piccadilly — it must have been Piccadilly — and saw lines of “public women,” chiefly French and Belgian, sauntering along, and heard men throwing light words to them as they went by, I was thinking of the bleating sheep and the barking dog.
And again, when I was passing a men’s club and the place where I had met Angela, my dazed mind was harking back to Ilford (with a frightened sense of the length of time since I had been there— “Good heavens, it must be five hours at least!”), and wondering if Mrs. Oliver was giving baby her drops of brandy and her spoonfuls of diluted milk.
But somewhere about midnight my soul seemed to take full possession of my body, and I saw things clearly and sharply as I turned out of Oxford Street into Regent Street.
The traffic was then rapidly dying down, the streets were darker, the cafés were closing, men and women were coming Pout of supper rooms, smoking cigarettes, getting into taxis and driving away; and another London day was passing into another night.
People spoke to me. I made no answer. At one moment an elderly woman said something to which I replied, “No, no,” and hurried on. At another moment, a foreign-looking man addressed me, and I pushed past without replying. Then a string of noisy young fellows, stretching across the broad pavement arm-in-arm, encircled me and cried:
“Here we are, my dear. Let’s have a kissing-bee.”
But with angry words and gestures I compelled them to let me go, whereupon one of the foreign women who were sauntering by said derisively:
“What does she think she’s out for, I wonder?”
At length I found myself standing under a kind of loggia at the corner of Piccadilly Circus, which was now half-dark, the theatres and music-halls being closed, and only one group of arc lamps burning on an island about a statue.
There were few people now where there had been so dense a crowd awhile ago; policemen were tramping leisurely along; horse-cabs were going at walking pace, and taxis were moving slowly; but a few gentlemen (walking home from their clubs apparently) were passing at intervals, often looking at me, and sometimes speaking as they went by.
Then plainly and pitilessly the taunt of the foreign woman came back to me — what was I there for?
I knew quite well, and yet I saw that not only was I not doing what I came out to do, but every time an opportunity had offered I had resisted it. It was just as if an inherited instinct of repulsion had restrained me, or some strong unseen arm had always snatched me away.
This led me — was it some angel leading me? — to think again of Martin and to remember our beautiful and sacred parting at Castle Raa.
“Whatever happens to either of us, we belong to each other for ever,” he had said, and I had answered, “For ever and ever.”
It was a fearful shock to think of this now. I saw that if I did what I had come out to do, not only would Mary O’Neill be dead to me after to-night, but Martin Conrad would be dead also.
When I thought of that I realised that, although I had accepted, without question, the newspaper reports of Martin’s death, he had never hitherto been dead to me at all. He had lived with me every moment of my life since, supporting me, sustaining me and inspiring me, so that nothing I had ever done — not one single thing — would have been different if I had believed him to be alive and been sure that he was coming back.
But now I was about to kill Martin Conrad as well as Mary O’Neill, by breaking the pledge (sacred as any sacrament) which they had made for life and for eternity.
Could I do that? In this hideous way too? Never! Never! Never! I should die in the streets first.
I remember that I was making a movement to go back to Ilford (God knows how), when, on the top of all my brave thinking, came the pitiful thought of my child. My poor helpless little baby, who had made no promise and was party to no pledge. She needed nourishment and fresh air and sunshine, and if she could not get them — if I went back to her penniless — she would die!
My sweet darling! My Isabel, my only treasure! Martin’s child and mine!
That put a quick end to all my qualms. Again I bit my lip until it bled, and told myself that I should speak to the Very next man who came along.
“Yes, the very next man who comes along,” I thought.
I was standing at that moment in the shadow of one of the pilasters of the loggia, almost leaning against it, and in the silence of the street I heard distinctly the sharp firm step of somebody coming my way.
It was a man. As he came near me he slowed down, and stopped. He was then immediately behind me. I heard his quick breathing. I felt that his eyes were fixed on me. One sidelong glance told me that he was wearing a long ulster and a cap, that he was young, tall, powerfully built, had a strong, firm, clean-shaven face, and an indescribable sense of the open air about him.
“Now, now!” I thought, and (to prevent myself from running away) I turned quickly round to him and tried to speak.
But I said nothing. I did not know what women say to men under such circumstances. I found myself trembling violently, and before I was aware of what was happening I had burst into tears.
Then came another blinding moment and a tempest of conflicting feelings.
I felt that the man had laid hold of me, that his strong hands were grasping my arms, and that he was looking into my face. I heard his voice. It seemed to belong to no waking moment but to come out of the hours of sleep.
“Mary! Mary!”
I looked up at him, but before my eyes could carry the news to my brain I knew who it was — I knew, I knew, I knew!
“Don’t be afraid! It’s I!”
Then something — God knows what — made me struggle to escape, and I cried:
“Let me go!”
But even while I was struggling — trying to fly away from my greatest happiness — I was praying with all my might that the strong arms would hold me, conquer me, master me.
They did. And then something seemed to give way within my head, and through a roaring that came into my brain I heard the voice again, and it was saying:
“Quick, Sister, call a cab. Open the door, O’Sullivan. No, leave her to me. I’ve got her, thank God!”
And then blinding darkness fell over me and everything was blotted out.
But only a moment afterwards (or what seemed to be a moment) memory came back in a great swelling wave of joy. Though I did not open my eyes I knew that I was safe and baby was safe, and all was well. Somebody — it was the same beloved voice again — was saying:
“Mally! My Mally! My poor, long-suffering darling! My own again, God bless her!”
It was he, it was Martin, my Martin. And, oh Mother of my Lord, he was carrying me upstairs in his arms.
SEVENTH PART. I AM FOUND
ONE HUNDRED AND SIXTH CHAPTER
My return to consciousness was a painful, yet joyful experience. It was almost like being flung in a frail boat out of a tempestuous sea into a quiet harbour.
I seemed to hear myself saying, “My child shall not die. Poverty shall not kill her. I am going to take her into the country . . . she will recover. . . . No, no, it is not Martin. Martin is dead. . . . But his eyes . . . don’t you see his eyes. . . . Let me go.”
Then all the confused sense of nightmare seemed to be carried away as by some mighty torrent, and there came a great calm, a kind of morning sweetness, with the sun shining through my closed eyelids, and not a sound in my ears but the thin carolling of a bird.
When I opened my eyes I was in bed in a room that was strange to me. It was a little like the Reverend Mother’s room in Rome, having pictures of the Saints on the walls, and a large figure of the Sacred Heart over the mantelpiece; but there was a small gas fire, and a canary singing in a gilded cage that hung in front of the window.
I was trying to collect my senses in order to realize where I was when Sister Mildred’s kind face, in her white wimple and gorget, leaned over me, and she said, with a tender smile, “You are awake now, my child?”
Then memory came rushing back, and though the immediate past was still like a stormy dream I seemed to remember everything.
“Is it true that I saw. . . .”
“Yes,” said Mildred.
“Then he was not shipwrecked?”
“That was a false report. Within a month or two the newspapers had contradicted it.”
“Where is he?” I asked, rising from my pillow.
“Hush! Lie quiet. You are not to excite yourself. I must call the doctor.”
Mildred was about to leave the room, but I could not let her go.
“Wait! I must ask you something more.”
“Not now, my child. Lie down.”
“But I must. Dear Sister, I must. There is somebody else.”
“You mean the baby,” said Mildred, in a low voice.
