A SMALL ADVENTURE.
The next morning Harry came with the clothes. But Joe did not go to
church. Neither did Agnes make her appearance that morning. They were
both present at the evening service, however.
When we came out of church, it was cloudy and dark, and the wind was
blowing cold from the sea. The sky was covered with one cloud, but the
waves tossing themselves against the rocks, flashed whiteness out of
the general gloom. As the tide rose the wind increased. It was a night
of surly temper--hard and gloomy. Not a star cracked the blue
above--there was no blue; and the wind was _gurly_; I once heard that
word in Scotland, and never forgot it.
After one of our usual gatherings in Connie's room, which were much
shorter here because of the evening service in summer, I withdrew till
supper should be ready.
Now I have always had, as I think I have incidentally stated before, a
certain peculiar pleasure in the surly aspects of nature. When I was a
young man this took form in opposition and defiance; since I had begun
to grow old the form had changed into a sense of safety. I welcomed
such aspects, partly at least, because they roused my faith to look
through and beyond the small region of human conditions in which alone
the storm can be and blow, and thus induced a feeling like that of the
child who lies in his warm crib and listens to the howling of one of
these same storms outside the strong-built house which yet trembles at
its fiercer onsets: the house is not in danger; or, if it be, that is
his father's business, not his. Hence it came that, after supper, I put
on my great-coat and travelling-cap, and went out into the ill-tempered
night--speaking of it in its human symbolism.
I meant to have a stroll down to the breakwater, of which I have yet
said little, but which was a favourite resort, both of myself and my
children. At the further end of it, always covered at high water, was
an outlying cluster of low rocks, in the heart of which the lord of the
manor, a noble-hearted Christian gentleman of the old school, had
constructed a bath of graduated depth--an open-air swimming-pool--the
only really safe place for men who were swimmers to bathe in. Thither I
was in the habit of taking my two little men every morning, and bathing
with them, that I might develop the fish that was in them; for, as
George Herbert says:
"Man is everything,
And more: he is a tree, yet bears no fruit;
A beast, yet is, or should be, more;"
and he might have gone on to say that he is, or should be, a fish as
well.
It will seem strange to any reader who can recall the position of my
Connie's room, that the nearest way to the breakwater should be through
that room; but so it was. I mention the fact because I want my readers
to understand a certain peculiarity of the room. By the side of the
window which looked out upon the breakwater was a narrow door,
apparently of a closet or cupboard, which communicated, however, with a
narrow, curving, wood-built passage, leading into a little wooden hut,
the walls of which were by no means impervious to the wind, for they
were formed of outside-planks, with the bark still upon them. From this
hut one or two little windows looked seaward, and a door led out on the
bit of sward in which lay the flower-bed under Connie's window. From
this spot again a door in the low wall and thick hedge led out on the
downs, where a path wound along the cliffs that formed the side of the
bay, till, descending under the storm-tower, it brought you to the root
of the breakwater.
This mole stretched its long strong low back to a rock a good way out,
breaking the force of the waves, and rendering the channel of a small
river, that here flowed into the sea across the sands from the mouth of
the canal, a refuge from the Atlantic. But it was a roadway often hard
to reach. In fair weather even, the wind falling as the vessel rounded
the point of the breakwater into the calm of the projecting headlands,
the under-current would sometimes dash her helpless on the rocks.
During all this heavenly summer there had been no thought or fear of
any such disaster. The present night was a hint of what weather would
yet come.
When I went into Connie's room, I found her lying in bed a very picture
of peace. But my entrance destroyed the picture.
"Papa," she said, "why have you got your coat on? Surely you are not
going out to-night. The wind is blowing dreadfully."
"Not very dreadfully, Connie. It blew much worse the night we found
your baby."
"But it is very dark."
"I allow that; but there is a glimmer from the sea. I am only going on
the breakwater for a few minutes. You know I like a stormy night quite
as much as a fine one."
"I shall be miserable till you come home, papa."
"Nonsense, Connie. You don't think your father hasn't sense to take
care of himself! Or rather, Connie, for I grant that is poor ground of
comfort, you don't think I can go anywhere without my Father to take
care of me?"
"But there is no occasion--is there, papa?"
"Do you think I should be better pleased with my boys if they shrunk
from everything involving the least possibility of danger because there
was no occasion for it? That is just the way to make cowards. And I am
certain God would not like his children to indulge in such moods of
self-preservation as that. He might well be ashamed of them. The
fearful are far more likely to meet with accidents than the courageous.
But really, Connie, I am almost ashamed of talking so. It is all your
fault. There is positively no ground for apprehension, and I hope you
won't spoil my walk by the thought that my foolish little girl is
frightened."
"I will be good--indeed I will, papa," she said, holding up her mouth
to kiss me.
I left her room, and went through the wooden passage into the bark hut.
The wind roared about it, shook it, and pawed it, and sung and whistled
in the chinks of the planks. I went out and shut the door. That moment
the wind seized upon me, and I had to fight with it. When I got on the
path leading along the edge of the downs, I felt something lighter than
any feather fly in my face. When I put up my hand, I found my cheek
wet. Again and again I was thus assailed, but when I got to the
breakwater I found what it was. They were flakes of foam, bubbles
worked up into little masses of adhering thousands, which the wind blew
off the waters and across the downs, carrying some of them miles
inland. When I reached the breakwater, and looked along its ridge
through the darkness of the night, I was bewildered to see a whiteness
lying here and there in a great patch upon its top. They were but
accumulations of these foam-flakes, like soap-suds, lying so thick that
I expected to have to wade through them, only they vanished at the
touch of my feet. Till then I had almost believed it was snow I saw. On
the edge of the waves, in quieter spots, they lay like yeast, foaming
and working. Now and then a little rush of water from a higher wave
swept over the top of the broad breakwater, as with head bowed sideways
against the wind, I struggled along towards the rock at its end; but I
said to myself, "The tide is falling fast, and salt water hurts
nobody," and struggled on over the huge rough stones of the mighty
heap, outside which the waves were white with wrath, inside which they
had fallen asleep, only heaving with the memory of their late unrest. I
reached the tall rock at length, climbed the rude stair leading up to
the flagstaff, and looked abroad, if looking it could be called, into
the thick dark. But the wind blew so strong on the top that I was glad
to descend. Between me and the basin where yesterday morning I had
bathed in still water and sunshine with my boys, rolled the deathly
waves. I wandered on the rough narrow space yet uncovered, stumbling
over the stones and the rocky points between which they lay, stood here
and there half-meditating, and at length, finding a sheltered nook in a
mass of rock, sat with the wind howling and the waves bursting around
me. There I fell into a sort of brown study--almost a half-sleep.
But I had not sat long before I came broad awake, for I heard voices,
low and earnest. One I recognised as Joe's voice. The other was a
woman's. I could not tell what they said for some time, and therefore
felt no immediate necessity for disclosing my proximity, but sat
debating with myself whether I should speak to them or not. At length,
in a lull of the wind, I heard the woman say--I could fancy with a
sigh--
"I'm sure you'll du what is right, Joe. Don't 'e think o' me, Joe."
"It's just of you that I du think, Aggy. You know it ben't for my sake.
Surely you know that?"
There was no answer for a moment. I was still doubting what I had best
do--go away quietly or let them know I was there--when she spoke again.
There was a momentary lull now in the noises of both wind and water,
and I heard what she said well enough.
"It ben't for me to contradict you, Joe. But I don't think you be going
to die. You be no worse than last year. Be you now, Joe?"
It flashed across me how once before, a stormy night and darkness had
brought me close to a soul in agony. Then I was in agony myself; now
the world was all fair and hopeful around me--the portals of the world
beyond ever opening wider as I approached them, and letting out more of
their glory to gladden the path to their threshold. But here were two
souls straying in a mist which faith might roll away, and leave them
walking in the light. The moment was come. I must speak.
"Joe!" I called out.
"Who's there?" he cried; and I heard him start to his feet.
"Only Mr. Walton. Where are you?"
"We can't be very far off," he answered, not in a tone of any pleasure
at finding me so nigh.
I rose, and peering about through the darkness, found that they were a
little higher up on the same rock by which I was sheltered.
"You mustn't think," I said, "that I have been eavesdropping. I had no
idea anyone was near me till I heard your voices, and I did not hear a
word till just the last sentence or two."
"I saw someone go up the Castle-rock," said Joe; "but I thought he was
gone away again. It will be a lesson to me."
"I'm no tell-tale, Joe," I returned, as I scrambled up the rock. "You
will have no cause to regret that I happened to overhear a little. I am
sure, Joe, you will never say anything you need be ashamed of. But what
I heard was sufficient to let me into the secret of your trouble. Will
you let me talk to Joe, Agnes? I've been young myself, and, to tell the
truth, I don't think I'm old yet."
"I am sure, sir," she answered, "you won't be hard on Joe and me. I
don't suppose there be anything wrong in liking each other, though we
can't be--married."
She spoke in a low tone, and her voice trembled very much; yet there
was a certain womanly composure in her utterance. "I'm sure it's very
bold of me to talk so," she added, "but Joe will tell you all about it."
I was close beside them now, and fancied I saw through the dusk the
motion of her hand stealing into his.
"Well, Joe, this is just what I wanted," I said. "A woman can be braver
than a big smith sometimes. Agnes has done her part. Now you do yours,
and tell me all about it."
No response followed my adjuration. I must help him.
"I think I know how the matter lies, Joe. You think you are not going
to live long, and that therefore you ought not to marry. Am I right?"
"Not far off it, sir," he answered.
"Now, Joe," I said, "can't we talk as friends about this matter? I have
no right to intrude into your affairs--none in the least--except what
friendship gives me. If you say I am not to talk about it, I shall be
silent. To force advice upon you would be as impertinent as useless."
"It's all the same, I'm afraid, sir. My mind has been made up for a
long time. What right have I to bring other people into trouble? But I
take it kind of you, sir, though I mayn't look over-pleased. Agnes
wants to hear your way of it. I'm agreeable."
This was not very encouraging. Still I thought it sufficient ground for
proceeding.
"I suppose you will allow that the root of all Christian behaviour is
the will of God?"
"Surely, sir."
"Is it not the will of God, then, that when a man and woman love each
other, they should marry?"
"Certainly, sir--where there be no reasons against it."
"Of course. And you judge you see reason for not doing so, else you
would?"
"I do see that a man should not bring a woman into trouble for the sake
of being comfortable himself for the rest of a few weary days."
Agnes was sobbing gently behind her handkerchief. I knew how gladly she
would be Joe's wife, if only to nurse him through his last illness.
"Not except it would make her comfortable too, I grant you, Joe. But
listen to me. In the first place, you don't know, and you are not
required to know, when you are going to die. In fact, you have nothing
to do with it. Many a life has been injured by the constant expectation
of death. It is life we have to do with, not death. The best
preparation for the night is to work while the day lasts, diligently.
The best preparation for death is life. Besides, I have known delicate
people who have outlived all their strong relations, and been left
alone in the earth--because they had possibly taken too much care of
themselves. But marriage is God's will, and death is God's will, and
you have no business to set the one over against, as antagonistic to,
the other. For anything you know, the gladness and the peace of
marriage may be the very means intended for your restoration to health
and strength. I suspect your desire to marry, fighting against the
fancy that you ought not to marry, has a good deal to do with the state
of health in which you now find yourself. A man would get over many
things if he were happy, that he cannot get over when he is miserable."
"But it's for Aggy. You forget that."
"I do not forget it. What right have you to seek for her another kind
of welfare than you would have yourself? Are you to treat her as if she
were worldly when you are not--to provide for her a comfort which
yourself you would despise? Why should you not marry because you have
to die soon?--if you _are_ thus doomed, which to me is by no means
clear. Why not have what happiness you may for the rest of your
sojourn? If you find at the end of twenty years that here you are after
all, you will be rather sorry you did not do as I say."
"And if I find myself dying at the end of six months'?"
"You will thank God for those six months. The whole thing, my dear
fellow, is a want of faith in God. I do not doubt you think you are
doing right, but, I repeat, the whole thing comes from want of faith in
God. You will take things into your own hands, and order them after a
preventive and self-protective fashion, lest God should have ordained
the worst for you, which worst, after all, would be best met by doing
his will without inquiry into the future; and which worst is no evil.
Death is no more an evil than marriage is."
"But you don't see it as I do," persisted the blacksmith.
"Of course I don't. I think you see it as it is not."
He remained silent for a little. A shower of spray fell upon us. He
started.
"What a wave!" he cried. "That spray came over the top of the rock. We
shall have to run for it."
I fancied that he only wanted to avoid further conversation.
"There's no hurry," I said. "It was high water an hour and a half ago."
"You don't know this coast, sir," returned he, "or you wouldn't talk
like that."
As he spoke he rose, and going from under the shelter of the rock,
looked along.
"For God's sake, Aggy!" he cried in terror, "come at once. Every other
wave be rushing across the breakwater as if it was on the level."
So saying, he hurried back, caught her by the hand, and began to draw
her along.
"Hadn't we better stay where we are?" I suggested.
"If you can stand the night in the cold. But Aggy here is delicate; and
I don't care about being out all night. It's not the tide, sir; it's a
ground swell--from a storm somewhere out at sea. That never asks no
questions about tide or no tide."
"Come along, then," I said. "But just wait one minute more. It is
better to be ready for the worst."
For I remembered that the day before I had seen a crowbar lying among
the stones, and I thought it might be useful. In a moment or two I had
found it, and returning, gave it to Joe. Then I took the girl's
disengaged hand. She thanked me in a voice perfectly calm and firm. Joe
took the bar in haste, and drew Agnes towards the breakwater.
Any real thought of danger had not yet crossed my mind. But when I
looked along the outstretched back of the mole, and saw a dim sheet of
white sweep across it, I felt that there was ground for his anxiety,
and prepared myself for a struggle.
"Do you know what to do with the crowbar, Joe?" I said, grasping my own
stout oak-stick more firmly.
"Perfectly," answered Joe. "To stick between the stones and hold on. We
must watch our time between the waves."
"You take the command, then, Joe," I returned. "You see better than I
do, and you know the ways of that raging wild beast there better than I
do. I will obey orders--one of which, no doubt, will be, not for wind
or sea to lose hold of Agnes--eh, Joe?"
Joe gave a grim enough laugh in reply, and we started, he carrying his
crowbar in his right hand towards the advancing sea, and I my oak-stick
in my left towards the still water within.
"Quick march!" said Joe, and away we went out on the breakwater.
Now the back of the breakwater was very rugged, for it was formed of
huge stones, with wide gaps between, where the waters had washed out
the cement, and worn their edges. But what impeded our progress secured
our safety.
"Halt!" cried Joe, when we were yet but a few yards beyond the shelter
of the rocks. "There's a topper coming."
We halted at the word of command, as a huge wave, with combing crest,
rushed against the far out-sloping base of the mole, and flung its
heavy top right over the middle of the mass, a score or two of yards in
front of us.
"Now for it!" cried Joe. "Run!"
We did run. In my mind there was just sense enough of danger to add to
the pleasure of the excitement. I did not know how much danger there
was. Over the rough worn stones we sped stumbling.
"Halt!" cried the smith once more, and we did halt; but this time, as
it turned out, in the middle front of the coming danger.
"God be with us!" I exclaimed, when the huge billow showed itself
through the night, rushing towards the mole. The smith stuck his
crowbar between two great stones. To this he held on with one hand, and
threw the other arm round Agnes's waist. I, too, had got my oak firmly
fixed, held on with one hand, and threw the other arm round Agnes. It
took but a moment.
"Now then!" cried Joe. "Here she comes! Hold on, sir. Hold on, Aggy!"
But when I saw the height of the water, as it rushed on us up the
sloping side of the mound, I cried out in my turn, "Down, Joe! Down on
your face, and let it over us easy! Down Agnes!"
They obeyed. We threw ourselves across the breakwater, with our heads
to the coming foe, and I grasped my stick close to the stones with all
the power of a hand that was then strong. Over us burst the mighty
wave, floating us up from the stones where we lay. But we held on, the
wave passed, and we sprung gasping to our feet.
"Now, now!" cried Joe and I together, and, heavy as we were, with the
water pouring from us, we flew across the remainder of the heap, and
arrived, panting and safe, at the other end, ere one wave more had
swept the surface. The moment we were in safety we turned and looked
back over the danger we had traversed. It was to see a huge billow
sweep the breakwater from end to end. We looked at each other for a
moment without speaking.
"I believe, sir," said Joe at length, with slow and solemn speech, "if
you hadn't taken the command at that moment we should all have been
lost."
"It seems likely enough, when I look back on it. For one thing, I was
not sure that my stick would stand, so I thought I had better grasp it
low down."
"We were awfully near death," said Joe.
"Nearer than you thought, Joe; and yet we escaped it. Things don't go
all as we fancy, you see. Faith is as essential to manhood as
foresight--believe me, Joe. It is very absurd to trust God for the
future, and not trust him for the present. The man who is not anxious
is the man most likely to do the right thing. He is cool and collected
and ready. Our Lord therefore told his disciples that when they should
be brought before kings and rulers, they were to take no thought what
answer they should make, for it would be given them when the time came."
We were climbing the steep path up to the downs. Neither of my
companions spoke.
"You have escaped one death together," I said at length: "dare another."
Still neither of them returned an answer. When we came near the
parsonage, I said, "Now, Joe, you must go in and get to bed at once. I
will take Agnes home. You can trust me not to say anything against you?"
Joe laughed rather hoarsely, and replied: "As you please, sir. Good
night, Aggie. Mind you get to bed as fast as you can."
When I returned from giving Agnes over to her parents, I made haste to
change my clothes, and put on my warm dressing-gown. I may as well
mention at once, that not one of us was the worse for our ducking. I
then went up to Connie's room.
"Here I am, you see, Connie, quite safe."
"I've been lying listening to every blast of wind since you went out,
papa. But all I could do was to trust in God."
"Do you call that _all_, Connie? Believe me, there is more power in
that than any human being knows the tenth part of yet. It is indeed
_all_."
I said no more then. I told my wife about it that night, but we were
well into another month before I told Connie.
When I left her, I went to Joe's room to see how he was, and found him
having some gruel. I sat down on the edge of his bed, and said,
"Well, Joe, this is better than under water. I hope you won't be the
worse for it."
"I don't much care what comes of me, sir. It will be all over soon."
"But you ought to care what comes of you, Joe. I will tell you why. You
are an instrument out of which ought to come praise to God, and,
therefore, you ought to care for the instrument."
"That way, yes, sir, I ought."
"And you have no business to be like some children who say, 'Mamma
won't give me so and so,' instead of asking her to give it them."
"I see what you mean, sir. But really you put me out before the young
woman. I couldn't say before her what I meant. Suppose, you know, sir,
there was to come a family. It might be, you know."
"Of course. What else would you have?"
"But if I was to die, where would she be then?"
"In God's hands; just as she is now."
"But I ought to take care that she is not left with a burden like that
to provide for."
"O, Joe! how little you know a woman's heart! It would just be the
greatest comfort she could have for losing you--that's all. Many a
woman has married a man she did not care enough for, just that she
might have a child of her own to let out her heart upon. I don't say
that is right, you know. Such love cannot be perfect. A woman ought to
love her child because it is her husband's more than because it is her
own, and because it is God's more than either's. I saw in the papers
the other day, that a woman was brought before the Recorder of London
for stealing a baby, when the judge himself said that there was no
imaginable motive for her action but a motherly passion to possess the
child. It is the need of a child that makes so many women take to poor
miserable, broken-nosed lap-dogs; for they are self-indulgent, and
cannot face the troubles and dangers of adopting a child. They would if
they might get one of a good family, or from a respectable home; but
they dare not take an orphan out of the dirt, lest it should spoil
their silken chairs. But that has nothing to do with our argument. What
I mean is this, that if Agnes really loves you, as no one can look in
her face and doubt, she will be far happier if you leave her a
child--yes, she will be happier if you only leave her your name for
hers--than if you died without calling her your wife."
I took Joe's basin from him, and he lay down. He turned his face to the
wall. I waited a moment, but finding him silent, bade him good-night,
and left the room.
A month after, I married them.