STORM-STAYED.
His niece's eyesight was not at fault when she thought that she
recognised Joseph Naylor's figure silhouetted against the horizon. It
was he indeed, and he was not alone. That was the sweetest walk, he
told himself, which he had ever taken. It was the happiest day; and he
looked back in his tranquil bliss, standing with eyes which rested
dreamily upon the sea; and, forgetting to converse, he wondered if the
unreasoning transports he had known in youth were to be compared to
this.
It seemed like the warm radiance of an unclouded afternoon succeeding
a day of rain which has been ushered in by deceitful sun-bursts, sent,
as it were, to deepen the succeeding gloom. The peace and trust, and
the contented sense of basking, without a wish left unfulfilled, were
inexpressibly sweet. The sense of doubleness, which had disturbed his
earlier intercourse with his companion, had disappeared. His spiritual
eyes had focussed themselves into agreement, and now the two images
were blended into one. It was the first and only tenderness of his
life, stifled though still smouldering beneath the years of widowhood,
on which this stranger had chanced to let in air; and the spark divine
had awoke among its ashes, and was again aflame.
Words he had none just then. His being was strung too high for the
vibrations to be made audible in common utterance. He was only
receptive now, drinking in influence from her presence, but making no
response. They had been together all the day. In the morning they had
been gay at the cheerful starting. They had been conversational as the
day waxed warmer, companionable when it threatened to grow oppressive,
and they had felt like very old friends who understood each other
thoroughly, when they set out to walk.
The extreme tranquillity at which they had now arrived was a little
more complete than Rose Hillyard altogether enjoyed. Fortunately she
was sympathetic by nature, and understood a great deal more than was
conveyed to her by words. She appreciated the silence--felt, indeed,
that it was the highest compliment, or rather something immeasurably
beyond compliment; but ere long she began to wish that it would not
last much longer.
The mind of Rose was not altogether so utterly at ease as it appeared,
though she would not for the world that any one should have so
suspected. She would have done violence to herself, even, sooner than
acknowledge in her heart that she was not at peace; but still there
was a fever in her blood, making her restless, and eager to be doing,
and drown an inarticulate yearning for something she would not name.
The silence drove her back upon herself, and gave voices opportunity
to make themselves audible within--voices she had endeavoured to
silence, and forbidden to be there. "If the man would only say
something! If he would even flirt!" That was a pretty game which she
believed she understood and could play with the best. But this was not
flirtation: it was right down solemn earnest; and she was pleased in
thinking that it was. A good man's happiness was in her hands; and
more, she liked the man, and believed, I dare affirm--though we must
not say "intended to accept" what has not yet been offered--that when
he declared himself she would lend a friendly ear.
And yet she had rather he would have flirted. The stir and interest of
the game would have afforded the excitement for which she craved. It
was but a game, and could be played without a second thought. The
serious thing was different. So much depends on it, that people play
it slower; and they play it with the heart, and not the head, which is
the more nimble member. It was movement and excitement for which her
fibres ached; though peace, if that had been attainable, had been far
more precious.
"How fond you must be of the sea!" she said at last. "We seem to have
been standing here a long time."
Joseph started, and turned. Her voice had broken in upon a reverie
which could not be called a day-dream. It had been too passive for
succession of ideas, and was rather a receptive bathing in the
blissfulness of the situation. But yet no waking could have been
sweeter than the sound of that voice which now addressed him. It was
the same which he remembered long ago, whose echoes had thrilled him
in his dreams, and made his wakings sorrowful to find it was not
there. It was with a smile and a deep full breath of satisfaction that
he turned to his companion.
"Forgive me," he said. "It is so pleasant being here, that I forgot
about passing time.... Yes, I am fond of the sea. I always was. I left
home to go to sea when I was a boy--could not stay away from it. It is
so big and so even, and it changes under one's very eye, you can't
tell how. It feels as if it were alive--a being that could understand
your thoughts without your telling them."
"So it does. I know the feeling, although I never attempted to put it
into words.... The sea is company--when one is alone; but now----?"
and she looked up in his eyes with the flicker of a smile which was
scarcely reproachful, yet not quite humorous.
"Most true," he answered, smiling in reply. "The silent communion with
Nature is not a sociable observance; and, as you say, we must have
stood here a good while. Let's follow this footpath. It seems to run
round the island on the inner side. The walking will be easier, and we
shall get back sooner than by crossing the hill as we came."
The path ran for a time along the edge of cliffs, which stood some
forty or fifty feet above the sea, and sank sheer down into deep
water, fretting the smooth green billows rolling by into a fringe of
foam. Turning with the rounding of the land, the path struck down upon
the leeward side of the island and ran along the shore.
"Should we not hurry?" Rose Hillyard observed. "The tide must have
sunk a long way since we left the steamer. See those rocks covered
with wet sea-weed. They must have been under water this last tide, and
now they are feet above it. The captain spoke about the tide, and his
fear of stranding, and being forced to wait twelve hours for next high
water. Must we not make haste?"
"I do not see why we should disturb ourselves. There are three of our
people yonder, sitting on a sandhill and at ease. Had we not better do
likewise? They seem happy.... As for me, I have no watch, and no care
for time. Let us be guided by _them_."
"And my watch has stopped, or something. Well!... I hope those others
are keeping track of the time.... Yes, it is nice here. The air is
more still than it was on the cliffs, and yet not so hot. But is the
light not growing dim? This is pleasanter than the glare of mid-day.
Why can it not be always afternoon? Yet, has it not come on us rather
suddenly?"
They were sitting now, and their talk was dribbling along in an easy,
drowsy way, such as might be expected from people who had been for so
many hours in each other's company. It was after luncheon, after a
walk, after a day whose heat and blazing brightness had only been made
tolerable by fresh sea-air, in itself a form of stimulation. Their
nerves, all day kept tense, were relaxing now, and a restful feeling,
born of harmonious companionship, was extending from the mind into the
physical system, and producing a tranquillity in which content was
verging towards lethargy. In fact, they were a little tired, and more
than a little sleepy. Head propped on hand, and that supported on the
extended elbow, they reclined upon the bent which clothed a swelling
sandhill. Conversation grew intermittent and monosyllabic, and then
ceased--their eyelids growing momentarily heavier without their being
aware.
A shrill reverberation broke upon the air. It stopped, and began anew,
and ended in a volley of shrill, short, barking shrieks. Joseph lifted
his head and looked about. He had forgot about the steamboat, and the
idea of its whistling a recall did not occur to him It was sea-fowl he
thought of in that solitary place, and he wondered drowsily at the
harshness of their cry, and their strength of lung. He threw a
listless glance aloft, but not a wing was visible over all the sky;
only the sun was veiled now in a cloud, and did not dazzle--which was
comfortable, and made the restful feeling more complete.
The next sensation he was conscious of was damp. Big drops of rain
were lighting on his face, and wetting his limbs through the thin
summer clothing. He started now. Yes, he must have slept. The sky was
black, and the scene grown dim like twilight. Like twilight for an
instant, and then a blinding flash made everything intensely visible,
and the heavens seemed to crack above the trembling earth with loud
reverberating thunder.
He started and laid his hand on his companion's shoulder.
"Rosa!"--How sweet the name felt on his lips, even in his hurry! It
was his first time to use it. But had he the right?--"Miss Hillyard!
Arouse! A storm is coming on. You will be drenched. Arouse!"
Rose opened her eyes. She looked straight in his, and with a pleasant
smile. It was an instant before she was fully conscious of the
situation--so sweet an instant! Then she was herself, and sprang to
her feet.
"We must run! But where? How wrong of me to sleep!" It was Joseph who
spoke. "Ha! down yonder on the beach I see a boat. We may find shelter
for you near there."
The lightning flashed incessantly. The air quivered with the
resounding thunderclaps succeeding one another without interval or
pause. The rain streamed down. The windows of heaven were opened, and
the waters of the firmament descended in sheets, as if to overwhelm
the earth.
He took her hand, and they hurried along the sands towards the boat,
as quickly as they could, by the gleam of the intermittent flashes,
which blinded while they lasted, and yet made the intervals between
seem dark as night by contrast.
A halloo reached them as they stumbled on, and made them turn aside,
where, in a sheltered corner, stood the fishermen's hut. They were
inside in a moment, still dazed and panting from the buffeting storm,
and streaming with rain, though the time they had been exposed to it
was shorter than it has taken to relate. Grateful for the shelter,
they recognised that it was Blount and Wilkie who had hailed them,
while Margaret stood within, coaxing some dying embers into flame with
the aid of a fan and some fresh fuel, preparatory to drying herself;
for she too had been caught in the rain, though she had not been
drenched as Rose was. The men, watching the storm from the open door,
had seen the others hurrying by, and had hailed them to the shelter
they would otherwise have missed.
"You?" cried Walter Blount, in a tone which betrayed perhaps a shade
of disappointment as well as the natural surprise. He had known of the
expedition to Fessenden's Island, and had sailed thither in hopes of
what would scarcely be an accidental meeting, and he had been
fortunate beyond his expectation. When the whistle of the steamer had
sounded, he had heard, but Margaret had taken no heed, and Wilkie in
his discomfiture, had seemingly not observed. It would have been
gratuitous on his part, he thought, to disturb the harmony and
precipitate a parting, seeing that he had a boat of his own, in which
they could return at any time. If Wilkie would have gone, it would
have been better still, only that Margaret must have accompanied him;
wherefore he exerted himself to brighten the talk, and keep their
thoughts as far as possible from the subject of the steamer; and to
his own surprise he succeeded, for he could not understand why "_that
fellow Wilkie_" should feel engrossed.
And perhaps the "fellow" was not, but only mortified and squelched at
the unwonted neglect into which he, who had come to look on himself as
an invincible lady-killer, had fallen. Anything seemed better to him
than the shame of returning to the steamer alone. How would he feel
when asked what he had done with his companion? And, foolishly, he had
a misgiving that if he proposed to return, she would not accompany
him. Her attention was now transferred entirely to the rival, and he
found himself nowhere. But he would stick to her like a burr. One can
sometimes spoil a game which one cannot join in. He was sure the rival
wished him away; and that was reason enough for sticking fast and
showing no sign. By-and-by, when the other was gone, the lady would be
more amenable to his displeasure, and then would be his time to show
it.
As time wore on, the sky grew dark, and presently the storm was upon
them. They retreated to the hut, and then Margaret remembered about
the steamboat. Wilkie looked at his watch, and said they had outstayed
their time; but the deluge of rain made it impossible now to set out
on the return. Blount's man was despatched to warn the skipper, and
they resigned themselves to await the subsidence of the storm. The
last users of the hut had left a fire behind them, of which a coal or
two still smouldered in the ashes; and Margaret, uneasy at the account
she should have to render by-and-by, made busy in rekindling the
blaze, rather than resign herself to forebodings of a maternal
lecture.
"You?" was Blount's exclamation, repeated a second time, when the
newcomers entered the hut; and the tone of disappointment verged
closely on disgust. Joseph Naylor was his friend, but at that moment
he would have preferred almost any other intruder. He was his friend,
but he was also Margaret's uncle, and therefore the most unwelcome man
who could have appeared. Standing by the open door and listening to
the thunder and the falling rain, after despatching his boatman to the
steamer, he had been building himself a castle in the air. The
steamboat would be gone when his messenger reached the landing. The
man, while obeying, had assured him of that, as it was only at the
height of the tide that she was able to approach the island. The
steamboat being gone, Margaret must take passage back with him in his
sail-boat. Landed at Lippenstock together, it would not be hard to
give Wilkie the slip; and then, behind a lively trotter, they could
start for parts unknown. It would be days before the family could
overtake them. Ere then they would be man and wife, and the family
would gladly make the best of what it could no longer prevent. He had
never known Margaret so soft and sweetly amenable to influence as she
had been these last two hours. Fortune seemed to have softened her
mood on purpose to assist him. He felt sure he could persuade her; and
here, at the very turning-point of his fate, appeared uncle Joseph,
"_a god out of a machine_," to spoil all. It was unspeakably grievous.
Wilkie cried "You!" at the same moment as Walter; but the tone was
different. There was hope and relief in both his face and voice, in
marked contrast with the other. Consolation, hope, indemnity for
slights, all shone before his view in the appearance of Rose Hillyard.
She was escorted, to be sure, but only by "old Naylor"--a man half as
old again as himself, and not nearly so polished or agreeable. "The
Hillyard" had often struck him as in many respects superior to
Margaret Naylor. At the worst, to form one in a quintet could not but
be pleasanter than he had found the part of supernumerary in a trio.
He positively beamed upon the newcomers, and would willingly have
heaped wood on the fire, and even assisted Rose to make herself
comfortable; but she assured him that Margaret Naylor and herself
could do everything, and he must rejoin the men in the porch without,
or, like Peeping Tom of Coventry, he might find himself struck blind
on the spot.
END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.
PRINTED BY WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS.
End of Project Gutenberg's True to a Type, Vol. I (of 2), by Robert Cleland