"Here is my journey's end, here is my butt,
And very seamark of my utmost sail."
They had progressed so far towards the cliffs above the little bay or
cove, where Gilbert was, that now they had but to cross the summit of
one more spur and then they would be able to descend to him.
'You will see him soon now,' Charke said to the girl, 'very soon. Then
you will be happy. To-night, he and I will arrange the signals that
may bring some succour to us. At any rate, it cannot be long in
coming. If we are where I think, hundreds of ships pass near here
annually. And, at the worst, one may live here very well for some
time.'
She heard his words, she missed no tone nor inflection of his
voice--but she could not answer him. It was impossible. For, though he
spoke on subjects which were appropriate enough to their surroundings,
she knew that his speech, instead of conveying his thoughts, was only
used to hide them; and that beneath what he said lay a sadness too
deep for utterance. Therefore, she made no attempt at reply, but
contented herself with letting her eyes rest on his face now and
again, and then withdrawing them directly afterwards.
Suddenly, however, and after having cast a glance backwards across the
little plateau which they had passed along, he exclaimed:
'Why, Lieutenant Bampfyld will find another companion of his in the
poor old _Emperor_ here to greet him. See, there comes Bengalee,
behind us. How has he broken away from the cable? It was stout enough
to hold a small frigate,' and, as she turned to look in the direction
he had indicated, she saw the tiger-cub coming after them along the
plateau at a considerable pace. Coming swiftly, too, and always with
the lithe and hateful sinuosity which marks the progress of the
species.
Then, as she, too, turned and saw its striped body winding in and out
beneath the tamarind and palm trees, she remembered that she had
observed it gnawing at the cable ere she set out, and told Stephen so.
And she also told him that it had seemed much excited at being left
behind, and had made considerable struggles to break loose when she
moved away.
'It will perhaps be appeased,' he answered, 'when it finds itself
once more with you. Poor wretch! its hunger must be frightful.
Yet--yet--how else to kill it? And killed it must be.'
'I wish,' she said again, as she had so often said before, 'that I had
never asked to have it saved. It would have been better to have let it
die in the sea.'
'Perhaps,' he answered. 'Perhaps. We can, however, leave it here when
we get taken off, and then it must take its chance.'
They were now upon the last ridge of the spur beneath which he had
left Gilbert, and he told her that, in another moment, she would see
him by looking down. 'Indeed,' he said, 'if you glance over now you
can see him, I imagine.'
Then he bade her hold his hand and lean over the lip of the precipice,
and trace the run of the hill seawards. Following his instructions,
she did so, when suddenly, below, they heard a rattling, a sliding as
of a mass of earth and stones slipping, and he felt a slight
withdrawal, a sinking of the ground, beneath their feet. He felt it
and understood its significance in an instant, while recalling the
masses of fallen chalk and earth which he had observed lying at the
foot of this and other cliffs earlier in the day.
'Back,' he cried, 'Back!' while, as he did so, he seized Bella with
his other hand as well as the one she already held, and sprang away
from the ridge, the violence of his action causing her to fall on
her knees. Yet, still knowing her danger--their danger--he dragged
her back and saved her. Though not a moment too soon--not an
instant!--for, as he clutched at her, the earth for a foot or so in
front of them--the very portion of it on which they had been standing!
the very portion, indeed, across which he had but now drawn her--gave
way. It gave way, broke off in a long line, and fell with a crash to
the depths below, leaving an abyss above the spot over which he had
drawn her.
'My God!' she gasped, 'you have saved my life again! Again--ah!'
That last exclamation was, in truth, a shriek of dismay, of awful
agony, of terror in the extreme. For she, whose face was towards the
way they had come, as his back was towards it, saw that which he had
no knowledge of; that which paralysed her, struck her an instant after
dumb with horror.
She saw the tiger-cub close behind him and crouching for a spring, she
saw its devilish eyes gleaming like topazes, and she saw its body
hurled with tremendous force towards Charke as he stood looking down
on her.
Full at him it sprang, its savage jaws open and its forelegs extended.
And it partly missed him through passing on his left side, yet not
doing so altogether. Instead, it struck his left shoulder, spinning
him round like a drunken, reeling man, and causing him to stagger
backwards towards the chasm and, with a gasp, to fall over it and
disappear.
And Bella, left alone in that awful moment--for the tiger's leap had
carried it far over the cliff and to its own destruction--saw a man
below--her lover--shouting and gesticulating--and then she knew no
more.
* * * * * *
An hour later, Stephen Charke lay on his back below the cliff, his
eyes upturned to the sun, which was by now peeping over the hill and
illuminating all the little valley with its rays--he lay there
breathing his last and with his back broken. By his side knelt Bella
Waldron, while Gilbert Bampfyld stood near, their faces the true index
of their sorrow.
'No,' Stephen whispered hoarsely, now, in answer to a question from
her. 'No. I feel no pain, nothing but the numbness of my back and
lower limbs. Nay, nay, do not weep.' Then he lowered the poor, feeble
voice a little more and whispered even more calmly to her--'I am
content, well content. And--it--is better so. There was no life, no
future for me.'
'Oh!' she said, wringing her hands while the tears streamed from her
eyes and dropped upon his upturned face. 'Oh! that you should have
died in saving me. That you, whom I honour so, should die at
all--young, strong, as you are. And through the outcome of my
wilfulness, of my letting that creature be saved. Saved to slay you.
Ah! God, it is too hard!'
'It thought,' he said, after a pause, during which she wiped the drops
from his forehead and moistened his lips, 'that I was attacking you.
Doubtless it did so. It hated me and loved you.' Then, he added to
himself, 'As all love you.'
'Gilbert,' she shrieked now to her lover, 'Gilbert, can nothing be
done; nothing to save him? Ah! perhaps his back is not broken; it may
be but a terrible fall--he may recover yet. Can we do nothing?'
But it was Stephen who answered, 'Nothing.'
'Old chap,' said Gilbert, also close by him now, and kneeling down to
take his hand, 'is--is there anything you want done; any message sent
to any one at home? Only say the word. You know you can depend on me.'
'If it can be,' the dying man said, and now his voice was very low,
almost inaudible, 'if you can have it done later, when you are found,
bury me--at--the--spot where she and I--came ashore. There, in the
little knoll. You know.' And his eyes sought hers. 'That is where I
want--to lie--until we meet again.'
They could not answer him, their voices were no longer their own;
hardly could they see him through their tears, but still they were
able to tell him by their gestures that it should be as he desired.
After which Gilbert managed to rise to his feet and whisper in
Bella's ears, 'He is--going--now. The end is close at hand. Say--say
"goodbye" to him, and--and kiss him. He deserves it from you, and--I
shall not grudge it.' Then, in his manliness, he turned away from
them.
Perhaps the dying man guessed what had been said; and, because he knew
his hour had come, he opened his eyes for the last time and gazed
wistfully at her.
'Goodbye,' he said. 'Farewell.'
'Goodbye. Oh, God! that I should have to say it to you.
Goodbye--goodbye, Stephen,' and she stooped down and kissed the
cold, white lips of the man who had loved her so. And, next, she put
her arm beneath his neck and let his head lie on it, while, amidst the
tempest of her sobs, she heard him murmur feebly:
'I loved you--from--the first--moment. I love--you--now.'
Then his head turned over on her arm and lay there motionless.
* * * * * *
The wedding was over, Gilbert Bampfyld and Bella were man and wife,
the marriage having taken place at Capetown. While the only difference
between the ceremony and that which had been originally intended was
that the Archbishop of Capetown joined their hands instead of the
Bishop of Bombay doing so. Therefore, at last, these two loving hearts
were made happy, and, in spite of all that had threatened both Bella
and her lover during the past few months, the future now looked bright
and cheerful.
Not three days had elapsed since Stephen Charke's death when Gilbert
(who, with Bella, sat from sunrise to sunset beneath a clump of cocoa
trees on the highest point to which they could attain, he being soon
able to reach it quite easily by the aid of his cudgel and owing to
the rapid improvement in the sprain he had suffered from) saw a vessel
not two miles away from the island.
'And I swear,' he exclaimed, 'one of Her Majesty's cruisers. Look at
those yellow funnels, one aft of the other. That's a cruiser right
enough. I wonder if it's the _Briseus_.'
Then he fell to making every kind of signal which he could devise when
unprovided with the means of attracting her attention either by
pistol-shot or fire, and in about half an hour they had the joy of
seeing one of her cutters manned and lowered, and, a moment later,
making for the shore.
The cruiser turned out to be the _Clytie_, on her way home from
Calcutta to Plymouth, and, even as the cutter fetched the shore, the
coxswain recognised Gilbert as an officer with whom he had previously
served. Then he furnished him with the intelligence that he was
reported dead.
'Not yet,' said Gilbert; 'though, since I left the _Briseus_, when in
charge of her whaler, I have had two narrow escapes. Unfortunately,
others, with whom I have been in company, are so.' Then, briefly, he
told the man all that had happened to him, and stated that he was
going to ask the captain of the _Clytie_ for a passage for himself and
his future wife, the young lady by his side.
First, however, there was one thing to be done--namely, to bury
Stephen Charke in the place which he had indicated. This was a thing
which would now be very easy of accomplishment, since the sea was
perfectly calm again and the body could be easily carried from the
spot where he had fallen to that where he desired to be buried. But,
to begin with, the permission of the captain had to be obtained, which
was done by signalling, and then the rest was easy. Some more men were
sent off in the second cutter, with the chaplain as well as some
spades for digging a grave, after which the sailors marched under
Gilbert's command to where he and Bella had covered up Stephen
Charke's remains with palm and other leaves that were within their
reach, and then removed the body. And very reverently was the
interment performed, all standing round the spot with the exception of
Bella, who was so overcome that she had to be led away from the grave.
And so they laid him in it; and there, in the little solitary island,
they left him to his long sleep.
Perhaps, nothing so much as his death--not even his heroism in the
stricken ship, nor his masterful strength in fighting the storm and
the waves, and in succeeding at the risk of his own life in saving
that of the woman whom he so tenderly loved--kept his memory green
in both their hearts. Perhaps, too, that last sacrifice which he
made--his life!--at the moment when once more he was preserving hers,
furnishes the reason which again and again prompts Gilbert to say to
his wife, in a voice always full of a tone of regret for the brave man
who lies so far away:
'After all, Bella, I am not sure that you chose the right one. Poor
Stephen Charke was the better man of the two.'
Yet, when he observes the glance she gives him in return, he is
comforted by knowing that, in no circumstances, could that other have
ever won her heart as he did.
FOOTNOTES
[Footnote 1: This is not fictitious. M. Constant made his speech to
the Chamber of Deputies on June 17, 1820, and it contained all
attributed to it above. It described how the crew of _Le Rôdeur_ were
themselves struck down one by one soon after the outbreak among the
slaves, how many of the slaves were flung overboard to save the cost
of supporting them, and also how, while the ship was subject to this
terrible calamity, a Spanish slaver, named the _Leon_, spoke her,
asking for assistance, as almost every one on board her was stricken
with sudden blindness. _Le Rôdeur_, the account went on to say,
eventually reached Guadaloupe with only _one_ man left who was not
smitten, and he became blind directly after he had brought the vessel
into harbour. The Spaniard was never heard of again.]
THE END