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$Title{(A) Message From The Sea
Chapter III - Part III}
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$Author{Dickens, Charles}
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Title:       (A) Message From The Sea
Author:      Dickens, Charles

Chapter III - Part III

     It was dark, gentlemen, - dark, and very cold.  The little patch of sky I
was looking up at had in it a marvellous number of stars, which would have
looked bright but for a blazing planet which seemed to eclipse, in the absence
of the moon, all the other luminaries round about it.  To lie thus was, in
spite of the cold, quite a luxurious sensation.  As I turned my head to ease
it a little (for it seemed to have been in this position some time), I felt
stiff and weak.

     At this moment, too, I feel a stirring close beside me, and first a cold
nose touching my hand, and then a hot tongue licking it.  As to my other
sensation, I was aware of a gentle rumbling sound, and could feel that I was
being carried slowly along, and that every now and then there was a slight
jolt; one of which, perhaps more marked than the rest, might be the cause of
my being awake at all.

     Presently other matters began to dawn upon my mind through the medium of
my senses.  I could see the regular movement of a horse's ears walking in
front of me; surely I saw, too, part of the figure of a man, - a pair of
sturdy shoulders, the hood of a coat, and a head with a wide-awake hat upon
it.  I could hear the occasional sounds of encouragement which seemed to
emanate from this figure, and which were addressed to the horse.  I could hear
the tinkling of bells upon the animal's neck.  Surely, too, I heard a rumbling
sound behind us, and the tread of a horse's feet, - just as if there were
another vehicle following close upon us.  Was there anything more?  Yes, in
the distance I was able to detect the twinkling of a light or two, as if a
town were not far off.

     Now, gentlemen, as I lay and observed all these things, there was such a
languor shed over my spirits, such a sense of utter, but not unpleasant
weakness, that I hardly cared to ask myself what it all meant, or to inquire
where I was or how I came there.  A conviction that all was well with me lay
like an anodyne upon my heart, and it was only slowly and gradually that any
curiosity as to how I came to be so, developed itself in my brain.  I dare say
we had been jogging along for a quarter of an hour, during which I had been
perfectly conscious, before I struggled up into a sitting posture, and
recognized the hooded back of the man at the horse's head.

     "Dufay?"

     The man with the hooded coat, who was walking by the side of the horse,
suddenly cried out "Wo!" in a sturdy voice; then ran to the back of the
carriage and cried out "Wo!" again, and then we came to a stand still. In
another moment he had mounted on the step of the carriage, and had taken me
cordially by the hand.

     "What," he said, "awake at last?  Thank Heaven!  I had almost begun to
despair of you."

     "My dear friend, what does all this mean?  Where am I?  Where did you
come from?  This is not my caleche, this is not my horse."

     "Both are safe behind," said Dufay, heartily; "and having told you so
much, I will not utter another word till you are safe and warm at the Lion
d'Or.  See!  There are the lights of the town.  Now, not another word." And,
pulling the horse-cloth under which I was lying more closely over me, my
friend dismounted from the step, started the vehicle with the customary cry,
of "Allons donc!" and a crack of the whip, and we were soon once more in
motion.

     Castaing Dufay was a man into whose company circumstances had thrown me
very often, and with whom I had become intimate from choice.  Of the numerous
class to which he belonged, those men whose sturdy vehicles and sturdier
horses are to be seen standing in the yards and stables of all the inns in
provincial France, - the class of the commis-voyageurs, or French commercial
travellers, - Castaing Dufay was more than a favourable specimen.  I was very
fond of him.  In the course of our intimacy I had been fortunate enough to
have the opportunity of being useful to him in matters of some importance.  I
think, gentlemen, we like those we have served quite as well as they like us.

     The town lights were indeed close by, and it was not long before we
turned into the yard of the Lion d'Or, and found ourselves in the midst of
warmth and brightness, and surrounded by faces which, after the dangers I had
passed through, looked perfectly angelic.

     I had no idea, till I attempted to move, how weak and dazed I was.  I was
too far gone for dinner.  A bed and a fire were the only things I coveted, and
I was soon in possession of both.

     I was no sooner snugly ensconced with my head on the pillow, watching the
crackling logs as they sparkled, - my little Nelly lying outside the
counterpane, - than my friend seated himself beside me, and volunteered to
relieve my curiosity as to the circumstance of my escape from the Tete Noir.
It was now my turn to refuse to listen, as it had been his before to refuse to
speak.

     "Not one word," I said, "till you have had a good dinner, after which you
will come up and sit beside me, and tell me all I am longing to know. And
stay, - you will do one thing more for me, I know; when you come up you will
bring me a plateful of bones for Nelly; she will not leave me to-night, I
swear, to save herself from starving."

     "She deserves some dinner," said Dufay, as he left the room, "for I think
it is through her instrumentality that you are alive at this moment."

     The bliss in which I lay after Dufay had left the room is known only to
those who have passed through some great danger, or who, at least, are newly
relieved from some condition of severe and protracted suffering.  It was a
state of perfect repose and happiness.

     When my friend came back, he brought, - not only a plate of fowl-bones
for Nelly, but a basin of soup for me.  When I had finished lapping it up, and
while Nelly was still crunching the bones, Dufay spoke as follows:

     "I said just now that it was to your little dog you owe the preservation
of your life, and I must now tell you how it was.  You remember that you left
Doulaise this morning - "

     "It seems a week ago," I interrupted.

     "This morning," continued Dufay.  "Well you were hardly out of the
inn-yard before I drove into it, having made a small stage before breakfast.
I heard where you were gone, and, as I was going that way too, I determined to
give my horse a rest of a couple of hours, while I breakfasted and transacted
some business in the town, and then set off after you.  'Have you any idea,' I
said, as I left the inn at Doulaise, 'whether monsieur meant to stop en route,
and if so, where?' The garcon did not know.  'Let me see,' I said, 'the Tete
Noire at Mauconsiel would be a likely place, wouldn't it?' 'No,' said the boy;
'the house does not enjoy a good character, and no one from here ever stops
there.' 'Well,' said I, thinking no more of what he said.  'I shall be sure to
find him. I will inquire after him as I go along.'

     "The afternoon was getting on when I came within sight of the inn of the
Tete Noire.  As you know, I am a little near-sighted, but I saw, as I drew
near the auberge, that a conveyance of some kind was being taken round to the
yard at the back of the house.  This circumstance, however, I should have paid
no attention to, had not my attention been suddenly caught by the violent
barking of a dog, which seemed to be trying to gain admittance at the closed
door of the inn.  At a second glance I knew the dog to be yours.  Pulling up
my horse, I got down and ascended the steps of the auberge.  One sniff at my
shins was enough to convince Nelly that a friend was at hand, and her
excitement as I approached the door was frantic.

     "On my entering the house I did not at first see you, but on looking in
the direction toward which your dog had hastened as soon as the door was
opened, I saw a dark wooden staircase, which led out of one corner of the
apartment I was standing in.  I saw, also, that you, my friend, were being
dragged up the stairs in the arms of a very ill-looking man, assisted by (if
possible) a still more ill-looking little girl, who had charge of your legs.
At sight of me the man deposited you upon the stairs, and advanced to meet me.

     "'What are you doing with that gentleman?' I asked.

     "'He is unwell,' replied the ill-looking man, 'and I am helping him
up-stairs to bed.'

     "'That gentleman is a friend of mine.  What is the meaning of his being
in this state?'

     "'How should I know?' was the answer; 'I am not the guardian of the
gentleman's health.'

     "'Well, then, I am,' said I, approaching the place where you were lying;
'and I prescribe, to begin with, that he shall leave this place at once.'

     "I must own," continued Dufay, "that you were looking horribly ill, and
as I bent over and felt your hardly fluttering pulse, I felt for a moment
doubtful whether it was safe to move you.  However, I determined to risk it.

     "'Will you help me,' I said, 'to move this gentleman to his carriage?'

     "'No,' replied the ruffian, 'he is not fit to travel.  Besides, what
right have you over him?'

     "'The right of being his friend.'

     "'How do I know that?'

     "'Because I tell you.  See, his dog knows me.'

     "'Suppose I decline to accept that as evidence, and refuse to let this
gentleman leave my house in his present state of health?'

     "'You dare not do it.'

     "'Why?'

     "'Because,' I answered, slowly, 'I should go to the Gendarmerie in the
village, and mention under what suspicious circumstances I found my friend
here, and because your house has not the best of characters.'

     "The man was silent for a moment, as if a little baffled.  He seemed,
however, determined to try once more.

     "'And suppose I close my doors, and decline to let either of you go; what
is to prevent me?'

     "'In the first place,' I answered, 'I will effectually prevent you
detaining me single-handed.  If you have assistance near, I am expected
to-night at Francy, and if I do not arrive there, I shall soon be sought out.
It was known that I left Doulaise this morning, and most people are aware that
there is an auberge on the road which does not bear the best of reputations,
and that its name is La Tete Noire.  Now will you help me?'

     "'No,' replied the savage.  'I will have nothing to do with the affair.'

     "It was not an easy task to drag you without assistance from the place
where you were lying, out into the open air, down the steps, and put you into
my conveyance, which was standing outside; but I managed to do it.  The next
thing I had to accomplish was the feat of driving two carriages and two horses
single-handed.  I could see only one way in managing this.  I led my own horse
round to the gate of the stable-yard, where I could keep my eye upon him,
while I went in search of your horse and carriage, which I had to get right
without assistance.  It was done at last.  I fastened your horse's head by a
halter to the back of my carriage, and then, leading my own beast by the
bridle, I managed to start the procession.  And so (though only at a
foot-pace) we turned our backs upon the Tete Noire.  And now you know
everything."

     "I feel, Castaing, as if I should never be able to think of this
adventure, or speak of it again.  It wears, somehow or another, such a ghastly
aspect, that I sicken at the mere memory of it."

     "Not a bit of it," said Dufay, cheerily; "you will live to tell it as a
stirring tale some winter night, take my word for it."

     Gentlemen, the prediction is verified.  May the teetotum fall next time
with more judgment!

     "Wa'al, now !" said Captain Jorgan, rising, with his hand upon the sleeve
of his fellow-traveller to keep him down; "I congratulate you, sir, upon that
adventer; unpleasant at the time, but pleasant to look back upon, as many
adventers in many lives are.  Mr. Tredgear, you had a feeling for your money
on that occasion, and it went hard on being Stolen Money.  It was not a sum of
five hundred pound, perhaps?"

     "I wish it had been half as much," was the reply.

     "Thank you, sir.  Might I ask the question of you that has been already
put?  About this place of Lanrean did you ever hear of any circumstances
whatever that might seem to have a bearing - anyhow - on that question?"

     "Never."

     "Thank you again for a straightfor'ard answer," said the captain,
apologetically.  "You see, we have been referred to Lanrean to make inquiries,
and happening in among the inhabitants present, we use the opportunity.  In my
country we always do use opportunities."

     "And you turn them to good account, I believe, and prosper?"

     "It's a fact, sir," said the captain, "that we get along.  Yes, we get
along, sir. - But I stop the teetotum."

     It was twirled again, and fell to David Polreath, - an iron-gray man; "as
old as the hills," the captain whispered to Young Raybrock, "and as hard as
nails.  And I admire," added the captain, glancing about, "whether Unchris'en
Penrewen is here, and which is he!"

     David Polreath stroked down the long, iron-gray hair that fell massively
upon the shoulders of his large-buttoned coat, and spake thus:

     The question was, Did he throw himself over the cliff of set purpose, or
did he lose his way in the dusk and fall over accidentally, or was he pushed
over by some person or persons unknown?

     His body was found nearly fifty yards below the fall, caught in the low
branches of trees that overhang the water at the foot of the track down the
cliff.  It was shockingly bruised and disfigured, so much so as to be hardly
recognizable; but for his clothing and the name on his linen I doubt whether
anybody could have identified him except myself.  There was, however, no
suspicion of foul play; the signs of rough usage might all have been caused by
the body having been driven about among the stones that encumber the bed of
the river a long way below the fall.

     When I speak of the fall, I speak of the Ashenfall, by Ashendell village,
within an hour's drive of this house.  This, gentlemen, is for the information
of strangers.

     He had been seen by many persons about the village during the day; I
myself had seen him go up the hill past the parsonage toward the church, -
which I rather wondered at considering who was buried there, and how, and why.
I will even confess that I watched him; and he went - as I expected he would,
since he had the heart to go near the place at all - round to the back of the
church where Honor Livingston's grave is; and there he stayed, sitting by
himself on the low wall for an hour or more.  Sometimes he turned to look
across the valley, - many a time and oft I had seen him there before, with
Honor beside him, watching, while he sketched the beautiful landscape, - and
sometimes he had his back to it, and his head down, as if he were watching her
grave.  Not that there is anything pleasant or comforting to read there, as on
the graves of good Christian people who have died in their beds; for, being a
suicide, when they buried her on the north side of the church, it was at dusk,
and without any service, and, of course, no stone was allowed to be put up
over it.  Our clergyman has talked of having the mound levelled and turfed
over, and I wish he would; it always hurts me when I go up to Sunday service,
to see that ragged grave lying in the shadow of the wall, for I remember the
pretty little lass ever since she could run alone; and though she was
passionate, her heart was as good as gold.  She had been religiously brought
up, and I am quite sure in my own mind, let the coroner's inquest have said
what it would, that she was out of herself, and Bedlam-mad when she did it.

     The verdict on him was "accidental death," and he had a regular funeral,
- priest, bell, clerk, and sexton, complete; and there he lies, only a
stone's-throw from Honor, with a ton or two of granite over him, and an
inscription setting forth what a great man he was in his day, and what mighty
engineering works he did at home and abroad, and how he sleeps now in the hope
of a joyful resurrection with the just made perfect. These present strangers
can read it for themselves; many strangers go up to look at it.  His grave is
as famous as the Ashenfall itself, and I have known folks come away with tears
in their eyes after reading the flourishing inscription; believing it all like
gospel, and saying how sad that so distinguished a man should have been cut
off in the prime of his days.  But I don't believe it.  He was never any more
than plain James Lawrence to me, - a young fellow who, as a lad, had paddled
bare-legged over the stones of the river as a guide across for visitors, who
had been taken a fancy to by one of them, and decently educated; who had made
the most of his luck, and done a clever thing or two in engineering; who had
come back among us in all his glory, to dazzle most people's eyes, and break
little Honor Livingston's heart.  The one good thing I know of him was, that
he pensioned his poor old mother; but he did not often come near her, and
never after Honor Livingston was dead, - no, not even in her last illness.  It
was a marvel to everybody what brought him over here, when we saw him the day
before he was found dead; but it was his fate, and he couldn't keep away.
That is my view of it.  About his death and the manner of it, all Lanrean had
its speculation, and said its say; but I held my peace.  I had my opinion,
however, and I keep it.  I have never seen reason to change it; but, on the
contrary, I can show you evidence to establish it.  I do not believe he either
threw himself over the cliff, or fell over, or was pushed over; no, I believe
he was drawn over, - drawn over by something below.  When you have heard the
notes he made in a little book that was found among his things after he was
dead, you will know what I mean.  His cousin gave that book to me, knowing I
am curious after odd stories of the neighbourhood; and what I am going to
read, is written in his hand.  I know his hand well, and certify to it.