Jan the Icelander/Chapter 2

The company in the inn stay late over their cups, and it is dark when they break up to go home. By this time they are all merry, and the watchman is quite drunk. There is much chaff of this guardian of the peace. If anybody wants to commit burglary or manslaughter this is the chance for it. He'll get away free while old Peter is sleeping off his liquor.

At length the roysterers take off the watchman by arms and legs, the landlord puts out the lamp that hangs under his sign, goes in and bolts his door.

Only Larry is left in the market place. He is straightening himself up for his meeting with his wife.

Larry has to tell Lucy that he is going to the whaling. He thinks he must tell her here—here in the darkness—he can't face it out in the light.

There is a piazza before the house. In one of the windows above it a light is burning. She's going to bed, he thinks. He picks up a handful of gravel and dashes it at the window. Presently the windows open and Lucy looks out.

"Come down, Lucy, I've something to say to you."

She begins to reprove him. Why doesn't he come into the house? Ah! she sees what it is; he has broken his promise again.

"Don't be cross to-night, Lucy—not to-night at all events. Come down, dear, I have something to tell you."

"Shall I?"

She closes the window, and presently comes out on to the piazza.

"What a goose I am to come out of the house at this time of night!" she says. "And what a goose you are to wish it. We might be two young sweethearts instead of staid old married people with a great baby of five years old."

"Sweethearts. Why, so we are, and so we will be always."

"You silly old goose. Be quick. What have you got to tell me? I left little Lucy alone in bed"

"Dear little Lucy. Where I think of you and the child I forget all troubles."

"Well, that's just as it should be, isn't it?"

"No, that's just as it should not be. If I remembered them oftener I shouldn't so often forget my duty to you."

"I know what you're going to say."

"I've been a brute."

"Is that all?"

"A selfish, cowardly, ungrateful brute."

She is wiping her eyes by stealth, but still she says, "If you go on abusing my husband, sir, I'll leave you and go indoors."

"They've been six cruel years for you since I trapped you into this marriage."

"Trapped, indeed. Don't imagine you were so wonderfully clever, sir."

"I know what I'm saying, Lucy, and so do you. The selfish indulgence, the cruel neglect, and then the pity of strangers, the indifferences of friends. Oh, I've seen it all, Lucy, though I've pretended not to, but I'm going to see it no longer."

"I know—I know what you're going to say."

"Turn that way, dearest." Then he speaks in a whisper over her shoulder, "I'm going away."

She turns about quickly, and throws her arms around his neck. "You shan't go. I know what you're thinking of—you're thinking of going to the whaling."

"Then he has told you himself?"

"Yes; and he told me something else, which perhaps he didn't tell you."

"What is it?"

"That he had bought this house at the auction that he might give it to me—that it was a wild life at the whale fishing, and perhaps, you hadn't brought yourself up to bear it—that if you never returned I should want for nothing—and—and don't you understand?"

He breaks away from her. "Understand? What a blind fool I've been! But he shall repent it! 'Come at midnight ' he said. I'll come, indeed! The traitor! The merciless traitor! I'll choke his reason in his throat!"

Larry runs off in his rage. Lucy calls after him, "Larry, Larry, wait wait," but he is gone. It is now quite dark.

"What have I done?" she thinks. "I couldn't help it. I had to warn him. But there will be mischief. Someone must go after him. She calls into the house, "Nurse, Nurse!" There is no answer. "She's asleep."

There is a shout and then a noise, as of the slamming of a door. “What's that? What has happened?"

At that moment the sexton comes out of the lych-gate of the church, lantern in hand.

"Were you calling, mistress?"

"No, sexton, no! Yes—and the nurse—I called the nurse." " 'Twasn't that. Thought I heard somebody shouting as I came through the churchyard—did you hear anything, ma'am?"

"No—no; I heard nothing."

"Must have been the owls again. Thought it was a man's voice, though. Good night, mistress."

"Good night, sexton."

The sexton goes off slowly, picking his way in the darkness. Lucy runs into the house for her cloak. There is a moment's silence, and then Larry comes back. His rage is spent; his eyes are full of horror; he drags his feet after him.

"Where am I? What have I done? God forgive me! How am I to tell her?"

Lucy comes out of the house, with her cloak on.

"Larry. How glad I am. I was going after you. I thought something might have happened——"

"Don't touch me, Lucy; something has happened."

"You don't mean—surely you didn't——"

"There was a quarrel—a blow—he struck me— I struck back—he fell—he is dead."

"No, no, no. Don't say that. You can't be sure. Let us go back to him."

"Too late—he is dead—quite dead!"

"Hush. I won't hear you—Let me think. No one saw you, or heard you—nobody knows it yet?"

"I know it, Lucy, and that is enough."

"How my head goes round. What's to be done?"

"Only one thing now—give myself up to justice—pay the penalty of my crime—and go through with it to the last."

"No, no; you must live."

"What is life to me now, Lucy?"

"You must fly away—the world is wide."

"My world is here, with you and with the child."

"But we should know that you were alive, and we could think of you and talk of you, and it would be the same to us sometimes as if—"

"My poor Lucy!"

"Don't speak! Let me think. I have it! You must carry out the plan he made for you."

"The whaling?"

"Why not? That's far enough off. Nobody will follow you there."

"My poor wife! Only half an hour ago—"

"Hush! Things were different then. I can part with you now. When does the coach go past?"

"At two in the morning."

"Stay here. You might waken the servants.

I'll run in for your coat."

She hurries into the house, and presently comes out with his long overcoat, and helps him to put it on.

"It is a quarter to two," she says. "The coach will be up soon. Before anything is discovered you'll be far enough off. You told everybody you were going away?"

"Yes."

"You didn't say where you were going to?"

"He asked me not to."

"He prepared everything himself."

"God pity him! so he did."

There is a faint cry from the house.

"What is that?" says Larry.

"It is Lucy. She is crying,"

"Poor little Lucy! You'll kiss her for me, will you not?"

"Yes, every night and every morning." A bugle is heard in the distance. It echoes in the quiet air of the morning.

"That's the coach," says Lucy. "You must be going now."

"There's mother's legacy," he says, "it will save you from poverty, and if I can send you anything—"

"No, no. Don't risk it."

"If I can ever return—"

"You must never attempt it."

"We cannot part like this for good, Lucy,"

"Then wait till I give you a sign."

"You'll write."

"If all safe, yes—be sure of that."

"Good-bye."

"My brave girl, until we meet again—good- bye."

"Good-bye."

He breaks away from her, the day has dawned, and the sun is now rising.

The coach comes up. He hails the driver, climbs to a seat on the top, another bugle is sounded, the coach starts again, he waves his handkerchief, she waves back, and then he is gone.