THE UNDERCLIFF
The rain and easterly wind ceased towards dawn. When morning broke
a haze hung over sea and land that slowly lifted but never wholly
vanished, and left the landscape bathed in the wan sunshine of
November, the smile of a dying year.
Jane Marley was afoot early, and went to work immediately. She did what
was necessary undirected, lighted the fire, made the kettle boil, and
had cleared away the untidy remains of the past day's occupation of the
room.
When Job Rattenbury came down from his room above and found every
preparation made for breakfast, then an expression of satisfaction came
over his rugged face.
'Right and fitting,' said he. 'For myself I do not care, but I must
think of Jack. He does not like to see his dad make the fire and clean
the boots. He wants to do it himself, and we have had a tussle over
it. Jack is obstinate. Says Jack, "Father, I will not have it. You're
not my fag. I'll clean my own boots or wear 'em dirty all day." I say,
"There is the difference between us. I was never brought up to be a
gentleman, but it is my intent and ambition that you shall be." And
now, Jane Marley, go on as you have begun, and we shall not get across.
I'm a rough customer when things go against the grain. You are not one
to stand pulling your apron and asking "Please, what next?" but buckle
to work at once. I want Jack to be comfortable when he comes home, and
I must provide that there be none of the little awkwardnesses there
have been when he refuses to let his old dad make his bed, and sew on
his waistcoat buttons, and wash the dishes. Stay here you may, you and
the kid, so long as you both conduct yourselves.'
But the pact was not concluded till a proviso had been added. 'Let this
be an understanding between us. You make no advances, and do not aim
at becoming aught other than my housekeeper. Because I let you put on
_her_ gown last night, that is no reason why I should let you step into
her shoes. Keep your place, and I am satisfied. Otherwise――there is the
door.'
Thus the compact was concluded.
As there was nothing that the girl could do, her mother bade her amuse
herself. Winefred was therefore able to spend the beautiful day in
rambles.
* * * * *
The river Axe sweeps to the sea through a trough that has been scooped
out of the superior beds of chalk and cherty sandstone, and out to the
red sands below. But the chalk stands up to right and left in noble
cliffs, of which Haven Ball forms the eastern jamb, and White Cliff
that to the west. From Haven Ball the coast forms one continuous white
precipice to Lyme Regis, above a sea in summer of peacock blue.
But, as every tyro in geology knows, the chalk is built up over the
green sand, below which are impervious beds of clay. The rain soaking
down through the faults in the chalk reaches the argillaceous stratum,
and, unable to descend farther, forms innumerable land springs such
as come forth at the base of most chalk hills. But where the chalk
cliffs rise out of the sea, the water converts the gravelly stratum
into a quicksand, and that is liable to be carried into the sea, and
this causes subsidences, much as would occur if you lay on a water-bed
that had in it a rent out of which would rush that which swelled the
mattress.
There had been no sinkages of any importance along this coast within
the memory of man. Nevertheless, an observant eye would have noticed
that Captain Rattenbury's cottage stood on the undercliff, and was on a
lower level than the down, but was nevertheless cut off from the sea by
a sheer face of precipice. This undercliff formed an irregular terrace
that overhung the sea. It was reached by an easy descent from the down
above, and lay sufficiently below it to be sheltered from the north
winds. His garden was consequently a warm spot even in mid-winter;
whenever the sun shone, primroses starred the ground there even at
the end of January, and crane's-bill there was never out of flower.
The entire undercliff, raised three hundred feet above the sea, had a
ruffled and chopped surface, was broken into ridges and depressed into
basins, and was densely overgrown with thorns, brambles of gigantic
growth, ivy and thickets of elder. About Rattenbury's cottage was a
patch that had been cleared, which served as kitchen garden, and a good
but small orchard.
Rattenbury occupied himself that languid November day in pruning his
apple-trees. The cottage was of chalk and flint cobbles, with a brick
chimney, and was thatched. It leaned against a face of rock, in a
manner that would have ensured damp had not that rock been chalk.
The entire undercliff, except for the clearing about the cottage, was
a jungle, not to be threaded with impunity by any one wearing serge or
broadcloth, for the thornbushes were armed with spines of prodigious
strength, and the briars threw about their tentacles set with claws to
arrest and tear the intruder. The girl wandered about, diving under the
arches of the brambles, peering into the thickets of elders, everywhere
disturbing countless birds.
After she had rambled to her heart's content, she returned to the
cottage, and saw the captain at his apple-trees, knife in hand.
He made a signal to her to approach.
'Look here, maid,' said he; 'you can bear a letter, I suppose?'
'Where to?'
'To Beer.'
'Across the water?'
'Naturally. How else get there?'
'I can go there, certainly. It will not occupy many hours――perhaps two.'
'Do you know the Nutalls?――David Nutall?'
'There are several of the name. I do not know David.'
'His house lies near where old Starr lived. You know that.'
'Yes――well.'
'Then take this letter. Mind this. No going from door to door, showing
the letter, and asking where lives David Nutall. The letter is to be
given into no other hand, and that not outside his house.'
Rattenbury considered a while. Then he said, 'It is a private matter,
and no notice must be attracted. Get your mother's box with papers
of pins and needles, reels and tapes, and go about Beer with that,
selling. And when you are at David Nutall's, slip the letter into his
hand.'
'I will do it.'
'And I wish you likewise to find my boy, Jack; he may be at the
curate's, he is studying there――that he may be a gentleman. But I
want for a bit, tell him, to take him off from his studies――it is a
tickle concern, tell him, and he is to go to David Nutall's and take
instructions from him. Only, mind you, this. Mum as a mouse. My boy,
if he is not at the curate's, will be at his lodgings. No one will
think anything of your carrying a message from me to Jack――if they come
to know you are staying here. But, to make sure, I will give you a pair
of socks I have knitted for him. Do not be a fool――mum as a mouse. I
will give you a couple of pence for the ferry.'
'Shall I go and speak to mother first?'
'No, I will make it right with her. Go at once.'
Winefred started on her errand. She crossed the down, descended the
furrow through which the track led to the landing-stage of the ferry on
the Axmouth side of the estuary.
Then she called and waved her hand to attract the attention of the
boatman.
Olver Dench did not hurry himself to cross and take over a single
passenger, and this one whose capability of paying the toll was
doubtful. He sauntered down from his cottage, looked along the road to
Seaton, up towards Axmouth, saw no one, slowly launched his boat, and
came over leisurely and in bad humour. He took the girl on board, but
had got half across before he remarked, 'I reckon you and your mother
crept into a rabbit hole for the night.'
'Captain Rattenbury has taken us in.'
'Captain Job!'
Dench paused in his rowing.
'For how long?'
'Mother is going to be his housekeeper. We stay there altogether.'
Olver turned blood purple. He said no more, but put the girl on shore.
She stepped lustily along. She had taken her mother's box of trifles
for sale, which had been left the previous evening at a house in
Seaton; she crossed the shoulder of the hill that separates the
Axe Valley from the ravine of Beer, a shoulder that rises to the
magnificent sea-cliff that is a prominent feature in all views of
Seaton.
Then she descended the lane into Beer, a village of one street, shut
in between steep hills, running down to a small rock-girt cove. It was
a village of fishermen, but every fisherman was suspected of being a
smuggler. Those in the place who did not get their living by the sea
were quarrymen of the famous Beer stone.
In the main and only street was a house of some pretension and
antiquity, that had belonged to the Starr family; hereabouts Winefred
began hawking her wares, and as she did so she asked the names of the
inmates of the several cottages. After going into three or four and
vending some of her goods, she entered that of David Nutall.
She saw there an old man, wearing a fisherman's jersey and hat, seated
by the fireside smoking, whilst a woman was ironing by the window. Two
younger men lounged by the fire talking.
Winefred was roughly repulsed by the woman when she opened her box, but
the old man put in a word: 'Nay, Bessie! Buy a trifle of the maid just
to encourage her.'
'Are you David Nutall?' asked the girl.
'If I'm not mistaken,' he answered.
Winefred drew the letter from her bosom, and put it into his hand.
'What?' he asked quickly. 'From the cap'n?'
The young men at once brightened.
'Yes, from the captain.'
The young men drew round the elder, their father. It was too dark at
the hearth for them to read the letter, and the old man rose and went
to the window. He studied the letter with knitted brows, but could not
make much out of it. He called the lads to him.
'Ah, father,' said one, 'I can make out what is printed, but not
fist-writing.'
'Come here,' said David, signing to the girl with the letter. 'Can you
read what is in writing?'
'To be sure I can.'
'Written words, not printed?'
'I can.'
'Make out this, will you. We are all friends here. There――that line; I
can get hold of the sense of the rest of it――or nigh, about.'
Winefred read: 'At eleven o'clock on Thursday night, Heathfield Cross.'
'That will do,' said David Nutall, snatching the letter from her. 'Tell
the cap'n we shall be there. No more. We shall be there. That is the
answer. Take this.'
The old man offered her two shillings.
'No,' said she, 'mother never takes alms. She earns.'
'Well, and you have earned this――as carrying a letter.'
She held back.
'Mind, child,' said the old man, 'you hold your tongue about this bit
of paper. A word might lose us all.'