THE ADVENTURE OF THE LEDGE; AND HOW I SHOOK HANDS WITH MY COMRADE.
We had some ado to find the gate: but no sooner were through, and upon
the high road, than I lash’d the horses up the hill at a gallop. To
guide us between the dark hedges we had only our lantern and the glare
ahead. The dishes and cups clash’d and rattled as the hearse bump’d in
the ruts, swaying wildly: a dozen times Matt, was near being pitch’d
clean out of his seat. With my legs planted firm, I flogg’d away like a
madman; and like mad creatures the horses tore upward.
On the summit a glance show’d us all—the wild crimson’d sky—the sea
running with lines of fire—and against it the inky headland whereon
the House of Gleys flar’d like a beacon. Already from one wing—_our_
wing—a leaping column of flame whirl’d up through the roof, and was
swept seaward in smoke and sparks. I mark’d the coast line, the cliff
tracks, the masts and hull of the _Godsend_ standing out, clear as day;
and nearer, the yellow light flickering over the fields of young corn.
We saw all this, and then were plunging down hill, with the blaze
full ahead of us. The heavy reek of it was flung in our nostrils as we
gallop’d.
At the bottom we caught up a group of men running. ’Twas a boatload come
from the ship to help. As our horses swept past them, one or two came to
a terrified halt; but presently were running hard again after us.
The great gate stood open. I drove straight into the bright-lit yard,
shouting “Delia!—where is Delia?”
“Here!” call’d a voice; and from a group that stood under the glare of
the window came my dear mistress running.
“All safe, Jack! But what—” She drew back from our strange equipage.
“All in good time. First tell me—how came the fire?”
“Why, foul work, as it seems. All I know is I was sleeping, and awoke to
hear the black seaman hammering on my door. Jumping up, I found the room
full of smoke, and escap’d. The rooms beneath, they say, were stuff’d
with straw, and the yard outside heap’d also with straw, and blazing.
Ben Halliday found two oil jars lying there—”
“Are the horses out?”
“Oh, Jack—I do not know! Shame on me to forget them!”
I ran toward the stable. Already the roof was ablaze, and the straw
yard, beyond, a very furnace. Rushing in, I found the two horses
cowering in their stalls, bath’d in sweat, and squealing. But ’twas all
fright. So I fetch’d Molly’s saddle, and spoke to her, and set it across
her back: and the sweet thing was quiet in a moment, turning her head to
rub my sleeve gently with her muzzle: and followed me out like a lamb.
The bay gave more trouble; but I sooth’d him in the same manner, and
patting his neck, led him, too, into safety.
By this, all hope to save the house was over: for the well in the court
yielded but twenty buckets before it ran dry, and after that no water
was to be had. Of the wing where the fire burst out only the walls
stood, and a few oaken rafters, that one by one came tumbling and
crashing. The flames had spread along the roof, and were now licking the
ceiling of the hall and spouting around the clock tower. In the roar and
hubbub, Billy’s men work’d like demons, dragging out chairs, chests, and
furniture of all kinds, which they strew’d in the yard, returning with
shouts for more. One was tearing down the portraits in the hall: another
was pulling out the great dresser from the kitchen: a third had found a
pile of tapestry and came staggering forth under the load of it.
I had fasten’d the horses by the gate, and was ready to join in the
work, when a shout was rais’d—
“Billy!—Where’s Billy Pottery? Has any seen the skipper?”
“Sure,” I call’d, “you don’t say he was never alarm’d!”
“Black Sampson was in his room—where’s Black Sampson?”
“Here I be!” cried a voice. “To be sure I woke the skipper before any o’
ye.”
“Then where’s he hid? Did any see him come out?”
“Now, that we have not!” answer’d one or two.
I stood by the house door shouting these questions to the men inside,
when a hand was laid on my arm, and there in the shadow waited Billy
himself, with a mighty curious twinkle in his eye. He put a finger up
and signed that I should follow.
We pass’d round the outbuildings where, three hours before, Matt. Soames
and I had hid together. I was minded to stop and pull on my boots, that
were hid here: but (and this was afterward the saving of me) on second
thoughts let them lie, and follow’d Billy, who now led me out by the
postern gate.
Without speech we stepp’d across the turf, he a pace or two ahead. A
night breeze was blowing here, delicious after the heat of the fire. We
were walking quickly toward the east side of the headland, and soon
the blaze behind flung our shadows right to the cliff’s edge, for which
Billy made straight, as if to fling himself over.
But when, at the very verge, he pull’d up, I became enlighten’d. At
our feet was an iron bar driven into the soil, and to it a stout rope
knotted, that ran over a block and disappeared down the cliff. I knelt
and, pulling at it softly, look’d up. It came easy in the hand.
Billy, with the glare in his face, nodded: and bending to my ear, for
once achiev’d a whisper.
“Saw one stealing hither—an’ follow’d. A man wi’ a limp foot—went over
the side like a cat.”
I must have appeared to doubt this good fortune, for he added—
“‘Be a truth speakin’ man i’ the main, Jack—’lay over ’pon my belly,
and spied a ledge—fifty feet down or less—’reckon there be a way
thence to the foot. Dear, now! what a rampin’, tearin’ sweat is this?”
For, fast as I could tug, I was hauling up the rope. Near sixty feet
came up before I reach’d the end—a thick twisted knot. I rove a long
noose; pull’d it over my head and shoulders, and made Billy understand
he was to lower me.
“Sit i’ the noose, lad, an’ hold round the knot. For sign to hoist
again, tug the rope hard. I can hold.”
He paid it out carefully while I stepp’d to the edge. With the noose
about my loins I thrust myself gently over, and in a trice hung swaying.
On three sides the sky compass’d me—wild and red, save where to
eastward the dawn was paling: on the fourth the dark rocky face seem’d
gliding upward as Billy lower’d. Far below I heard the wash of the sea,
and could just spy the white spume of it glimmering. It stole some of
the heart out of me, and I took my eyes off it.
Some feet below the top, the cliff fetch’d a slant inward, so that I
dangled a full three feet out from the face. As a boy I had adventured
something of this sort on the north sides of Gable and the Pillar, and
once (after a nest of eaglets) on the Mickledore cliffs: but then ’twas
daylight. Now, tho’ I saw the ledge under me, about a third of the way
down, it look’d, in the darkness, to be so extremely narrow, that ’tis
probable I should have call’d out to Billy to draw me up but for the
certainty that he would never hear: so instead I held very tight and
wish’d it over.
Down I sway’d (Billy letting out the rope very steady), and at last
swung myself inward to the ledge, gain’d a footing, and took a glance
round before slipping off the rope.
I stood on a shelf of sandy rock that wound round the cliff some way to
my left, and then, as I thought, broke sharply away. ’Twas mainly about
a yard in width, but in places no more than two feet. In the growing
light I noted the face of the headland ribb’d with several of these
ledges, of varying length, but all hollow’d away underneath (as I
suppose by the sea in former ages), so that the cliff’s summit overhung
the base by a great way: and peering over I saw the waves creeping right
beneath me.
Now all this while I had not let Master Tingcomb out of my mind. So I
slipp’d off the rope and left it to dangle, while I crept forward to
explore, keeping well against the rock and planting my feet with great
caution.
I believe I was twenty minutes taking as many steps, when at the point
where the ledge broke off I saw the ends of an iron ladder sticking up,
and close beside it a great hole in the rock, which till now the curve
of the cliff had hid. The ladder no doubt stood on a second shelf below.
I was pausing to consider this, when a bright ray stream’d across
the sea toward me, and the red rim of the sun rose out of the waters,
outfacing the glow on the headland, and rending the film of smoke that
hung like a curtain about the horizon. ’Twas as if by alchemy that the
red ripples melted to gold; and I stood watching with a child’s delight.
I heard the sound of a footstep: and fac’d round.
Before me, not six paces off, stood Hannibal Tingcomb.
He was issuing from the hole with a sack on his shoulder, and sneaking
to descend the steps, when he threw a glance behind—and saw me!
Neither spoke. With a face grey as ashes he turn’d very slowly, until in
the unnatural light we look’d straight into each other’s eyes. His never
blink’d, but stared—stared horribly, while the veins swell’d black on
his forehead and his lips work’d, attempting speech. No words came—only
a long drawn sob, deep down in his throat.
And then, letting slip the sack, he flung his arms up, ran a pace or two
toward me, and tumbled on his face in a fit. His left shoulder hung over
the verge; his legs slipp’d. In a trice he was hanging by his arms, his
old distorted face turn’d up, and a froth about his lips. I made a step
to save him: and then jump’d back, flattening myself against the rock.
The ledge was breaking.
I saw a seam gape at my feet. I saw it widen and spread to right and
left. I heard a ripping, rending noise—a rush of stones and earth: and,
clawing the air, with a wild screech, Master Tingcomb pitch’d backward,
head over heels, into space.
Then follow’d silence: then a horrible splash as he struck the water,
far below: then again a slipping and trickling, as more of the ledge
broke away—at first a pebble or two sliding—a dribble of earth—next,
a crash and a cloud of dust. A last stone ran loose and dropp’d. Then
fell a silence so deep I could catch the roar of the flames on the hill
behind.
Standing there, my arms thrown back and fingers spread against the rock,
I saw a wave run out, widen, and lose itself on the face of the sea.
Under my feet but eight inches of the cornice remain’d. My toes stuck
forward over the gulf.
[Illustration: The ledge was breaking.]
A score of startled gulls with their cries call’d me to myself. I open’d
my eyes, that had shut in sheer giddiness. Close on my left the ledge
was broke back to the very base, cutting me off by twelve feet from that
part where the ladder still rested. No man could jump it, standing. To
the right there was no gap: but in one place only was the footing over
ten inches wide, and at the end my rope hung over the sea, a good yard
away from the edge.
I shut my eyes and shouted.
There was no answer. In the dead stillness I could hear the rafters
falling in the House of Gleys, and the shouts of the men at work. The
_Godsend_ lay around the point, out of sight. And Billy, deaf as a
stone, sat no doubt by his rope, placidly waiting my signal.
I scream’d again and again. The rock flung my voice seaward. Across the
summit vaulted above, there drifted a puff of brown smoke. No one heard.
A while of weakness followed. My brain reel’d: my fingers dug into the
rock behind till they bled. I bent forward—forward over the heaving
mist through which the sea crawl’d like a snake. It beckon’d me down,
that crawling water....
I stiffened my knees and the faintness pass’d. I must not look down
again. It flashed on me that Delia had call’d me weak: and I hardened my
heart to fight it out. I would face round to the cliff and work toward
the rope.
’Twas a hateful moment while I turned: for to do so I must let go with
one hand. And the rock thrust me outward. But at last I faced the cliff;
waited a moment while my knees shook; and moving a foot cautiously to
the left, began to work my way along, an inch at a time.
Looking down to guide my feet, I saw the waves twinkling beneath my
heels. My palms press’d the rock. At every three inches I was fain
to rest my forehead against it and gasp. Minute after minute went
by—endless, intolerable, and still the rope seem’d as far away as ever.
A cold sweat ran off me: a nausea possessed me. Once, where the ledge
was widest, I sank on one knee, and hung for a while incapable of
movement. But a black horror drove me on: and after the first dizzy
stupor my wits were mercifully wide awake. Sure, ’twas God’s miracle
preserv’d them to me, who looking at the sea and cliff and pitiless sun,
had almost denied Him and his miracles together.
All the way I kept shouting: and so, for half an hour, inch by inch,
shuffled forward, until I stood under the rope. Then I had to turn
again.
The rock, tho’ still overarching, here press’d out less than before: so
that, working round on the ball of my foot, I managed pretty easily. But
how to get the rope? As I said, it hung a good yard beyond the ledge,
the noose dangling some two feet below it. With my finger tips against
the cliff, I lean’d out and clutch’d at it. I miss’d it by a foot.
“Shall I jump?” thought I, “or bide here till help comes?”
’Twas a giddy, awful leap. But the black horror was at my heels now. In
a minute more ’twould have me; and then my fall was certain. I call’d
up Delia’s face as she had taunted me. I bent my knees, and, leaving my
hold of the rock, sprang forward—out, over the sea.
I saw it twinkle, fathoms below. My right hand touch’d—grasp’d the
rope: then my left, as I swung far out upon it. I slipp’d an inch—three
inches—then held, swaying wildly. My foot was in the noose. I heard a
shout above: and, as I dropp’d to a sitting posture, the rope began to
rise.
“Quick! Oh, Billy, pull quick!”
He could not hear; yet tugg’d like a Trojan.
“Now, here’s a time to keep a man sittin’!” he shouted, as he caught
my hand, and pull’d me full length on the turf. “Why, lad—hast seen a
ghost?”
There was no answer. The black horror had overtaken me at last.
* * * * *
They carried me to a shed in the great court of Gleys, and set me on
straw: and there, till far into the afternoon, I lay betwixt swooning
and trembling, while Delia bath’d my head in water from the sea, for no
other was to be had. And about four in the afternoon the horror left me,
so that I sat up and told my story pretty steadily.
“What of the house?” I ask’d, when the tale was done, and a company sent
to search the east cliff from the beach.
“All perish’d!” said Delia, and then smiling, “I am houseless as ever,
Jack.”
“And have the same good friends.”
“That’s true. But listen—for while you have lain here, Billy and I have
put our heads together. He is bound for Brest, he says, and has agreed
to take me and such poor chattels as are saved, to Brittany, where I
know my mother’s kin will have a welcome for me, until these troubles
be pass’d. Already the half of my goods is aboard the _Godsend_, and a
letter writ to Sir Bevill, begging him to appoint an honest man as my
steward. What think you of the plan?”
“It seems a good plan,” I answer’d slowly: “the England that now is, is
no place for a woman. When do you sail?”
“As soon as you are recovered, Jack.”
“Then that’s now.” I got on my feet, and drew on my boots (that Matt.
Soames had found in the laurel bushes and brought). My knees trembled a
bit, but nothing to matter.
“Art looking downcast, Jack.”
Said I: “How else should I look, that am to lose thee in an hour or
more?”
She made no reply to this, but turned away to give an order to the
sailors.
The last of Delia’s furniture was hardly aboard, when we heard great
shouts of joy, and saw the men returning that had gone to search the
cliff. They bore between them three large oak coffers: which being
broke, we came on an immense deal of old plate and jewels, besides
over L300 in coined money. There were two more left behind, they said,
besides several small bags of gold. The path up the cliff was hard to
climb, and would have been impossible, but for the iron ladder they
found ready fix’d for Master Tingcomb’s descent. In the hole (that could
not be seen from the beach, the shelf hiding it) was tackle for lowering
the chest: and below a boat moor’d, and now left high and dry by the
tide. Doubtless, the arch-rascal had waited for his comrades to return,
whom Matt. Soames and I had scar’d out of all stomach to do so. His body
was nowhere found.
The sea had wash’d it off: but the sack they recover’d, and found to
hold the choicest of Delia’s heirlooms. Within an hour the remaining
coffers and the money bags were safe in the vessel’s hold.
* * * * *
The sun was setting, as Delia and I stood on the beach, beside the boat
that was to take her from me. Aboard the _Godsend_ I could hear the
anchor lifting, and the men singing, as, holding Molly’s bridle, I held
out my hand to the dear maid who with me had shar’d so many a peril.
“Is there any more to come?” she ask’d.
“No,” said I, and God knows my heart was heavy: “nothing to come but
‘Farewell!’”
She laid her small hand in my big palm, and glancing up, said very
pretty and demur—
“_And shall I leave my best? Wilt not come, too, dear Jack?_”
“Delia!” I stammer’d. “What is this? I thought you lov’d me not.”
“And so did I, Jack: and thinking so, I found I loved thee better than
ever. Fie on thee, now! May not a maid change her mind without being
forced to such unseemly, brazen words?” And she heav’d a mock sigh.
But as I stood and held that little hand, I seem’d across the very mist
of happiness to read a sentence written, and spoke it, perforce and
slow, as with another man’s mouth—
“Delia, you only have I lov’d, and will love! Blithe would I be to live
with you, and to serve you would blithely die. In sorrow, then, call for
me, or in trust abide me. But go with you now—I may not.”
She lifted her eyes, and looking full into mine, repeated slowly the
verse we had read at our first meeting—
“‘In a wife’s lap, as in a grave,
Man’s airy notions mix with earth—’
—thou hast found it, sweetheart—thou has found the Splendid Spur!”
She broke off, and clapp’d her hands together very merrily; and then, as
a tear started—
“But thou’lt come for me, ere long, Jack? Else I am sure to blame some
other woman. Stay—”
She drew off her ring, and slipp’d it on my little finger.
“There’s my token! Now give me one to weep and be glad over.”
Having no trinkets, I gave my glove: and she kiss’d it twice, and put it
in her bosom.
“I have no need of this ring,” said I: “for look!” and I drew forth
the lock I had cut from her dear head, that morning among the alders by
Kennet side, and worn ever since over my heart.
“Wilt marry no man till I come?”
“Now, that’s too hard a promise,” said she, laughing, and shaking her
curls.
“Too hard!”
“Why, of course. Listen, sweetheart—a true woman will not change her
mind: but, oh! she dearly loves to be able to! So, bating this, here’s
my hand upon it—now, fie, Jack! and before all these mariners!—well,
then if thou _must_—”
* * * * *
I watch’d her standing in the stern and waving, till she was under the
_Godsend’s_ side: then turn’d, and mounting Molly, rode inland to the
wars.
THE END.