"If you have tears, prepare to shed them now."
--_Julius Caesar._
"Eyes, look your last;
Arms, take your last embrace!"
--_Romeo and Juliet._
THE night closes in, the rain has ceased, or only now and then declares
itself in fitful bursts, but still the wind rages and the storm beats
upon land and sea, as though half its fury is not yet expended. The
clouds are scudding hurriedly toward the West, and now and then, as they
separate, one catches a glimpse of a pale, dying moon trying to shine in
the dark vaults above, her sickly gleam only rendering more terrible the
aspect of the land below.
Still the lightning comes and goes, and the thunder kills the sacred
calm of night; Dulce and Julia, standing in the window, gaze fearfully
towards the angry heavens, and speak to each other in whispers. Portia,
who is sitting in an arm-chair, with her colorless face uplifted and her
head thrown back, is quite silent, waiting with a kind of morbid longing
for each returning flash. The very children are subdued, and, lying in a
pretty group upon the hearth-rug, forget to laugh or play, or do
anything save cry aloud, "Ah! wasn't _that_ a big one?" when the
lightning comes, or, "That was the loudest one yet," when the deafening
thunder rolls.
The men are standing in another window, talking in low tones of Fabian's
exculpation, when Fabian himself comes in, eagerly, excitedly, and so
unlike the Fabian of old that Portia gazes at him in silent wonder.
"There's a ship in sore trouble down there," he says, pointing as though
he can see the sea down below, where now the angry surf is rolling in,
mountains high, hoarsely roaring as it comes. "Brown from the
coast-guard station has just run up to tell us of it. They are about to
man the life-boat; who will come down to the beach with me?"
They have all come forward by this time, and now the men, going eagerly
to seize on any coats and hats nearest to them, make themselves ready to
go down and render any assistance that may be required of them. The
station is but a little one, the coast-guards few, and of late a sort of
intermittent fever has laid many of the fishermen low, so that their
help may, for all they yet can know, be sorely needed.
Fabian, who has been delayed in many ways, is almost the last to leave
the house. Hurrying now to the doorway, he is stopped by a slight
figure, that coming up to him in the gloom of the night, that rushes in
upon him from the opened hall-door, seems like some spirit of the storm.
It is Portia. Her face is very white, her lips are trembling, but her
eyes are full of a strange, feverish fire.
"May I go, too? Do not prevent me," she says, in an agitated tone,
laying her hand upon his arm. "I _must_ go, I cannot stay here alone;
thinking, thinking."
"You!" interrupts he; "and on such a night as this! Certainly not. Go
back to the drawing-room at once." Involuntarily he puts out his hand
across the doorway, as though to bar her egress. Then suddenly
recollection forces itself upon him, he drops his extended arm, and
coldly averts his eyes from hers.
"I beg your pardon," he says; "Why should I dictate to you? You will do
as you please, of course; by what right do I advise or forbid you?"
Oppressed by the harshness of his manner and his determined coldness,
that amounts almost to dislike, Portia makes no reply. When first he
spoke, his words, though unloving, had still been full of a rough regard
for her well-being, but his sudden change to the indifferent tone of an
utter stranger had struck cold upon her heart. Cast down and
disheartened, she now shrinks a little to one side, and by a faint
gesture of the hand motions him to the open door.
As though unconscious, or cruelly careless of the wound he has
inflicted, Fabian turns away from her and goes out into the sullen,
stormy night, and, reaching the side-path that leads direct through the
wood to the shore, is soon lost to sight.
Upon the beach dark forms are hurrying to and fro. Now and then can be
heard the sound of a distant signal-gun; small knots of fishermen are
congregated together, and can be seen talking anxiously when the lurid
lightning, flashing overhead, breaks in upon the darkness.
There is terrible confusion everywhere. Hurried exclamations and shrill
cries of fear and pity rise above the angry moaning of the wind, as now
and then a faint lull comes in the storm; then, too, can be heard the
bitter sobs and lamentations of two women, who are clinging to their
men, as though by their weak arms they would hold them from battling
with the waves to-night.
The sea is dashing itself in wildest fury against rock and boulder, and
rushing in headlong up from the sands only to recede again in haste, as
though in a hurry to fly back again to swell the power of the cruel
waves that would willingly deal out death with every stroke.
The clouds, having changed from black to murky yellow, are hanging
heavily in mid-air, as though undecided as to whether they will not fall
in a body and so overwhelm the trembling earth. The spray, dashed inland
by the terrific force of the wind, lighting on the lips of those who
stand with straining eyes looking seaward, fills their mouths with its
saltness, and blinds their aching sight.
All the people from the little village are on the shore, and are talking
and gesticulating violently. Some of them have fathers, brothers, and,
perhaps, "nearer and dearer ones still than all others," on the point of
incurring deathly danger to-night. Some of them are standing, with
clinched hands and stony eyes, watching as though fascinated by the
cruel, crawling sea, as it runs up to their feet, gaily, boisterously,
heedless of the unutterable misery in their pallid faces. But for the
most part, people are full of energy, and are shouting from one to the
other, and examining ropes or asking eager questions of grizzled old
sailors, who, with plug in cheek and stoical features, are staring at
the sea.
"Where is the ship?" asks Dicky Browne, laying his hand on the arm of
one of those ancient mariners to steady himself, while the old salt, who
is nearly thrice his age, stands steady as a rock.
"Close by; a schooner from some furrin' port, with wine, they say." So
shouts the old man back again.
"And the life-boat?"
"Is manned an' away. 'Twill be a tussle to-night, sir; no boat can live
in such a sea, I'm thinking. Hark to the roar of it."
The dull moon, forcing itself through the hanging clouds, casts at this
moment a pallid gleam upon the turbid ocean, making the terrors of the
hour only more terrible. Now at last they can see the doomed vessel; the
incessant dashing of the waves is slowly tearing it in pieces; some
figure with flowing hair can be seen near one of the dismantled masts.
Is it a woman? and what is that she holds aloft?--a child! a little
child!
The agony increases. Some run along the beach in frantic impotency,
calling upon heaven to show pity now, in tones that even pierce the
ghastly howling of the wind. Anon, the quivering lightning comes again,
shedding a blue radiance over all.
Twice has the life-boat been repulsed and beaten back, in spite of the
strenuous efforts of its gallant crew. The second time a cry goes up
that strikes dismay to the hearts of those around, as a man is laid upon
the damp beach, who had gone forth full of courage with his fellows, but
now lies stiffening into the marble calm of death.
Dulce, who has run down to the strand without a word to any one, and who
is now standing a little apart with Roger's arm round her, hearing this
unearthly cry, covers her face with her hands and shivers violently in
every limb. The darting lightning has shown her the ghastly outline of
the poor, brave figure on the sand, now hushed in its last sleep.
At this moment, Portia, creeping up to where they are standing, with
hands uplifted to her forehead, tries to pierce the gloom. The spray
from a projecting rock being flung back upon them, drenches them
thoroughly. Roger, putting out his hand hurriedly, draws Dulce out of
its reach, and would have persuaded Portia to come to a more sheltered
spot, but she resists his entreaty, and, waving him from her
impatiently, still continues her eye-search for something that she
evidently supposes to be upon the beach. Where she is standing, a shadow
from a huge rock so covers her that she is invisible to any comer.
Now some one is advancing towards them through the darkness and clinging
mist. Dulce, who is sitting on the ground and weeping bitterly, does not
see him, but Roger goes quickly toward him. It is Fabian, pale, but
quite composed, and with a certain high resolve in his dark eyes. There
is, indeed, in this settled resolve something that might be almost
termed gladness.
"Ah! it is you," he says, hurriedly beckoning to Roger to come farther
away from Dulce, which sign Roger obeying brings both him and Fabian a
degree nearer to Portia. Yet, standing motionless as she does within the
gloom, they neither see her nor feel her presence.
"Here, catch my watch," says Fabian, quickly, in a business-like tone;
"and," with a short laugh, "keep it if I don't get back." He flings him
the watch as he speaks.
"Where are you going?" asks Roger, breathlessly, "where?"
"With those fellows in the life-boat. They want another hand now poor
Jenkins has been bowled over, and I shall go; they are losing heart, but
my going with them will change all that. Tell Dulce--"
"You _shall_ not go!" cries Roger, frantically. "It is throwing away
your life. There are those whose lives can be better spared; let _them_
go. Let _me_ go. Fabian, think of that old man at home."
"My dear fellow, don't bury me in such a hurry," says Fabian, lightly.
"These poor fellows below have wives and families depending on them, and
no one implores them not to go. I will take my chance with them. Now
listen--"
"But not alone!" says Roger; "you shall not go alone. I will go with
you. To venture in such a sea--but, of course, that should not be
considered. Well, come then, come!" The poor boy, in spite of himself,
does consider it, but bravely pushes forward in the vague thought that
if he goes he may be of use to his friend, his brother.
"Impossible!" says Fabian. "There is not room for another. If we come
back again unsuccessful, I promise you, you shall try your chance then.
Here, don't look so gloomy, but hold my coat, and keep it dry, as I
daresay I shall be chilly enough when I get back to you."
He speaks with the utmost cheerfulness, indeed with a subdued gayety
that might emanate from a quiet man just starting on a pleasurable
expedition.
"Do you know the danger?" says Roger, in a broken voice, clinging to his
hand, but feeling that all remonstrance will be in vain.
"Tut! why should there be more danger for me than for another? Now go
back to her--she is there, is she not? my _dear_ little Dulce. Tell her
from me-- No!--tell her nothing. Good-by, old man; wish me a safe return
till I come; and--and--be good to her--always love her--"
He turns abruptly aside, and, springing down from the rock where he has
been standing, finds himself again on the beach. He is hurrying once
more toward the boat, which having sustained some slight injuries in its
last attempt is not quite seaworthy, but requires some looking after by
the men before they can start afresh, when he is stopped by the pressure
of two soft hands upon his arm.
Turning, he looks into Portia's eyes. She is haggard, ghastly in her
pallor, but unspeakably beautiful. Her fair hair, having come undone,
is waving lightly in the tempestuous wind. Her lips are parted.
"You are not going _out there_?" she says, pointing with a shudder to
the tumultuous waves, and speaking in a tone so full of agony and
reckless misery that it chills him. "You _shall_ not! Do you hear?
Fabian! Fabian! listen to me."
It is so dark and wild that no one can see her; no ears but his can
hear. She flings herself in a passion of despair upon her knees before
him, and encircles him with her arms.
"My darling! My best beloved, stay with me!" she cries, wildly. "Hate
me--spurn me--live--_live_! that sea will tear you from me--it will
kill--"
Stooping over her, with a very gentle movement, but with determination,
he unclasps her clinging arms and raises her to her feet.
"You must not kneel there on the wet sand," he says, quietly; "and
forgive me if I remind you of it, but you will not care to remember all
this to-morrow."
"I shall not remember it to-morrow," replies she, in a strange, dreamy
tone, her hands falling nerveless at her sides. She does not seek to
touch or persuade him again, only gazes earnestly up at him, through the
wretched mist that enshrouds them, with a face that is as the faces of
the dead.
Upon his arm is a shawl one of the women below (he is very dearly
beloved in the village) had forced upon him an hour ago. He is bringing
it back now to return it to her before starting, but, a thought striking
him, he unfolds it, and crosses it over Portia's bosom.
"One of the women down there lent it to me," he says, coldly still, but
kindly. "Return it to her when you can."
With a little passionate gesture she flings it from her, letting it lie
on the ground at her feet.
"It is too late--the coldness of death is upon me," she says,
vehemently. Then in an altered tone, calmed by despair, she whispers,
slowly, "Fabian, if you _will_ die--forgive me first?"
"If there is anything to forgive, I have done so long ago. But there is
nothing."
"Is there nothing in the thought that I love you, either? Has not this
knowledge power to drag you back from the grave?"
"'Too late for the balm when the heart is broke,'"
quotes he, sadly.
"And yet you loved me once," she says, quickly.
"I love you now as I never loved you," returns he, with sudden, eager
passion. Her arms are round his neck, her head is thrown back, her
lovely eyes, almost terrible now in their intensity, are gazing into
his. Instinctively his arms close around her--he bends forward.
A shout from the beach! The boat is launched, and they only await him to
go upon their perilous journey. When death is near, small things of
earth grow even less.
"They call me! All is over now between us," he murmurs, straining her to
his heart. Then he puts her a little away from him--still holding
her--and looks once more into her large, tearless eyes. "If life on
earth is done," he says, solemnly, "then in heaven, my soul, we meet
again!"
He lays his lips on hers.
"In heaven, my love, and soon!" returns she, very quietly, and so they
part!
* * * * *
It is but a little half-hour afterwards when they bring him back again,
and lay him gently and in silence upon the wet sand--cold and dead! Some
spar had struck him, they hardly know what, and had left him as they
brought him home.
Many voices are uplifted at this sad return, but all grow hushed and
quiet as a girl with bare head presses her way resolutely through the
crowd, and, moving aside those who would mercifully have delayed her,
having reached her dead, sits down upon the sand beside him, and,
lifting his head in her arms, dank and dripping with sea-foam, lays it
tenderly upon her knees. Stooping over it, she presses it lovingly
against her breast, and with tender fingers smooths back from the pale
forehead the short, wet masses of his dark hair. She is quite calm, her
fingers do not even tremble, but there is a strange, strange look in her
great eyes.
_His_ eyes are closed. No ugly stain of blood mars the beauty of his
face. He lies calm and placid in her embrace, as though wrapt in softest
slumber--but oh! how irresponsive to the touch that once would have
thrilled his every sense with rapture!
There is something so awful in the muteness of her despair, that a
curious hush falls upon those grouped around her--and him. The whole
scene is so fraught with a weird horror, that when one woman in the
background bursts into bitter weeping, she is pushed out of sight, as
though emotion of a demonstrative nature is out of place just here.
Noisy grief can have no part in this hopeless sorrow.
Dicky Browne, bending over her (Roger has taken Dulce home), says:
"Oh, Portia! that it should end like this, and just now--_now_, when
life had opened out afresh for him!" His voice is choked and almost
inaudible. Now that he is gone, they all know how dear he has been to
them, how interwoven with theirs has been his quiet melancholy life.
"I knew it," says Portia, not quickly, but yet with some faint, soft
vehemence. "I am not surprised, I am not grieved." She whispers
something else after this repeatedly, and Dicky, bending lower, hears
the words, "And soon--and soon." She repeats them in an ecstatic
undertone; there is joy and an odd _certainty_ in it. They are the last
words she ever spoke to _him_.
"He is very cold," she says then, with a little shiver.
Sir Mark, seeing the tears are running down Dicky's cheeks and that he
is incapable of saying anything further, pushes him gently to one side,
and murmurs something in Portia's ear. She seems quite willing to do
anything they may desire.
"Yes, yes. He must come home. It will be better. I will come home with
him." And then with a long-drawn sigh, "Poor Uncle Christopher!" This is
the last time her thoughts ever wander away from her dead love. "It will
be well to take him away from the cruel sea," she says, lifting her eyes
to the rough but kindly faces of the boatmen who surround her. "But,"
piteously, "oh! do not _hurt_ him!"
"Never fear, missy," says one old sailor, in a broken voice; and a young
fellow, turning aside, whispers to a comrade that he was "her man" in
tones of heartfelt pity.
Still keeping his head within her arms, she rises slowly to her knees,
and then the men, careful to humor her, so lift the body that she--even
when she has gained her feet--has still this dear burden in her keeping.
At the very last, when they have laid him upon the rude bier they have
constructed for him in a hurry, she still hesitates, and regards with
anguish the hard spot where she must lay her burden down.
She gazes distressfully around her, and then plucks with a little
mournful, helpless fashion at a dainty, fleecy thing that lies close to
her throat, and is her only covering from the angry blast. One of the
women divining her purpose, presses forward, and, in silence, folds her
own woollen shawl and lays it on the bier, and then unfastening the
white Shetland fabric round Portia's neck, lays that upon her own
offering, so that the dead man's cheek will rest on it. Her womanly soul
has grasped the truth, that the girl wants his resting-place to be made
softer by some gift of hers; and when her task is completed, and the
men, gathering up their load, silently prepare to move with it towards
the old Court, Portia turns upon this woman a smile so sweet, so full of
gratitude, that she breaks into bitter weeping, and, flinging her apron
over her honest, kindly, sunburnt face, runs hurriedly away.
"She was his lass. Poor soul! poor soul!" says another woman in a hushed
tone, and with deep pathos.
Holding his dead hand in hers, Portia, with steady steps, walks beside
the rough bier, and so the sad procession winds its solemn way up to the
old Court, with Sir Mark at its head and Dicky Browne at his feet, and
Portia, with bare uplifted head and wrapt eyes, still clinging fondly to
the poor clay, so well beloved by all.
Silently, with breaking hearts, they carry him into the grand old hall,
and lay him reverently upon the marble flooring. Silently, they gaze
upon his unmarred beauty. Not a sound--not a sob--disturbs the sacred
stillness. Portia, always with his hand in hers, falls upon her knees,
and, pressing it against her breast, raises her eyes devoutly
heavenward. One by one, they all withdraw--Sir Mark, to break the
terrible news to the old man. She is alone with her dead! With a little
sigh she crouches close to him, and lays her cheek against his. The icy
contact conveys no terror to her mind. She does not shrink from him, but
softly, tenderly, caresses him from time to time, and yet he moves not,
nor wakens into life beneath her gentle touch. Truly,
"After life's fitful fever, he sleeps well."