BURY BLUFF
As Christian walked rapidly across the uneven turf towards the sea at
midnight, his thoughts were divided between a schoolboy delight in the
adventurous nature of his expedition and an uncomfortable sensation of
surreptitiousness. He was not accustomed to this sort of work, and felt
remarkably like a thief. If by some mischance his absence was discovered
at the Hall, it would be difficult to account for it unless he played
the part of a temporary lunatic. Fortunately his window communicated
easily enough with the garden by means of a few stone steps, but
visitors are not usually in the habit of leaving their bedrooms in order
to take the air at midnight. Thinking over these things in his rapid and
rather superficial way, he unconsciously quickened his pace.
The night was clear and starlit; the air soft and very pleasant, with a
faint breath of freshness from the south-west. The moon, being well upon
the wane, would not rise for an hour or more, but the heavens were
glowing with the gentler light of stars, and on earth the darkness was
of that transparent description which sailors prefer to the brightest
moonlight.
Christian Vellacott had worked out most problems in life for himself.
Taken as a whole, his solutions had been fairly successful--as
successful as those of most men. If his views upon things in general
were rather photographic--that is to say, hard, with clearly defined
shadows--it was owing to his father's somewhat cynical training and to
the absence of a mother's influence. Elderly maiden ladies, with
sufficient time upon their hands to manage other people's affairs in
addition to their own, complained of his want of sympathy, which may be
read in the sense of stating that he neither sought theirs nor asked
advice upon questions connected with himself. This self-reliance was the
inevitable outcome of his life at home and at the office of the
_Beacon_. Admirable as it may be, independence can undoubtedly be
carried to an unpleasant excess--unpleasant that is for home life. Women
love to see their men-folk a trifle dependent upon them.
Christian was in the midst of a problem as he walked across the
tableland that stretched from St. Mary Western to the sea. That problem
absorbed more of his attention than the home politics of France; it
required a more careful study than any article he had ever penned for
the _Beacon_. It gave him greater anxiety than Aunt Judy and Aunt Hester
combined. Yet it was comprised in a single word. A single arm could
encompass the whole of it. The single word--Hilda.
Leaving the narrow road, he presently struck the little pathway leading
to the Cove. Suddenly he stopped, and stood motionless. There--not
twenty yards from him--was the still figure of a man. Behind Christian
the land rose gradually to some considerable height, so that he stood in
darkness, while against the glowing sky the figure of this watcher was
clearly defined in hard outline. Instinctively crouching down and
seeking the covert of a few low bushes, Christian decreased the
intervening distance by a few yards. The faint hope that it might prove
to be a coastguard was soon dispelled. The heavy clothing and loose
thigh-boots were those of a fisherman. The huge “cache-nez” which lay in
coils upon his shoulders and completely protected the neck and throat,
was such as is worn by the natives of the Côtes-du-Nord.
The sea boomed forth its melancholy song, far down in the black depths
beyond. The tide was high, and the breeze freshening every moment.
Christian could have crept up to the man's very feet without being
detected. Lying still upon the short, dry grass, he watched for some
moments.
From the man's clumsy attitude it was almost possible to divine his
slow, mindless nature--for there is expression in the very turn of a
man's leg as he stands--and it was easy to see that he was guarding the
little path down the cliff to the Cove.
He had been posted there, and evidently meant to stay till called away.
There was only one way, now, to the Cove, and that was down the face of
the cliff: the way that Christian had that very afternoon pronounced so
hazardous. By day it was dangerous enough; by night it was almost an
impossibility.
He crept noiselessly along to the eastward, so that the watcher stood
upon the windward side of him, and reaching the brink he peered over
into the darkness. Of course he could discern nothing. The sea rose and
fell with a monotonous roar; overhead the stars twinkled as merrily as
they have twinkled over the strifes of men from century to century.
Quietly he knelt upright and buttoned his coat with some care. Then
without a moment's hesitation he crept to the edge and cautiously
disappeared into the grim abyss of darkness. Slowly and laboriously he
worked his way down, feeling for each foothold in advance. Occasionally
he muttered impatiently to himself at the slowness of his progress. He
knew that the strata of soft sandstone trended downwards at an easy
angle, and with consummate skill took full advantage of his knowledge.
Occasionally he was forced to progress sideways with his face to the
rock and hands outstretched till his fingers were cramped, and the
feeling known as “pins and needles” assailed his arms. Then he would
rest for some moments, peering into the darkness below him all the
while. Once or twice he dropped a small stone cautiously, holding it at
arm's length. When the tiny messenger touched earth soon after leaving
his hand, he continued his downward progress. Once, no sound followed
for some seconds, and then it was only a distant concussion far down
beside the sea. With an involuntary shudder, the climber turned and made
his way upwards and sideways again, before venturing to descend once
more.
For half an hour he continued his perilous struggle, till his strong
arms were stiff and his fingers almost powerless. With marvellous
tenacity he held to his purpose. Never since leaving the summit had he
been able to rest both hands at once. With a dogged, mechanical
endurance which is essentially characteristic of climbers and
mountaineers, he lowered himself, inch by inch, foot by foot. Louder and
louder sang the sea, as if in derision at his petty efforts, but through
his head there rushed another sound infinitely more terrible: a
painful, continuous buzz, which seemed to press upon his temples. A dull
pain was slowly creeping up the muscles of his neck towards his head.
All these symptoms the climber knew. The buzzing in his ears would never
cease until he could lie down and breathe freely with every muscle
relaxed, every sinew slack. The dull ache would creep up until it
reached his brain, and then nothing could save him--no strength of will
could prevent his fingers from relaxing their hold.
“Sish--sish, sish--sish!” laughed the waves below. Placidly the stars
held on their stately course--each perhaps peopled by millions of its
own--young and old, tame and fiery--all pursuing shadows as we do here.
“This is getting serious,” muttered Christian, with a pitiful laugh. The
perspiration was running down his face, burning his eyes, and dripping
from his chin. With straining eyes he peered into the night. Close
beneath him there was a ledge of some breadth. It was not flat, but
inclined upwards from the face of the cliff, thus forming a shelf of
solid stone. For some seconds he stared continuously at this, so as to
reduce to a minimum the chance of being mistaken. Then with great
caution he slid down the steep incline of smooth stone and landed
safely. The glissade lasted but a moment, nevertheless it recalled to
his mind a picture which was indelibly stamped in his memory. Years
before he had seen a man slide like this, unintentionally, after a false
step. Again that picture came to him--unimpressionable as his life had
rendered him. Again he saw the glittering expanse of snow, and on it the
broad, strong figure of the Vaudois guide sliding down and down, with
madly increasing speed--feet foremost, skilful to the last. Again he
felt the thrill which men cannot but experience at the sight of a man,
or even of a dumb beast, fighting bravely for life. Again he saw the
dull gleam of the uplifted ice-axe as the man dealt scientific blow
after blow on the frozen snow, attempting to arrest his terrible career.
And again in his mind's eye the pure expanse of spotless white lay
before him, scarred by one straight streak, marking where the taciturn
mountaineer had vanished over the edge of the precipice to his certain
doom.
Christian lay like a half-drowned man upon the shelving ledge, slowly
realising his position. He calculated that he could not yet be half-way
down, and his strength was almost exhausted. Yet, as he lay there, no
thought of waiting for daylight, no question of retreat entered his
stubborn West-country brain. The exploit still possessed for him the
elements of a good joke, to be related thereafter in such a manner as
would enforce laughter.
Suddenly--within the softer sound of the sea below--a harsh, grating
noise struck his ears. It was to him like the sound made by a nailed
boot upon rock. It was as if another were following him down the face of
the cliff. In a second he was upon his feet, his weariness a thing
forgotten. Overhead, against the starlit sky, he could define the line
of rock with its sharp, broken angles and uncouth turns. Not thirty feet
above him something was moving. His first feeling was one of intense
fear. Every climber knows that it is easier to pass a difficult corner
than to stand idle, watching another do it. Slowly the dark form came
downwards, and suddenly, with a quick sense of unutterable relief,
Christian saw the black line of a tightened rope. When it was barely ten
feet above him he saw that the object was no man, but a square case. In
a flash of thought he divined what the box contained, and unhesitatingly
ran along the ledge towards it. As it descended he seized it with both
hands and swung it in towards himself. With pendulum-like motion it
descended, and at last touched the rock at his feet. As this took place
he grasped the rope with both hands and threw his entire weight upon it,
hauling slowly in, hand over hand. So quickly and deftly was this
carried out that those lowering overhead were deceived, and continued to
pay out the rope slowly. Steadily Christian hauled in, the slack falling
in snake-like coils at his feet. Only being able to guess at his
position on the cliff, it was no easy matter to calculate how much rope
it was necessary to take in in order to carry out the deception.
At length he ceased abruptly, and proceeded to untie the knots round the
bale. Then, after the manner of a sailor who is working out of sight
with a life-line, he jerked the rope, which immediately began to ascend
rapidly and with irregularity. Coil after coil ran easily away, and at
last the frayed end passed into the darkness above Christian's head. He
stood there watching it, and when it had disappeared he burst into a low
hoarse laugh which suddenly broke off into a sickening gurgle, and he
fell sideways and backwards on to the box, clutching at it with his
nerveless fingers.
When he recovered his faculties his first sensation was one of great
cold. The breeze had freshened with the approach of dawn, and blowing
full upon him as he lay bathed in perspiration, the effect was like that
of a refrigerator. He moved uneasily, and found that he was lying on the
stone ledge _outside_ the box, from which he had fallen. After a moment,
he rose rapidly to his feet as if desirous of dismissing the memory of
his own collapse, and turned his attention to the bundle. Beneath the
rough covering of canvas, which was not sewn but merely lashed round, it
was easy enough to detect the shape of the case.
“What luck--what wonderful luck,” he muttered, as he groped round the
surface of the bundle.
Indeed it seemed as if everything had arranged itself for his special
benefit and advantage.
The three men whose duty it had been to lower the case coiled up their
rope and started off on foot inland, after telling the sentinel
stationed at the head of the little path to rejoin his boat. This the
man was only too willing to do at once. He was a semi-superstitious
Breton of no great intelligence, who vastly preferred being afloat in
his unsavoury yawl to climbing about unknown rocks in the dark. On the
beach, he found his two comrades, to whom he gruffly imparted the
information that they were to go on board.
“Had the 'monsieur' said nothing else?”
“No, the 'monsieur' said nothing else.”
The Breton intellect is not, as a rule, acute. Like sheep the three men
proceeded to carry up from the water's edge Stanley's boat, which was
required to carry the heavy case, their own dinghy being too small. This
done, they rowed off silently to the yawl, which was rolling lazily in
the trough of the sea, a quarter of a mile from the shore. Once on board
they were regaled with some choice French profanity from the lips of a
large man in a sealskin cap and a dirty woollen muffler. This gentleman
they addressed as the “patron,” and, with clumsy awe, informed him that
they had waited at the same spot as before, but nothing had come, until
at length Hoel Grall arrived with instructions from the “monsieur” to go
on board. Whereupon further French profanity, followed by unintelligible
orders, freely interlarded with embellishments of a forcible tenor.
As the yawl swung slowly round and stood out to sea, Christian turned to
climb up Bury Bluff. He found that he had in reality made very little
progress in descending. Before leaving the case, he edged it by degrees
nearer to the base of the ledge, which would render it invisible from
the beach. The ascent was soon accomplished, and after a cautious search
he concluded that no one was about, so set off home at a rapid pace.
Before he reached the Hall the light of coming day was already creeping
up into the eastern sky. All nature was stirring, refreshed with the
balmy dew and coolness of the night. Far up in the higher branches of
the Weymouth pines, the wrens were awake, calling to each other with
tentative twitter, and pluming themselves the while for another day of
sunshine and song.
Like a thief Christian hurried on, and creeping into his bedroom window,
was soon sleeping the dreamless, forgetful sleep of youth.
By seven o'clock he was awake with all the quick realisation of a
Londoner. In the country men wake up slowly, and slowly gather together
their senses after an all-sufficing sleep of ten hours. In cities, five,
four, or even three are sufficient for the unfatigued body and the
restless mind. Men wake up quickly, and are at once in full possession
of their faculties. It is, after all, a mere matter of habit.
Christian had slept sufficiently. He rose quite fresh and strong, and
presently sat down, coatless to write.
Page after page he wrote, turning each leaf over upon its face as it was
completed--never referring back, never hesitating, and only occasionally
raising his pen from the paper. Line after line of neat, small writing,
quite different from what his friends knew in letters or on envelopes,
flowed from his pen. It was his “press” handwriting, plain, rapid, and
as legible as print. The punctuation was attended to with singular care:
the commas broad and heavy, the colons like the kisses in a child's
letter, round and black. Once or twice he smiled as he wrote, and
occasionally jerked his head to one side critically as he re-read a
sentence.
In less than two hours it was finished. He rose from his seat, and
walked slowly to the window. Standing there he gazed thoughtfully across
the bare, unlovely tableland towards the sea. He had written many
hundreds of pages, all more or less masterly; he had read criticisms
upon his own work saying that it was good; and yet he knew that the
best--the best he had ever written--lay upon the table behind him. Then
he turned and shook the loose leaves together symmetrically. Pensively
he counted them. He was young and strong; the world and life lay before
him, with their infinite possibilities--their countless opportunities to
be seized or left. He looked curiously at the written pages. The writing
was his own; the form of every letter was familiar; the heavy
punctuation and clean, closely written lines such as the compositor
loved to deal with; and while he turned the leaves over he wondered if
ever he would do better, for he knew that it was good.