STRONGER THAN DEATH.
THE day that followed was even more utterly blank and hopeless than
the last. Mr. Jerningham had sent scouts in every direction, and both
from him and Daniel the men had received promises of liberal reward for
any tidings of the lost one. But no tidings came. The men returned,
dispirited and weary; and at the close of this second blank, wasted
day, fairly confessed that they could do no more.
So the night closed; and the sleepless hours wore away in a house of
mourning and desolation.
During these two days Mr. Jerningham and Helen de Bergerac had not met.
The girl had retired when her father’s friend entered the sitting-room
which they shared in common. She shrank from seeing him after that
moment of anguish in which she had betrayed that secret which, of all
others, she would most jealously have guarded. She now avoided Mr.
Jerningham, and he guessed the reason of her avoidance. Nor did her
father attempt to conceal the truth.
“You were wiser than I, dear friend,” he said, “when you warned me
against the peril of that young man’s residence in our home. Only the
night before his unhappy disappearance he made a confession of his
love for my darling, and pleaded his cause with me, with all possible
humility, and with very little hope of acceptance, I am sure.”
“And you rejected his suit?”
“What else could I do? In the first place I considered myself pledged
to you. I had no brighter hope than that you should win my daughter’s
love, and I believed her heart to be free. In the second place this
young man--for whom I have a real affection--could offer no security
for my dear girl’s happiness, except his love; and at my age one has
outlived the idea that true love will pay rent and taxes, and butcher
and baker. No, I gave Eustace a point-blank refusal, and he left me
broken-hearted.”
“Did Helen know of his appeal to you?”
“Not a syllable. Nor did I imagine until the other night that he had
made so fatal an impression on her mind. I see now that it is so,
and fear that his untimely doom will only render the impression more
lasting.”
“Yes,” replied Mr. Jerningham, gravely; “that is a thing to be dreaded.
My dear friend, do not think of _my_ disappointment, though I
will own to you without shame that it is a bitter one. The dream was
so bright. Let us think only of this dear girl’s happiness, or if that
cannot be secured, her peace of mind. Would it not be wise to remove
her from this scene as soon as possible?”
“Decidedly; she broods perpetually upon that poor young man’s fate, and
is kept in a fever of expectation by the hope of tidings which I fear
will never come. Yes, it would certainly be better to take her away.”
“That is easily done. You can take her to Pendarvoch. We are expected
there, you know. I will remain here a day or two longer, for the last
feeble chance of the missing man’s reappearance, and will then follow
you. We are only fifty miles from Pendarvoch, and you can manage the
journey easily with one change of horses. Shall I order the carriage
for to-morrow morning?”
“If you please. I will talk to Helen about the arrangement. I do not
think she can object.”
“If she does, you must do your utmost to overrule her objections. Be
sure that it is of vital consequence to remove her from this scene of
gloom and terror. Believe me, I am influenced by no selfish motive
when I ask you to take her to Pendarvoch. If that young man should be
restored to us, I will bring him there to her. He shall plead to you
again, and this time shall not be rejected.”
“Harold!”
“Yes, you think me mad, no doubt. For my own part, I can only wonder
that I am not mad. I tell you, if Eustace Thorburn comes forth from the
jaws of death, he shall come to you a new creature--with new hopes, new
ambitions--perhaps even a new name. Oh, for pity’s sake do not question
me. Wait till we know the issue of this hideous uncertainty.”
“My dear Harold, you astound me. I thought you disliked my secretary,
and you speak of him with emotion that seems foreign to your very
nature. The change is most extraordinary.”
“The circumstances that have brought about the change are not ordinary
circumstances. I say again, for God’s sake do not question me. Prepare
Helen for the journey. I will go and give the necessary orders. Good
night!”
The two men shook hands, and Harold Jerningham departed, leaving his
old friend sorely perplexed by his conduct.
“What a heart that man conceals under an affectation of cynicism!”
thought Theodore de Bergerac. “He is immeasurably distressed by the
untimely fate of a man whom he pretended to dislike.”
M. de Bergerac called his daughter from the adjoining room. She came to
him, deadly pale, but with the sweet air of resignation that made her
beauty so pathetic.
“My darling,” said her father, tenderly, “Mr. Jerningham wishes us to
leave this sad place, early to-morrow morning, for Pendarvoch, where
we are hourly expected. He will remain here some days longer, in the
hope of obtaining some tidings about poor Eustace; but he wishes us to
leave immediately. You have no objection to this arrangement, have you,
dearest?”
“I had rather we stayed here, papa.”
“But, my dear girl, what good can you and I do here?”
“None, oh, none! But I had much rather we stayed.”
“My child, it is so useless.”
“Oh, papa, I know that,” she answered, piteously. “I know we can do
nothing, except pray for him, and I do pray for him without ceasing;
but to go away--to abandon the place where he has been lost--it seems
so cruel, so cowardly.”
“But, my darling! the place will not be abandoned. Mr. Jerningham will
remain here, and will omit no effort to discover our poor friend’s
fate. His uncle, Mr. Mayfield, will be here. What could we do that they
will not do better?”
“I know that, dear father! I know we can do nothing. But let me stay. I
loved him so dearly!”
The words slipped from her lips unawares, and she stood before her
father, blushing crimson.
“Oh, papa! you must think me so bold and unwomanly,” she said. “Till
this sorrow came upon us I did not know that I loved him. I did not
know how dear he had become to me in the happy, tranquil days at home.
When he left us, I felt there was a blank in my life, somehow, except
when I was with you. But I thought no more than this. It was only when
I heard that he was lost to us for ever that I knew how truly I loved
him.”
“And he loved you, darling, as truly and as fondly!” answered the
father, hiding the blushing face upon his breast.
“Did he tell you that, papa?”
“He did. The night before he started on that fatal excursion. And now,
dearest girl! be brave, and let me take you from this place, where your
presence can do no possible good.”
“I will, dear father--if you will first grant me one favour.”
“What is that?”
“Let me see the place where he perished. Take me to the sands along
which he was to come, and upon which he must have met his death.”
“My darling! what good can that do?”
“Oh, none, perhaps,” cried Helen, impatiently; “but it is just the one
thing that can reconcile me to leaving this place. If he had died a
natural death, and been buried among the quiet dead, I should ask you
to take me to his grave, and you could not refuse. I ask you almost
the same thing now. Let me look upon the scene of his death!”
“It shall be so, Helen,” replied Theodore, gravely, “though I fear I
shall do wrong in yielding to such a wish.”
“My darling father! Then you will go with me to the sands to-morrow at
low tide? You will inquire the time at which we ought to go?”
“I will do anything foolish for your sake! But, Helen, when I have done
this you will go with me to Pendarvoch quietly?”
“You shall take me where you please.”
Later in the evening M. de Bergerac saw Harold Jerningham, ascertained
the hour of the turning tide, and arranged the counter-ordering of the
carriage. At noon, they told him, the tide would be within an hour of
turning, and any ordinary walker, starting for Halko’s Head at that
time, might arrive there with ease and safety.
“Helen and I want to see the coast with our own eyes,” said M. de
Bergerac, anxious to shield his daughter’s weakness in some measure
by affecting to share her wish; “so before we leave this place we have
determined to explore the way by which that poor fellow must have come.”
“Helen!--Will she go with you?”
“Why not? She, too, would like to see this fatal coast.”
“A strange fancy.”
“It may be wiser to indulge it.”
“Be it so. But the distance to Halko’s Head by the coast is seven
miles. Helen can hardly walk so far.”
“I think on this occasion she could do so.”
“I will go with you, and we will take a boat in which she can complete
the journey, should she feel tired.”
At noon next day they started--Helen, her father, and Harold
Jerningham--attended by a couple of rowers, in a roomy boat. Helen
would have infinitely preferred to be alone with her father, but she
could not advance any objection to Mr. Jerningham’s companionship, and
was indeed grateful to him for not opposing her wish.
She walked by her father in silence, with her hand clinging to his arm,
and her eyes lifted every now and then to the steep cliffs above them,
unsurmountable, eternal barrier, between the sands and the heights
above. The day was bright and clear, and the April sunlight shone upon
a tranquil sea. Darkness and rain, storm and wind, had overtaken that
missing traveller--against him the very elements had conspired.
The little party went slowly along the sands, with the boat always
in sight. Little satisfaction could there be in that melancholy
survey. The cliffs and the shore told nothing of him who had perished
amidst their awful solitude. At what spot the rising wall of waters
had overtaken him, no one could tell. Midway between Killalochie and
Halko’s Head they came to the inlet, or cleft in the cliffs, a narrow
passage or chasm, between steep walls of crag, about a quarter of a
mile in length. Here the walking was difficult, and Harold Jerningham
endeavoured to dissuade Helen from exploring the place.
“Mr. Mayfield and I went down there with our lanterns,” he said.
“Believe me, there has been no trace, not the faintest indication
overlooked. The ground is so thickly scattered with sharp craggy stones
as to be almost impassable.”
In spite of this, Helen persisted, with a quiet resolution, which
impressed Mr. Jerningham. This pure, country-bred girl was even more
admirable than he had thought her. The calm, still face, so fixed and
yet so gentle, assumed a new beauty in his eyes.
“The good blood shows itself,” he thought.
They all three went into the chasm. Only in the red fitful glare of the
lanterns had Mr. Jerningham seen it before. It had seemed to him then
more vast, more awful; but even by day the depth and solitude of the
place had a gloomy solemnity. Very carefully had the searchers, with
their lanterns, examined every angle and recess of the cliff on either
side, every inch of the stony ground, looking for some trace of the
lost, and had found nothing. To-day Mr. Jerningham walked listlessly,
scarce looking to the right or the left, hoping nothing, fearing
nothing.
M. de Bergerac’s thoughts were absorbed by his daughter. It was her
face he watched, her grief he feared. Thus was it left to the eyes of
that one mourner to catch the first sign of hope. A loud cry burst from
her lips, a cry that thrilled the hearts of her companions.
“Helen, my love, what is it?” exclaimed her father, clasping her
tightly in his arms.
She broke from him, and pointed upwards. “Look!” she cried, “look!
There is some one there. He is there! Alive or dead, he is found!”
They looked upwards in the direction to which she pointed, and there,
fluttering in the fresh April wind, they saw something--a rag--a white
handkerchief--hanging from the dark mouth of a hollow in the cliff.
This hollow in the cliff was about twelve feet above the sand, and at
first sight appeared utterly inaccessible.
“He is there!” cried Helen; “I am sure he is there!”
“Yes,” said Mr. Jerningham, examining the face of the cliff; “there are
niches cut here for foothold. Why, this must be the Saint’s Cave of
which they have told us. Yes, finding himself overtaken by the tide,
he _might_ have taken refuge here. It is just possible he might
clamber to that opening.”
“I know he was distinguished as a gymnast in Belgium,” said M. de
Bergerac, eagerly.
“I will run back and fetch the boatmen,” said Mr. Jerningham; “they are
waiting for us yonder.”
He pointed to the opening in the cliff, and hastened thither.
“Holà!” shouted Theodore, “art thou up yonder, dear boy?”
Helen fell on her knees among the rough stones and wet seaweed.
“Oh! merciful Father, restore him to us!” she cried, with clasped
hands. “Hear our prayers, oh, Giver of all good things; and give him
back to us.”
Her father watched her with tearful eyes. “My darling,” he said,
raising her in his arms, “we must not hope too much. For pity’s sake,
be firm. That handkerchief may mean nothing; or, if--if he is there, he
may be no less lost to us.”
“Call to him again, dear father. Tell him we are here.”
“Holà!” shouted the Frenchman. “Eustace, if you are up yonder, answer
your friends. Holà!”
Again and again he repeated the call, but there was no answer.
“How long they are coming--how long!” cried Helen, looking despairingly
towards the sea.
As she spoke, Mr. Jerningham reappeared in the opening of the cliff,
with the two boatmen. They came running towards the cave, one of them
carrying a rope. Both were bare-footed; and to them the scaling of
St. Kentigern’s Cave was a small affair. But each opined that for a
Southron it would be a difficult business.
“A man can do desperate things when he is fighting for his life,”
replied Mr. Jerningham. “How is it that this cave was overlooked in our
search?”
The men replied, rather vaguely, that the cave was too unlikely a place
to search. They might as well have looked on the top of the cliffs.
While Mr. Jerningham asked this question, one of the boatmen stuck his
boathook into the cliff, and by the aid of this and the foothold cut
in the craggy surface, clambered, cat-like, to the mouth of the little
cave, and hung there, peering into the darkness.
“There’s something here,” he said; and on this the second boatman,
at Mr. Jerningham’s order, mounted on his shoulders, and hoisted his
comrade into the cavern.
There was a pause, an awful interval of hope and terror, and then the
boatman shouted to his mate below to lend a hand there, and in the
next instant a limp, lifeless figure, in dust-whitened clothes, was
thrust from the narrow mouth of the cave and lowered gently into the
boatman’s sturdy arms. But not unaided did the boatman receive his
burden, Mr. Jerningham’s arms were extended to assist in receiving
that helpless form; Mr. Jerningham’s hands laid it gently upon Helen’s
shawl, which she had flung off and cast upon the ground a moment before.
Dead or alive? For some moments that was a moot question. Harold
Jerningham knelt beside the prostrate figure, with his head bent low
upon its breast.
“Thank God!” he said, quietly, with his hand upon the young man’s
heart. “It _does_ beat.” He tried to feel the pulse, but a faint
groan broke from the white lips as he lifted the wrist.
“His arm is broken,” said Mr. Jerningham, in the same quiet tone; and
then he turned to Helen, with a sudden burst of feeling. “It is you
who found him,” he cried, “I dedicate his life to you.”
At any other moment such words might have provoked interrogation; but
this was a time in which the wildest words pass unquestioned.
The two boatmen, aided always by Mr. Jerningham, carried the lifeless
figure to the boat, where it was gently laid upon a bed, composed of a
folded sail, an overcoat, and Helen’s shawl, against the rejection of
which she pleaded piteously.
“Indeed, I am warmly dressed; I do not want it,” she said.
Mr. Jerningham seated himself in the boat, with his son’s head upon his
knees. He looked down wonderingly at the pale, still face, so wan and
haggard with pain. It was so difficult to comprehend his own feelings,
and the change that had come upon him, since he had known that this
young man was _his_.
“My rival,” he said to himself. “No, not my rival. My representative.
The image I can show to the world, and say, ‘This is what I was!’”
Before they reached the inn at Killalochie, the village knew that the
lost had been found. Scouts had posted off from the jetty with the
happy tidings, before the boatmen could carry their burden on shore. He
was found--alive. Every one seemed to know this by instinct. Half-way
between the jetty and the inn, Daniel Mayfield met them, staggering
like a drunken man, pale as a corpse.
He hung over the unconscious man with womanly fondness. He pushed
Harold Jerningham aside, and asserted his right to his kinsman.
“Let no one stand between me and my boy,” he cried, huskily.
Scouts rushed to fetch the village surgeon, other scouts bade the
landlady prepare her best room. All the common business of life was
suspended in favour of this one stranger, snatched from the jaws of
death.
They carried him to the best room, which happened to be Mr.
Jerningham’s room, and here he was laid, still unconscious, upon his
father’s bed.
The local surgeon came, a feeble old man, in spectacles, and sounded
and examined the prostrate form, while Daniel Mayfield and Harold
Jerningham stood by in agony. The latter hurried from the room, sent
for his servant, bade him mount one of the carriage-horses, and gallop
to the station, thence by first train to Aberdeen, where he was to find
and bring back the best surgeon in the place.
“You’ll say he is wanted for Mr. Jerningham, of Pendarvoch,” he told
the man, who made haste to obey his orders.
The local surgeon had by this time discovered that there was a broken
arm, and was eager to set it. But this Mr. Jerningham interfered to
prevent.
“I have sent to Aberdeen for another surgeon,” he said; “and I would
rather you should wait until you have his coöperation. Don’t you think
it would be as well to apply a cooling lotion, in the meanwhile, to
reduce that swelling? It would be quite impossible to set the bone
while the arm and shoulder are in that swollen state.”
To this the local surgeon assented, with an air of profound wisdom, and
in the broadest Scotch; after which he departed to prepare the lotion,
leaving Harold Jerningham and Daniel Mayfield face to face beside the
bed.
“How was he found?” asked Daniel.
Whereon Mr. Jerningham told the story of Helen’s walk and St.
Kentigern’s Cave.
“God bless her!” exclaimed Daniel; “and you too, for your interest in
this poor boy’s fate. He once told me you disliked him. He must have
wronged you.”
“I do not know that. I have been a creature of whims and prejudices,
and may have been prejudiced even against him.”
“I thank you so much the more for your goodness in this crisis,”
answered Daniel, with deep feeling. “And now we need burden you with
our troubles no longer. He lives! That one great fact is almost enough
for me. I will fight Death hand to hand beside his bed. He is the only
thing I love in this world, and I will do battle for my treasure.”
He glanced towards the door as much as to say, “Let me be alone with my
nephew.”
Mr. Jerningham understood the look, and answered it.
“You must not banish me from this room,” he said; “I claim the right to
share your watch.”
“On what ground?”
“By the right of a father.”
“A father’s right!” cried Daniel, with a bitter laugh; “that boy has no
father. He does not know so much as his father’s name. He came to this
place to discover it, if he could.”
“And he has found a father--a father who will be proud to acknowledge
him.”
“Acknowledge him!” echoed Daniel, scornfully, “do you think he will
acknowledge you? Do you suppose that hatred of you has not been
his religion? It has. And you would acknowledge him? You break his
mother’s heart, and bequeath to him a heritage of shame, and then, one
fine day, four-and-twenty years after that poor heart was broken, you
meet your son upon the road-side, and it is your caprice to acknowledge
him. You stained his fair young life with the brand of illegitimacy. He
can refuse to acknowledge a father on whom the law gives him no claim.”
“There shall be no question of illegitimacy,” cried Mr. Jerningham,
eagerly; “it is in my power to prove him legitimate.”
“Yes, by a legal quibble. Do you think he will accept such
rehabilitation.”
“What other reparation can I make?”
“Conjure the dead from their graves. Call back to life the girl whose
womanhood you made one long remorse. Restore the country tradesman and
his wife, who died of their daughter’s shame. Give back to that young
man the years of boyhood and youth, in which he has felt the double
sting of poverty and disgrace. Do these things, and your son will
honour you.”
Mr. Jerningham was silent.
“Let me share your watch,” he pleaded presently, in a broken voice.
“You are welcome to do that,” answered Daniel; “and when it shall
please God to restore him, I will not stand between you and the voice
of his heart. Win his affection if you can; no counsel of mine shall
weigh against you.”