King of the Castle

“I am aware of everything, sir, everything,” said Chris firmly; and once more Glyddyr, ridden by coward conscience, shivered, that word “everything” conveyed so much. “This is neither time nor place to discuss such matters. That poor gentleman is lying dead yonder; his child is broken-hearted, and I ask you, as a gentleman, to refrain from going up there now.”

There was silence for a few moments, during which Glyddyr battled hard with his feelings, and Chris felt that, had it been any one else, he would not have spoken in this way.

“And suppose, sir, I refuse?” cried Glyddyr at last.

There was another pause, for the smouldering hatred against this man deep down in Chris Lisle’s breast began to glow, and there was a curious twitching about his fingers; but the thoughts of what had taken place, and Claude’s pale, sorrowful countenance, rose before him, and he said quietly, —

“You cannot refuse, sir.”

“But I do,” raged Glyddyr. “Do you hear? I do refuse, and tell you it is a piece of insolent assumption on your part to dictate to me what I shall do.”

Chris was silent, and Glyddyr misinterpreted that silence in his excitement, or he would not have gone on with a passionate rage that was almost childish.

“Confound you for daring to come here at all. What do you mean, fellow? And now, understand this: if you intrude your presence upon that lady or her cousin again, I’ll have you horse-whipped and turned off the place. Do you hear me – go!”

“Parry Glyddyr,” said Chris gently, “at a time like this, every instinct within me prompts me to try and behave like a gentleman – ”

“You – a gentleman!” sneered Glyddyr.

“To one who was that poor man’s friend, and whom I should fain have believed – ”

“Curse your insolence!” sneered Glyddyr. “Leave this place. Go back to your kennel, dog. Don’t preach to me.”

“You have totally forgotten yourself, sir, and I can only attribute it to your having been drinking. I will not quarrel with you now, I once more appeal to you to go.”

“And I once more order you to go!” cried Glyddyr, whose mad rage for the moment rode over his natural cowardice. “What! You will not go? It is an insult to every one here. Be off!”

“Have you forgotten trying to turn me away from here once before?”

“When you took a cowardly advantage of me, sir. I have not forgotten it, but – bah! I have no time to quarrel with such a cad. Be off, and if you come here again, take the consequences.”

He turned on his heel to go up to the house.

“Stop,” said Chris, in a low deep trembling voice. “Mr Glyddyr, I appeal to you once more. Don’t go up there to that place now,” and he laid his hand upon his shoulder.

Glyddyr turned upon him, and made a backhanded blow at his face.

The flame flashed out for an instant, and then it was smothered down.

Quick as lightning Chris Lisle’s firm, strong hand gripped his rival by the wrist; there was a savage wrench given to the arm, and, after a miserable attempt at resistance, Glyddyr leant over to ease the agony he felt.

“If I did what nature seems to prompt me to do,” whispered Chris, “I should throw you into that moat; but, I will try and keep my temper. You are half-drunk. You are not fit to go up to that house. I am not afraid of your going there, but I will not have her insulted by your presence to-night. Come down here.”

His grip was like that of some machine as he gave Glyddyr’s arm another wrench, and then marched him right away down the path to the harbour, and then along the pier to the end.

Before they reached this point, Glyddyr had made another feeble attempt to free himself, and there was a momentary struggle, which brought both to the edge of the south pier, where there was a fall into deep water.

“Come quietly, or, by all that’s holy, I’ll throw you in,” said Chris hoarsely; and Glyddyr ceased struggling, and suffered himself to be led to the end, where the crew of the yacht’s gig were waiting, smoking, till their master came.

“Now,” whispered Chris, “go and sleep off your drunken fit. Another time, when you can act and think like a man, we may both have something more to say.”

He loosened his grip of Glyddyr’s arm.

“Here, my lads,” he said, “get your master aboard; he is not fit to be alone.”

“Drunk or mad,” said Chris to himself, as he strode quickly along the pier to get back to his own room, and try to grow calm.

“I suppose a man must feel like I did to-night,” he thought, after a time, “when the devil comes into him, and he kills his enemy. If he had known what was in me then, he wouldn’t have dared to say all that. But I’m better now.”

Volume Three – Chapter Two.

At the Grave

All Danmouth gathered to see the funeral procession wind down the granite-paved path to the cliff, and then along by the harbour to the little church on the rock shelf at the entrance of the glen.

Gartram had been hated, but death had destroyed all petty dislikes, and the people only remembered now the many acts of charity he had performed.

It was unwittingly, and by proxy, for he never knew one half of the kindly actions done in his name, and as the procession wound through the place, there was many a wet eye among the lookers-on, and the saying that ran among the simple folks, quarrymen’s and fishers’ wives, was: “A hard man;” and then, “but oh, so generous and good.”

It was against the etiquette of the sad ceremony, but Claude had said that she should follow her father to the grave, and the cousins walked behind the plain massive coffin, swung at arm’s-length by the handles, and carried by three relays of Gartram’s stout quarrymen, all ready to say: “Yes, a good master after all.”

Every blind was down, every one was in the street or along the cliff, for “The King of the Castle” was dead, and, for the most part, Danmouth seemed to have been made by him. So its people felt real sorrow for themselves as they said: “What is to be done now?”

On and on, with the slow tolling of the bell echoing right up the glen, and startling the white-breasted gulls which floated here and there, uttering their querulous cries as the procession wound its slow way on to the granite-built lych-gate – Gartram’s gift; and as they passed on to the church, Claude was conscious more than ever that Chris Lisle was standing bareheaded by the church door till they passed, and then, through her tear-blinded eyes, she saw that Glyddyr was within, pale and ashen, as he rested one hand upon a pew door.

Then out to the wind-swept churchyard, and there, after a few minutes, it seemed to Claude that she was standing alone, to place a few flowers which she carried upon the hollow-sounding oaken case.

“Come,” whispered a voice at her side, and she took the hand held out to her by her cousin, and was led away, feeling that she was alone now in the world. Wealth, position, such as few women at her age could claim, all seemed as nothing. She was alone.

As the mourners went sadly away, Chris Lisle walked slowly up to the entrance of the vault, and stood gazing down at the shining breastplate.

“Good-bye,” he said softly. “I will not say I forgive you, only that you did not know me. It was a mistake.”

As he moved away, he was aware of a ghastly countenance at a little distance, as Glyddyr stood watching him; but his attention was taken off directly by a tall, dark figure going slowly to the door of the vault, to stand there with hands clasped, and looking down.

He could not have told afterwards what it was that checked him from following the returning procession, but he stayed to watch that one figure, as, regardless of those around, it drooped for a moment, and then sank slowly upon its knees, and cover its face with its hands, and remain there as if weeping bitterly.

There was a group of rough quarrymen close at hand, all waiting to go up and have a last look at “the master,” before discussing among themselves, once more, their project to cut and erect a granite pillar over Gartram’s tomb.

They were so near Chris that he could hear the words, as one of the party said, —

“Poor Ike Woodham’s widow. Ay, lads, she’s lost the pride of her life once more. He was downright good to her when Woodham went.”

Chris took a step or two forward, for the solitary figure attracted him, and then another and another, quietly, as he heard a low, piteous wail, and saw the woman rise tottering to her feet, swaying to and fro.

“Forgive me! oh, forgive me!” she sobbed; and then she threw up her hands to clutch at vacancy.

Another moment, and she would have fallen heavily into the great granite vault, but Chris was in time: he flung an arm round her, and snatched her back insensible. She had swooned away, and had to be carried into the church till a vehicle had been procured; and Glyddyr had the satisfaction of seeing Chris enter the rough carriage and support the suffering woman till they reached the Fort.