“You have earned for yourself the gratitude and blessing not only of a father but of an entire community, sir,” said Turner, extending his hand to him.
“Indeed! How?”
“Why, by saving this young lady’s life,” went on Turner in surprise. “Anyone can see with half an eye that she could never have reached that place of refuge but for you.”
The other smiled sadly.
“I fancy the young lady saved both our lives, since it was she who suggested falling back on this place at all,” he replied. “There was no other chance for us, and so I acted on the idea—happily, as it transpired. And now, if I might suggest—she should be taken home as soon as possible.”
Leaving reluctantly his recovered child, Dr Ingelow hurried up.
“God bless you, sir, whoever you may be!” he cried, seizing both the strangers hands. “Pray do me the favour of making my house your resting-place—you must be wet through and thoroughly tired out—and of allowing me to become further acquainted with one who has rescued my darling child from a terrible death.”
The exile’s heart thoroughly knew its own bitterness, as he heard once more the true, kindly tones. But it could not be. He would accompany them until they reached the high road, when he would make some excuse, and hasten to fly from the temptation to which he dared not yield. So he consented.
The waves were breaking with a hoarse, sullen boom, as though disappointed of their prey, as the party returned along the beach in the pitchy darkness of the small hours of the winter’s morning, and the light of the lanterns shone with a weird gleam upon the receding surf. Olive had been placed in an improvised litter of shawls and wraps slung on to two stout poles which they had brought with them, and was borne by two sturdy fishermen. Exhaustion and the terrors she had gone through had reduced her to a state of semi-unconsciousness, in which her mind was hardly sensible of what went on around her. Her father, still terribly anxious, walked at her side, and the stranger, who evinced no disposition to talk, had taken up his position on the other side—an arrangement not exactly to Turner’s taste, who, however, took comfort from the thought that the man was fifty or sixty at least, even though he was well-made and free of step still, and undeniably a gentleman. At last a stray light betokened the vicinity of Wandsborough.
“Now, let me see,” mused the stranger. “This is the Battisford road, I believe. Do not think me very rude, Mr—Ingelow—but on turning things over I find I must unavoidably be back in London to-day. I should have gone up by the night train but for this unfortunate—this fortunate, rather should I call it—walk of mine. On some future occasion, perhaps, I may have the great pleasure of renewing our acquaintance.”