Joseph Hocking - The Birthright

"Do not be afraid," I said, as I came up; "there is no danger. I can easily take you to the shore."

By this time, only my head was visible above the water, but she recognised me. I saw that she shrank from me, too, as though she were afraid. At this a coldness crept into my heart, for I remembered where I stood at the only time she had seen me before.

"I will not hurt you," I said; "I know my way among the rocks, and I can take you easily."

She looked at me again, doubtfully. Most likely she remembered what the Tresidders had said about me.

"I will be very careful," I went on; "and you had better come quickly, for the tide is rising every minute. I know you distrust me, for the Tresidders hate me; but if I did not desire to help you I should not have let you see me, for when they know where I am I shall be in danger."

She lifted her head proudly as though I had angered her, then she looked at me again steadily, and came toward me.

"Is the water very deep?" she asked.

"It is over five feet here," I replied, "but it is shallower a few yards nearer the shore."

"You are sure you can swim with me to shore?" she said.

"I shall not try," I said. "If you will let me, I will hold you above my head. You are not heavy and I – " Then I hesitated, for I did not want to boast.

"Yes, I know you are very strong," she laughed, half fearfully I thought; "but how can you do this?"

"Look," I said; "if you will stand on my shoulders so" – and I placed my back against the rock. "I am afraid your feet will have to be wet, just a little, for my shoulders are in the water. There, that is it; now hold my hands," and I lifted my hands as high above my head as I could.

She did as I bade her; thus we both stood with our faces toward the shore, she standing on my shoulders and stooping a little in order to hold my hands tightly.

It was joy unspeakable to feel the little fingers in mine, for this was the first time that my flesh touched hers, and with the touch a thrill of gladness, the like of which I had never felt before, passed through my whole being.

I carried her safely. At that time rocks and roaring breakers were nothing to me, the buffeting of the waves against my body I felt not one whit! I think she must have felt my great strength, for when I had carried her a few yards she laughed, and the laugh had no fear.

"You feel quite safe?" I asked presently, when I had got away from the rocks.

"Quite safe," she said, and so I carried her on until I stood on the smooth yellow sands, and although the waves still broke, I felt their force not at all, for the thought of her trusting me made my sinews like willow thongs.

Right sorry was I when the water no longer touched my feet, and I must confess that I lingered over the last part of the journey, so pleasant was my burden, and so glad a thing was it to feel her fingers fastening themselves around mine. Perhaps she regarded me as she might regard a fisherman who might have rendered her a similar service, but it did not matter. I, whom she had seen pilloried as a vagrant and a street brawler, held her fast, and my love grew stronger minute by minute.

When I put her on the sands, only her feet were wet, and no one could tell of the position in which she had been.

I shook myself after I had put her down, and I was almost sorry I had done so immediately afterward, for I could see that my condition made her sorry for me, and I did not want to be pitied.

"You must get dry clothes at once," she said.

"I have none," I said, unthinkingly, "save my jacket and waistcoat, which lie on yon rock."

"But you will be very cold."

I laughed gaily. "It is nothing," I said, "the sun will not go down for three hours yet, and before that time my rags will be dry."

"I am very thankful to you," she said; "I cannot swim, and but for you I should have been drowned."

"Oh, no," I replied; "you could have climbed to the top of the rock, and waited till the tide went out again."

"No, I should have been afraid. You have been very kind and very good to me. I was very foolish to get there, but it was very tempting to climb on the rock and sit and watch the sea. I must have fallen asleep in the sun, for I remembered nothing until I felt the cold water beat on me."

"I was not kind or good," I said, roughly. "I thought first it was Emily Tresidder. Had it been, I should not have gone."

"Yes, you would," she said; "you have a kind face. Besides, you should not hate the Tresidders. Mr. Tresidder is my guardian."

"I am sorry for you," I said.

She looked at me steadily, but did not speak.

"I know what you are thinking about," I said. "I was pilloried at Falmouth when you saw me before, and I just escaped being flogged before the crowd. Even now, I suppose, I am being searched for."

"Indeed you are. Do you think you are safe in staying here?"

"It doesn't matter, I suppose; I shall soon be taken."

"Why do you think so?"

"You will, of course, tell Tresidder where I am, and then my liberty must soon come to an end."

I hated myself for speaking so, for I saw her lips tremble, as though I had pained her.

"Is not that unkind?" she said, presently, "and do you not judge the Tresidders wrongly? Have you not provoked them to anger?"

"They have told you about me, then; they have told you that I am a thief, a vagabond, a bully?"

She did not reply, but I knew from the look on her face that I had spoken the truth.

For a second there was a silence between us, then she said, "I thank you very much, and now I must go back to Pennington."

"Not until you hear my story," I said, eagerly.

"Why should you tell me?" she asked.

"Because I do not wish you to judge me wrongly," I said; "because you have known me only as one who is evil and revengeful. Let me tell you the truth."

She did not speak, but she looked at me as if expecting me to go on. So I told her my story eagerly, told it truly, as I have tried to tell it here, only in fewer words.

"And this is true?" she asked, eagerly. "That is," she said, correcting herself, "you are sure you are not mistaken?"

"As God lives, it is true," I replied. "Is it any wonder, then, that I hate the Tresidders, is it any wonder that I should thrash them as I would thrash a yelping, biting cur?"

"Is it brave for a strong man to pounce upon a weaker one?" she asked.

"They were two to one," I replied; "besides, the street was full of people, and he has everything on his side, and I am alone, an outcast, a beggar in my own parish."

"But he has the law on his side."

"Yes; and he has twisted the law to serve his own ends. He and his mother have used vile tools to cheat me."

"And if you could save up half the worth of Pennington you could buy it back."

"I could demand to buy it back. Lawyer Trefry has the copy of the will. I have seen it. That is why they have tried to ruin me."

"And do you say that Nick tried to stab you?" she asked, anxiously.

"I have the knife yet," I replied. "His name is on it. I trusted him to wrestle fair, even though he sought to ruin me. Perhaps I was wrong to hurt him, but I was mad with pain. The mark of the wound is on my chest now. Look," and I showed her the scar.

She shuddered, then she said, "Hate always brings misery, and love always brings joy. You should love your enemies."

"Yes; if a man will fight openly and fairly, I will not hate him. If I wanted to touch an adder with my hand I would not catch him by the tail so that it could curl around and sting my hand; I would catch it just behind the head. It might writhe and wriggle, but I should know that it could not bite me. That is how I want to treat the Tresidders. You despise me," I went on; "you see me now a thing that has to hide like a rabbit in burrow. Well, perhaps it is natural – you live with the Tresidders."