A PLUNGE.
The park presented a gay and animated appearance. Crowds of pedestrians
were sauntering to and fro on the shores of the Serpentine to watch the
rapid and graceful evolutions of the skaters. Rings of spectators were
formed on the ice itself around the most practised proficients; while
without these exclusive circles little ragged urchins, some without
jackets, some minus hats or caps, amused themselves by gliding along
extensive slides—their cheeks glowing with the exercise, their faces
looking as full of enjoyment as that of the most aristocratic skater who
cut the figure S on the ice.
Clemence and her companion were much amused by the scene, though the
lady did not fail to remark in how many spots the warning post, marked
“Dangerous,” had been inserted, and to notice that the circles of
spectators on the Serpentine were beginning to be rapidly thinned, while
a very large majority of persons preferred _terra firma_ to the ice. The
wind had shifted to the west, the air had become sensibly milder, the
icicles which had hung from the trees were dripping to the earth like
tears, and the round, red sun, glowing like a fiery ball in the sky, was
making his influence to be felt.
It was some time before Clemence discovered those for whom her eye was
seeking amongst the crowds. She saw them at last on the frozen
Serpentine, walking together, their young countenances rosy with the
cold. Vincent was laughing and talking to his sister, imitating the
awkward movements of some skater whom he had seen making his _debût_ on
the ice, when he caught the eye of his step-mother, towards whom he
happened at the time to be approaching.
“I say, Loo, there’s that woman and her tame bear come to hunt after us,
as if we could not be safe unless tied to her apron-strings! I vote we
turn round sharp and cut them!”
“I think that I see some of my friends at the other side of the
Serpentine,” said Louisa; “I wish that we could get across to them,—but
only—did you not fancy that the ice just now gave a crack!” and she
grasped the boy’s arm in a little alarm.
“Oh, nonsense!” exclaimed Vincent; “the ice is as hard as a rock!”
A loud, clear halloo came ringing to them across the ice.
“I say, I won’t stand that; I am not accustomed to be hallooed to, as if
I were a cab-driver on a stand—”
“Or a dog,” suggested Louisa: “just look how the vulgar old man is
making signs to us to come off the ice.”
“He may shout himself hoarse, and flourish away till his arms ache,”
said Vincent, “we’ll stop here as long as we choose. Just come along
this way, Louisa.”
Again, as the young Effinghams turned their steps towards the further
shore of the Serpentine, again came that loud, warning halloo. It was
not unheard, but it was unheeded. Then Louisa stopped short, trembling
violently—there was a sudden crash—shriek—splash—and on the spot where
Clemence had a moment before beheld the two well-known forms on the
surface, with horror she could distinguish nothing but a black pool of
water, with an ill-defined margin of broken, jagged ice around it!
Her cry of anguish mingled with the short, stifled scream of the
miserable Louisa. Captain Thistlewood uttered no exclamation; before his
niece could realize what was passing beside her, he had flung his
great-coat at her feet, and, with the instinct of generous humanity, was
darting across the ice to the place where the Effinghams had
disappeared! He reached it while the air-bubbles were yet floating on
the surface of the fatal pool, and plunged in without an instant’s
hesitation. Clemence’s cries for help were bringing speedy assistance,
but they seemed to be unconsciously uttered. Almost petrified with
terror, she stood on the shore, watching with straining eyes and
blanched cheek that dark spot fraught with such fearful interest.
There is a hand grasping the ice!—yes!—no! the brittle substance has
broken under the drowning grasp—yet there it is again! and now—oh, thank
Heaven! a dripping head emerges!—then another!—a boy, supported by a
strong arm, his hair hanging in wet strands over his face, is clinging,
scrambling, on to the surface of the ice! Clemence stretches out her
arms, and, impelled by an irresistible impulse, springs forward several
paces on the frozen Serpentine, but is stayed by the firm grasp of one
of the spectators.
“He has dived again!—fine fellow! he is saving the lady!” cried many
voices. “Where are the officers of the Humane Society? Ah, here they
come! here they come! God speed them!” and, with a rumbling, rushing
sound, the machine on skates, invented by ingenious humanity to rescue
the drowning from death, is pushed rapidly on to the spot, and plunged
into the dark hole on whose brink, in an agony of apprehension, now
stands the shivering, gasping, dripping Vincent.
Moments appear hours to Clemence—all power of uttering a sound is
gone—the voices around her seem rather as if heard in the confusion of a
horrible dream, than as if actually striking upon her waking sense. Oh,
that it were but a dream!
“They can’t find ’em!—they must have floated under the ice,—got
entangled in the weeds!—’twill be too late—too late to save them!” Then
suddenly a loud, glad cheer burst from the excited spectators, as a
senseless form, with its wet garments clinging closely around it, and
long, clotted tresses streaming unconfined by the crushed and dripping
bonnet, was lifted triumphantly out of the water.
“She’s saved! she’s saved!” shouted a hundred voices; “but the brave
fellow!—the gallant old man!—they’ll never recover him alive!”
Clemence remained as if rooted to the spot, her lips parted, her hands
clasped, her soul gushing forth in one inarticulate prayer. Louisa was
carried to the society’s receiving-house, a large crowd accompanying her
to the door; but Clemence was not in the crowd. Vincent, likewise, would
not stir from the spot while the officers were redoubling their efforts
to find the body of the captain. Wringing his hands, the boy, with
passionate entreaties, promises, even tears, sought to stimulate the
exertions of any one and every one who could lend a hand to rescue his
brave preserver! After a space—a space, alas! how fearfully long—the ice
having been broken in various directions, and the drag let down again
and again, a heavy body was raised to the surface. There was not the
faintest sign of life in it, though the cold hand yet firmly grasped a
fragment of a black lace veil, such as Louisa had worn on that fatal
morning! Clemence read no hope on the faces of the experienced men who
lifted the body on the ice; but in that terrible moment she neither
trembled nor wept. Grasping eagerly at the last chance of restoring life
to the inanimate frame, struggling to keep down the feeling of despair
which was wrestling in her heart, she hastened with the bearers of the
body to the receiving-house, which was not far distant. Clemence was met
on the way by her own servant, the one who had followed Vincent and his
sister to the park.
“Miss Louisa has been brought back to life, ma’am,” said the man
eagerly; but even such good tidings fell dulled on the ear of Clemence
Effingham,—it seemed as if at that moment she could think of no one but
her uncle.
“Take her and your young master home at once,” was all that she could
say, as she hurried on, absorbed in anxiety so agonizing that the peril
of Louisa was half forgotten.
The servant touched his hat, and proceeded to obey; but nothing would
induce Vincent to return to his home while the fate of his preserver
hung in the balance. Louisa was conveyed to Belgrave Square in a cab;
but wet and half frozen as he was, the boy clung to the side of his
step-mother.
“They will restore him!—the warmth will restore him!—he will—oh! he
must!—he shall recover!” cried Vincent in an agony of grief.
“Every means will be tried,” said Clemence faintly; “we, Vincent,—we can
do nothing now but pray!”
Every means was indeed tried, every resource of science was exhausted,
but the vital spark had fled, and all was in vain! The pulse had
entirely ceased to beat,—not the faintest breath stirred the lungs—the
brave heart was stilled for ever! The death of the gallant old sailor
had been a fitting close for a life of active benevolence. Death had
come to him suddenly, but it had found him not unprepared; it had found
him in the path of duty; it had found him pressing onward toward heaven,
with his pilgrim staff in his hand—faith, hope, and charity in his
heart. He was taken away before the infirmities of age had dulled his
senses, bowed his frame, or chilled the warm affections of his heart;
and he was taken away in the very act of risking his life to save that
of a fellow-creature! Is there nothing enviable in such a departure?
Dark, heavy clouds had blotted out the sun from the sky, when Clemence
returned with Vincent to her home, a lifeless corpse in the vehicle
beside her. Her own calmness appeared strange to herself, but it was the
stunning effect of a terrible shock, which for a while had almost
paralyzed feeling. She was met in the hall by Arabella, who looked pale,
and whose manner betrayed considerable excitement.
“Louisa is very ill,—goes from one faint into another,—Aunt Selina has
sent for Dr. Howard!”
But not one word of sympathy to the bereaved Clemence—not one word of
regret for the brave old man! Arabella averted her eyes almost with a
shudder as the body was borne into the house. Clemence and Vincent saw
it reverently placed on the bed in the room which the captain had
occupied on the preceding night, and then, when the servants had quitted
the apartment, both sank on their knees beside it and wept.
Clemence’s burst of sorrow was violent, but brief; she folded her
step-son in her arms, drew him close and closer to her heart, and it was
like balm to her bleeding spirit to feel the boy’s tears on her neck.
“Oh!” cried Vincent passionately, “if I had not treated him so ill!—if I
had not laughed at him, mocked him, insulted him! And he will never know
how sorry I am! But he did not die saving me! no, no,—his life was not
lost for me!” the boy’s voice was choked in his sobs.
“My Vincent—it was God’s will—we must not murmur! We must think on the
happiness which we trust one day to share with him who has gone before
us. My care must now be for you—_he_ is beyond our aid! You must have
rest, and warmth, and dry clothes instantly, my Vincent; your hands are
cold as ice, your very lips colourless and white,—come with me at once
to your own room—your comfort must be my first thought now.”
And then, with the tenderness of a mother, Clemence tended her boy. She
insisted on Vincent’s at once retiring to rest, prepared a warm beverage
to restore circulation to his chilled and shivering frame, chafed his
numbed hands within her own, and spoke to him soothing words of
tenderness and love. Clemence left him at last dropping into slumber,
and then bent her rapid steps towards the apartment of Louisa, about
whom she had felt less anxiety, as knowing her to be under the care of
her sister and aunt.
Mrs. Effingham met Dr. Howard quitting the room, accompanied by Lady
Selina. The countenance of the physician was grave.
“The shock to so delicate a constitution has been very severe,” he said
in reply to a question from Clemence; “an increase of fever is to be
apprehended. I should certainly recommend that some one should sit up
with Miss Effingham during the night.”
“I will watch beside her,” said Clemence.
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