Old Fires and Profitable Ghosts written by A. T. Quiller Couch

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While I stood conning her, up at the house the back-door opened, and my
brother stepped out and across the yard to milk the cows. His
milk-pails struck against the door-post, and sounded as clear as bells.
I shouted to him and pointed towards the boat: and after looking a
moment, he set down his pails and started off at a run, down towards the
porth. I then hurried towards the house, where I found Selina, our old
housekeeper, in the kitchen, tending the lambs with warm milk.
Handing the new-comers over to her, I caught up a line and made off
hot-foot after Obed.

At low-water (and the tide had now scarcely an hour to ebb) the sands in
Vellingey Porth measure a good half-mile from the footbridge at its head
to the sea at its base. My legs were longer than Obed's; but I dare say
he had arrived five minutes ahead of me. He was standing and calling to
the boat's crew to get out an oar and pull her head-to-sea: for although
the smoothing wind had taken most of the danger out of the breakers,
they were quite able to capsize and roll over any boat that beached
herself in that lubberly fashion.

I ran up panting, and shouted with him--"Pull her round head-to-sea, and
back her in!"

Not a man moved or lifted a hand. The next moment, a wave tilted and
ran a dozen yards with her, but mercifully passed before it broke.
A smaller one curved on the back-draught and splashed in over her
gunwale as she took ground. But what knocked the wind out of our sails
was this--As the first wave canted her up, two men had rolled out of her
like logs; and the others, sitting like logs, had never so much as
stirred to help!

"Good Lord!" I called out, and fumbled with my line. "What's the
meaning of it?"

"The meaning is," said Obed, "they're dead men, every mother's son.
They're frozen," said he: "I've seen frozen seamen before now."

"I'll have in the boat, anyway," I said. "Here, catch hold and pay
out!" Running in, I reached her just as she lifted again; and managed
to slew her nose in-shore, but not in time to prevent half-a-hogshead
pouring over her quarter. This wave knocked her broadside-on again, and
the water shipped made her heavier to handle. But by whipping my end of
the line round the thwart in which her mast was stepped, for Obed to
haul upon, and myself heaving at her bows, we fetched her partly round
as she lifted again, and ran her into the second line of breakers, which
were pretty well harmless.

"How many on board?" Obed sang out.

"Five!" called I, having counted them. Up to this I had had enough to
do with the boat; besides looking after myself. For twice the heave had
tilled me up to the armpits, and once lifted me clean off my feet; and I
had no wish to try swimming in my sea-boots. "Five," said I; "and two
overboard--that makes seven. Come and look here!"

"Tend to the boat first," he said. "I've seen frozen seamen."

"You never saw the likes of this," I answered. So he ran in beside me.

The boat had her name (or that of the ship she belonged to) painted in
yellow and black on the gunwale strake by her port quarter--
"MARGIT PEDERSEN, BERGEN": but by their faces we could not miss knowing
to what country the poor creatures belonged. They were--

1. A tall man, under middle age; seated by the mast and leaning
against it (his right arm frozen to it, in fact, from the elbow up)
with his back towards the bows. The snow was heaped on his head and
shoulders like a double cape. This one had no hair on his face; and
his complexion being very fresh and pink, and his eyes wide open, it
was hard to believe him dead. Indeed, while getting in the boat,
I had to speak to him twice, to make sure.

2. A much older man, and shorter, with a rough grey beard. He sat
in the stern sheets, with his right hand frozen on the tiller.
Our folk had afterwards to unship the tiller when they came to lift
him out: and carried him up to the house still holding it. Later on
we buried it beside him. This man wore a good blue coat and black
breeches; and at first we took him to be the captain. He turned out
to be the mate, Knud Lote, who had put on his best clothes when it
came to leaving the ship. His eyes were screwed up, and the brine
had frozen over them, like a glaze, or a big pair of spectacles.

3. Against his knee rested the head of a third man--one of the
three I had first seen sitting amidships. When the other two
toppled overboard this one had slid off the thwart and fallen
against the steersman. He was an oldish man, yellow and thin and
marked with the small-pox; the only one in the boat who might have
come from some other country than Norway. His eyes were cast down
in a quiet way, and he seemed to be smiling. He wore a seaman's
loose frock, ragged breeches, and sea-boots.

4 and 5. Stretched along the bottom-boards lay a tall young man
with straw-coloured hair and beard: and in his arms, tightly
clasped, and wrapped in a shawl and seaman's jacket, a young woman.
Her arms were about the young man and her face pressed close and
hidden against his side. He must have taken off his jacket to warm
her; for the upper part of his body had no covering but a flannel
shirt and cinglet.

While we stood there the tide drained back, leaving the bows of the boat
high and dry. As I remember, Obed was the first to speak; and he said
"She has beautiful hair." This was the bare truth: a great lock of it
lay along the bottom-board like a stream of guineas poured out of a
sack. He climbed into the boat and lifted the shawl from her face.

Those neighbours of ours, friends and acquaintances, who afterwards saw
Margit Pedersen at Vellingey, and for whom this account is mainly
written, will not need a description of her. Many disliked her: but
nobody denied that she was a lovely woman; and I am certain that nobody
could see her face and afterwards forget it. It was, then and always,
very pale: but this had nothing to do with ill health. In fact I am not
sure it would have been noticeable but for the warm colour of her hair
and her red lips and (especially) her eyebrows and lashes, of a deep
brown that seemed almost black. Her lips were blue with the cold, just
now: but the contrast between her eyebrows and her pale face and yellow
hair struck me at once and kept me wondering: until Obed startled me by
dropping the shawl and falling on his knees beside her. "Good God,
Dom!" he sang out: "the girl's alive!"

The next moment, of course, I was as wild as he. "Get her out, then," I
cried, "and up to the house at once!"

"I can't loosen the man's arms!" Though less than a yard apart, we both
shouted at the top of our voices.

"Nonsense!" I answered: but it was true all the same--as I found out
when I stepped in to Obed's help. "We must carry up the pair as they
are," I said. "There's no time to lose."

We lifted them out, and making a chair of our hands and wrists, carried
them up to Vellingey; leaving the others in the boat, now for an hour
well above reach of the tide. And here I must tell of something that
happened on the way: the first sign of Obed's madness, as I may call it.
All of a sudden he stopped and panted, from the weight of our load, I
supposed. "Dom," he said, "I believe that nine men out of ten would
kiss her!"

I told him not to be a fool, and we walked on. In the town-place we
happened on the shepherd, Reuben Santo, and sent him off for help, and
to look after the frozen people in the boat. The sight of us at the
door nearly scared Selina into her grave: but we allowed her no time for
hysterics. We laid the pair on a blanket before the open fire, and very
soon Obed was trying to force some warm milk and brandy between the
girl's lips. I think she swallowed a little: but the first time she
opened her eyes was when one of the lambs (which everyone had neglected
for twenty minutes or so) tottered across the kitchen on his foolish
legs and began to nuzzle at her face. Obed at the moment was trying to
disengage the dead man's arms. A thought struck Selina at once.
"Put the lamb close against her heart," she said. "That'll warm her
more than any fire."

So we did, making the lamb lie down close beside her; and it had a
wonderful effect. In less than half-an-hour her pulse grew moderately
firm and she had even contrived to speak a word or two, but in
Norwegian, which none of us understood. Obed by this time had loosened
the dead man's arms; and we thought it best to get her upstairs to bed
before the full sense of her misfortune should afflict her.
Obed carried her up to the spare-room and there left her to Selina;
while I saddled horse and rode in to Truro, for Doctor Mitchell.

Much of what followed is matter of public knowledge. Our folks carried
the dead Norwegians up to Church-town, including one of the two that had
fallen overboard (the next tide washed him in; the other never came to
land); and there buried them, two days later, in separate graves, but
all close together. The boat being worthless, we sawed it in two just
abaft the mast and set the fore-part over the centre grave, which was
that of Captain Pedersen, the young man we had carried up with Margit.
The mast rotted and fell, some years ago, although carefully stayed: but
the boat, with the names painted on it, remains to this day. Also we
set up a small wooden cross by each man's grave, with his name upon it.
Margit was able, from our description, to plan out the right name for
each.

On the third day an interpreter came over from Penzance. Margit could
not yet leave her bed: and before he stepped up to question her, I took
him aside and showed a small Norwegian Bible we had found in the pocket
of the seaman's jacket to which she owed her life. On the first page
was some foreign writing which I could not make out. The interpreter
translated it: first the names "Margit Hansen to Nils Pedersen": and
after them, this strange verse from the _Song of Solomon_--strange, I
mean, to find written in such a place--"Let him kiss me with the kisses
of his mouth: for thy love is better than wine."

The interpreter, Mr. Scammel, went upstairs, and she told him her story.
"Our vessel," she said (I give it in brief) "was the _Margit Pedersen_,
brig. She belonged to me and was called after me. We were bound for
the Tagus with a cargo of salted fish which I had bought at Bergen from
the Lofoden smacks--fish for the Roman Catholics to eat in Lent.
Nils Pedersen, the captain, was my husband: Knud Lote was mate."
Mr. Scammell having expressed some surprise that so young a man should
have been captain, she explained, "He was twenty-two. I made him
captain. My father and mother died: they had not wished me to marry
him. They were proud. But they left very little money, considering;
and with it I bought the brig and cargo. She was an old craft, half
rotten. We had fair weather, mostly, down the English Channel and
almost to Ushant. There we met a strong southerly gale, and in the
middle of it a pintle of our rudder gave way and the loose rudder
damaged our stern-post. We tried to bear up for Falmouth, but she would
not steer; and we drove up towards the Irish Coast, just missing Scilly.
On the 8th the wind changed to N.W. and increased. That night, as Nils
tried to lay to, she carried away her fore-mast, which had been shaky
for days. She was now leaking fast. At noon on the 9th we managed to
launch a boat, and abandoned her. She sank at four o'clock: we saw her
go down. The weather grew colder, that night. I think it snowed all
the time: and the seas were too heavy to let the boat run. The men
pulled to keep her nose to them and the wind, and so she drifted.
I forget when they gave over pulling. For a night and a day I baled
steadily. After that I lay most of the time in the bottom of the boat.
Our food was almost done. It was very cold. That is all I can
remember."

And this, I think, was all we ever heard from her. On his return to
Penzance, Mr. Scammell sent me a Norwegian dictionary; and with the help
of it Obed and I soon managed to talk a little with her, in a mixture of
Norwegian and English. But she never wanted to speak of the past, and
fell silent whenever we spoke of it. What astonished me more was that,
though she told us the names of the dead men, she showed no further
interest in them. At first, knowing how weak she was, and fearing to
distress her, I fought shy of the subject; but one day, towards the end
of the third week--she being strong enough to walk a moderate distance--
I plucked up courage and asked if she cared to come with me to the
churchyard. She agreed, and that afternoon, after a heavy shower, we
walked thither together. I feared what effect the first sight of her
husband's grave might work on her feelings; and all the way kept wishing
that we had omitted to set up the boat and mast. But she looked at them
calmly, and at the graves. "That is good," she said: "you have done
great kindness to them. I will not come any more." And so she prepared
to walk away.

I own that this seemed to me unfeeling. Outside the churchyard I pulled
from my pocket the small Bible. "This belongs to you," I said: "I have
kept it to help me with your language"--but I held it open at the
fly-leaf. She glanced at it, "Oh yes, I gave it to Nils, my husband.
You wish to keep it?"

"You were very fond of him, to judge from this," I said; and halted,
expecting her to be angry. But she halted too, and said quite coolly--
looking at me straight--"Yes? Oh yes; very much."

That same evening I spoke to Obed as we sat alone with our pipes.
"I suppose," said I as carelessly as I could, "Margit Pedersen will be
leaving us before long." He looked up sharply, and began to shift the
logs on the hearth. "What makes you say so?" he asked. "Well, she will
have friends in Bergen, and business--" "Has she written to her
friends?" he interrupted. "Not to my knowledge: but she won't be
staying here for ever, I suppose." "When she chooses to go, she can.
Are you proposing to turn her out? If so, I'd have you to mind that
Vellingey is my house, and I am master here."

This was an unworthy thing to say, and he said it with a fury that
surprised me. Obed and I had not quarrelled since we were boys. I put
a stopper on my tongue, and went on smoking: and after a while he began
to talk again in his natural way on ordinary matters.

Margit stayed on; and to all appearance our life at Vellingey fell back
into its old groove. As a matter of fact there was all the difference
in the world--a difference felt before it was seen, and not to be summed
up by saying that a woman sat at our table. I believe I may quite
fairly lay the blame on Obed. For the first time in our lives he kept a
part of his mind hidden from me; he made show enough of frankness in his
talk, but I knew him far too well to miss the suspicion behind it. And
his suspicion bred suspicion in me. Yet though I searched, I could find
nothing amiss in his outward bearing. If he were indeed in love with
the girl--her age, she told us, was twenty-one--he gave no sign upon
which one could lay hold. And certainly Margit's bearing towards us was
cool and friendly and impartial as the strictest could desire. Of the
two, I had, perhaps, more of her company, simply because Obed spent most
of his time in the lugger, while I worked in the fields and within easy
reach of an afternoon's stroll. Margit would be busy with housework
most of the morning, or in the kitchen, helping Selina--"domineering,"
Selina preferred to call it.

For, whatever our feelings, Selina had set her face against the
new-comer from the first. She started, no doubt, with the old woman's
whiddle that no good ever comes of a person saved from the sea. But as
time went on she picked up plenty of other reasons for dislike.
Margit took charge from the day she came downstairs, and had a cold way
of seeing that her orders were attended to. With about twenty words of
English she at once gave battle to Selina, who had bullied us two men
from childhood; and routed her. The old woman kept up a running fight
for a week before appealing to Obed, and this delay cost her everything.
Obed flew in a rage that more than equalled her own, and had the
advantage to be unusual and quite unexpected by her. She ran from him
to the kitchen, in tears; and thenceforth was a beaten woman, however
much she might grumble at the "foreigner" and "interloper."

For me, I will confess, and have done with it, that before a month was
out my interest in this pale foreign woman, who moved about the house so
quietly and surely, had grown to a degree that troubled me. That Obed
had suspected me before he had any cause made it no easier now to play a
concealed game at cross-purposes; and no pleasanter. In the two months
that followed I hated myself pretty often, and at times came near to
despise myself for the thought that before long I might be hating Obed.
This would never have done: and luckily I saw it in time. Towards the
end of June I made application to the Board: and left Vellingey in July,
to sail for Bombay on board the _Warren Hastings_, in my old capacity of
first mate. My abandoning the field to Obed would deserve some credit,
had Margit ever by word or look given me the slightest reason to hope.
But she had not; indeed I hoped that she had never guessed the state of
my feelings.

Eighteen months passed before I returned to Vellingey--this time on a
short leave. Obed had written constantly and with all the old
familiarity; a good deal concerning Margit--her health, her walks, her
household business--everything, in short, but what I expected and
dreaded to hear. "Come," I said to myself, "five minutes' start in life
and eighteen months in courtship is no such bad allowance for Obed.
Perhaps he will allow me now to have _my_ turn."

I had this thought in my head as I drew near Vellingey in a light gig
hired from the Truro post-master. It was a rainy afternoon in January,
and a boisterous north-wester blew the Atlantic weather in our teeth as
we mounted the rise over Vellingey churchtown. My head being bent down,
I did not observe the figure of a woman coming up the village street,
but looked up on hearing the sound of her clogs close beside the gig.
It was Selina, tearful, carrying a bundle.

"Whatever is the matter?" I asked, on pulling up.

"They've turned me to door!" she moaned. "My dear, they've turned me to
door!"

She was tramping home to her cousins in St. Day parish. Not another
night would she sleep at Vellingey--to be trampled on. Of course she
accused the "foreign woman ": but I, it seemed, had started the quarrel
this time; or, rather, it started over the preparations for my
home-coming--some trifling matter of cookery. Selina knew my tastes.
Margit professed to know them better. Such are women.

I own that as I sent the poor soul on her way, with a promise that the
gig should carry back her boxes from Vellingey and a secret resolve that
she should return to us within a week, I could not avoid a foolish
pleasure in the thought that Margit deemed my coming of such importance.
Then it occurred to me that her position now as a single woman alone at
Vellingey lay open to scandal. The sooner I tested my growing hopes,
the better.

I did so, the second evening, after supper. Obed had stepped out to
make the round of the farm buildings and lock up. Margit had removed
the white cloth, and was setting the brass candlesticks and tobacco jar
on the uncovered table.

"What is going to happen about Selina?" I asked, from my chair.

Margit set down a candlestick. "Selina has gone," she said quietly.

"But people will talk, if you stay here alone with us, or with Obed.
You mustn't mind my saying this."

"Oh, no. I suppose they will talk."

I stood up. "I take it," said I, "you cannot be quite blind to my
feelings, Margit. I came home on purpose to speak to you: but perhaps,
if it had not been for this, I might have put off speaking for some
days. If you care for me at all, though, I think you can answer.
My dear, if you will marry me it will make me a happy man."

She was fingering the candle-base, just touching the brass with her
finger-tips and withdrawing them gently. She looked up. "I rather
thought," she said, "you would have spoken last night. Obed asked me
this morning--he gave you that chance: and I have promised to marry
him."

"Good Lord! but this is a question of loving a man!"

"I have never said that I like you better. I shall make Obed a very
good wife."

Less than a minute later, Obed came into the room, after slamming the
back-door loudly. He did not look at our faces: but I am sure that he
knew exactly what had happened.

They were married in April, a fortnight after my leaving England on
another voyage. We parted the best of friends; and in the course of the
next seven years I spent most of my holidays with them. No married life
could well be smoother than was Obed's and Margit's in all this time.
He worshipped her to fondness; and she, without the least parade of
affection, seemed to make his comfort and well-being the business of her
life. It hardly needs to be said that my unfortunate proposal was
ignored by all of us as a thing that had never happened.

In October, 1802, I reached the height of my ambition, being appointed
to the command of the Company's ship _Macartney_, engaged in the China
traffic. I call her the _Macartney_: but the reader will presently see
that I have reasons for not wishing to make public the actual name of
this vessel, which, however, will be sufficiently familiar to all who
knew me at that time and who have therefore what I may call a private
interest in this narrative. For the same reason I shall say no more of
her than that she was a new ship, Thames-built, and more than commonly
fast; and that I commanded her from October 1802 to June 1806.

She carried passengers, of course: and in the autumn of 1805 it
surprised and delighted me to hear from Obed that he and Margit had
determined on a sea voyage, and wished to book their passages to the
Canton River and back in the _Macartney_. I had often given this
invitation in jest: but such voyages merely for health and pleasure were
then far from common. Yet there was no single impediment to their
going. They had no children: they were well-to-do: they had now a hind,
or steward (one Stephens), to whose care they might comfortably leave
the farm. To be short, they sailed with me.

On the 2nd of May 1806, the _Macartney_ dropped anchor in the Canton
River after a fast and prosperous voyage. The events I have now to
relate will appear least extraordinary to the reader who best
understands under what conditions the English carry on their trade with
China. Let me say, then, that in its jealousy of us foreign barbarians
the Chinese government confines our ships to the one port of Canton and
reserves the right of nominating such persons as shall be permitted to
trade with us. These Hong merchants (in number less than a dozen) are
each and all responsible to the Emperor for any disturbance that may be
committed by a person belonging to a foreign ship: and they in turn look
for compensation to the European factors. So that, a Chinese mob being
the most insolent in the world, and the spirit of British seamen
proverbial, these factors often find themselves in situations of great
delicacy, and sometimes of more than a little danger.

It happened that on the next day after our arrival a small party of us--
Margit and Obed, the second officer, Mr. Tomlinson, and I--had taken a
short stroll ashore and were returning to the boat, which lay ready by
the landing, manned by six seamen. The coxswain brought the boat
alongside: and I, on the lowest step of the landing-stage, stooped to
hold her steady while Margit embarked. She and Obed waited on the step
next above, with Mr. Tomlinson close behind. A small crowd had followed
us: and just then one dirty Chinaman reached forward and with a word or
two (no doubt indecent) laid his open palm on the back of Margit's neck.
Quick as thought, she lifted a hand and dealt him a rousing box in the
ear. I sprang up and pushed him back as he recovered. He slipped on
the green ooze of the steps and fell: this was all I saw, for the crowd
made a rush and closed. Obed and Mr. Tomlinson had hurried Margit into
the boat: I leapt after them: and we pushed off under a brisk shower of
dirt and stones. We were soon out of range, and reached the ship
without mishap.

Knowing the nature of a Chinese rabble, I felt glad enough that the
affair had proved no worse; and thought little more of it until early
next morning, when Mr. Findlater, the first officer, came with a puzzled
face and reported that during the night someone had attached a boat,
with a dead Chinaman in it, to the chain of our small bower anchor.

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