IN WHICH THERE IS ANOTHER SHIPWRECK.
Time jogged on very pleasantly to the party assembled at Ravenshoe that
Christmas. There were woodcocks and pheasants in the woods; there were
hares, snipes, and rabbits on the moor. In the sea there were fish; and
many a long excursion they had in the herring-boats--sometimes standing
boldly out to sea towards the distant blue island in the main, sometimes
crawling lazily along under the lofty shoreless cliffs which towered
above their heads from 200 to 1,100 feet high.
It was three days before Christmas-day, and they were returning from
fishing along the coast, and were about ten miles or so from home. I say
returning, though in fact there was not a breath of wind, and the boat
was drifting idly along on the tide. Two handsome simple-looking young
men were lolling by the useless tiller; an old man, hale and strong as a
lion, with a courteous high-bred look about him, was splicing a rope;
and a tall, pale, black-haired man was looking steadily seaward, with
his hands in his pockets, while Charles and Marston were standing in the
bows smoking.
"What a curious, dreamy, dosy, delicious kind of winter you have down
here," said Marston.
"I am very fond of it," said Charles; "it keeps you in continual hope
for the spring that is coming. In the middle of frost and snow and ice
one is apt to lose one's faith in waving boughs and shady pools."
"I have had such a quiet time with you down here, Charley. I am so
pleased with the way in which you are going on. You are quite an altered
man. I think we shall both look back to the last few quiet weeks as a
happy time."
Here the tall dark man, who was looking out to sea, suddenly said--
"Rain and hail, snow and tempest, stormy wind fulfilling His word."
"Ay, ay," said the old man; "going to blow to-night, I expect."
"We shall go home pretty fast, may be."
"Not us, Master Charles, dear," said the tall man. "We are going to have
it from south and by west, and so through west round to north. Before
which time there'll be souls in glory, praise be to God."
The old man took off his hat reverently.
"There won't be amuch surf on when we beaches she," said one of the
young men. "It won't get up afore the wind be full round west for an
hour."
"You're a spaking like a printed buke, Jan," said the old man.
"I'm a thinking differently, Master Evans," said the dark man. "It will
chop round very sudden, and be west before we know where we are. I speak
with humility to a man who has seen the Lord's wonders in the deep so
many years longer nor me. But I think, under God, I am right."
"You most in general be right. They as converses with the Lord night and
day, day and night, like as you do, knows likely more of His works nor
we, as ain't your gifts."
"The Lord has vouchsafed me nothing in the way of a vision, about this
afternoon, Master Evans."
"Didn't 'ee dream never at all last night?" said one of the young men:
"Think 'ee now."
"Nought to bear on wind or weather, Jan. I judges from the glass. It's a
dropping fast."
Jan would have had more faith in one of Matthew's dreams, and didn't
seem to think much of the barometer. Meanwhile Marston had whispered
Charles--
"Who is Matthews? What sect is he?"
"Oh, he's a Brianite."
"What is that?"
"A sort of Ranter, I believe."
Marston looked up, and saw the two great black eyes under the lofty
forehead fixed full upon him. With the instinct of a gentleman, he said
at once--
"I was asking Mr. Charles what sect you were of; that was all. He tells
me you are a Brianite, and I had never heard of that sect before. I hope
you will let me talk to you about your matters of belief some day."
Matthews took off his hat, and said--That with the Lord's will he would
speak to his honour. "Will your honour bear with a poor fisherman,
ignorant of the world's learning, but who has had matters revealed to
him by the Lord in dreams and visions of the night? Peter was only a
fisherman, your honour, and, oh, if we could only hear him speak now!"
He paused, and looked again to seaward. Charles had gone again into the
bow, and Marston was standing among the men right aft. Suddenly Matthews
turned again upon him and said--
"In the beaching of this here boat to-night, your honour, there may be
danger. In such case my place will be alongside of him," pointing to
Charles. "There'd be a many kind hearts aching, if aught happened to
him. You stick close to these young men. They'll see after you, sir."
"You keep close alongside of we, sir. You hold on of we, sir. We'll see
you all right, sir," said the two young men.
"But, my dear good souls, I am as good a swimmer as any in England, and
as active as a cat. Pray, don't mind me."
"You keep hold of we and run, sir," said one of the young men, "that's
all you're a'got to do, sir."
"I shall most certainly run," said Marston, laughing, "but I decline
drowning any one but myself--"
Charles said at this moment, "Do come here and look at this."
It was worth looking at, indeed. They were about a mile from shore,
floating about anyhow on an oily smooth sea; for the tide had changed,
and they were making no headway. Before them one of the noblest
headlands on the coast, an abrupt cone of slate, nigh a thousand feet
high, covered almost entirely with grass, sloped suddenly into the
water; and in advance of it, but slightly on one side, a rugged mound of
black rock, nearly six hundred feet, stood out into the sea, and
contrasted its horrid jagged lines with the smooth green of the peak
behind. Round its base, dividing it from the glossy sea, ran a delicate
line of silver--the surf caused by the ground-swell; and in front the
whole promontory was dimly mirrored in the quietly heaving ocean.
"What a noble headland," said Marston; "is that grass on the further
peak too steep to walk upon?"
"There's some one a'walking on it now," said old Evans. "There's a woman
a'walking on it."
None could see it but he, except Matthews, who said he couldn't tell if
it was a sheep or no.
Charles got out his glass, and the old man was right. A woman was
walking rapidly along the peak, about the third of the way down.
"What a curious place for a woman to be in!" he remarked. "It is almost
terrible to look at."
"I never saw any one there before, save the shepherd," said the old man.
"It's a sheep-path," said one of the young ones. "I have been along
there myself. It is the short way round to Coombe."
Charles would have thought more of the solitary female figure on that
awful precipice, but that their attention was diverted by something
else. From the south-westward black flaws of wind began to creep towards
them, alternated with long irregular bands of oily calm. Soon the calm
bands disappeared, and the wind reached them. Then they had steerage,
and in a very short time were roaring out to sea close hauled, with a
brisk and ever-increasing breeze.
They saw that they would have to fetch a very long leg, and make a great
offing, in order to reach Ravenshoe at all. The wind was freshening
every moment, changing to the west, and the sea was getting up. It took
them three hours to open Ravenshoe Bay; and, being about five miles from
the shore, they could see that already there was an ugly side-surf
sweeping in, and that the people were busy on the beach hauling up their
boats out of harm's way.
"How beautifully these craft sail," said Marston, as they were all
hanging on by her weather gunwale, and the green sea was rushing past to
leeward, almost under their feet, in sheets of angry foam.
"It is amazing what speed is got out of them on a wind," said Charles,
"but they are dangerous craft."
"Why so?"
"These lug-sails are so awkward in tacking, you will see."
They ran considerably past Ravenshoe and about six miles to sea, when
the word was given to go about. In an instant the half deck was lumbered
with the heavy red sails; and, after five minutes of unutterable
confusion, she got about. Marston was expecting her to broach to every
moment during this long five minutes, but fortune favoured them. They
went freer on this tack, for the wind was now north of west, and the
brave little craft went nearly before it at her finest pace. The men
kept on her as much sail as she could stand, but that was very little;
fast as they went, the great seas went faster, as though determined to
be at the dreadful rendezvous before the boat. Still the waves rose
higher and the wind howled louder. They were nearing the shore rapidly.
Now they began to see, through the mist, the people gathered in a crowd
on the shore, densest at one point, but with a few restless stragglers
right and left of that point, who kept coming and going. This spot was
where they expected to come ashore. They were apparently the last boat
out, and all the village was watching them with the deepest anxiety.
They began to hear a sound other than the howling of the wind in the
rigging, and the rush of waters around them--a continuous thunder,
growing louder each moment as the boat swept onward. The thunder of the
surf upon the sand. And, looking forward, they could see just the top of
it as it leapt madly up.
It was a nervous moment. They stood ready in their shirts and trousers,
for a rush, should it be necessary. And the old man was at the helm.
They saw the seas begin to curl. Then they were in the middle of them.
Then the water left them on the sand, and three brave fellows from the
shore dashed to hook on the tackles; but they were too late. Back with a
roar like a hungry lion came the sea; the poor boat broached to, and
took the whole force of the deluge on her broadside. In a moment more,
blinded and stunned, they were all in the water, trying to stand against
the backward rush which took them near midthigh. Old Master Evans was
nearest to Marston; he was tottering to fall when Marston got hold of
him, and saved him. The two young men got hold of both of them. Then
three men from the shore dashed in and got hold of Charles; and then, as
the water went down and they dared move their feet, they all ran for
their lives. Marston and his party got on to dry land on their feet,
but Charles and his assistants were tumbled over and over, and washed up
ignominiously covered with sand. Charles, however, soon recovered
himself, and, looking round to thank those who had done him this
service, found that one of them was William, who, when the gale had come
on, had, with that bland indifference to the stud-groom's personal
feelings which we have seen him exhibit before, left his work, and
dressed in a Jersey and blue trousers, and come down to lend a hand. He
had come in time to help his foster-brother out of the surf.
"I am so very thankful to you," said Charles to the two others. "I will
never forget you. I should have been drowned but for you. William, when
I am in trouble I am sure to find you at my elbow."
"You won't find me far off, Master Charles," said William. They didn't
say any more to one another those two. There was no need.
The tall man, Matthews, had been cast up with a broken head, and, on the
whole, seemed rather disappointed at not finding himself in paradise. He
had stumbled in leaping out of the boat, and hurt his foot, and had had
a hard time of it, poor fellow.
As Charles and William stood watching the poor boat breaking up, and the
men venturing their lives to get the nets out of her, a hand was laid on
Charles's shoulder, and, turning round, he faced Cuthbert.
"Oh, Charles, Charles, I thought I had lost you! Come home and let us
dry you, and take care of you. William, you have risked your life for
one who is very dear to us. God reward you for it! Brother, you are
shivering with cold, and you have nothing but your trousers and Jersey
on, and your head and feet are bare, and your poor hair is wet and full
of sand; let me carry you up, Charles, the stones will cut your feet.
Let me carry you, Charles. I used to do it when you were little."
There was water in Charles's eyes (the salt water out of his hair, you
understand), as he answered:--
"I think I can walk, Cuthbert; my feet are as hard as iron."
"No, but I must carry you," said Cuthbert. "Get up, brother."
Charles prepared to comply, and Cuthbert suddenly pulled off his shoes
and stockings, and made ready.
"Oh, Cuthbert, don't do that," said Charles, "you break my heart."
"Do let me, dear Charles. I seldom ask you a favour. If I didn't know
that it was acceptable to God, do you think I would do it?"
Charles hesitated one moment; but he caught William's eye, and William's
eye and William's face said so plainly "do it," that Charles hesitated
no longer, but got on his brother's back. Cuthbert ordered William, who
was barefoot, to put on his discarded shoes and stockings, which William
did; and then Cuthbert went toiling up the stony path towards the hall,
with his brother on his back--glorying in his penance.
Is this ridiculous? I cannot say I can see it in this light. I may laugh
to scorn the religion that teaches men that, by artificially producing
misery and nervous terror, and in that state flying to religion as a
comfort and refuge, we in any way glorify God, or benefit ourselves. I
can laugh, I say, at a form of religion like this; but I cannot laugh at
the men who believe in it, and act up to it. No. I may smoke my pipe,
and say that the fool Cuthbert Ravenshoe took off his shoes, and gave
them to the groom, and carried a twelve-stone brother for a quarter of a
mile barefoot, and what a fool he must be, and so forth. But the sneer
is a failure, and the laugh dies away; and I say, "Well, Cuthbert, if
you are a fool, you are a consistent and manly one at all events."
Let us leave these three toiling up the steep rocky path, and take a
glance elsewhere. When the gale had come on, little Mary had left
Densil, and putting on her bonnet, gone down to the beach. She had asked
the elder fishermen whether there would be any danger in beaching the
boat, and they had said in chorus, "Oh, bless her sweet ladyship's
heart, no. The young men would have the tackles on her and have her up,
oh, ever so quick;" and so she had been reassured, and walked up and
down. But, as the wind came stronger and stronger, and she had seen the
last boat taken in half full of water--and as the women kept walking up
and down uneasily, with their hands under their aprons--and as she saw
many an old eagle eye, shaded by a horny hand, gazing anxiously seaward
at the two brown sails plunging about in the offing--she had lost heart
again, and had sat her down on a windlass apart, with a pale face, and a
sick heart.
A tall gaunt brown woman came up to her and said,
"My lady musn't fret. My lady would never do for a fisherman's wife.
Why, my dear tender flesh, there's a hundred strong arms on the beach
now, as would fetch a Ravenshoe out of anywhere a'most. 'Tis a cross
surf, Miss Mary; but, Lord love ye, they'll have the tackles on her
afore she's in it. Don't ye fret, dear, don't ye fret."
But she had sat apart and fretted nevertheless; and, when she saw the
brown bows rushing madly through the yellow surf, she had shut her eyes
and prayed, and had opened them to see the boat on her beam ends, and a
dozen struggling figures in the pitiless water.
Then she had stood up and wrung her hands.
They were safe. She heard that, and she buried her face in her hands,
and murmured a prayer of thanksgiving.
Some one stood beside her. It was Marston, bareheaded and barefooted.
"Oh, thank God!" she said.
"We have given you a sad fright."
"I have been terribly frightened. But you must not stand dripping there.
Please come up, and let me attend you."
So she got him a pair of shoes, and they went up together. The penance
procession had passed on before; and a curious circumstance is this,
that although on ordinary occasions Marston was as lively a talker as
need be, on this occasion he was an uncommonly stupid one, as he never
said one word all the way up to the hall, and then separated from her
with a formal little salutation.