Richard Linnell was very blind as he walked down the pier, stopping here
and there to lay his hand upon the slight rail, and watch the changing
colours on the sea, which was here one dazzling sheen of silver, there
stained with shade after shade of glorious blue, borrowed from the sky,
which was as smiling now as it was tearful but a few days back, when it
was clouded over with gloom.
Then he gazed wistfully at a mackerel boat that could not get in for
want of wind, and lay with its mast describing arcs on the ether, while
its brown sails kept filling out and flapping, and then hanging empty
from the spars.
It was a glorious day; one that should have filled all young and buoyant
hearts with hope, but Richard Linnell's was not buoyant, for it felt
heavy as lead.
He told himself that he loved Claire Denville truly a man could love;
and time back she had been ready to respond to his bows; her eyes, too,
had seemed to look brightly upon him; but since that dreadful night when
he had been deluded into making one of the half-tipsy party gathered
beneath her window, and had played that serenade, all had been changed.
It was horrible! Such a night as that, when, judging from what he could
glean, the agony and trouble of father and daughter must have been
unbearable. And yet he had been there like some contemptible street
musician playing beneath her window, and she must know it was he.
That white hand that opened the window and waved them away was not hers,
though, but old Denville's, and that was the only relief he found.
He was very blind, or he would have seen more than one pair of eyes
brighten as he sauntered down the pier, and more than one fan flutter as
he drew near, and its owner prepare to return his bow while he passed on
with his eyes mentally closed.
He was very blind, for he did not see one of the attractive ladies, nor
one of those who tried to be attractive as he dawdled on, thinking of
the face that appeared, somehow, among the flowers at Claire Denville's
window; then of pretty little blossom-like May Burnett, who people said
was so light and frivolous.
Then he asked himself why he was frittering away his life in Saltinville
with his father instead of taking to some manly career, and making for
himself a name.
"Because I'm chained," he said, half aloud, as he returned a couple of
salutes from Sir Harry Payne and Sir Matthew Bray--rather coldly given,
condescending salutations that brought a curl of contempt to his lip.
These gentlemen were near the end of the pier, and he passed them, and
went on to look out to sea on the other side, where a swarthy-looking
man was wading nearly to his arm-pits, and pushing a pole before him,
while a creel hung upon his back.
"I tell you what," said a loud voice, "let's go back now, Josiah, and
wait till he comes ashore, and then you can buy a pint o' the live
s'rimps, and I'll see them boiled myself."
"No, no. Here's Major Rockley," said the speaker's companion, Josiah
Barclay, twitching his heavy brows. "He wants to see me about some
money. Why he looks as if he was going to buy shrimps himself. How do,
Mr Linnell!"
Richard bowed to the thick-set busy-looking man, and to his
pleasant-faced plump lady, who smiled at him in turn, and then passed
on, walking back and passing the Major, who did not see him, but watched
the fisherman as he lifted his net, picked out the shrimps, shook it,
and plunged it in again to wade on through the calm water, and pushing
it before him as he went.
There were other looks directed at the handsome young fellow, who seemed
so unconscious, and so great a contrast to the bucks and beaux who were
waving clouded canes, taking snuff from gold boxes, and standing in
groups in studied attitudes.
Even Lady Drelincourt in her deep mourning, and with a precaution taken
against any further mishap to her pet, in the shape of a delicately thin
plated chain, smiled as Richard Linnell drew near, and waited for an
admiring glance and a bow, and when they did not come, said "Boor!" half
audibly and closed her fan with a snap.
"Beg pardon, m'lady," said the tall footman.
"Turn the chair and go back."
The tall footman in black, with the great plaited worsted aiguillettes
looped so gracefully up to the buttons on his breast, did not turn the
chair, but turned round and stared with parted lips and a look of
bewildered horror towards the shore end of the pier, from whence came
all at once a rushing sound, shrieks, cries, and then the rapid beating
of horses' feet, sounding hollow upon the boards, and the whirr of
wheels.
"Take care!"
"Run!"
"Keep to the side!"
"No. Get to the end."
There was a rush and confusion. Ladies shrieked and fainted. Gentlemen
ran to their help, or ran to their own help to get out of the way. Sir
Harry Payne and his friend climbed over the railing and stood outside on
the edge of the pier, holding on to the bar to avoid a fall into the
water. Major Rockley did likewise on the other side, and all the while
the rush, the trampling, and the hollow sound increased.
It was only a matter of moments. Cora Dean's handsome ponies had not
gone right over the cliff; but in response to a desperate tug at the
reins given by their driver, had swerved a little and dashed through the
pier gateway, and then the loungers saw the beautiful woman, with her
lips compressed, sitting upright, pulling at the reins with both hands,
while her mother in her rich satin dress crouched down with her eyes
shut and her full florid face horribly mottled with white.
It was a case of _sauve qui peut_ for the most part, as the frantic
ponies, growing more frightened by the shouts and cries and the hollow
beating of their hoofs, tore on to what seemed to be certain death.
"Here, old girl, quick, down here!" cried Barclay, as he saw the coming
danger; and he thrust his trembling wife into one of the embayments at
the side of the pier, where there was a shelter for the look-out men and
the materials for trimming the pier-lights were kept. "Bravo! bravo,
lad!" he cried hoarsely, as he saw Richard Linnell dash forward, and, at
the imminent peril of his life, snatch at the bearing rein of one of the
ponies, catch hold and hang to it, as the force with which the animals
were galloping on took him off his legs.
It was a score of yards from Barclay, who was going to his aid when the
rein broke, and Richard Linnell fell and rolled over and over to strike
against a group of shrieking women clinging to the side railings. The
ponies tore on past Barclay, whose well-meant efforts to check them were
vain, and before the danger could be thoroughly realised Cora Dean's
little steeds had blindly rushed at the rotting railings at the end of
the pier, and gone through them. There was a hoarse, wild shriek from
half a hundred voices, a crash, a plunge, and ponies, carriage, and the
occupants were in the sea.
"A boat!"
"The life-buoy!"
"Ropes here, quick."
"Help!--help!"
Cries; the rush of a crowd to the end of the pier.
A very Babel of confusion, in the midst of which a man was seen to
plunge off the end of the pier and swim towards where Cora Dean could be
seen clinging to the broad splashboard of the carriage, drawn through
the water, while, after rising from their plunge, the ponies swam
together for a few moments, and then began to snort and plunge, and were
rapidly drowning each other.
"Oh, horrid, horrid, horrid!" cried a woman's voice. "Help! help!
Josiah, come back! He'll be drowned!"
For Josiah Barclay had seized a life-buoy, and throwing off his coat,
boldly plunged in after the first man had set an example.
"A good job if he is," muttered Sir Matthew Bray--a kindly wish echoed
by several lookers-on who thought of certain slips of paper (stamped)
that the money-lender had in his cash-box at home.
But Josiah Barclay did not find a fair amount of stoutness interfere
with his floating powers, as he held on to the life-buoy with one hand,
swimming with the other towards what looked like a patch of red in the
sea, surrounding a white face; and a roar of cheers rose from the crowd
who were watching him as he reached Mrs Dean, who had rolled from the
carriage, and now gripped the life-buoy as it was pushed towards her,
and fainted away.
But the majority were watching the daring man who was striving after the
ponies, which were now about fifty yards from the pier, and instead of
swimming away, pawing the water frantically, so that the end of the
accident seemed near.
Boats were putting off from the shore, but it would be long enough
before they could do any good. The chances were that the end would have
come before they reached the spot, and Richard Linnell was now within
half a dozen yards.
"Let go," he shouted to Cora. "Try and throw yourself out this side,
and I'll get you ashore."
She only turned a dazed, despairing look in his direction, too much
paralysed by the horror of her situation to even grasp his meaning.
"All right, Master Linnell, sir," growled a deep voice. "Take it
coolly, and we'll do it."
Linnell glanced aside, and saw that the swarthy fisherman who had been
shrimping was not a couple of yards behind him.
"Look ye here, sir. Let the lady be. I'll go round t'other side. You
go this. Mind they don't kick you. Take care. Wo-ho, my pretties;
wo-ho, my lads," he cried to the ponies, as, perfectly at his ease in
the water, he swam past their heads, well clear of their beating and
pawing hoofs, and got to the other side.
In cases of emergency, whether the order be right or wrong, one that is
given by a firm, cool man is generally obeyed, and it was so here, for
Linnell took a stroke or two forward towards the off-side pony, leaving
Cora clinging to the front of the little carriage.
"Wo-ho, my beauties. Steady, boys," cried the big fisherman soothingly.
"Woa, lad, woa, then," cried Linnell, in imitation of his companion.
The ponies, the moment before snorting and plunging desperately, seemed
to gather encouragement from the voices, and ceasing their frantic
efforts, allowed themselves to sink lower in the water, let their bits
be seized, and with outstretched necks, and nostrils just clear of the
water, began to swim steadily and well.
"That's it, lads, steady it is!" cried the fisherman. "Lay out well
clear of 'em, Master Linnell, sir. Mind they don't kick you. I'll
steer 'em, and we shall do it. You hold on, mum; it's all right."
Cora's head and shoulders were above the water and the ponies were
swimming well now, and obeying the pressure of the fisherman's hand,
though they needed little guidance now they were making steadily for the
shore.
"I thought they'd do it, Master Linnell, sir. Good boys, then. Good
lads. Pity to let 'em drown," said the fisherman coolly.
"Right," cried Linnell, easing the pony on his side by swimming with one
hand. "Keep still, Miss Dean. We shall soon be ashore. There's no
danger now. Yes, there is," he muttered. "Those boats."
Cora turned her eyes upon him with a frightened look, but she was
growing more calm, though she could not speak, and the ponies kept on
snorting loudly as they swam on.
"Keep quiet, will you, you fools!" grumbled Dick Miggles, as bursts of
cheers kept rising from the pier, answered by a gathering crowd on the
beach about where they were expected to land, while the cliff was now
lined with people who had heard of the accident on the pier.
"Here! hoy!" roared Dick Miggles, who had grasped the danger. "Wo-ho,
my boys, I'm with you. It's all right."
"Ahoy!" came from the nearest boat, whose occupants were rowing with all
their might.
"Back with you. D'ye hear! Wo-ho, lads; it's all right. Back, I say.
You'll frighten the horses again."
"We're coming to help you," came from the boat.
"Go back, curse yer!" roared Dick. "Don't you see what you're doing."
The ponies were getting scared by the shouting, but by dint of patting
and soothing words, they were calmed down once more, and the boatmen, in
obedience to the orders given, ceased rowing.
"Go back, and bid 'em hold their row," cried Dick, as he guided the
ponies. "We must get in quiet, or the horses'll go mad again."
The men rowed back, communicating their orders to the other boats, whose
occupants rested on their oars, while, like some sea-queen, Cora was
drawn on in her chariot towards the shore, but looking terribly
unaccustomed to the mode of procedure, as she still clung to the front
of the little carriage.
"Miggles."
"'Ullo?"
"Can you manage them alone? The lady."
"All right, Master Linnell, sir. They'll go now. We shall be ashore
directly."
He had turned his head and seen what was wrong as Richard Linnell loosed
his hold of the pony's head, letting it swim on, though the frightened
beast uttered a snorting neigh and tried to follow him, till its
attention was taken up by the soothing words of Dick Miggles, and it
struck out afresh for the shore.
Meanwhile Richard had caught Cora Dean as she loosened her grasp of the
front of the carriage, for he had seen that something was coming as her
countenance changed and her eyes half-closed.
It was an easy task, for he had only to check her as she was floating
out of the carriage, and take hold of the front with his right hand to
let himself be drawn ashore.
She opened her eyes again with a start, as if she were making an effort
to master her emotion, and they rested on Linnell's as he held her
tightly to his breast. Then she shivered and clung to him, and the next
minute the ponies' hoofs touched the shingly bottom, and people began to
realise how it was that the carriage had not sunk in the deep water and
dragged the ponies down.
It was plain enough. There was nothing but the slight body with its
seats, which had been torn from springs, axle-trees, and wheels, giving
it more than ever the aspect of a chariot drawn by sea-horses through
the waves.
The ponies were for making a fresh dash as soon as they felt the
yielding shingle beneath their hoofs, but a dozen willing hands were at
their heads; the remains of the carriage were drawn up the beach, and
the traces were loosened and twisted up, while Cora was borne by a
couple of gentlemen to one of several carriages offered to bear her
home.
As for Linnell, he was surrounded by an excited crowd of people eager to
shake hands with him, but none of whom could answer his questions about
Mrs Dean.
"Mrs Dean?" said a wet, thick-set man, elbowing his way through. "All
right; sent home in Lord Carboro's donkey-carriage. Mr Linnell, sir,
your hand, sir. God bless you, sir, for a brave gentleman! Nice pair
of wet ones, aren't we?"
"Oh, never mind, Mr Barclay," cried Linnell, shaking hands. "I'm only
too thankful that we have got them safe ashore."
"With no more harm done than to give the coachbuilder a job, eh? Ha,
ha!"
"Three cheers for 'em!" shouted a voice; and they were heartily given.
"And three more for Fisherman Dick!" cried Linnell.
"Don't, Master Richard, sir--please don't!" cried the swarthy fisherman
modestly.
"He did more than I did."
"No, no, Master Richard, sir," protested Dick, as the cheers were
heartily given; and then a horrible thought smote Linnell:
"The boy--Mrs Dean's little groom! Where is he?"
"Oh, I'm all right, sir," cried a shrill voice. "When I see as missus
couldn't stop the ponies, I dropped down off my seat on to the pier."
"Hurray! Well done, youngster!" cried first one and then another,
"Look here, Mr Richard," cried Barclay; "my place is nearest; come
there, and send for some dry clothes."
"No, no; I'll get back," said Linnell. "Thanks all the same. Let me
pass, please;" and as Cora Dean's ponies were led off to their stable,
and Barclay went towards where plump Mrs Barclay was signalling him on
the cliff, the young man hurried off homeward, followed by bursts of
cheers, and having hard work to escape from the many idlers who were
eager to shake his hand.
Volume One, Chapter XVIII.