CHAPTER XXXIV.
IN THE STORM.
Drip! drip! fell the rain that day, two weeks after Stephen Archdale's return from Louisburg. It was an easterly drizzle that, looked at from the window, seemed to be merely time wasted, for the rain appeared to be amounting to nothing; but if one tried it, he found it chilling, penetrating, and gloomy enough. To Archdale, as he plodded through the muddy streets, Boston had never looked so dismal; yet within the last ten days he had tasted enough of its hospitality to have had the memory of its smiling faces lighten his gloom. But another memory overshadowed these. He had not been to see Mistress Royal during his stay in town. He wondered if this neglect seemed strange to her, or if she had not even noticed it. Of course, fêted and flattered as she was, the heroine of the hour, though bearing her honors under protest, she had not wasted her thoughts upon him. He was doing her injustice here, and he felt sure of it; she had thought of his meetings with Katie. But her very sympathy was what he wanted least of all; it was as strong a defence as the walls of Louisburg.
What did he want? Why had he not been to see her? Why should he go? The mist and dimness of the day were nothing to the obscurity in his own mind. All that he was quite sure of was, that whenever he had received an invitation, and the heroes of Louisburg had had lionizing enough, he had thought, first of all that he should meet Elizabeth Royal; yet when he had met her he had never talked much to her; but by stealth he had watched her constantly.
That morning he was walking toward her home. Should he go in and ask for her? He slackened his steps as he drew near. But what should he say to her? Commonplaces? He went on.
Elizabeth happened to go to the window as Archdale was disappearing down the street. Since his return an arrangement had been made to pay back the money that she had put into the Archdale firm, and a part of this had been already paid; the rest was to follow soon. It was no wonder that Mr. Archdale wanted to be rid of all thought of her, since she had made him lose what he valued most in the world. After a time she turned back to the open fire again and took up her book; but she did not read much. "Is it possible," she said to herself at last, "that it annoys me because he does not treat me as the rest do, as if I had done something wonderful? He knows better. And surely I have done him injury enough to make him wish never to see me again." Again she sat with her book in her lap and thinking. "There was a charm in that terrible life at Louisburg that I cannot find here," she said to herself at last. "I suppose I am not made for gayety. He was one of the figures in it, and he recalls it. But all that life has gone, and he with it." Then she was shocked at a disposition that could prefer bloodshed to peace. No; it certainly was not this: it was because for once she had been a little useful. She felt sure that Stephen Archdale had met Katie, and, as he went down the street past the house that rainy morning, Elizabeth's thoughts followed him with a pity all the more deep that it would be compelled to be forever silent.
A week went by,—a week of weather that had all the sultriness of August. Mrs. Eveleigh, more amazed at each added day of this, predicted calamity, and urged Elizabeth to give up an excursion that she had promised to take down the harbor with a party of friends. Sir Temple and Lady Dacre, who had spent the summer in Canada, and had returned to Boston, were among the guests; indeed, the party had been made for them, and, as the dainty yacht sped out to sea, none were more pleased with it, and with being in it, than Lady Dacre.
Archdale was nearer Mistress Royal than he had been since their walks and talks together at Louisburg. But Sir Temple Dacre had seized upon her almost at starting, and when the yacht ran ashore for the party to stroll under the trees on the point and to lunch there, the conversation was still going on. Sir Temple was asking Elizabeth about her late experiences and observations; he found the first very interesting, and the latter unusually keen.
As the company grouped themselves upon the beach, however, Elizabeth found Archdale beside her.
"I want you to see the waves from that point," he said. "It puts me in mind of one of the juttings of the shore up there."
She walked on with him, and two of her companions, who had heard the remark, followed, desirous, as they said, to get a sight of anything that could give them a hint of Louisburg. Elizabeth would not spoil Archdale's satisfaction by saying that she saw no resemblance. She listened while he answered the questions of the others, and by suggestions and reminders she led him on to vivid descriptions of one of the incidents of the siege. In talking he constantly referred to her. "You remember," he said, sometimes; or at others, "You were not there;" or, again, "It was on such a day," recalling some event with which she was connected. It seemed to Archdale very soon when the summons came to lunch.
"I haven't enjoyed myself so much for a long time. I hope we are not going home yet," protested Lady Dacre, as the party went on board again.
"No, indeed!" cried Archdale. "Where should you like to go, Lady Dacre?"
Her ladyship pointed to a line of shore a few miles distant. "Is that too far?"
"Not if the wind holds good," returned another of the party so promptly that a sailor, who was about to speak, drew back again with a frown, and contented himself with muttering something to his companions.
For a time the wind was fair; but when they had gone two-thirds of the distance it failed them. The boat lay, rocking a little, but with no onward progress, her sails hanging flabby and motionless. Gradually laughter and jest ceased from the lips of the pleasure-seekers.
"A shower coming up," said Sir Temple Dacre, in a tone that he wished to make unconcerned. But it was not a mere shower that threatened, but something more awful in the brassy heavens, the stifling atmosphere, the clouds that had gathered with a swiftness unprecedented in that region. The air seemed to have receded behind the clouds to swell the fury of the tempest that was coming. The stillness was full of horror; it seemed like the uplifting of a weapon to strike. The reticence of the sailors was ominous. This calm had fallen so suddenly that the boat had not been able to reach land, or even water more sheltered. It must meet the full fury of the tempest.
The lightning began to play incessantly. The thunder had a sound of struggle, as if the giant of the skies were breaking his fetters.
At length the listeners heard a sullen roar more prolonged than the tempest, and the wind was upon them. The little vessel shivered and flew before it. It swept past the cove that the sailors had hoped to enter, and bore down with terrible speed toward the rocky coast beyond. The sails had been furled, but the wind and the water needed no aid. The rain came, a blinding deluge; the forked bolts seemed to have set the air on fire; the crash of the thunder and the roar of the wind and the water all mingled together.
The company had scattered. Only a few had gone into the little cabin, the rest preferring to take what small chance the freedom of the deck might give them. With all conventionalities swept away, they were themselves as their companions had never seen them before and never would again. Some were crouched on the deck, with sobs and cries for help; some knelt in silent prayer, and others sat with a stoicism of bearing that their paleness and anxious eyes showed was superficial.
Elizabeth, with an unconquerable desire to meet death upon her feet, stood clinging to the mast. She had thrust her arm through a rope about it, and so could resist the wind which, as she stood, was somewhat broken to her by the mast. Archdale, catching by one thing and another, came toward her. Slipping one arm into the rope, he put the other about her in a firm support.
She looked up at him. She remembered him as she had seen him during the siege, imperturbable in a storm of shot. "You have faced death many times before," she said.
"Never with you beside me. The dread of this is that I cannot save you." And then, as he looked at her, all that he had come to understand, and had meant to break to her so slowly, lest she should be startled away from him, broke from him at once in impetuous speech. "But death with you, Elizabeth," he cried, "is better to me than life without you. I have known it for only a little time; I can't tell how long it has been true. But, in face of death, you shall know it. Don't think me fickle. You know better than any one else how I played out that game to the bitter end,—no, the happy end,—for at this moment I would rather stand here five minutes and speak out my heart to you, and feel that you love me, and die in your love, Elizabeth, than spend a long life by Katie Archdale's side. My darling, I am selfish. I would send you away to safety if I could; but I must be glad to have you here beside me." For she was clinging to him, and her head, that had from the first been bent to avoid the wind, was almost upon his shoulder. A moment ago he had thought that this would be enough to comfort him if she did not turn from him; now it was not even the beginning, it was only a divine possibility. He bent over her. "Before it is too late, my darling," he said.
But she did not speak. Only, after a moment, she raised her head, and their eyes met.
The wind shrieked in its fury, the water seethed and hissed, and the boat rushed on toward the rocks. The two turned their eyes away to watch the sea, and then back again upon each other.
"It is the water that unites us again," said Archdale, "and this time forever. My wife, kiss me once here before eternity come."
"Have you no hope?" she asked him.
"It is cruel," he answered. "No, I have none. When we touch the rocks the boat will go to pieces in an instant. And look at the sea." She raised her lips to his as he bent over her; no color came into her face; she was already at the gates of death. She spoke a few low words to Archdale, and then they stood together in silence.
Through the blackness of the storm they saw the turrets of foam where the water was raging over the hidden rocks. Elizabeth shivered. "My father!" she said, brokenly. Stephen could speak no word of comfort. He could only clasp her more closely as they waited for the fatal crash. His eyes now rested upon hers, and now measured the distance between the boat and the breakers.
"What does it mean?" he cried at last. "We are not going directly upon them now! Can the wind have veered? O God! is there any chance? any of life with you, Elizabeth? No, it cannot be." His voice had an unsteadiness that his conviction of the destruction that they were rushing upon had not given it.
The wind had veered, and in veering had fallen a very little. It no longer rained in such torrents; but the rain had been a discomfort unnoticed in the danger. The wind, still furious, and the rocks which they were nearing, left no one in the boat, thought for the rain.
It grew a little lighter. The vessel gave herself a shake, not like the straining of the moments before, and rushed on. Yet the wind had lost something of its force, and it was not now driving directly against the rocks, as Archdale had seen. It might veer and fall still more before they should be reached. There was still terrible danger; but there was, at least, one chance of escape.
So the minutes went by. The rocks grew plainer to the watchers until it seemed to them probable that they were passing over the outermost ones. But, if the boat could round the point before her without striking, it would find a smoother shore beyond.
With the brightening of the prospect Elizabeth had drawn away from Archdale, and they had joined the others who had revived a little in the new hope. All were breathless with suspense, for the next few moments were more full of instant peril than those that had gone before. At any moment they might strike, and then—half a mile or more of foaming water between them and the shore, while the two frail boats that they had to make the passage in would not hold them all.
The storm on shore was remembered for years as something nearer a tropical hurricane than had been known ever to have visited New England.
The boat swept on. Once there came a sound that made the listeners shiver, but the keel grated and passed over, the point was rounded, and they entered calmer water, wild enough, however, and found the wind still falling and the place more sheltered.
But it was not for some time, and not without great danger in the passage, that all the party stepped again upon land.
They were miles away from their homes, and must find present shelter, and such conveyance as they could.
On the way to a farm-house that had opened its doors to them, Archdale, who had been helping in getting the company on shore, joined Elizabeth. He took the shawl that she was carrying and threw it over his arm, making use of the opportunity to say a few words to her in an undertone.
He never forgot the expression with which she looked up at him. Embarrassment and amusement threw a veil over her gratitude for their safety, and over that new force in her that danger had revealed.
"You would not have had everything all your own way so readily," she said, "if—if—I mean, I—I should not have"—She stopped.
A terrible fear seized upon Archdale.
"You regret what you said? You did not mean it, Elizabeth?" His lips were dry. He spoke with difficulty. It had seemed to him too wonderful for belief.
She gave him one swift glance that set his heart aglow. She slipped her hand into his proffered arm, and went on demurely in the drenched procession.