GOYLE BAY
While all the world was at cross-purposes thus--Mr. Jellicorse uneasy at
some rumors he had heard; Captain Carroway splitting his poor heel with
indignation at the craftiness of free-traders; Farmer Anerley vexed at
being put upon by people, without any daughter to console him, or catch
shrimps; Master Mordacks pursuing a noble game, strictly above-board, as
usual; Robin Lyth troubled in his largest principles of revolt against
revenue by a nasty little pain that kept going to his heart, with an
emptiness there, as for another heart; and last, and perhaps of all
most important, the rector perpetually pining for his game of chess, and
utterly discontented with the frigid embraces of analysis--where was the
best, and most simple, and least selfish of the whole lot, Mary Anerley?
Mary was in as good a place as even she was worthy of. A place not by
any means so snug and favored by nature as Anerley Farm, but pretty
well sheltered by large trees of a strong and hardy order. And the
comfortable ways of good old folk, who needed no labor to live by spread
a happy leisure and a gentle ease upon everything under their roof-tree.
Here was no necessity for getting up until the sun encouraged it; and
the time for going to bed depended upon the time of sleepiness. Old
Johnny Popplewell, as everybody called him, without any protest on his
part, had made a good pocket by the tanning business, and having no
children to bring up to it, and only his wife to depend upon him, had
sold the good-will, the yard, and the stock as soon as he had turned his
sixtieth year. “I have worked hard all my life,” he said, “and I mean to
rest for the rest of it.”
At first he was heartily miserable, and wandered about with a vacant
look, having only himself to look after. And he tried to find a hole in
his bargain with the man who enjoyed all the smells he was accustomed
to, and might even be heard through a gap in the fence rating the men
as old Johnny used to do, at the same time of day, and for the same
neglect, and almost in the self-same words which the old owner used, but
stronger. Instead of being happy, Master Popplewell lost more flesh in a
month than he used to lay on in the most prosperous year; and he owed
it to his wife, no doubt, as generally happens, that he was not speedily
gathered to the bosom of the hospitable Simon of Joppa. For Mrs.
Popplewell said, “Go away; Johnny, go away from this village; smell
new smells, and never see a hide without a walking thing inside of it.
Sea-weed smells almost as nice as tan; though of course it is not so
wholesome.” The tanner obeyed, and bought a snug little place about ten
miles from the old premises, which he called, at the suggestion of the
parson, “Byrsa Cottage.”
Here was Mary, as blithe as a lark, and as petted as a robin-redbreast,
by no means pining, or even hankering, for any other robin. She was not
the girl to give her heart before it was even asked for; and hitherto
she had regarded the smuggler with pity more than admiration. For in
many points she was like her father, whom she loved foremost of the
world; and Master Anerley was a law-abiding man, like every other
true Englishman. Her uncle Popplewell was also such, but exerted his
principles less strictly. Moreover, he was greatly under influence of
wife, which happens more freely to a man without children, the which are
a source of contradiction. And Mistress Popplewell was a most thorough
and conscientious free-trader.
Now Mary was from childhood so accustomed to the sea, and the relish
of salt breezes, and the racy dance of little waves that crowd on one
another, and the tidal delivery of delightful rubbish, that to fail
of seeing the many works and plays and constant variance of her never
wearying or weary friend was more than she could long put up with. She
called upon Lord Keppel almost every day, having brought him from home
for the good of his health, to gird up his loins, or rather get his
belly girths on, and come along the sands with her, and dig into new
places. But he, though delighted for a while with Byrsa stable, and
the social charms of Master Popplewell's old cob, and a rick of fine
tan-colored clover hay and bean haulm, when the novelty of these
delights was passed, he pined for his home, and the split in his crib,
and the knot of hard wood he had polished with his neck, and even the
little dog that snapped at him. He did not care for retired people--as
he said to the cob every evening--he liked to see farm-work going on, or
at any rate to hear all about it, and to listen to horses who had worked
hard, and could scarcely speak, for chewing, about the great quantity
they had turned of earth, and how they had answered very bad words with
a bow. In short, to put it in the mildest terms, Lord Keppel was giving
himself great airs, unworthy of his age, ungrateful to a degree, and
ungraceful, as the cob said repeatedly; considering how he was fed, and
bedded, and not a thing left undone for him. But his arrogance soon had
to pay its own costs.
For, away to the right of Byrsa Cottage, as you look down the hollow
of the ground toward the sea, a ridge of high scrubby land runs up to
a forefront of bold cliff, indented with a dark and narrow bay. “Goyle
Bay,” as it is called, or sometimes “Basin Bay,” is a lonely and rugged
place, and even dangerous for unwary visitors. For at low spring tides
a deep hollow is left dry, rather more than a quarter of a mile across,
strewn with kelp and oozy stones, among which may often be found pretty
shells, weeds richly tinted and of subtle workmanship, stars, and
flowers, and love-knots of the sea, and sometimes carnelians and
crystals. But anybody making a collection here should be able to keep
one eye upward and one down, or else in his pocket to have two things--a
good watch and a trusty tide-table.
John and Deborah Popplewell were accustomed to water in small supplies,
such as that of a well, or a road-side pond, or their own old noble
tan-pits; but to understand the sea it was too late in life, though it
pleased them, and gave them fine appetites now to go down when it was
perfectly calm, and a sailor assured them that the tide was mild. But
even at such seasons they preferred to keep their distance, and called
out frequently to one another. They looked upon their niece, from all
she told them, as a creature almost amphibious; but still they were
often uneasy about her, and would gladly have kept her well inland. She,
however, laughed at any such idea; and their discipline was to let her
have her own way. But now a thing happened which proved forever how much
better old heads are than young ones.
For Mary, being tired of the quiet places, and the strands where she
knew every pebble, resolved to explore Goyle Bay at last, and she chose
the worst possible time for it. The weather had been very fine and
gentle, and the sea delightfully plausible, without a wave--tide after
tide--bigger than the furrow of a two-horse plough; and the maid began
to believe at last that there never were any storms just here. She had
heard of the pretty things in Goyle Bay, which was difficult of access
from the land, but she resolved to take opportunity of tide, and thus
circumvent the position; she would rather have done it afoot, but her
uncle and aunt made a point of her riding to the shore, regarding the
pony as a safe companion, and sure refuge from the waves. And so, upon
the morning of St. Michael, she compelled Lord Keppel, with an adverse
mind, to turn a headland they had never turned before.
The tide was far out and ebbing still, but the wind had shifted, and was
blowing from the east rather stiffly, and with increasing force. Mary
knew that the strong equinoctial tides were running at their height; but
she had timed her visit carefully, as she thought, with no less than an
hour and a half to spare. And even without any thought of tide, she was
bound to be back in less time than that, for her uncle had been most
particular to warn her to be home without fail at one o'clock, when the
sacred goose, to which he always paid his duties, would be on the table.
And if anything marred his serenity of mind, it was to have dinner kept
waiting.
Without any misgivings, she rode into Basin Bay, keeping within the
black barrier of rocks, outside of which wet sands were shining. She
saw that these rocks, like the bar of a river, crossed the inlet of
the cove; but she had not been told of their peculiar frame and upshot,
which made them so treacherous a rampart. At the mouth of the bay they
formed a level crescent, as even as a set of good teeth, against the
sea, with a slope of sand running up to their outer front, but a deep
and long pit inside of them. This pit drained itself very nearly dry
when the sea went away from it, through some stony tubes which only
worked one way, by the closure of their mouths when the tide returned;
so that the volume of the deep sometimes, with tide and wind behind it,
leaped over the brim into the pit, with tenfold the roar, a thousandfold
the power, and scarcely less than the speed, of a lion.
Mary Anerley thought what a lovely place it was, so deep and secluded
from anybody's sight, and full of bright wet colors. Her pony refused,
with his usual wisdom, to be dragged to the bottom of the hole, but she
made him come further down than he thought just, and pegged him by
the bridle there. He looked at her sadly, and with half a mind to
expostulate more forcibly, but getting no glimpse of the sea where he
stood, he thought it as well to put up with it; and presently he snorted
out a tribe of little creatures, which puzzled him and took up his
attention.
Meanwhile Mary was not only puzzled, but delighted beyond description.
She never yet had come upon such treasures of the sea, and she scarcely
knew what to lay hands upon first. She wanted the weeds of such
wonderful forms, and colors yet more exquisite, and she wanted the
shells of such delicate fabric that fairies must have made them, and a
thousand other little things that had no names; and then she seemed most
of all to want the pebbles. For the light came through them in stripes
and patterns, and many of them looked like downright jewels. She had
brought a great bag of strong canvas, luckily, and with both hands she
set to to fill it.
So busy was the girl with the vast delight of sanguine acquisition--this
for her father, and that for her mother, and so much for everybody she
could think of--that time had no time to be counted at all, but flew
by with feathers unheeded. The mutter of the sea became a roar, and the
breeze waxed into a heavy gale, and spray began to sputter through the
air like suds; but Mary saw the rampart of the rocks before her, and
thought that she could easily get back around the point. And her taste
began continually to grow more choice, so that she spent as much time
in discarding the rubbish which at first she had prized so highly as
she did in collecting the real rarities, which she was learning to
distinguish. But unluckily the sea made no allowance for all this.
For just as Mary, with her bag quite full, was stooping with a long
stretch to get something more--a thing that perhaps was the very best of
all, and therefore had got into a corner--there fell upon her back quite
a solid lump of wave, as a horse gets the bottom of the bucket cast at
him. This made her look up, not a minute too soon; and even then she was
not at all aware of danger, but took it for a notice to be moving.
And she thought more of shaking that saltwater from her dress than of
running away from the rest of it.
But as soon as she began to look about in earnest, sweeping back her
salted hair, she saw enough of peril to turn pale the roses and strike
away the smile upon her very busy face. She was standing several yards
below the level of the sea, and great surges were hurrying to swallow
her. The hollow of the rocks received the first billow with a thump and
a slush, and a rush of pointed hillocks in a fury to find their way back
again, which failing, they spread into a long white pool, taking Mary
above her pretty ankles. “Don't you think to frighten me,” said Mary; “I
know all your ways, and I mean to take my time.”
But even before she had finished her words, a great black wall (doubled
over at the top with whiteness, that seemed to race along it like a
fringe) hung above the rampart, and leaped over, casting at Mary such a
volley that she fell. This quenched her last audacity, although she was
not hurt; and jumping up nimbly, she made all haste through the rising
water toward her pony. But as she would not forsake her bag, and the
rocks became more and more slippery, towering higher and higher surges
crashed in over the barrier, and swelled the yeasty turmoil which began
to fill the basin; while a scurry of foam flew like pellets from the
rampart, blinding even the very best young eyes.
Mary began to lose some of her presence of mind and familiar approval
of the sea. She could swim pretty well, from her frequent bathing; but
swimming would be of little service here, if once the great rollers
came over the bar, which they threatened to do every moment. And when at
length she fought her way to the poor old pony, her danger and distress
were multiplied. Lord Keppel was in a state of abject fear; despair was
knocking at his fine old heart; he was up to his knees in the loathsome
brine already, and being so twisted up by his own exertions that to
budge another inch was beyond him, he did what a horse is apt to do in
such condition--he consoled himself with fatalism. He meant to expire;
but before he did so he determined to make his mistress feel what she
had done. Therefore, with a sad nudge of white old nose, he drew her
attention to his last expression, sighed as plainly as a man could sigh,
and fixed upon her meek eyes, telling volumes.
“I know, I know that it is all my fault,” cried Mary, with the brine
almost smothering her tears, as she flung her arms around his neck; “but
I never will do it again, my darling. And I never will run away and let
you drown. Oh, if I only had a knife! I can not even cast your bridle
off; the tongue has stuck fast, and my hands are cramped. But, Keppel, I
will stay, and be drowned with you.”
This resolve was quite unworthy of Mary's common-sense; for how could
her being drowned with Keppel help him? However, the mere conception
showed a spirit of lofty order; though the body might object to be
ordered under. Without any thought of all that, she stood, resolute,
tearful, and thoroughly wet through, while she hunted in her pocket for
a penknife.
The nature of all knives is, not to be found; and Mary's knife was loyal
to its kind. Then she tugged at her pony, and pulled out his bit, and
labored again at the obstinate strap; but nothing could be done with it.
Keppel must be drowned, and he did not seem to care, but to think that
the object of his birth was that. If the stupid little fellow would
have only stepped forward, the hands of his mistress, though cramped and
benumbed, might perhaps have unbuckled his stiff and sodden reins, or
even undone their tangle; on the other hand, if he would have jerked
with all his might, something or other must have given way; but stir he
would not from one fatuous position, which kept all his head-gear on the
strain, but could not snap it. Mary even struck him with her heavy bag
of stones, to make him do something; but he only looked reproachful.
“Was there ever such a stupid?” the poor girl cried, with the water
rising almost to her waist, and the inner waves beginning to dash over
her, while the outer billows threatened to rush in and crush them both.
“But I will not abuse you any more, poor Keppel. What will dear father
say? Oh, what will he think of it?”
Then she burst into a fit of sobs, and leaned against the pony, to
support her from a rushing wave which took her breath away, and she
thought that she would never try to look up any more, but shut her eyes
to all the rest of it. But suddenly she heard a loud shout and a splash,
and found herself caught up and carried like an infant.
“Lie still. Never mind the pony: what is he? I will go for him
afterward. You first, you first of all the world, my Mary.”
She tried to speak, but not a word would come; and that was all the
better. She was carried quick as might be through a whirl of tossing
waters, and gently laid upon a pile of kelp; and then Robin Lyth said,
“You are quite safe here, for at least another hour. I will go and get
your pony.”
“No, no; you will be knocked to pieces,” she cried; for the pony, in the
drift and scud, could scarcely be seen but for his helpless struggles.
But the young man was half way toward him while she spoke, and she knelt
upon the kelp, and clasped her hands.
Now Robin was at home in a matter such as this. He had landed many kegs
in a sea as strong or stronger, and he knew how to deal with the horses
in a surf. There still was a break of almost a fathom in the level of
the inner and the outer waves, for the basin was so large that it could
not fill at once; and so long as this lasted, every roller must comb
over at the entrance, and mainly spend itself. “At least five minutes to
spare,” he shouted back, “and there is no such thing as any danger.” But
the girl did not believe him.
Rapidly and skillfully he made his way, meeting the larger waves
sideways, and rising at their onset; until he was obliged to swim at
last where the little horse was swimming desperately. The leather,
still jammed in some crevice at the bottom, was jerking his poor chin
downward; his eyes were screwed up like a new-born kitten's, and his
dainty nose looked like a jelly-fish. He thought how sad it was that
he should ever die like this, after all the good works of his life--the
people he had carried, and the chaise that he had drawn, and all his
kindness to mankind. Then he turned his head away to receive the stroke
of grace, which the next wave would administer.
No! He was free. He could turn his honest tail on the sea, which he
always had detested so; he could toss up his nose and blow the filthy
salt out, and sputter back his scorn, while he made off for his life.
So intent was he on this that he never looked twice to make out who his
benefactor was, but gave him just a taste of his hind-foot on the
elbow, in the scuffle of his hurry to be round about and off. “Such is
gratitude!” the smuggler cried; but a clot of salt-water flipped into
his mouth, and closed all cynical outlet. Bearing up against the waves,
he stowed his long knife away, and then struck off for the shore with
might and main.
Here Mary ran into the water to meet him, shivering as she was with
fright and cold, and stretched out both hands to him as he waded forth;
and he took them and clasped them, quite as if he needed help. Lord
Keppel stood afar off, recovering his breath, and scarcely dared to look
askance at the execrable sea.
“How cold you are!” Robin Lyth exclaimed. “You must not stay a moment.
No talking, if you please--though I love your voice so. You are not
safe yet. You can not get back round the point. See the waves dashing
up against it! You must climb the cliff, and that is no easy job for a
lady, in the best of weather. In a couple of hours the tide will be
over the whole of this beach a fathom deep. There is no boat nearer than
Filey; and a boat could scarcely live over that bar. You must climb the
cliff, and begin at once, before you get any colder.”
“Then is my poor pony to be drowned, after all? If he is, he had better
have been drowned at once.”
The smuggler looked at her with a smile, which meant, “Your gratitude
is about the same as his;” but he answered, to assure her, though by no
means sure himself:
“There is time enough for him; he shall not be drowned. But you must be
got out of danger first. When you are off my mind, I will fetch up pony.
Now you must follow me step by step, carefully and steadily. I would
carry you up if I could; but even a giant could scarcely do that, in a
stiff gale of wind, and with the crag so wet.”
Mary looked up with a shiver of dismay. She was brave and nimble
generally, but now so wet and cold, and the steep cliff looked so
slippery, that she said: “It is useless; I can never get up there.
Captain Lyth, save yourself, and leave me.”
“That would be a pretty thing to do!” he replied; “and where should I be
afterward? I am not at the end of my devices yet. I have got a very snug
little crane up there. It was here we ran our last lot, and beat the
brave lieutenant so. But unluckily I have no cave just here. None of my
lads are about here now, or we would make short work of it. But I could
hoist you very well, if you would let me.”
“I would never think of such a thing. To come up like a keg! Captain
Lyth, you must know that I never would be so disgraced.”
“Well, I was afraid that you might take it so, though I can not see why
it should be any harm. We often hoist the last man so.”
“It is different with me,” said Mary. “It may be no harm; but I could
not have it.”
The free-trader looked at her bright eyes and color, and admired her
spirit, which his words had roused.
“I pray your forgiveness, Miss Anerley,” he said; “I meant no harm. I
was thinking of your life. But you look now as if you could do anything
almost.”
“Yes, I am warm again. I have no fear. I will not go up like a keg, but
like myself. I can do it without help from anybody.”
“Only please to take care not to cut your little hands,” said Robin, as
he began the climb; for he saw that her spirit was up to do it.
“My hands are not little; and I will cut them if I choose. Please not
even to look back at me. I am not in the least afraid of anything.”
The cliff was not of the soft and friable stuff to be found at
Bridlington, but of hard and slippery sandstone, with bulky ribs
oversaling here and there, and threatening to cast the climber back. At
such spots nicks for the feet had been cut, or broken with a hammer, but
scarcely wider than a stirrup-iron, and far less inviting. To surmount
these was quite impossible except by a process of crawling; and Mary,
with her heart in her mouth, repented of her rash contempt for the crane
sling. Luckily the height was not very great, or, tired as she was, she
must have given way; for her bodily warmth had waned again in the strong
wind buffeting the cliff. Otherwise the wind had helped her greatly by
keeping her from swaying outward; but her courage began to fail at last,
and very near the top she called for help. A short piece of lanyard was
thrown to her at once, and Robin Lyth landed her on the bluff, panting,
breathless, and blushing again.
“Well done!” he cried, gazing as she turned her face away. “Young ladies
may teach even sailors to climb. Not every sailor could get up this
cliff. Now back to Master Popplewell's as fast as you can run, and your
aunt will know what to do with you.”
“You seem well acquainted with my family affairs,” said Mary, who could
not help smiling. “Pray how did you even know where I am staying?”
“Little birds tell me everything, especially about the best, and most
gentle, and beautiful of all birds.”
The maiden was inclined to be vexed; but remembering how much he had
done, and how little gratitude she had shown, she forgave him, and asked
him to come to the cottage.
“I will bring up the little horse. Have no fear,” he replied. “I will
not come up at all unless I bring him. But it may take two or three
hours.”
With no more than a wave of his hat, he set off, as if the coast-riders
were after him, by the path along the cliffs toward Filey, for he knew
that Lord Keppel must be hoisted by the crane, and he could not manage
it without another man, and the tide would wait for none of them. Upon
the next headland he found one of his men, for the smugglers maintained
a much sharper look-out than did the forces of his Majesty, because they
were paid much better; and returning, they managed to strap Lord Keppel,
and hoist him like a big bale of contraband goods. For their crane had
been left in a brambled hole, and they very soon rigged it out again.
The little horse kicked pretty freely in the air, not perceiving his own
welfare; but a cross-beam and pulley kept him well out from the cliff,
and they swung him in over handsomely, and landed him well up on the
sward within the brink. Then they gave him three cheers for his great
adventure, which he scarcely seemed to appreciate.