CHAPTER VI.—THE SHORE.
“Barton,” said Glenville, “I want to speak to you, old chap. You won’t mind me speaking to you, will you?”
Barton’s brow clouded at once. He knew what was coming. “I don’t know what you mean,” said he.
“Well, I want to talk to you about that girl.”
“What right have you to interfere? That’s my business, not yours.”
“If you are going to be angry, I’ll shut up. But I tell you plainly, it’s a beastly shame; and if you dare to do any harm to her I’ll kick you out of the place.”
“Out of what place?”
“Why, out of this or any other place I find you in. You’ve no right to go meeting her as you do.”
“And you’ve no right to speak of her like that. She is as pure as any child in the world, and you ought to know I would do her no harm. You are trying to insult both me and her.”
“Well, I’m very glad to hear you say so. But, see what folly it all is. You know you don’t intend to marry her. Do you?”
“Why, as to that I don’t know. I’m not obliged to tell you what I mean to do.”
“No; but you ought to think about what you mean to do. You know she is engaged to be married to Hawkstone.”
“Yes; but I don’t think she cares for him a bit—only to tease him.”
“Do just think what you are doing as a man and a gentleman—I won’t say as a Christian, for you tell me you mean nothing bad. But is it manly, is it fair to play these sort of tricks? I must tell you we must give up being chums any longer if this goes on.”
“I tell you what, Glenville, I think you are giving yourself mighty fine airs, and all about nothing; but just because you have an uncle who is a lord you think you may preach as much as you like.”
“Oh, come now, that’s all nonsense!” said Glenville. “If you are determined to shut me up, I’ve done. Liberavi animam meam. I am sorry if I have offended you. I say it’s quite time we went to join the other fellows. They want us to go with some of the ladies over the cliffs.”
“Thanks, I can’t come. I’ve a lot more work to do,
and—and I’ve hurt my heel a bit and don’t care to go a stiff climb to-day.”
Glenville looked at him, and saw a red glow rising in his neck as he turned away his face and sat down to a book on the table, pretending to read, as Glenville left the room.
The sky was dark, and ominous of storm. It had a torn and ragged appearance, as if it had already had a fight with worse weather and was trying to escape. The sea-gulls showed like white breakers upon the dark sky. The waves roared and grumbled, lashing themselves into a fury as they burst in white, wrathful foam against the black rocks, and then drew back, torn and mangled, to mingle with the crowd of waves rushing on to their doom. The visitors, dressed for squally weather, in waterproofs or rough suits, walked up and down the parade, enjoying the exhilarating breeze, or stood watching with eager excitement the entry of a fishing smack into the harbour. Far away out at sea in the mist of distant spray and rain two or three brigantines or schooners could be dimly descried labouring with the storm;—mysterious and awful sight as it always seems to me. Will she get safe to port? What is her cargo? What her human freight? What are they doing or thinking? What language do they speak? Are there women or children aboard? Who knows? Ah, gentle reader, what do you and I know of each other, and what do we know of even our nearest friends; to what port are they struggling through the mists which envelop them, and who will meet them on the shore?
An hour had not elapsed since Glenville had left Barton before the latter had reached the first promontory of rocks which shut in the little bay of Babbicombe,
and on turning the corner found, as he had expected and appointed, the young woman who had been the subject of their angry conversation. She rose from a rock on which she had been sitting, and came to meet him with a frank smile, saying, “Good afternoon, Mr. Henry.” Somehow the slightly coarse intonation struck him as it had never done before, and the freedom of manner which a few hours ago would have delighted him now sent a chilling sensation to his heart. “Good afternoon,” he replied, and, drawing his arm round her waist, he kissed her several times, and held her so firmly that at last she said, “Oh, sir, you’ll hurt me. Let me go!” Then holding him away from her, and looking him full in the face, she said, “Oh, Mr. Henry, whatever can be the matter!” “Come and sit down, darling,” he said, “I want to say something to you.” He led her to a seat upon the rocks, and they both sat down. “Darling,” he said, “I am afraid I must go away at once and leave you for ever.” “Oh, no, no, no! not that!” she cried, starting up. In a moment her manner changed from fear to anger. “I know what it is!” she exclaimed, “Hawkstone has been rude to you. There now, I will never forgive him. I will never be friends with him again—never!”
“No, darling, it is nothing about Hawkstone at all. I haven’t seen him. But come here, you must be quiet and listen to what I have to say.”
She sat down again beside him. Her lips quivered. Her blue eyes were staring into the cliff in front of her, but she saw nothing, felt nothing, except that a dreadful moment had come which she had for some time dimly expected, but never distinctly foreseen.
“I hardly know how to tell you,” he began. “You know I love you very dearly, and if I could—if it was possible, I would ask you to marry me. But I cannot. It is impossible. It would bring misery upon all, upon my father and mother, and upon you. How can I make you understand? My people are rich, all their friends are rich, and all very proud.”
The tears were streaming down her face, and she sat motionless.
“But I don’t want to know your friends,” she said, in a choking voice.
“I know, I know,” he said, “and I could be quite happy with you if they were all dead and out of the way, and if the world was different from what it is. But I have thought it all out, and I am sure I ought to go away at once, and never come back again.”
There was a long pause, but at last she rose and said, “Mr. Barton, I have felt that something of this sort might happen, but I have never thought it out, as you say you have. I am confused now it has come, just as if I had never feared it beforehand. I was very, very happy, and I would not think of what might come of it. I might have known that a grand gentleman like you would never live with the like of me; but then I thought I loved you very, very dearly; you seemed so bright, and grand, and tender, that I loved you in spite of all I was afraid of, and I thought if you loved me you might perhaps be—” Here she broke down altogether, and burst into sobs, and seemed as though she would fall. He rose and threw his arms round her, led her back to the rock, called her all the sweet names he could think of, kissed her again and again, and tried to soothe her;
while she, poor thing, could do nothing but sob, with her head upon his shoulder.
A loud shout aroused them. They both rose suddenly, and turned their faces towards the place whence the sound proceeded. Hawkstone was just emerging from the surf, which was lashing furiously against the corner of the cliff, round which they had come dry-shod a short time before, They at once guessed their fate, and glanced in dismay at one another and then at the sea, and again at Hawkstone, who rapidly approached them, drenched through and through, and in a fierce state of wrath and terror, added to the excitement of his struggle with the waves.
“What are you doing here?” he cried, and in the same breath, “Don’t answer—don’t dare to answer, but listen. You are caught by the tide. I have sent a boy back to Babbicombe for help. No help can come by sea in such a storm. They will bring a basket and ropes by the cliff. It will be a race between them and the tide. If all goes well, they will be here in time. If not, we shall all be drowned.”
“Is there no way up the cliff?” said Barton.
“None. The cliff overhangs. There is a place where I have just come through, but I doubt if I could reach it again; and I am sure neither of you could stand the surf. You must wait.” He then turned from them, and sat himself down on a fallen piece of the cliff, and buried his face in his hands. Nellie sank down on the rock where she and Barton had been sitting, and he stood by her, helplessly gazing alternately with a pale face and bewildered mind at his two companions. Two or three minutes passed without any motion or sound from the
living occupants of the bay; but the roaring of the sea grew louder and louder, and the terror of it sank into the hearts of all three. At last Hawkstone raised his head, and immediately Barton approached him.
“Forgive me, Hawkstone,” he said, “I have done you a great wrong, and I am sorry for it.”
“What’s the good in saying that? You can’t mend the wrong you have done,” and his head sank down again between his hands.
There was a pause. Barton felt that what had been said was true and not true. One of the most painful consequences of wrong-doing is that the wrong has a sort of fungus growth about it, and insists upon appearing more wrong than it ever was meant to be.
“Hawkstone,” he said at last, “I swear to you, on my honour as a gentleman, I have never dreamed of doing her an injury. I have been very, very foolish; I have come between you and her with my cursed folly. I deserve anything you may say or do to me. I care nothing about the waves; let them come. Take her with you up the cliff, and leave me to drown. It’s all I’m fit for. She will forget me soon enough, I feel sure, for I am not worth remembering.”
Hawkstone still kept himself bent down, his hands covering his face, and his body swaying to and fro with his strong emotions.
“You talk, you talk,” he muttered. “You seem to have ruined her, and me, and yourself too.”
“Not ruined her!” cried Barton, “I have told you, I swear to you. I swear—”
“Yes!” cried Hawkstone, springing up in a passion and towering above Barton, with his hands tightly
clenched and his chest heaving, “Yes! you are too great a coward for that. In one moment I could crush you as I crush the mussels in the harbour with my heel.”
Nelly threw herself upon him, “Jack, spare him, spare him. He meant no harm. Not now, not now! The sea, Jack, the sea! Save us, save us!”
The man’s strength seemed to leave him, and she seemed to overpower him, as he sank back into his former position, muttering “O God, O God!” At last he said, “Let be, let be—there, there, I’ve prayed I might not kill you both, and the devil is gone, thank the Lord for it. There, lass, don’t fret; I can’t abide crying. The sea! the sea! Yes, the sea. I had almost forgotten it. Cheer up a bit—fearful—how it blows—but there’s time yet—a few minutes. Keep up, keep up. There’s a God above us anyway.”
At this moment a shout was heard above them. “There they are at last,” cried Hawkstone, and he sent a loud halloo up the cliff, which was immediately responded to by those at the top, though the sound seemed faint and far off. After the lapse of about five minutes, a basket attached to two ropes descended slowly and bumped upon the rocks.
“Now, lass, you get up first. Come, come, give over crying. It’s no time for crying now. Be a brave lass or you’ll fall out. Sit down and keep tight hold. Shut your eyes, never mind a bump or two, and keep tight hold. Now then!” He lifted her into the basket. She tried to take his hand, but he drew it sharply away.
“Oh, forgive me, forgive me, Jack,” she said, “I have been very wicked, but I will try to be good.”
“That’s right, lass, that’s right. God keep you safe.
Hold on,” and he gave a shout up the cliff, and the basket began slowly to ascend. The two men gazed at it in silence till it reached the summit, when, with a rapid swirl, it disappeared.
“Thank God, she is safe,” said Hawkstone.
“Look, look!” cried Barton, catching hold of Hawkstone in alarm. “Look how fast the waves are coming. They will be on us directly.”
“Yes,” said Hawkstone, “there will be barely time to get the two of us up unless they make great haste. I don’t know why they don’t lower at once. Something must have gone wrong with the rope, but they will do their best, that’s certain.”
They waited in anxiety amounting to horror, as wave after wave, larger and louder, roared at them, and rushed round the rocks on which they were standing. Presently down came the basket, plunging into the retreating wave.
“Now, then, sir, in with you,” said Hawkstone.
“No, you go first. I will not go. It is my fault you are here.”
“Nonsense, sir, there’s no time for talk.”
“I will not go without you. Let us both get in together.”
“The rope will hardly bear two. Besides, I doubt if there is strength enough above to pull us up. Get in, get in.”
Barton still hesitated. “I am afraid to leave you alone. Promise me if I go that you will not—. I can’t say what I mean, but if anything happened to you I should be the cause of it.”
“For shame, sir, shame. I guess what you mean, but I have not forgotten who made me, though I have been
sorely tried. In with you at once.” He suddenly lifted Barton up in his arms, and almost threw him into the basket, raising a loud shout, upon which the basket again ascended the cliff more rapidly than on the first occasion. Hawkstone fell upon his knees at the base of the cliff, while the waves roared at him like wild beasts held back from their victim. He was alone with them and with the God in whom his simple faith taught him to trust as being mightier than all the waves. Down came the basket with great rapidity, and Hawkstone had a hard fight before he could drag it out from the waves and get into it. Drenched from head to foot, and cold and trembling with excitement and grief, he again shouted, and the basket once more ascended. He remembered no more. A sudden faintness overcame him, and the first thing he remembered was feeling himself borne along on a kind of extemporary litter, and hearing kind voices saying that he was “coming to,” and would soon be all right again.
Luckily there was no scandal. It was thought quite natural that Hawkstone should be with Nelly, and Barton was supposed to have been there by accident. Of course, we knew what the real state of the case was, and were glad that Barton had got a good fright; but we kept our own counsel.