In the Roar of the Sea

by S. Baring-Gould

“Judith, can you ride?”

He lifted her into the saddle.

“Boy,” said he, “lead on gently; I will stay her lest she fall.”

Then they moved away, and saw through the sheet of falling rain the lighted door, and Scantlebray in it, in his shirt sleeves shaking his fists, and his wife behind him, endeavoring to draw him back by the buckle and strap of his waistcoat.

“Oh, where is Jamie? I wonder where Jamie is?” said Judith, looking round her in the dark, but could see no sign of her brother.

There were straggling houses for half a mile—a little gap of garden or paddock, then a cottage, then a cluster of trees, and an alehouse, then hedges and no more houses. A cooler wind was blowing, dispelling the close, warm atmosphere, and the rain fell less heavily. There was a faint light among the clouds like a watering of satin. It showed that the storm was passing away. The lightning flashes were, moreover, at longer intervals, fainter, and the thunder rumbled distantly. With the fresher air, some strength and life came back to Judith. The wheel though on the turn was not yet revolving rapidly.

Coppinger walked by the horse, he had his arm up, holding Judith, for he feared lest in her weakness she might fall, and indeed, by her weight upon his hand, he was aware that her power to sustain herself unassisted was not come. He looked up at her; he could hardly fail to do so, standing, striding so close to her, her wet garments brushing his face; but he could not see her, or saw her indistinctly. He had thrust her little foot into the leather of his stirrup, as the strap was too long for her to use, and he did not tarry to shorten it.

Coppinger was much puzzled to learn how Judith had come at such an hour to the door of Mrs. Obadiah Scantlebray, shoeless, and with wounded head, but he asked no questions. He was aware that she was not in a condition to answer them.

He held her up with his right hand in the saddle, and with his left he held her foot in the leather. Were she to fall she might drag by the foot, and he must be on his guard against that. Pacing in the darkness, holding her, his heart beat, and his thoughts tossed and boiled within him. This girl so feeble, so childish, he was coming across incessantly, thrown in her way to help her, and he was bound to her by ties invisible, impalpable, and yet of such strength that he could not break through them and free himself.

He was a man of indomitable will, of iron strength, staying up this girl, who had flickered out of unconsciousness and might slide back into it again at any moment, and yet he felt, he knew that he was powerless before her—that if she said to him, “Lie down that I may trample on you,” he would throw himself in the foul road without a word to be trodden under by these shoeless feet. There was but one command she could lay on him that he would not perform, and that was “Let me go by myself! Never come near me!” That he could not obey. The rugged moon revolves about the earth. Could the moon fly away into space were the terrestrial orb to bid it cease to be a satellite? And if it did, whither would it go? Into far off space, into outer darkness and deathly cold, to split and shiver into fragments in the inconceivable frost in the abyss of blackness. And Judith threw a sort of light and heat over this fierce, undisciplined man, that trembled in his veins and bathed his heart, and was to him a spring of beauty, a summer of light. Could he leave her? To leave her would be to be lost to everything that had now begun to transform his existence. The thought came over him now, as he walked along in silence—that she might bid him let go, and he felt that he could not obey. He must hold her, he must hold her not from him on the saddle, not as merely staying her up, but to himself, to his heart, as his own, his own forever.