Naturalists and students of animal life tell us that the hunted deer
sheds tears in its agony and fear, and that the hare is ignorant of what
is before it, for its eyes are strained back in its dread as it watches
the stride of the pursuing hounds.
The reverse of the latter was the case with Harry Vine, who in his
horror and shame could only see forward right into the future. For
there before him was himself--handcuffed, in gaol, before the
magistrates, taking his trial, sentenced, and then he, the scion of a
good family, inflated by the false hopes placed before him by his aunt,
dressed in the broad-arrow convict's suit, drudging on in his debased
and weary life--the shame, the disgrace of those who loved him, and
whom, in those brief moments of agony, he knew he dearly loved.
"Better death!"
He muttered these words between his teeth, as in a mad fit of cowardice
and despair, he turned suddenly at the end of the rock pier and plunged
headlong into the eddying tide.
Whatever the will may wish at such a time, instinct always seems to make
a frantic effort to combat this mad will, and the struggle for life
begins.
It was so here, for the sudden plunge into the cold dark water produced
its instantaneous effect. The nerves and muscles grew tense, and after
being borne for some distance straight out to sea, Harry Vine rose to
the surface, and in obedience to the natural instinct of a good swimmer,
struck out and tried to regain the pier.
But as he turned he hesitated. There were the police waiting for him
when he landed, and his people were on the shore waiting to see him
disgraced--for he was, of course, in utter ignorance of the efforts that
had been made to enable him to escape. And even as he hesitated he knew
that such a proceeding was impossible. Had he been tenfold the swimmer
he could not have reached that point, for the current, after coming from
the west and striking full against the rocks, was bearing him seaward at
a tremendous rate. The voices that had been in a clamour of excitement
and the shouts and orders were growing distant; the lights that were
flashing over the water seemed minute by minute more faint, and as,
almost without effort, he floated on, he wondered at the feeling of
calm, matter-of-fact reasoning which the cold plunge seemed to have
aroused.
Always a clever swimmer from the days when the sturdy fisherman Perrow
had tied a stout hake-line about his waist, and bid him leap into the
sea from the lugger's side, and taught him to feel confidence in the
water, he had never felt so much at home as now. He was clothed, but
the strong current bore him along, and the slightest movement of his
limbs kept him with his nostrils clear of the golden-spangled water.
What should he do?
He looked seaward, and there, right off the harbour mouth, was a
lantern. He could not make out the shape of the boat; but his guilty
conscience suggested that it was one placed there by the police for his
capture; shoreward he could see other moving lights, and he knew as well
as if he were there that they were boat lanterns, and that people were
putting off in pursuit.
It did not seem to occur to him that they would be essaying to save him;
he had committed an offence against the law, and in his then frame of
mind he could only admit one thought in connection with them into his
brain, and that was that any boat's crew which pushed off would have but
one idea--to make every effort to capture him, and so he swam, letting
the swift tide carry him where it would.
Shouts arose, sounding faint and strange as they came from where the
lanterns gleamed faintly; and there was an answering hail from the light
off the harbour--the light toward which he was being borne.
"They'll see me," he thought, and he made a few vigorous strokes to turn
aside, but gave up directly, as he felt it possible that he might be
carried by in the darkness.
To his horror, he found that he would be taken so close, that he could
easily swim to and touch the boat. For one moment fear swayed him of
another kind, and he felt that he must give up.
"Better be taken aboard to prison than drown," he muttered; and he swam
toward the boat.
"Better be drowned then taken off to prison," he said the next moment;
and then, "why should I drown?"
His confidence returned as he was borne nearer and nearer to the lugger
riding here to its buoy; and he could hear the voices of the men on
board talking eagerly as they gazed shoreward.
"Keep a bright look-out," said a rough voice; and Harry ceased swimming
after turning over on his back, and let the current bear him swiftly and
silently along.
The spangled water seemed hardly disturbed by his presence as he neared
the light, then saw it eclipsed by the boat's hull, just as he felt that
he must be seen. Then he was past the boat, and in a few seconds the
light reappeared from the other side, shining full upon his white face,
but the men were looking in the other direction and he was not seen.
Once more the horror of drowning came upon him, and he turned on his
face to swim back. It was only a momentary sensation, and as he swam
and felt his power in the water he closed the lips firmly that had
parted to hail, and swam on.
The shouts came and were answered from time to time, he could hear the
regular rattle and beat of an oar, and then the blue light flashed out
brilliantly, and as he raised himself at each long steady stroke he
could see quite a crowd of figures had gathered on the pier, and he was
startled to see how far he was from the shore. And all this time there
upon his left was the bright red harbour-light, glaring at him like an
eye, which seemed to be watching him and waiting to see him drown. At
times it looked to be so lifelike that it appeared to blink at him, and
as he swam on he ceased to gaze at the dull yellow light of the moving
lanterns, and kept on watching that redder eye-like lamp.
The blue light blazed for a time like a brilliant star and then died
out; the shouts of the men in the boat floated to him, and the lights of
the town grew farther away as he still swam steadily on with a sea of
stars above him, and another concave of stars apparently below; on his
right the open sea, and on his left, where the dull land was, arose a
jagged black line against the starry sky showing the surface of the
cliff.
"What shall I do?" he said to himself, as he looked back at light after
light moving slowly on the water, but all far behind him, for he was, as
he well knew, in one of the swiftest currents running due east of the
quay, and for a distance from that point due south. It was a hard
question to answer. He might swim on for an hour--he felt as if he
could swim for two--and what then?
He could not tell, but all the time the tide was bearing him beyond the
reach of pursuit so fast that the hails grew more faint, and every
minute now the roar of the surf grew plainer.
Should he swim ashore--land--and escape?