THE CROSSING
Next day, at Newhaven, Simon Dubosc learnt that, at about six o'clock
on the previous evening, a fishing-smack with a crew of eight hands
had foundered in sight of Seaford. The cyclone had been seen from the
shore.
"Well, captain," asked Simon, who happened to know the first officer
of the boat which was about to cross that day, having met him in
Dieppe, "well captain, what do you make of it? More wrecks! Don't you
think things are beginning to get alarming?"
"It looks like it, worse luck!" replied the captain. "Fifteen
passengers have refused to come on board. They're frightened. Yet,
after all, one has to take chances. . . ."
"Chances which keep on recurring, captain, and over the whole of the
Channel just now. . . ."
"M. Dubosc, if you take the whole of the Channel, you will probably
find several hundred craft afloat at one time. Each of them runs a
risk, but you'll admit the risk is small."
"Was the crossing good last night?" asked Simon, thinking of his
friend Rolleston.
"Very good, both ways, and so will ours be. The _Queen Mary_ is a fast
boat; she does the sixty-four miles in just under two hours. We shall
leave and we shall arrive; you may be sure of that, M. Dubosc."
The captain's confidence, while reassuring Simon, did not completely
allay the fears which would not even have entered his mind in ordinary
times. He selected two cabins separated by a state-room. Then, as he
still had twenty-five minutes to wait, he repaired to the harbour
station.
There he found people greatly excited. At the booking-office, at the
refreshment-bar and in the waiting-room where the latest telegrams
were written on a black-board, travellers with anxious faces were
hurrying to and fro. Groups collected about persons who were
better-informed than the rest and who were talking very loudly and
gesticulating. A number of passengers were demanding repayment of the
price of their tickets.
"Why, there's Old Sandstone!" said Simon to himself, as he recognized
one of his former professors at a table in the refreshment-room.
And, instead of avoiding him, as he commonly did when the worthy man
appeared at the corner of some street in Dieppe, he went up to him and
took a seat beside him:
"Well, my dear professor, how goes it?"
"What, is that you, Dubosc?"
Beneath a silk hat of an antiquated shape and rusty with age was a
round, fat face like a village priest's, a face with enormous cheeks
which overlapped a collar of doubtful cleanliness. Something like a
bit of black braid did duty as a necktie. The waist-coat and
frock-coat were adorned with stains; and the over-coat, of a faded
green, had three of its four buttons missing and acknowledged an age
even more venerable than that of the hat.
Old Sandstone--he was never known except by this nickname--had taught
natural science at Dieppe College for the last twenty-five years. A
geologist first and foremost and a geologist of real merit, he owed
his by-name to his investigations of the sedimentary formations of the
Norman coast, investigations which he had extended even to the bottom
of the sea and which, though he was nearly sixty years of age, he was
still continuing with unabated enthusiasm. Only last year, in the
month of September, Simon had seen him, a big, heavy man, bloated with
fat and crippled with rheumatism, struggling into a diver's dress and
making, within sight of Saint-Valery-en-Caux, his forty-eighth
descent. The Channel from Le Havre to Dunkirk and from Portsmouth to
Dover, no longer had any secrets for him.
"Are you going back to Dieppe presently, professor?"
"On the contrary, I have just come from Dieppe. I crossed last night,
as soon as I heard of the wreck of the English fishing-smack, you
know, between Seaford and Cuckmere Haven. I have already begun to make
inquiries this morning, of some people who were visiting the Roman
camp and saw the thing happen."
"Well?" said Simon, eagerly.
"Well, they saw, at a mile from the coast, a whirl of waves and foam
revolving at a dizzy speed round a hollow centre. Then suddenly a
column of water gushed straight up, mixed with sand and stones, and
fell back on all sides, like a rain of rockets. It was magnificent!"
"And the fishing-smack?"
"The fishing-smack?" echoed Old Sandstone, who seemed not to
understand, to take no interest in this trivial detail. "Oh, yes, the
fishing-smack, of course! Well, she disappeared, that's all!"
The young man was silent, but the next moment continued:
"Now my dear professor, tell me frankly, do you think there's any
danger in crossing?"
"Oh, that's absurd! It's as though you were to ask me whether one
ought to shut one's self in one's room when there is a thunder-storm.
Of course the lightning strikes the earth now and again. But there's
plenty of margin all round. . . . Besides, aren't you a good swimmer?
Well, at the least sign of danger, dive into the sea without delay:
don't stop to think; just dive!"
"And what is your opinion, professor? How do you explain all these
phenomena?"
"How? Oh, very simply! I will remind you, to begin with, that in 1912
the Somme experienced a few shocks which amounted to actual
earthquakes. Point number one. Secondly, these shocks coincided with
local disturbances in the Channel, which passed almost unnoticed; but
they attracted my attention and were the starting point of all my
recent investigations. Among others, one of these disturbances in
which I am inclined to see the premonitory signs of the present
water-spouts, occurred off Saint-Valery. And that was why you caught
me one day, I remember, going down in a diving-suit just at that spot.
Now, from all this, it follows. . . ."
"What follows?"
Old Sandstone interrupted himself, seized the young man's hand and
suddenly changed the course of the conversation:
"Now tell me, Dubosc," he said, "have you read my pamphlet on _The
Cliffs of the Channel_? You haven't, have you? Well, if you had, you
would know that one of the chapters, entitled, '_What will occur in
the Channel in the year 2000_,' is now being fulfilled. D'you
understand? I predicted the whole thing! Not these minor incidents of
wrecks and water-spouts, of course, but what they seem to announce.
Yes, Dubosc; whether it be in the year 2000, or the year 3000, or next
week, I have foretold in all its details the unheard-of, astounding,
yet very natural thing which will happen sooner or later."
He had now grown animated. Drops of sweat beaded his cheeks and
forehead; and, taking from an inner pocket of his frock-coat a long
narrow wallet, with a lock to it and so much worn and so often
repaired that its appearance harmonized perfectly with his green
over-coat and his rusty hat:
"You want to know the truth?" he exclaimed. "It's here. All my
observations and all my hypotheses are contained in this wallet."
And he was inserting the key in the lock when loud voices were raised
on the platform. The tables in the refreshment-room were at once
deserted. Without paying further heed to Old Sandstone, Simon followed
the crowd which was rushing into the waiting-room.
Two telegrams had come from France. One, after reporting the wreck of
a coasting-vessel, the _Bonne Vierge_, which plied weekly between
Calais, Le Havre and Cherbourg, announced that the Channel Tunnel had
fallen in, fortunately without the loss of a single life. The other,
which the crowd read as it was being written, stated that "the keeper
of the Ailly lighthouse, near Dieppe, had at break of day seen five
columns of water and sand shooting up almost simultaneously, two
miles from the coast, and stirring up the sea between Veules and
Pourville."
These telegrams elicited cries of dismay. The destruction of the
Channel Tunnel, ten years of effort wasted, millions of pounds
swallowed up: this was evidently a calamity! But how much more
dreadful was the sinister wording of the second telegram! Veules!
Pourville! Dieppe! That was the coast which they would have to make
for! The steamboat, in two hours' time, would be entering the very
region affected by the cataclysm! On sailing, Seaford and Hastings; on
nearing port, Veules, Pourville and Dieppe!
There was a rush for the booking-office. The station-master's and
inspectors' offices were besieged. Two hundred people rushed on board
the vessel to recover their trunks and bags; and a crowd of distraught
travellers, staggering under the weight of their luggage, took the
up-train by assault, as though the sea-walls and the quays and rampart
of the cliffs were unable to protect them from the hideous
catastrophe.
Simon shuddered. He could not but be impressed by the fears displayed
by these people. And then what was the meaning of this mysterious
sequence of phenomena, which seemed incapable of any natural
explanation? What invisible tempest was making the waves boil up from
the depths of a motionless sea? Why did these sudden cyclones all
occur within so small a radius, affecting only a limited region?
All around him the tumult increased, amid repeated painful scenes. One
of these he found particularly distressing; for the people concerned
were French and he was better able to understand what they were
saying. There was a family, consisting of the father and mother, both
still young, and their six children, the smallest of whom, only a few
months old, was sleeping in its mother's arms. And the mother was
imploring her husband in a sort of despair:
"Don't let us go, please don't let us go! We're not obliged to!"
"But we are, my dear: you saw my partner's letter. And really there's
no occasion for all this distress!"
"Please, darling! . . . I have a presentiment. . . . You know I'm
always right. . . ."
"Would you rather I crossed alone?"
"Oh no! Not that!"
Simon heard no more. But he was never to forget that cry of a loving
wife, nor the grief-stricken expression of the mother who, at that
moment, was embracing her six children with a glance.
He made his escape. The clock pointed to half-past eleven; and Miss
Bakefield ought to be on her way. But, when he reached the quay, he
saw a motor-car turning the corner of a street; and at the window of
the car was Isabel's golden head. In a moment all his gloomy thoughts
were banished. He had not expected the girl for another twenty
minutes; and, though he was not afraid of suffering, he had made up
his mind that those last twenty minutes would be a period of distress
and anxiety. Would she keep her promise? Might she not meet with some
unforeseen obstacle? . . . And here was Isabel arriving!
Yesterday he had determined, as a measure of precaution, not to speak
to her until they had taken their places on the boat. However, as soon
as Simon saw her step out of the car, he ran to meet her. She was
wrapped in a grey cloak and carried a rug rolled in a strap. A sailor
followed with her travelling-bag.
"Excuse me, Isabel," said Simon, "but something so serious has
happened that I am bound to consult you. The telegrams, in fact,
mention a whole series of catastrophes which have occurred precisely
in the part which we shall have to cross."
Isabel did not seem much put out:
"You're saying this, Simon, in a very calm tone which does not match
your words at all."
"It's because I'm so happy!" he murmured.
Their eyes met in a long and penetrating glance. Then she continued:
"What would you do, Simon, if you were alone?"
And, when he hesitated what to answer:
"You would go," she said. "And so should I. . . ."
She stepped onto the gangway.
Half an hour later, the _Queen Mary_ left Newhaven harbour. At that
instant, Simon, who was always so completely his own master and who,
even in the most feverish moments of enthusiasm, claimed the power of
controlling his emotions, felt his legs trembling beneath him, while
his eyes grew moist with tears. The test of happiness was too much for
him.
Simon had never been in love before. Love was an event which he
awaited at his leisure; and he did not think it essential to prepare
for its coming by seeking it in adventures which might well exhaust
his ardour:
"Love," he used to say, "should blend with life, should form a part of
life and not be added to it. Love is not an aim in itself: it is a
principle of action and the noblest in the world."
From the first day when he saw her, Isabel's beauty had dazzled him;
and he needed very little time to discover that, until the last moment
of his life, no other woman would ever mean anything to him. The same
irresistible and deliberate impulse drove Isabel towards Simon.
Brought up in the south of France, speaking French as her native
tongue, she did not feel and did not evoke in Simon the sense of
embarrassment that almost invariably arises from a difference of
nationality. That which united them was infinitely stronger than that
which divided them.
It was a curious thing, but during these past four months, while love
was blossoming within them like a plant whose flowers were constantly
renewed and constantly increasing in beauty, they had had none of
those long conversations in which lovers eagerly question each other
and in which each seeks to find entrance into the unknown territory
of the other's soul. They spoke little and rarely of themselves, as
though they had delegated to gentle daily life the task of raising the
veils of the mystery one by one.
Simon knew only that Isabel was not happy. After losing at the age of
fifteen a mother whom she adored, she failed to find in her father the
love and the caresses that might have consoled her. Moreover, Lord
Bakefield almost immediately fell under the dominion of the Duchess of
Faulconbridge, a vain, tyrannical woman, who rarely stirred from her
villa at Cannes or her country-seat near Battle, but whose malign
influence exerted itself equally close at hand and far away, in speech
and by letter, on her husband and on her step-daughter, whom she
persecuted with her morbid jealousy.
Naturally enough, Isabel and Simon exchanged a mutual promise. And,
naturally enough, on coming into collision with Lord Bakefield's
implacable will and his wife's hatred, they arrived at the only
possible solution, that of running away. This was proposed without
heroic phrases and adopted without any painful struggle or reluctance.
Each formed a decision in perfect liberty. To themselves their action
appeared extremely simple. Loyally determined to prolong their
engagement until the moment when all obstacles would be smoothed away,
they faced the future like travellers turning to a radiant and
hospitable country.
In the open Channel a choppy sea was beginning to rise before a steady
light breeze. In the west the clouds were mustering in battle array,
but they were distant enough to promise a calm passage in glorious
sunshine. Indifferent to the assault of the waves, the vessel sped
straight for her port, as though no power existed which could have
turned her aside from her strict course.
Isabel and Simon were seated on one of the benches on the after deck.
The girl had taken off her cloak and hat and offered to the wind her
arms and shoulders, protected only by a cambric blouse. Nothing more
beautiful could be imagined than the play of the sunlight on the gold
of her hair. Though grave and dreamy, she was radiant with youth and
happiness. Simon gazed at her in an ecstasy of admiration:
"You don't regret anything, Isabel?" he whispered.
"No!"
"You're not frightened?"
"Why should I be, with you? There is nothing to threaten us."
Simon pointed to the sea:
"That will, perhaps."
"No!"
He told her of his conversation with Lord Bakefield on the previous
day and of the three conditions upon which they had agreed. She was
amused, and asked him:
"May I too lay down a condition?"
"What condition, Isabel?"
"Fidelity," she replied, gravely. "Absolute fidelity. No lapses! I
could never forgive anything of that sort."
He kissed her hand and said:
"There is no love without fidelity. I love you."
There were few people around them, for the panic had affected mainly
the first-class passengers. But, apart from the two lovers, all those
who had persisted in crossing betrayed by some sign their secret
uneasiness or their alarm. On the right were two old, very old
clergymen, accompanied by a third, a good deal younger. These three
remained unmoved, worthy brothers of the heroes who sang hymns on the
sinking _Titanic_. Nevertheless, their hands were folded as though in
prayer. On the left was the French couple whose conversation Dubosc
had overheard. The young father and mother, leaning closely on each
other, searched the horizon with fevered eyes. Four boys, the four
older children, all strong and robust, their cheeks ruddy with health,
were coming and going, in search of information which they immediately
brought back with them. A little girl sat crying at her parents' feet,
without saying a word. The mother was nursing the sixth child, which
from time to time turned to Isabel and smiled at her.
Meanwhile, the breeze was growing colder. Simon leant toward his
companion:
"You're not feeling chilly, Isabel?" he said.
"No, I'm used to it. . . ."
"Still, though you left your bag below you brought your rug on deck,
very wisely. Why don't you undo it?"
The rug was still rolled up in its straps; and Isabel had even passed
one of the straps around an iron rod, which fastened the bench to the
deck, and buckled it.
"My bag contains nothing of value," she said.
"Nor the rug, I presume?"
"Yes, it does."
"Really? What?"
"A miniature to which my poor mother was very much attached, because
it is a portrait of her grandmother painted for George III."
"It has just a sentimental value, therefore?"
"Oh dear no! My mother had it set in all her finest pearls, which
gives it an inestimable value to-day. Thinking of the future, she left
me, in this way, a fortune of my own."
Simon laughed:
"And that's the safe!"
"Yes, that's the safe!" she said, joining in his laughter. "The
miniature is pinned to the middle of the rug, between the straps where
no one would think of looking for it. You're laughing, but I am
superstitious where that miniature is concerned. It's a sort of
talisman. . . ."
For some time they spoke no further. The coast had disappeared from
sight. The swell was increasing and the _Queen Mary_ was rolling a
little.
At this moment they were passing a beautiful white yacht.
"That's the Comte de Bauge's _Castor_," cried one of the four boys.
"She's on her way to Dieppe."
Two ladies and two gentlemen were lunching under an awning, Isabel
bowed her head so as to hide her face.
This thoughtless movement displeased her; for, a moment later, she
said (and all the words which they exchanged during these few minutes
were to remain engraved on their memories):
"Simon, you really believe, don't you, that I was entitled to leave
home?"
"Why," he exclaimed, in surprise, "don't we love each other?"
"Yes, we love each other," she murmured. "And then there's the life
which I was leading with a woman whose one delight was to insult my
mother. . . ."
She said no more. Simon had laid his hand on hers and nothing could
reassure her more effectually than the fondness of that pressure.
The four boys, who had disappeared again, came running back:
"You can see the company's mail-boat that left Dieppe at the same time
that we left Newhaven. She's called the _Pays de Caux_. We shall pass
her in a quarter of an hour. So you see, mama, there's no danger."
"Yes, but it's afterwards, when we get closer to Dieppe."
"Why?" objected her husband. "The other boat hasn't signalled anything
extraordinary. The danger is altering its position, moving farther
away. . . ."
The mother made no reply. Her face retained the same piteous
expression. The little girl at her knee was still silently crying.
The captain passed Simon and saluted.
And a few more minutes elapsed.
Simon was whispering words of love which Isabel did not catch very
distinctly. The little girl's constant tears were causing her some
distress.
Shortly after, a gust of wind made the waves leap higher. Here and
there streaks of white, seething foam appeared. There was nothing
remarkable in this, as the wind was gaining in force and lashing the
crests of the waves. But why did these foaming billows appear only in
one part and that precisely the part which they were about to cross?
The father and mother had risen to their feet. Other passengers were
leaning over the rails. The captain was seen running up the
poop-steps.
And it came suddenly, in a moment.
Before Isabel and Simon, sitting self-absorbed, had the least idea of
what was happening, a frightful clamour, made up of a thousand
shrieks, rose from all parts of the boat, from port and starboard,
from stem to stern, even from below; from every side, as though the
minds of all had been obsessed by the possibility of disaster, as
though all eyes, from the moment of departure, had been watching for
the slightest premonitory sign.
A monstrous sight. Three hundred yards ahead, as though in the centre
of a target at which the bows of the vessel were aimed, a hideous
fountain had burst from the surface of the sea, bombarding the sky
with masses of rock, blocks of lava and flying masses of spray, which
fell back into a circle of foaming breakers and yawning whirlpools.
And a wind of hurricane force gyrated above this chaos, bellowing like
a bull.
Suddenly silence fell upon the paralysed crowd, the deathly silence
that precedes an inevitable catastrophe. Then, yonder, a rattle of
thunder that rent the air. Then the voice of the captain at his post,
roaring out his orders, trying to shout down the monster's myriad
voices.
For a moment there seemed some hope of salvation. The vessel put forth
so great an effort that she appeared to be gliding along a tangent
away from the infernal circle into which she was on the point of being
drawn. But it was a vain hope! The circle seemed to be increasing in
size. Its outer waves were approaching. A mass of rock crushed one of
the funnels.
And again there were shrieks, followed by a panic and an insane rush
for the life-boats; already some of the passengers were fighting for
places. . . .
Simon did not hesitate. Isabel was a good swimmer. They must make the
attempt.
"Come!" he said. The girl, standing beside him, had flung her arms
about him. "We can't stay here! Come!"
And, when she struggled, instinctively resisting the course which he
had proposed, he took a firmer hold of her.
She entreated him:
"Oh, it's horrible . . . all these children . . . the little girl
crying! . . . Couldn't we save them?"
"Come!" he repeated, in a masterful tone.
She still resisted him. Then he took her head in his two hands and
kissed her on the lips:
"Come, my darling, come!"
The girl fainted. He lifted her in his arms and threw one leg over the
rail:
"Don't be afraid!" he said. "I will answer for your life!"
"I am not afraid," she said. "I am not afraid with you. . . ."
They leapt into the water.