Mr Corbett's Ghost (12 page)

But there was no dousing the light in the young man's face. Nicholas Kemp had gone directly into his third stage of love at first sight, which was pretty nearly mortal. It was the stage in which he'd have plunged into the sea for
her, gone through fire for her, fought off venomous monsters for her—had she but raised her little finger.

Somewhat sadly, Miss Warboys looked down. There was a distant gleam in her eyes, as if, had the young man not been a convict, her little finger would have gone up like a flag-pole. Again, she shook her head. The lady and the convict were never meant to meet.

There must be a place where heaven abuts on to hell, where angels and the damned may look deep into one another's eyes and say, ‘There, but for the Grace of God, might be I.' Miss Warboys bit her lip, then raised her hand to hide it. If only the young man would bid her good morning in a genteel fashion—or even bow—then they might become acquainted. If only he would stop staring at her so mournfully with eyes that declared—for all the world to see—‘I love you and will love you till I die.' If only—

If only, thought Nicholas, she would nod or bid me good morning. If only something remarkable would happen. If only—

In his tender extremity, he had wafted out his hand as if to summon up a miracle from somewhere. It was the hand in which he'd been holding his pipe. Unluckily it caught against the rope. The pipe dropped. It fell maybe a yard beyond the rope. It was out of his reach. A kindly passenger made to help . . . but was forestalled.

A swift rustling passed him by and a smell of roses was briefly on the air.

‘That forward hussy!' remarked a third female passenger. ‘
She
didn't need much invitation!'

Miss Warboys never heard her. Having picked up the young convict's pipe, she gave it to him—and with it her hand, which he held with some determination.

‘My name is Nicholas Kemp—Nicholas Kemp,' he said very rapidly, as if he'd brought the good news a great distance and was anxious to deliver it. ‘From Preston in Sussex. Nicholas Kemp—'

‘Caroline Warboys,' said she, with the chief weight on Caroline.

(Though she spoke soft, ‘Caroline' was taken up by several convicts and tried out humorously.)

‘Caroline—'

‘Yes, Mr Kemp?'

‘No—no! I was going to say it's a sweet name. And suits you well, Miss Warboys.'

‘It was on account of the Queen, you know. I was called after the Queen—'

‘Queens should be called after you!'

‘Neatly spoke, sonny!'

Bartleman had passed by. He'd grinned, as if well pleased with himself. His passage had been brief—but of consequence.

Till he'd come, Nicholas and Miss Warboys had stood, it seemed to them, in some springtime field, or by a gentle river quite overhung with willow in which unusually
musical birds were singing—or anywhere, in short, save on the worldly ship with its windy stench and peevish jostlings.

Miss Warboys withdrew her hand from Nicholas's.

‘Will you be . . . er . . . long in . . . in Virginia, Mr Kemp?'

‘Seven years.'

‘Was you very wicked, Mr Kemp?'

Bitterly, he shook his head. The spell had been broke. Gone was the mysterious springtime. He frowned. Miss Warboys did likewise. The wind had somehow got inside of her bonnet. Her cheeks felt chilled. A sharp melancholy invaded her . . . though the exact nature of it was outside of her telling. Now she wondered what she was doing, standing so close to the convict's rope, even with tears in her eyes.

‘I hope your pipe wasn't broke, Mr Kemp.'

He said it wasn't.

‘If you'll pardon me now, Mr Kemp—I must go back—'

‘Will I meet you again?'

‘I expect so, Mr Kemp. The ship's a small world. Good morning to you—'

‘Miss Warboys!'

‘Yes, Mr Kemp?'

‘Miss Warboys—please—I beg of you—if you'd do me the honour . . . I'd be happy—so happy—and . . . and there's no one else, I assure you! Please,
please
accept this!'

In last desperation to recapture what he dreaded had been lost, he was holding out Bartleman's brooch.

‘It was my . . . my mother's!' he added hopefully.

Miss Warboys looked at it. Saw it was charming. She looked up at Nicholas. Found him even more so. She struggled with herself. She hesitated.

In all justice, vanity had something to do with her decision. In all honesty, greed had something to do with it. But in all truth, affection and even the beginnings of love gave the final push.

‘I really shouldn't, Mr Kemp . . . I really oughtn't . . . But . . . but as you've no one else . . . and . . . and it
was
your mother's, and . . . and . . . there, but for the Grace of God might be any gentleman . . . Indeed, Mr Kemp, the honour's quite mine, you know!'

She took the brooch and, as she did so, Nicholas briefly kissed her hand.

So what was Bartleman now? A fallen angel—or a rising devil? The blood-stained pipe and the brooch. Both had been the embezzler's gift. Both had helped to bring him Miss Warboys.

Absently, Nicholas put the pipe in his mouth. His teeth encountered the deep dents made by the Marshalsea man's before him. For a moment, he fancied alien thoughts to be blowing through his mind: thoughts of some fierceness, such as a stabbed man might have had if he could. (‘You stinking little fool—')

Hurriedly, Nicholas put the pipe away, and with it much of his disquiet. Very soon he reasoned himself out of uneasiness over Bartleman, and reflected that the embezzler had been good to him. To distrust him was ungrateful. Bartleman had put a sun in his grey sky. And what a sun!

He turned his thoughts—without much hardship—to Miss Warboys, and in a happy frame of mind, composed himself for sleep. It was close on midnight and the convict hold was quiet. Nicholas sighed, then sighed again, and slipped away into his mysterious springtime.

This was a great gift of his—to push uneasiness under a cushion of hope; even to sleep when other men might well have stayed awake . . .

NICHOLAS KEMP WAS
visited by the sweetest of dreams. He rode a white horse out of darkling woods across wide, spangled fields. And, as he jogged along, his horse's harness jingled cheerfully (which may or may not have been the clinking of the leg-irons in the compartment aft). Then he was in a trim, fair garden where sunshine and the cypresses played chess across the lawn and a fountain splashed musically (which may or may not have been the dark ocean slapping the vessel's sides).

Now he was in an avenue of scarlet and yellow rose trees, walking with Miss Warboys and talking with Miss Warboys, and offering Miss Warboys the keys of his heart. And she, with a rustle of silk and a twinkling of eyes, was declaring, ‘I really shouldn't . . . I really oughtn't . . . but seeing as how—'

Then a shadow fell across their path as, from between the trees stepped a squat lackey, looking remarkably like Bartleman, with another key.

‘Here, son. Give her this. It's the key of heaven. Take it. It's going begging!'

‘Thank 'ee, my man,' said Nick, in his dream. ‘Much obliged. Miss Warboys, pray accept this further trifle!'

Miss Warboys' eyes shone with pleasure that was enchanting to behold. The key was charming, set with garnet and pearl.

‘Just sign this receipt, sonny. Evidence that I gave it, y'know—'

The lackey held out a pen and paper that he'd produced from nowhere.

‘Sign!'

‘But there's nothing on the paper—'

‘You ain't signed it yet.'

‘But where's the ink, my man?'

‘Ink, sonny? You sign for this in blood!'

With that, he promptly stuck the pen into Nicholas's finger.

‘Sign, son—'

‘That hurt! I'm bleeding! Stop it—stop it, I say! It hurt—'

‘There's worse to come, Kemp. Worse to come! Get up, you lousy thief! On your feet!'

Voices outside of his dream were shouting in his ear. Hands outside of his dream were dragging him to his feet.

‘On your feet, Kemp! Move or, by God, you'll suffer!'

‘That hurt! Stop, I say—' cried Nicholas confusedly, for he was still but half-awake and much distracted.

The convicts' hold seemed filled with swinging lanterns and angry faces. Someone had hold of his shoulder with a grip of iron. It was the boatswain.

‘The yard-arm for you, my lad! You may have 'scaped Tyburn, but the
Phoenix
'll finish you off! Move, I say!'

He moved: was dragged up the companionway into the freezing night air. It was but half an hour after midnight.

He was surprised to see the stars and a wedge of the moon shining both aloft and in the sea: a pair of kissing heavens. Yet such was his bewilderment, he knew not which was which.

He'd not the faintest notion of what was afoot, nor of the peril in which he stood.

‘So you are Nicholas Kemp,' said the captain, as if he had long been trying to find a face to fit that name.

This was on the quarter-deck. The captain was much muffled and plainly feeling the chill. Though it was of no
consequence, Nicholas recalled very clearly the captain muttering to an officer of his, ‘No, mister. Cold or no, we'll do it out here. They whiff so strong, y'know, that, take 'em inside and the whole place stinks for a month! Like cats, y'know . . .'

Under the staring moonlight, the
Phoenix
was a silver ship with a silver deck much hacked and slashed with the black shadows flung by the lofty tentage of masts, sails, and shrouds. In and out of these shadows, phantom-like, came more of the ship's officers to gather in a formidable group about the stout little captain.

‘Call Miss Warboys,' he said somewhat wearily.

At once into Nicholas's shaking brain came the unlikely hope that the captain was intending to marry them.

But even his extraordinary optimism and unusual capacity for overlooking plain disaster suffered a setback when Miss Warboys appeared.

Her face under its hood was worried and mournful. Nor was it improved by the sight of Nicholas. She scowled and began, quietly, to cry.

‘Is this him, Miss Warboys?'

She nodded, and Nicholas's heart began to beat unequally. What had he done?

The captain turned from the lady to the convict.

‘You gave her a brooch?'

‘Indeed I did, sir. Oh yes, yes—'

‘This brooch?'

The captain was holding out the charming trifle that Bartleman had given him.

‘That's it, sir! Why—'

But before he could finish speaking, the captain violently told him.

The damnable brooch had been prigged! When, for God's sake? The very first day the convicts had come on deck. A paying passenger had been robbed by the rope. At first she'd said nothing—on account of being ashamed
of ignoring the captain's advice. But then, in the Great Cabin that very night (not two hours ago), an unpleasant scene. The paying passenger—a lady of means—had spied the brooch, her brooch, on Miss Warboys. Called her a thief. Miss Warboys had gone white as a topsail. Witnesses—the lady's husband (a man of means), her daughter, her friends—had all confirmed the brooch's ownership. Miss Warboys had burst into tears. Swore the brooch had been a gift. Who from? Nicholas Kemp. And who was he when he was at home? Here, Miss Warboys had looked ill. Piteously. Swallowed hard so's her pretty neck had jumped. A . . . a convict—

The captain ran on a while longer with detail on damning detail. But Nicholas no longer heard him plainly. Instead, an old familiar dismay invaded him. Once more, his need to offer more than he owned had been his downfall.

Mournfully he heard at last, as in a harsher dream than ever he'd had before, the captain grate: ‘Take him below. Put him in irons. I'll have him hanged in the morning. So help me, I will!'

‘It's no use crying, miss,' a grim voice declared as he was dragged away. ‘He's had his chance in this world. Tomorrow, in the clean fresh air, he'll get his chance for the next. From a rope at the end of that pole up yonder.'

‘I ain't crying for him,' came a tearful reply. Then, with bewildered melancholy, ‘I'm crying for myself, sir.'

There was an iron ring bolted to the mainmast where it sank through the compartment aft of the convicts' hold. To this ring was fixed four foot of chain—and to this chain, by his left ankle, was fettered Nicholas Kemp.

For company he had—in this dark place—some half-dozen busy rats, the two grinding hillocks of leg-irons (which were lashed to bolt heads in the vessel's ribs on either side), and his thoughts.

These were of a sombre, frantic cast. They were deep inasmuch as they were low; they were far-reaching inasmuch as they reached far back to the first-love to whom he'd given his heart (and more) . . . then on through many such buds and lovely blossoms to the black-haired beauty of Lewes and now Miss Warboys herself . . . A bouquet of sweet disaster.