THE VISION
Down on the howling shore the great waves were hurling themselves in
vast cataracts of snow-white surf that shone, dimly radiant, in the
fitful moonlight. The sky was covered with broken clouds, and a rising
storm-wind blew in gusts along the cliffs. The peace of the night was
utterly shattered, the shining glory had departed. A wild and desolate
grandeur had succeeded it.
"Shouldn't wonder if there was some trouble tonight," said Adam, awaking
to the tumult.
"Lor' bless you!" said Mrs. Peck sensibly. "Wait till it comes."
The hint of impatience that marked her speech was not without reason,
for a gale was to Adam as the sound of a gun to a sporting-dog. It
invariably aroused him, even from the deepest slumber, to a state of
alert expectation that to a woman as hard-working as Mrs. Peck was most
exceptionally trying. When Adam scented disaster at sea there was no
peace for either. As she was wont to remark, being the wife of the
lifeboat coxswain wasn't all jam, not by any manner of means it wasn't.
She knew now, by the way Adam turned, and checked his breathing to
listen, that the final disturbance was not far off.
She herself feigned sleep, possibly in the hope of provoking him to
consideration for her weariness; but she knew the effort to be quite
futile even as she made it. Adam the coxswain was considerate only for
those who might be in peril. At the next heavy gust that rattled the
windows he flung the bedclothes back without the smallest thought for
his companion's comfort, and tumbled on to his feet.
"Just going to have a look round," he said. "I'll lay the fire in the
kitchen, and you be ready to light it in a jiffy if wanted!"
That was so like Adam. He could think of nothing but possible victims of
the storm. Mrs. Peck sniffed, and gathered the bedclothes back about her
in expressive silence. It was quite useless to argue with Adam when he
got the jumps. Experience had taught her that long since. She could only
resume her broken rest and hope that it might not be again disturbed.
Adam pulled on his clothes with his usual brisk deftness of movement and
went downstairs. The rising storm was calling him, and he could not be
deaf to the call. He had belonged to the lifeboat ever since he had come
to man's estate, and never a storm arose but he held himself ready for
service.
His first, almost instinctive, action was to take the key of the
lifeboat house from its nail in the kitchen. Then, whistling cheerily
below his breath, he set about laying the fire. The kettles were
already filled. Mrs. Peck always saw to that before retiring. There was
milk in the pantry, brandy in the cupboard. According to invariable
custom, all was in readiness for any possible emergency, and having
satisfied himself that this was the case, he thrust his bare feet into
boots and went to the door.
It had begun to rain. Great drops pattered down upon him as he emerged,
and he turned back to clap his sou'wester upon his head. Then, without
further preparation, he sallied forth.
As he went down the road that ran to the quay a terrible streak of
lightning reft the dark sky, and the wild crash of thunder that followed
drowned even the roaring babel of the sea.
It did not check his progress; he was never one to be easily daunted. It
was contrary to his very nature to seek shelter in a storm. He went
swinging on to the very edge of the quay, and there stood facing the
violence of the waves, the fierce turmoil of striving elements.
The tide was extraordinarily high--such a tide as he believed he had
never seen before in summer. He stood in the pouring rain and looked
first one way, then the other, with a quick birdlike scrutiny, but as
far as his eyes could pierce he saw only an empty desolation of waters.
There seemed none in need of his help that night.
"I wonder if Rufus is awake," he speculated to the angry tumult.
Nearly three miles out from the Spear Point there was a lighthouse with
a revolving light. That light shone towards him now, casting a weird
radiance across the tossing water, and as if in accompaniment to the
warning gleam he heard the deep toll of the bell-buoy that rocked upon
the swell.
Adam turned about. "I'll go and knock up Rufus," he decided. "It'd be a
shame to miss a night like this."
Again the lightning rent the sky, and the whole great outline of the
Spear Point was revealed in one awful second of intolerable radiance.
Adam's keen eye chanced to be upon it, and he saw it in such detail as
the strongest sunlight could never have achieved. The brightness
dazzled, almost shocked him, but there was something besides the
brightness that sent an odd sensation through him--a curious, sick
feeling as if he had suddenly received a blow between the shoulders. For
in that fraction of time he had seen something which reason, clamouring
against the evidence of his senses, declared to be the impossible. He
had seen a human figure--the figure of his son--clinging to the naked
face of the rock, hanging between sea and sky where scarcely a bird
could have found foothold, while something--a grey, indistinguishable
burden--hung limp across his shoulder, weighing him down.
The thunder was still rolling around him when with a great shake Adam
pulled himself together.
"I'm dreaming!" he told himself angrily. "A man couldn't ever climb the
Spear Point, let alone live on a ledge that wouldn't harbour a sea-gull
if he did. I'll go round to Rufus. I'll go round and knock him up."
With the words he tramped off through the rushing rain, and leaving the
quay, struck upwards along the cliff in the direction of the narrow path
that ran down to Rufus's dwelling above the Spear Point Caves.
Despite the spareness of his frame, he climbed the ascent with a
rapidity that made him gasp. The wind also was against him, blowing in
strong gusts, and the raging of the sea below was as the roaring of a
thousand torrents. The great waves boomed against the cliff far beyond
the summer watermark. They had long since covered the quicksand, and he
thought he felt the ground shake with the shock of them.
He reached at length the gap in the cliff that led down to the cottage,
and here he paused; for the descent was sharp, and the light that still
filtered through the dense storm-clouds was very dim. But in a few
seconds another great flash lit up the whole wild scene. He saw again
the Spear Point Rock standing out, scimitar-like, in the sea. The water
was dashing all around it. It stood up, grim and unapproachable, the
great waves flinging their mighty clouds of spray over its stark summit.
But--possibly because he viewed it from above instead of from below--he
saw naught beside that grand and futile struggle of the elements.
Reassured, he started in the rain and darkness down the twisting path
that led to his old home. He knew every foot of the way, but even so, he
stumbled once or twice in the gloom.
The roaring of the sea sounded terribly near when finally he reached the
little garden-gate and caught the ray of the lamp in the window.
Evidently it had awakened Rufus also. Almost unconsciously he quickened
his pace as he went up the path.
He reached the door and fumbled for the latch; but ere he found it, it
was flung open, and a strange and tragic figure met him on the
threshold.
"Ah!" cried a woman's voice. "It is you! Where--where is Rufus?"
Adam's keen and birdlike eyes nearly leapt from his head.
"Why--Columbine?" he said.
She was dressed in Rufus's suit of navy serge. It hung about her in
clumsy folds, and over her shoulders and about her snow-white throat her
glorious hair streamed like a black veil, still wet and shining in the
lamplight.
She flung out her hands to him in piteous appeal. "Oh, Adam!" she said.
"Have you seen them? Have you seen Rufus? He went--he went an hour
ago--to save Mr. Knight from the quicksand!"
Adam's quick brain leapt to instant activity. The girl's presence
baffled him, but it was no time for explanation. In some way she had
discovered Knight in danger, and had rushed to Rufus for help.
Then--then--that vision of his from the quay--that flash of
revelation--had been no dream, after all! He had seen Rufus indeed--and
probably for the last time in his life.
He stood, struck dumb for the moment, recalling every detail of the
clinging figure that had hung above the leaping waves. Then the tragedy
in Columbine's face made him pull himself together once more. He took
her trembling hands.
"It's no good, my girl," he said. "I seen him. Yes, I seen him. I didn't
believe my eyes, but I know now it was true. He was hanging on to a bit
of rock half-way up the Spear Point, and t'other chap was lying across
his shoulder. They've both been washed away by this, for the water's
still coming up. There's not the ghost of a chance for 'em. I say it
'cos I know--not the ghost of a chance!"
A wild cry broke from the girl's lips. She wrenched her hands free and
beat them upon her breast. Then suddenly a burst of wild tears came to
her. She leaned against the cottage wall and sobbed in an agony that
possessed her, soul and body.
Adam stood and looked at her. There was something terrible about the
abandonment of her grief. It made him feel that his own was almost
insignificant beside it. He had never seen any woman weep like that
before. The anguish of it went through his heart.
He moved at length, laid a very gentle hand upon her shaking shoulder.
"My girl--my girl!" he said. "Don't take on so! I never thought as you
cared a ha'p'orth for poor Rufus, though o' course I always knew as he
loved you like mad."
She bowed herself lower under his hand. "And now I've killed him!" she
gasped forth inarticulately. "I've killed him!"
"No, no, no!" protested Adam. "That ain't reasonable. Come, now--you're
distraught! You don't know what you're saying. My Rufus is a fine chap.
He'd take most any risk to save a life. He's got a big heart in him, and
he don't stop to count the cost."
She uncovered her face sharply and looked at him, so that he clearly saw
the ravages that her distress had wrought. "That wasn't what made him
go," she said. "He wouldn't have gone but for me. It was I as made him
go. But I thought he'd be in time. I hoped he'd be in time." Her voice
rose wildly; she wrung her hands. "Oh, can't you do anything? Can't you
take out the lifeboat? There must be some way--surely there must be some
way--of saving them!"
But Adam shook his head. "He's past our help," he said. "There's no boat
could live among them rocks in such a tide as this. We couldn't get
anywhere near. No--no, there's nothing we can do. The lad's gone--my
Rufus--finest chap along the shore, if he was my son. Never thought as
he'd go before me--never thought--never thought!"
The loud roll of the waves filled the bitter silence that followed, but
the battering of the rain upon the cottage roof was decreasing. The
storm was no longer overhead.
Adam leaned on the back of a chair with his head in his hands. All the
wiry activity seemed to have gone out of him. He looked old and broken.
The girl stood motionless behind him. A strange impassivity had
succeeded her last fruitless appeal, as though through excess of
suffering her faculties were numbed, animation itself were suspended.
She leaned against the wall, staring with wide, tragic eyes at the flame
of the lamp that stood in the window. Her arms hung stiffly at her
sides, and the hands were clenched. She seemed to be gazing upon
unutterable things.
There was nothing to be done--nothing to be done! Till the waves had
spent their fury, till that raging sea went down, they were as helpless
as babes to stay the hand of Fate. No boat could live in that fearful
turmoil of water. Adam had said it, and she knew that what he said was
true, knew by the utter dejection of his attitude, the completeness of
his despair. She had never seen Adam in despair before; probably no one
had ever seen him as he was now. He was a man to strain every nerve
while the faintest ray of hope remained. He had faced many a furious
storm, saved many a life that had been given up for lost by other men.
But now he could do nothing, and he crouched there--an old and broken
man--for the first time realising his helplessness.
A long time passed. The only sound within the cottage was the ticking of
a grandfather-clock in a corner, while without the great sound of the
breaking seas filled all the world. The storm above had passed. Now the
thunder-blast no longer shook the cottage. A faint greyness had begun to
show beyond the lamp in the window. The dawn was drawing near.
As one awaking from a trance of terrible visions, the girl drew a deep
breath and spoke:
"Adam!"
He did not stir. He had not stirred for the greater part of an hour.
She made a curiously jerky movement, as if she wrenched herself free
from some constricting hold. She went to the bowed, despairing figure.
"Adam, the day is breaking. The tide must be on the turn. Shan't we go?"
He stood up with the gesture of an old man. "What's the good?" he said.
"Do you think I want to see my boy's dead body left behind by the sea?"
She shivered at the question. "But we can't stay here," she urged. "Aunt
Liza, you know--she'll be wondering."
"Ah!" He passed his hand over his eyes. He was swaying a little as he
stood. She supported his elbow, for he seemed to have lost control of
his limbs. He stared at her in a dazed way. "You'd better go and tell
your Aunt Liza," he said. "I think I'll stay here a bit longer. Maybe my
boy'll come and talk to me if I'm alone. We're partners, you know, and
we lived here a good many years alone together. He wouldn't leave
me--not for the long voyage--without a word. Yes, you go, my dear, you
go! I'll stay here and wait for him."
She saw that no persuasion of hers would move him, and it seemed useless
to remain. An intolerable restlessness urged her, moreover, to be gone.
The awful inertia of the past two hours had turned into a fevered desire
for action. It was the swing of the pendulum, and she felt that if she
did not respond to it she would go mad.
Her knees were still trembling under her, but she controlled them and
turned to the door. As she lifted the latch she looked back and saw Adam
drop heavily into the chair upon which he had leaned for so long. His
attitude was one of almost stubborn patience, but it was evident that
her presence had ceased to count with him. He was waiting--she saw it
clearly in every line of him--waiting to bid his boy Godspeed ere he
fared forth finally on the long voyage from which there is no return.
A sharp sob rose in her throat. She caught her hand to it, forcing it
back. Then, barefooted, she stepped out into the grey dimness that
veiled all things, and left the door of Rufus's cottage open behind
her.