A SIGHT FROM THE WINDOWS.
We are now in stormy October; a fierce and melancholy month! August and
September touch the greenwood leaves with gold and russet, and gently
loosen the hold of every little stalk on forest bough; and then, when
all is ready, October comes on in storm, with sounds of trump and
rushing charge and fury not to be argued or dallied with, and thoroughly
executes the sentence of mortality that was recorded in the first faint
yellow of the leaf, in the still sun of declining July.
October is all the more melancholy for the still, golden days that
intervene, and show the thinned branches in the sunlight, soft, and
clear as summer's, and the boughs cast their skeleton shadows across
brown drifts of leaves.
On the evening I am going to speak of, there was a wild, threatening
sunset, and the boatmen of Cardyllion foretold a coming storm. Their
predictions were verified.
The breeze began to sigh and moan through the trees and chimney-stacks
of Malory shortly after sunset, and in another hour it came on to blow a
gale from the northwest. From that point the wind sweeps right up the
estuary from the open sea; and after it has blown for a time, and the
waves have gathered their strength, the sea bursts grandly upon the
rocks a little in front of Malory.
We were sitting cosily in our accustomed tea-room. The rush and strain
of the wind on the windows became momentarily more vehement, till the
storm reached its highest and most tremendous pitch.
"Don't you think," said Laura, after an awful gust, "that the windows
may burst in? The wind is frightful! Hadn't we better get to the back of
the house?"
"Not the least danger," I answered; "these windows have small panes, and
immensely strong sashes; and they have stood so many gales that we may
trust them for this."
"There again!" she exclaimed. "How awful!"
"No danger to us, though. These walls are thick, and as firm as rock;
not like your flimsy brick houses; and the chimneys are as strong as
towers. You must come up with me to the window in the tawny-room; there
is an open space in the trees opposite, and we can see pretty well. It
is worth looking at; you never saw the sea here in a storm."
With very little persuasion, I induced her to run upstairs with me.
Along the corridor, we reached the chamber in question, and placing our
candle near the door, and running together to the window, we saw the
grand spectacle we had come to witness.
Over the sea and land, rock and wood, a dazzling moon was shining.
Tattered bits of cloud, the "scud" I believe they call it, were whirling
over us, more swiftly than the flight of a bird, as far as your eye
could discern: till the sea was lost in the grey mist of the horizon it
was streaked and ridged with white. Nearer to the stooping trees that
bowed and quivered in the sustained blast, and the little churchyard
dormitory that nothing could disturb, the black peaked rock rose above
the turmoil, and a dark causeway of the same jagged stone, sometimes
defined enough, sometimes submerged, connected it almost with the
mainland. A few hundred yards beyond it, I knew, stretched the awful
reef on which the Intrinsic, years before I could remember, had been
wrecked. Beyond that again, we could see the waves leaping into sheets
of foam, that seemed to fall as slowly and softly as clouds of snow.
Nearer, on the dark rock, the waves flew up high into the air, like
cannon-smoke.
Within these rocks, which make an awful breakwater, full of mortal peril
to ships driving before the storm, the estuary, near the shores of
Malory, was comparatively quiet.
At the window, looking on this wild scene, we stood, side by side, in
the fascination which the sea in its tumultuous mood never fails to
exercise. Thus, not once turning our eyes from the never-flagging
variety of the spectacle, we gazed for a full half-hour, when, suddenly,
there appeared--was it the hull of a vessel shorn of its masts? No, it
was a steamer--a large one, with low chimneys. It seemed to be about a
mile and a half away, but was driving on very rapidly. Sometimes the
hull was quite lost to sight, and then again rose black and sharp on the
crest of the sea. We held our breaths. Perhaps the vessel was trying to
make the shelter of the pier of Cardyllion; perhaps she was simply
driving before the wind.
To me there seemed something uncertain and staggering in the progress of
the ship. Before her lay the ominous reef, on which many a good ship and
brave life had perished. There was quite room enough, I knew, with good
steering, between the head of the reef and the sandbank at the other
side, to make the pier of Cardyllion. But was there any one on board who
knew the intricate navigation of our dangerous estuary? Could any
steering in such a tempest avail? And, above all, had the ship been
crippled? In any case, I knew enough to be well aware that she was in
danger.
Reader, if you have never witnessed such a spectacle, you cannot
conceive the hysterical excitement of that suspense. All those on board
are, for the time, your near friends; your heart is among them--their
terrors are yours. A ship driving with just the hand and eye of one man
for its only chance, under Heaven, against the fury of sea and wind, and
a front of deadly rock, is an unequal battle; the strongest heart
sickens as the crisis nears, and the moments pass in an unconscious
agony of prayer.
Rebecca Torkill joined us at this moment.
"Oh! Rebecca," I said, "there is a ship coming up the estuary--do you
think they can escape?"
"The telescope should be on the shelf at the back stair-head," she
answered, as soon as she had taken a long look at the steamer. "Lord ha'
mercy on them, poor souls!--that's the very way the Intrinsic drove up
before the wind the night she was lost; and I think this will be the
worse night of the two."
Mrs. Torkill returned with the long sea telescope, in its worn casing of
canvas.
I took the first "look out." After wandering hither and thither over a
raging sea, and sometimes catching the tossing head of some tree in the
foreground, the glass lighted, at length, upon the vessel. It was a
large steamer, pitching and yawing frightfully. Even to my inexperienced
eye, it appeared nearly unmanageable. I handed the glass to Laura. I
felt faint.
Some of the Cardyllion boatmen came running along the road that passes
in front of Malory. I saw that two or three of them had already arrived
on the rising ground beside the churchyard, and were watching events
from that wind-swept point. I knew all the Cardyllion boatmen, for we
often employed them, and I said:
"I can't stay here--I must hear what the boatmen say. Come, Laura, come
with me."
Laura was willing enough.
"Nonsense! Miss Ethel," exclaimed the housekeeper. "Why, dear Miss Grey,
you could not keep hat or bonnet on in a wind like that! You could not
keep your feet in it!"
Remonstrance, however, was in vain. I tied a handkerchief tight over my
head and under my chin--Laura did the same; and out we both sallied,
notwithstanding Rebecca Torkill's protest and entreaty. We had to go by
the back door; it would have been impossible to close the hall-door
against such a gale.
Now we were out in the bright moonlight under the partial shelter of the
trees, which bent and swayed with the roar of a cataract over our heads.
Near us was the hillock we tried to gain; it was next to impossible to
reach it against the storm. Often we were brought to a standstill, and
often forced backward, notwithstanding all our efforts.
At length, in spite of all, we stood on the little platform, from which
the view of the rocks and sea beyond was clear. Williams, the boatman,
was close to me, at my right hand, holding his low-crowned hat down on
his head with his broad, hard hand. Laura was at my other side. Our
dresses were slapping and rattling in the storm like the cracking of a
thousand whips; and such a roaring was in my ears, although my
handkerchief was tied close over them, that I could scarcely hear
anything else.