A	»	B	»	C	»	D	»	E
F	»	G	»	H	»	I	»	J
K	»	L	»	M	»	N	»	O
P	»		R	»	S	»		T
U	»		V	»	W	»		Z

Hartley Withers - "International Finance"

Camilla Kenyon - "Spanish Doubloons"

J. Fenimore Cooper - "The Wing and Wing"

Various - "The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction, Vol. 13,"

Layoffs at Random House, Simon & Schuster
Moreover Technologies - Premier purveyor of real-time news and RSS feeds from across the Web

Citigroup Cuts Estimates and Price Target on Amazon.com (AMZN) Due To Flat Online Retail Growth
Ad - Get Info for Book Publishing from 14 search engines in 1.

Farewell To Okada In PortHarcourt
'Yes, Virginia, book publishing is NOT recession proof,' said Patricia Schroeder, president and chief executive officer of the Association of American Publishers. 'It's sad day.' At Random House, the country's largest general trade publisher, the man who

Deadham Hard by Lucas Malet

L >> Lucas Malet >> Deadham Hard




"No, on second thoughts, my dear princess, I keep my commiseration for my
wretched self--every crumb of it. For I am the lonely exile--that is, I
am just about to be--not you. Be advised, don't quarrel with the good
gifts of the gods. Deadham Hard is frankly entrancing. How willingly
would I put off taking ship for your vaunted India, and spend the
unending cycles of eternity here--with you, well understood--in this most
delectable spot instead."

Whereupon Damaris, with mingled gravity and haste, her head bent, so
that hat-crown and hat-brim were presented to the young man's observation
rather than her face, proceeded to explain she had spoken not of the
present but of the past. From the time Sir Charles returned to inhabit
it, The Hard was transformed; his presence conferring interest and
dignity upon it, rendering it a not unworthy dwelling-place
indeed--should any such happen that way--for sages, conquerors, or even
kings. He cared for the little property, a fact to her all sufficient.
For him it held the charm of old associations. The pleasantest days of
his boyhood were spent here with Thomas Clarkson Verity, his great
uncle--who eventually left him the property--nor had he ever failed later
to visit it when home on leave. In pious remembrance of that distant era
and of his entertaining and affectionate, if somewhat eccentric, host and
friend he forbade any alteration in the house or grounds. It continued
to-day just as old Mr. Verity left it. There was no break, even in
details of furnishing or arrangement, with the past. This, to Sir
Charles, added to the natural restfulness of the place. Now after the
great achievements and responsibilities of his Eastern career he found
retirement congenial. The soft equable climate benefited his health.
Rough shooting and good fishing could be had in plenty--stag-hunting,
too, in Arnewood Forest, when he inclined to such sport. The Hard was
sufficiently easy of access from town for friends to come and stay with
him. Convenient for crossing to the Continent too, when he took his
yearly cure at Aix or at Vichy, or went south for a couple of months, as
last winter for instance, to Cette, Montpelier and across, by Pau, to the
Atlantic seaboard at St. Sebastian, Biarritz, and Bayonne.

"When my father travels I go with him," Damaris said, raising her head
and looking at the young man with proud, deliberate eyes. "We both
suffered too much, we must never be separated again. And when we go
abroad, we go alone. There is no one to give advice or interfere. We take
Hordle, to pack and look after the baggage. We are always together, and
I am always happy. I wish we could live like that always, with no settled
home. But after a while, my father grows tired of hotels. He begins to
wish for the quiet of The Hard, and all the things he is accustomed to.
And then, naturally, I begin to wish for it too."

From which statement, made as he judged with intention, Tom apprehended
an attachment of no common order existing between these two persons,
father and child. If, as family gossip disapprovingly hinted, the
affection given appeared to trench on exaggeration, the affection
returned was of kindred quality, fervid, self-realized, absorbing, and
absorbed. Comparing it with his own humorously tolerant filial attitude,
Tom felt at once contrite and injured. The contrast was glaring. But
then, as he hastened to add--though whether in extenuation of his own, or
of his father's, shortcomings remained open to question--wasn't the
contrast between the slightly pompous, slightly bow-windowed, provincial,
Tory cleric and this spare, inscrutable soldier and ruler, glaring
likewise? To demand that the one should either experience or inspire the
same emotions as the other was palpably absurd! Hence (comfortable
conclusion!) neither he, Tom, nor the Archdeacon was really to
blame.--Only, as he further argued, once the absurdity of that same
demand admitted, were you not free to talk of exaggeration, or of the
"grand manner," as you chose? Were not the terms interchangeable, if you
kept an open mind? His personal acquaintance with the "grand manner" in
respect of the affections, with heroical love, amounted, save in
literature, to practically nothing; yet instinctively he applied those
high sounding phrases to the attachment existing between Damaris and her
father. Both as discovery and, in some sort, as challenge to his own
preconceived ideas and methods this gave him food for serious thought.

He made no attempt at comment or answer; but sat silent beside the girl,
bare-headed in the soft wind and sunlight, between the flowing river and
tranquil sea.

The "grand manner"--that was how, naturally, without posing or bombast,
these two persons envisaged life for good or evil--for this last, too,
might be possible!--shaped their purposes and conduct. Sir Charles, he
knew, had played for big stakes. Damaris, he felt intuitively, young
though she was, played and would play for them likewise. He looked at her
with awakened speculation, awakened curiosity. What, he wondered, would
come of it. Did it make her attractive or the reverse? Really he wasn't
at all sure. Whereat he grew restive, the claims of inherent masculine
superiority, let alone those of public school, university and an
honourable profession, asserting themselves. He began to question whether
this young lady did not take up an undue amount of room, thus cramping
him and denying his powers of conversation suitable opportunity of
display. Was not it about time gently to reduce her, relegate her to a
more modest position? To achieve which laudable result--he acted, of
course, for her good exclusively--he prepared to broach the subject of
the unaccountable noises which disturbed his rest last night. He would
cross-examine her as to their origin, thereby teasing and perhaps even
discountenancing her somewhat.

But before Tom could put his benevolent scheme into execution, his
attention was unexpectedly diverted, a quite new element projecting
itself upon the scene.

For some little while an open boat, a hoary though still seaworthy tub of
a thing, deep in draught and broad in the beam, loaded up with
lobster-pots--the skeleton ribs of them black against the surrounding
expanse of shining turquoise and pearl--had slowly neared the Bar from
seaward. The bows, in which a small, withered old man bent double over
the oars, cocked up on end. The stern, where a young man stood erect
among the lobster-pots, was low in the water. Now, as the nose of the
boat grounded, the young man clambered along the gunwale, and balancing
for a minute, tall and straight, on the prow, took a flying leap across
the wide intervening space of breaking wave and clear water, alighting on
his feet, upon the firm sand beyond.

"Good for him! Neatly done," Tom Verity murmured, appreciating the grace
and vigour of the action.

The young man, meanwhile, turning, called to the rower: "Thank you
heartily for putting me ashore, Daddy Proud. I'll go across home by the
ferry. But see here, can you manage her by yourself or shall I help shove
her off for you?"

"Lord love 'ee, I can manage her sure enough," the other called back
shrilly and a trifle truculently. "I knows 'er ways and she knows her
master--ought to by now the old strumpet, if years count for
anythink. So don't 'ee go wetting yer dandy shoes for the likes of
her and me, Cap'en."

And keckling with thin wheezy laughter he straightened his back, and,
planting one oar in the sand, set the boat afloat again skilfully.




CHAPTER VI

IN WHICH THE PAST LAYS AN OMINOUS HAND ON THE PRESENT


Down here on the shore, in the serene morning atmosphere, voices carried
with peculiar distinctness. Every word of the brief colloquy had reached
Tom Verity; and one word at least possessed an Elizabethan flavour
forbidden to ears Victorian, feminine and polite. Noting it Tom reddened
and glanced uneasily at his companion, all inclination to tease giving
place to a laudable desire to shield her from annoyance. But Damaris,
judging by her demeanour, was unaware of any cause of offence; whence,
with relief he concluded that either she had not heard, or that the rank
expression conveyed nothing intelligible to her mind.

Her open hand pressed down upon the rough surface of the pebbles, she
leaned a little backward, her lithe body twisted sideways from the waist,
while she scrutinized the man upon the sands below. And that the latter
presented a gallant and even distinguished appearance, though arrayed in
leather-peaked cap, blue serge reefer jacket and trousers which had
evidently seen service, Tom could not but admit, as he stood just clear
of the ripples of incoming tide staring idly after the receding boat with
its cargo of black ribbed skeleton lobster-pots.--A spirited-looking,
well-made fellow, no doubt; merchant captain or more probably mate--Tom
took him to be about eight-and-twenty--but in an altogether different
rank of life to themselves and therefore a quite unsuitable object for
prolonged and earnest attention. His advent should be treated as an
accident, not elevated thus to the importance of an event. It was not
quite good taste on Damaris' part Tom felt; and he made a show of rising,
saying as he did so, by way of excuse:

"It is wonderfully charming out here. I am loath to break up our little
_tete-a-tete;_ but time waits for no man, worse luck, and if I am to
catch my train I must start directly after luncheon. Sir Charles was good
enough to promise me various letters of introduction to persons in, high
places. He told me to remind him about them. I don't want to be greedy
but I should like those letters. Perhaps I ought to be getting back so as
to see your father about them."

But before Damaris had time to collect her thoughts and reply, the man in
the peaked cap had further asserted his presence. Either becoming
conscious of her observation, or caught by something in Tom Verity's
speech, he wheeled round and looked up at the two in swift, almost
haughty, enquiry. To Tom he vouchsafed little more than a glance, but
upon Damaris his eyes fastened. For a good minute he stared at her, as
though in some sort holding her to ransom. Then with an upward jerk of
the head and an ejaculation, half smothered oath, half sharp laughter--as
of one who registers eminently ironic conclusions--he began deliberately
ascending the slope.

Tom Verity, though possessed of plentiful cheekiness towards the majority
of his elders and betters, was no fire-eater. He preferred diplomacy to
war; and would adroitly evade rather than invite anything approaching a
scene, specially in the presence of a woman. Yet under existing
circumstances retreat had become, as he perceived, not only undignified
but useless. So in his best Oxford manner--a manner ornate, at that
period, and quite crushingly superior--he raised his shoulders, smiled
faintly, resignedly, and disposed himself in an easier attitude, saying:

"Better wait, perhaps, my dear Damaris. I would sooner risk losing those
precious letters than acquire a possible escort for you--and for
myself--down to the river and across the ferry."

And he threw a meaning glance over his shoulder, indicating the
obtrusive stranger.

So doing he received a disturbing impression. For seen thus, at close
quarters, not only was the said stranger notably, even astonishingly
good-looking, but he bore an arresting likeness in build, in carriage, in
expression to--

Tom paused perplexed, racking his brains.--For who, the deuce, was it?
Where had he seen, and that as he could have sworn quite recently, this
same forceful countenance lit by russet-grey eyes at once dauntless and
sad, deep-set, well apart, the lids of them smooth and delicately
moulded? The man's skin was tanned, by exposure, to a tint but a few
shades lighter than that of his gold-brown beard--a beard scrupulously
groomed, trimmed to a nicety and by no means deforming the lower part of
the face since the line of jaw and chin remained clearly discernible.

Tom turned away and looked absently at The Hard in its broad reposeful
frame of lawn and trees. The cool green foliage of a bank of
hydrangeas--running from the great ilexes to the corner of the
house--thick-set with discs of misty pink and blue blossom took his
fancy, as contrast to the beds of scarlet and crimson geranium naming in
the sun. But below any superficial sense of pleasure in outward things,
thought of that likeness--and likeness, dash it all, to whom?--still
vexed him as a riddle he failed to guess. Obligation to guess it, to find
the right answer, obsessed him as of vital interest and importance,
though, for the life of him, he could not tell why. His sense of
proportion, his social sense, his self-complacency, grew restive under
the pressure of it. He told himself it wasn't of the smallest
consequence, didn't matter a fig, yet continued to cudgel his memory.
And, all the while, the sound of deliberate footsteps crunching over the
dry rattling shingle, nearer and nearer, contributed to increase his
inward perturbation.

The footsteps halted close behind him--while for a sensible length of
time a shadow lay across him shutting off the genial warmth--and started
again, passing to the left, as the intruder traversed the crown of the
ridge a few paces from where Damaris was seated, and pursued his way down
to the river-shore on the other side.

"At last--I thank you!" Tom broke out impatiently.

He felt incomprehensibly nervous; and angry with himself for so feeling.

"Commend me to our friend for taking his time about things, and
incidentally wasting ours--yours and mine, I mean! What on earth did he
want? He certainly treated us to a sufficiently comprehensive inspection.
Well, I hope he was satisfied. By the same token, have you any conception
who the fellow is?"

Damaris shook her head. She, too, appeared perturbed. Her eyebrows were
drawn into a little frown and her expression was perplexed to the point
of child-like distress.

"Not any," she answered simply. "Some one staying at Faircloth's Inn
possibly. People come there from Marychurch to spend the day during the
summer. Old Timothy Proud, the lobster-catcher, who brought him round in
his boat, lives at one of the cottages close to the Inn. No," she
repeated, "I have no conception who he is, and yet his face seemed
familiar. I had a feeling that I knew him quite well--had seen him often,
oh! very often before."

"Ah! then you were puzzled by some mysterious likeness,"--Tom began
eagerly, smiling at her. And stopped short, open-mouthed, assailed by so
apparently preposterous a recognition that for the minute it left him
fairly speechless.

But Damaris, busy with her own sensations, her glance still following the
blue-clad figure along the shore and out on to the tumble-down wooden
jetty, failed to remark his embarrassment and thus gave him time to
recover his scattered wits.

"Jennifer is bringing the ferry-boat across," she said presently, "so you
won't have to wait much longer. Not that you need be at all anxious about
those letters. It is not my father's habit to forget a promise. Most
likely they were written last night before he went to bed. He sleeps
badly, I am sorry to say, and is glad to cheat the wakeful hours by
reading and doing his correspondence until late."

As she spoke the young girl rose to her feet, pulling the close-fitting
jersey down over her hips and, stooping, dusted particles of sand off the
hem of her dress.

"There--that's better. Now I am tidy. Shall we go home, cousin Tom?"
she asked.

Her eyes shone with inward excitement and she carried her head proudly,
but her face was white. And he, sensible that she had suddenly hardened
towards him and strove, he could not divine why, to keep him at arm's
length, turned perversely teasing again. He would not await a more
convenient season. Here and now he would satisfy his curiosity--and at
her expense--regarding one at least of the queer riddles Deadham Hard had
sprung on him.

"I did not know your father suffered from sleeplessness," he said. "It
must be horribly trying and depressing. I am glad, in a way, you have
told me, because it may account for my seeing him go out into the garden
from the study last night, or rather very early this morning. It would be
about two o'clock. I put down his appearance to another cause, and"--

He smiled at her, delightfully ingratiating, assaugingly apologetic.

"Shall I own it?--one which, frankly, struck me as a little upsetting and
the reverse of pleasant."

"Weren't you comfortable? I am so sorry," Damaris exclaimed, instincts of
hospitality instantly militant. "What was wrong? You should have called
someone--rung for Hordle. What was it?"

"No--no--my dear Damaris, don't vex yourself I entreat you. I was in
clover, luxuriously comfortable. You've allotted me a fascinating room
and perfect dream of a bed. I feel an ungrateful wretch for so much as
mentioning this matter to you after the way in which you have indulged
me. Only something rather extraordinary really did happen, of which I
honestly confess I am still expiring to find a reasonable and not too
humiliating explanation. For, though I blush to own it"--

He laughed softly, humping up his shoulders after the manner of a naughty
small boy dodging a well-merited box on the ear.--

"Yes, I blush to own it, but I was frightened, downright frightened. I
quailed and I quaked. The sight of Sir Charles stepping out of the study
window filled me with abject rapture. Metaphorically speaking, my craven
soul squirmed at his heels. He was to me as a strong tower and house of
defence.--But look here, Damaris, joking apart, tell me weren't you
disturbed, didn't you hear any strange noises last night?"

"No, none." She hesitated, then with evident reluctance--"I sleep in the
new wing of the house."

"Which you imply, might make a difference?" Tom asked.

"The older servants would tell you that it does."

"And you agree with them?"

Damaris had a moment of defective courage.

"I would rather not discuss the subject, cousin Tom," she said and moved
away down over the shifting shingle.

At first her progress was sober, even stately. But soon, either from the
steep, insecure nature of the ground or from less obvious and material
cause, her pace quickened until it became a run. She ran neatly, deftly,
all of a piece as a boy runs, no trace of disarray or feminine
floundering in her action. More than ever, indeed, did she appear a fine
nymph-like creature; so that, watching her flight Tom Verity was touched
alike with self-reproach and admiration. For he had succeeded in
asserting himself beyond his intention. Had overcome, had worsted her;
yet, as it occurred to him, won a but barren victory. That she was
alienated and resentful he could hardly doubt, while the riddle he had
rather meanly used to procure her discomfiture remained unanswered as
ever, dipped indeed only deeper in mystery. He was hoist with his own
petard, in short; and stood there nonplussed, vexed alike at himself and
at circumstance.

A soft wind, meanwhile, caressed him, as hesitating, uncertain what to do
next, he glanced out over the smiling sea and then back at the delicate
shore line, the white house, the huge evergreen trees and brilliant
flower garden. A glamour covered the scene. It was lovely, intimately,
radiantly lovely as he had lately declared it. Yet just now he grew
distrustful, as though its fair seeming cloaked some subtle trickery and
deceit. He began to wish he had not undertaken this expedition to
Deadham; but gone straight from the normal, solidly engrained
philistinism of dear old Canton Magna to join his ship. In coming here he
had, to put it vulgarly, bitten off more than he could chew. For the
place and its inhabitants seemed to have a disintegrating effect on him.
Never in all his life had he been such a prey to exterior influences,
been twisted and turned to and fro, weather-cock fashion, thus. It was
absurd, of course, to take things too seriously, yet he could not but
fear the Archdeacon's well-intentioned bit of worldliness and his own
disposition to court whatever family prejudice pronounced taboo, were in
process of leading him a very questionable little dance.

Reaction, however, set in before long, as with so lively, light-hearted a
temperament, it was bound to do, the healthy scepticism, healthy optimism
of untried three-and-twenty rising to the surface buoyant as a cork.

Tom Verity shook himself, took off his hat, smoothed his hair, settled
his tie, hitched up the waist of his trousers, stamping to get them into
place, laughed a little, calling himself every sort of silly ass, and
then swung away down the side of the long ridge in pursuit of Damaris.
He acknowledged his treatment of her had been lacking in chivalry. He
hadn't shown himself altogether considerate or even kind. But she
challenged him--perhaps unconsciously--and once or twice had come near
making him feel small.--Oh! there were excuses for his behaviour! Now
however he would sail on another tack. Would placate, discreetly cherish
her until she couldn't but be softened and consent to make it up. After
all maidens of her still tender age are not precisely adamant--such at
least was his experience--where a personable youth is concerned. It only
needed a trifle of refined cajolery to make everything smooth and to
bring her round.

He overtook the fugitive as she reached the low wooden jetty crawling,
like some giant but rather dilapidated black many-legged insect, out over
the stream. Its rows of solidly driven piles were intact, but the staging
they supported had suffered damage from the rush of river floods, let
alone from neglect and age. Handrails were broken down, planks rotted and
wrenched away leaving gaps through which the cloudy greenish blue water
could be seen as it purred and chuckled beneath. Here, at the river
level, it was hot to the point of sultriness, the air heavy, even
stagnant, since the Bar shut off the southerly breeze.

"Upon my word one requires to be in training to race you, my dear
Damaris," the young man said gaily, ostentatiously mopping his forehead.
"And I'm disgracefully soft just now, I know. You beat me utterly and
ignominiously; but then you did have a good three minutes' start. In
common honesty you can't deny that"--

The girl made no response, but began mounting the few sand-strewn steps
on to the jetty. He saw her face in profile, the delicate upward curve of
her long dark eyelashes in the shade of her hat. Saw, too, that her soft
lips quivered as with the effort to repress an outburst of tears. And
this affected him as the wounding of some strong free creature might,
stirring his blood in a fashion new to him and strange. For not only did
he find it piteous; but unseemly, unpermissible somehow, yet marvellously
sweet, startling him out of all preconceived light diplomatic plans,
plucking shrewdly at his complacently unawakened heart.

He came close to her, and putting his hand under her elbow gently held
it.

"Pray, pray be careful," he said. "I don't trust this crazy little pier
of yours one atom. Any one of these boards looks capable of crumbling and
letting one through.--And, Damaris, please don't be cross with me or I
shall be quite miserable. Forgive my having asked you stupid questions. I
was a blundering idiot. Of course, what I heard last night was just some
echo, some trick of wind or of the river and tide. I was half asleep and
imagined the whole thing most likely, magnified sounds as one does,
don't you know, sometimes at night. Your father talked wonderfully, and I
went to bed dazzled, such imagination as I possess all aflame"--

But Damaris shook her head, while her elbow rested rigid upon the palm
of his hand.

"No--what you heard was real," she answered. "I heard once myself--and
the people here know about it. They say the dead smugglers still drive
their ponies up from the beach, across the lawn where the old road was,
and, as it sounds, through the round rooms downstairs, in which my father
lives, on their way up into the forest.--You cannot help seeing--although
you see nothing--how the ponies are ill-used, hounded and flogged. The
last of the drove are lame and utterly worn out. They stumble along
anyhow and one falls. Oh! it is cruel, wicked. And it is--was, really
true, cousin Tom. It must have happened scores of times before old Mr.
Verity, your namesake, put a stop to the iniquity by buying The Hard--I
have only heard the ponies driven once, about this time in September last
year--just before something very sad, quite of my own, happened"--

Damaris stopped, her lips quivering again and too much for speech.

"Don't tell me any more. I can't bear you to be distressed. Pray, pray
don't"--the young man urged incoherently while his grasp on her elbow
tightened somewhat.

For he felt curiously flurried and put about; near cursing himself
moreover for having helped to break up her high serenity thus. The whole
thing was manifestly impossible as he told himself, outside every
recognized law of Nature and sound science. Even during the mistrustful
phantasy-breeding watches of the night, when reason inclines to drag
anchor setting mind and soul rather wildly adrift, he had refused
credence to the apparent evidence of his own senses. Now in broad
daylight, the generous sunshine flooding him, the smooth river purring
and glittering at his feet, belief in grim and ghostly happenings became
more than ever inadmissible, not to say quite arrantly grotesque. Yet
Damaris' version of those same happenings tallied with his own in every
point. And that her conviction of their reality was genuine, profound
indeed to the point of pain, admitted neither of question nor of doubt.