RESCUER AND RESCUED.
It seemed to be a perilous situation: lying on the brig there, alone
and insensible, without certainty of rescue. But help had come: and
when Miss Winter opened her eyes to consciousness, the first sight she
awoke to was the face of Edward Conroy, bent tenderly over her.
Kneeling on one knee, he was chafing her hands gently; and at a little
distance stood two of the Easterby boatmen.
"You are better now?" said Mr. Conroy. "Yes, I am better now," Ella
replied mechanically. Her mind just yet only recognised one fact, that
Conroy was by her side. He assisted her to rise. When she stood up and
looked round, all the events of the afternoon flashed across her mind
in a moment. What happy accident had brought Conroy, of all people in
the world, to her rescue? But it was not a time to ask questions: that
could be done afterwards.
"The sooner we get ashore the better," said Conroy. "Are you well
enough to venture?"
"Quite well enough," answered Ella, with a rush of tears. "A little
while ago I thought I should never set foot on shore again."
"But what became of the boat that brought you to the wreck?--and what
has become of Mr. Stone?"
"The rope that held the boat became unfastened, and the tide carried
it away," she slowly answered, after a long pause.
But Hubert Stone, she mentally asked herself--what could have become
of him: was he below still? Conroy repeated the question. He had heard
from Mrs. Toynbee that it was Stone who had rowed Ella to the wreck.
"He--he went into the cabin," said Ella, shrinking from speaking too
openly. "He went down first of all to look for George Petherton, and
found he was not on board. He was below when I fainted."
"We'll soon see after him. You can be getting into the boat again," he
added to the men.
The cabin door had been broken open: by Stone, of course. Conroy only
supposed it had been done in the wreck, and descended the stairs.
Presently he returned.
"Stone is not below. He is certainly not on board. I have looked
everywhere."
"But he must be on board," said Ella, who did not wish to leave him to
his fate, although he had behaved so ill to her. "He had no means of
getting away. The little boat was gone."
"Unless he swam on shore," suggested Conroy. "A good swimmer could do
it."
One of the men looked up to speak.
"Hubert Stone is one of the best swimmers we have, sir. The young lady
knows it. He must ha' swum after the boat."
"Look here," interposed the other man: "as we were nearing the brig
here, I saw something moving through the water a goodish distance off;
but whether it was a man, or what it was, I couldn't make out."
"It must have been Stone that you saw," said Mr. Conroy. "In any case,
he is not here. He must have gone to get help for you," he added to
Ella: "a brave fellow!--though he had the tide all in his favour."
That it was Stone the man had seen there could be little doubt of.
Conroy helped Ella into the boat, and the men rowed away.
It was almost dusk now. The great black bank of cloud was still
climbing slowly up from the sea, and had shut out half the sky. The
wind had risen considerably during the last half-hour, and the tide
was rolling in in huge sullen masses of blue-green water, with here
and there a white-topped wave.
"We shall have plenty of dirty weather before morning," remarked one
boatman to the other.
Ella and Conroy sat in the stern of the boat. He had wrapped his
ulster round her to protect her from the wind. Also, he had taken
possession of one of her hands, and she made no attempt to withdraw
it. When he had her heart already, why should she refuse him
possession of her hand?
Ella shut her eyes and tried to realise her happiness. Oh, the
difference that one short half-hour had made! She could hardly believe
this, the sitting there, to be more than a blissful dream.
"What strange chance was it that brought you here to-day?" she said to
him at last. "Did you drop down from the sky? How else did you come?"
"I came by a very slow train that was an hour longer on the road than
it might have been," answered Conroy. "My employers ordered me abroad
yesterday. Not very far this time. Only to Spain."
"For long?"
"I may be away three months, or I may be away six. It was impossible
for me to start until I had seen you again."
There was something in his tone, as he spoke these words, that
thrilled Ella's heart, and made her cheeks flush rosy-red. She was
glad that it was too dark for him to see her face.
"I walked from the station direct to the Hall," resumed Conroy, after
a pause. "Mrs. Toynbee told me where you had gone. She was beginning
to be a little uneasy at your long stay on board. Not much so, only in
her placid way. 'Miss Winter's movements cannot always be calculated
beforehand,' she said to me."
Conroy spoke in imitation of Mrs. Toynbee's mincing way of speaking.
Ella laughed.
"I believe she sets me down in her own mind as the most erratic and
eccentric young woman it has ever been her fortune to live with."
"What a pity you are not more commonplace. She would like you so very
much better," said Conroy. "However, though Mrs. Toynbee might be
satisfied to account for your absence after her easy fashion, it did
not satisfy me. I walked down to the village, and inquired among the
boatmen whether any of them had seen you return. Several of them had
seen you go out to the wreck, but no one had seen you come back, and
they could not think what was keeping you. Then I hesitated no longer.
I hired a boat, and got these two worthy fellows to accompany me. When
we were about half a mile from shore we saw a bright tongue of flame
leap suddenly up on the wreck: we knew that you must be in distress,
and the men redoubled their efforts at the oars. The rest you know."
Conroy felt the hand that he was holding press his fingers softly.
"I had given up all hope of rescue," said Ella. "It must have been the
special hand of Providence that brought you down to-day!"
"All the same, it was excessively careless of Hubert Stone not to make
sure that the boat was fast; unpardonably so. In his place I should
never forgive myself."
Ella made no response. Conroy judged from her silence that the matter
had too thoroughly frightened her to be a pleasant topic of
conversation: so he did not again allude to it. Stone had no doubt
done his best to remedy his neglect by swimming off to get succour,
and so for the present nothing more was said.
What a thankful heart was Ella's when she stepped out of the boat on
to the sandy beach! She had been mercifully snatched from what at one
time seemed certain death, and she was profoundly grateful to Him
"whose mercy endureth for ever."
The villagers had seen the signal on the wreck, and men, women, and
children hurried down to the shore. They crowded round Ella when she
stepped out of the boat, and greeted her and Conroy with heartfelt
cheers. Then Ella broke down. Her tears came hot and fast, and for a
little while she could not say a word to any of them. A fly was soon
obtained from the inn, and she was driven to the Hall. As they neared
it, she looked at Conroy, who sat opposite to her.
"Please not to say anything to Mrs. Toynbee about what has occurred,"
she said, "or that you had to fetch me from the wreck. She will hear
it to-morrow, of course; but really I feel that I could not bear
questioning to-night."
And most adroitly did Conroy parry Mrs. Toynbee's remarks. The row on
the sea had been longer than Miss Winter had expected, he said, and
she was very tired.
Little sleep did Ella get that night. However tired she might be, her
mind was intensely awake and excited; and the cold grey dawn was
stealing into her room before she closed her eyes in forgetfulness.
All through the night the wind blew in great gusts round the old
house, the rain smote like whips on window and casement, and the
thunderous beat of the sea on the low, sandy beach grew louder and
more loud as the dark hours slowly dragged themselves away. It was a
great storm: and one inmate of the Hall at any rate, apart from Miss
Winter, had her rest broken by it.
This was a stranger, named Betsy Tucker, who had entered the Hall as
an additional servant a week or two before, the place having been
procured for her by Mrs. Keen. The mother of this young woman had once
lived at Nullington; she had recently died, and the daughter wrote to
Mrs. Keen, who had been a companion of her mother in early life, to
ask if she could find her a good situation; upon which the landlady
spoke for her to Miss Winter, hearing that a third housemaid was
needed at the Hall.
The girl, who knew nothing of the superstitious reports rife at Heron
Dyke, slept in a room by herself. On this night she could not get to
sleep for the noise of the wind; suddenly, during its pauses, she
heard, or thought she heard, footsteps pacing the corridor outside her
door. Much startled, the girl held her breath, and became convinced
she was not mistaken: she heard them distinctly. They came and went
several times, once or twice they were accompanied by a low moan.
Betsy lay working herself into a fever.
She could bear this in the dark no longer; so she struck a match and
lighted her candle. Then, as she was sitting up in bed listening to
the footsteps, she heard them stop close to her door, and saw the
handle of the door move; some one was turning it from the outside. For
the moment she forgot that she had locked it; she screamed aloud; and,
throwing her arms out of bed in her terror, upset the candle, and was
left in darkness.
"You may be sure there was no more sleep for me all night," said
Betsy, when relating this to her fellow-servants the following
morning. "But now--who could have been there? I heard the steps, and I
heard the moans, and I saw the handle of the door turn: it's as true
as that I am here to tell you."
Such was the story she whispered. Her awe-struck listeners thought of
Katherine Keen, but not one of them mentioned the name. Betsy slept
alone, and they would not frighten her unnecessarily.
Early in the day came tidings that the _Seamew_ was no longer to be
seen. As predicted, the brig had gone to pieces during the gale. Ella
shuddered when the news was told her: could it be that Hubert Stone
was still on board? Several planks and some broken spars were washed
ashore in the course of the following tide.
The moment Ella had awakened that morning, the warning spoken by
Hubert rang in her ears: "What you hold, you hold by fraud: a dozen
words from me, and Heron Dyke would know you as its mistress no more."
Surely, she reasoned, they could be the words of no other than a
madman!
Nevertheless, they haunted her. What--she could not help asking
herself--what if they were true?--what then?--was there any hidden
secret--any fraud connected with her succession to the property? She
could not think it possible. Still, do what she might, she did not get
them out of her mind. Last night, in the joy of her deliverance from a
cruel death, and under the glad influence of Conroy's presence, she
had thought but little of them; but this morning, when her mind was
fresh and clear, they were branded on her memory as if with a red-hot
iron.
Nothing was seen of Hubert at the Hall that day, and Miss Winter made
no inquiry respecting him. She thought it not unlikely, after what had
passed between them, that he would have the grace to absent himself
for a little time. Conroy had spoken of the keg of spirits and the
horn drinking-cup he saw below--in fact, she had seen them herself;
she felt little doubt that Hubert had imbibed some, which in a degree
might account for his ill-behaviour, and that he was now ashamed of
himself. It would be impossible to retain him as steward at the Hall,
but Miss Winter could recommend him elsewhere. Meanwhile she did not
intend to speak of what had passed, but to bury it in oblivion. It was
not a pleasant thing in any way, either to speak or to think of.
Mr. Conroy was at Heron Dyke betimes on the morning after the visit to
the wreck. He was anxious to hear that Ella had suffered in no way
from her adventure: at least, that was what he told Mrs. Toynbee, for
Miss Winter was not yet downstairs when he reached the Hall; but there
may have been some other motive in his mind of which he did not choose
to speak. What a glad light leapt into Ella's eyes when she walked
into the room and saw who was there! Conroy's earnest face brightened
as if with a sudden burst of sunshine, while he took her hand for a
moment and inquired after her health. Truth to tell, Ella had a slight
headache this morning, but not for worlds would she have owned to it.
They sat and talked about the gale and other matters, but never
alluded to the adventure on the wreck, Mrs. Toynbee interposing one of
her little commonplaces now and again; and so the time wore on till
luncheon.
"Won't you go out for a short walk with me, Miss Winter?" asked
Conroy, as they rose from the meal. "You have no idea how delightful
the park is after last night's rain."
"Delightful!" exclaimed Mrs. Toynbee. "Why, the footpaths must be in a
complete puddle."
"So they are, madam. But, none the less, I maintain that the park this
morning is delightful."
"And there's still enough wind to almost carry you away; and the rain
may recommence at any moment! persisted the lady.
"Those are facts it would be useless to dispute," rejoined Conroy,
equably.
"On such a day I am sure Miss Winter would be far better indoors."
"Nay, I think it just the day to be out," said Ella, with a blush and
a smile; "and I have thick boots, you know, Mrs. Toynbee. A little
wind, a little sunshine, and the possibility of a shower: what more
could any reasonable creature wish for? Mr. Conroy, I shall be ready
in three minutes."
Mrs. Toynbee shrugged her shoulders in mild protest, but she said no
more.
The paths in the park were certainly very sloppy, and the wind when
they faced it almost took away their breath; but what cared those two
for such trifles? they but served to enhance the charms of their walk.
Conroy took a turning that led to the shore. "Not that way, please,"
said Ella, with a slight shudder. She did not care to look upon the
sea again at present; so they turned their faces another way, finding
a dry and sheltered walk, where they were free from the impertinences
of the wind, by the edge of the plantation of young larches which
covered a piece of rising ground to the left of the Hall. Here they
paced backwards and forwards for upwards of an hour.
The rain last night had washed the atmosphere so that even the most
distant objects looked sharp and clearly defined. Away over the sea,
the sun streamed down through a rift in the grey, low-hanging clouds,
that widened out one minute till a glimpse of blue sky could be seen
beyond it, and the next contracted its fleecy walls again till nothing
was left save a thin shaft of blinding light that smote the water like
a golden spear. Faint resinous odours were wafted fitfully from the
plantation; in the hollows of the footpaths tiny pools of rain-water
shivered in the cool September wind.
Ella seemed in a peculiarly happy mood. Why she should be so she could
not have explained even to herself, for had not Conroy told her that
he was about to go away for an indefinite length of time, and was not
the echo of Hubert Stone's mysterious words ringing in her memory? But
so it was. She could no more account for her gladness than a child can
for its fondness for play. Had she any faintest premonition, had her
heart secretly warned her that a momentous instant was at hand? Be
that as it may, Ella found fifty different things to talk about, and
seemed nervously anxious not to let the conversation flag for a
moment. She had all sorts of questions to ask about Spain, the country
and the people, as though she had never read a book about it in her
life. She hoped that Conroy would not run into any unnecessary danger,
and now and then at intervals he must send her a little sketch of some
place that he had visited, just to prove to her that he was still
alive. She had often had an idea that she should like to learn
Spanish, and had been told that it was nearly as musical as Italian.
She would buy a grammar and dictionary at once; it would be a capital
occupation for the long evenings of the coming winter; and when Mr.
Conroy should return in spring she should doubtless be able to greet
him in the choicest Castilian.
Suddenly Ella paused in her talk to stand still. The clock over the
Hall stables was striking the hour. "I did not suppose it was so
late," she exclaimed. "I should have thought that the old clock was an
hour fast, but that I know how painfully accurate it always is. We had
better return. After what happened yesterday, Mrs. Toynbee may be
sending the bellman round the village to cry me as lost."
"Give me ten minutes more, and then we will go," said the young man.
"Who can tell when we shall see each other again?"
Ella tacitly assented, and they took a turn or two in silence. All her
high spirits seemed suddenly to have deserted her.
"Before leaving you I have a few words to say to you: it was to say
them that I have come all the way from London,"--and Conroy took one
of her hands in his as he spoke thus, even as he had taken it last
evening in the boat. Ella's heart gave a great bound, she drew in her
breath with a half sigh and trembled from head to foot.
"Ella--may I dare to call you so?--I could not go away without telling
you how I love you, without telling you that I have loved you from the
moment I first set eyes on you that evening last year at Mrs.
Carlyon's, and that I can never cease to love you while I live! I
could not go away--Ella, I _could_ not--without asking you whether I
may come and claim you as my wife when I return."
He held both her hands by this time, and was gazing down fondly into
her face. She had turned very pale when he first began to speak, but
by the time he had done two blush-roses burned in her cheeks. Tremors
of love, and joy, and happiness unspeakable thrilled her heart. She
was standing with downcast eyes, and she stood thus for a little while
after he had ceased speaking. Her breath came and went quickly, the
tears were rising. Another moment and she had lifted her glance to
his. Her lips were quivering with emotion, but from her eyes,
love--love not to be mistaken for anything else--looked out at Conroy
through a mist of tears. Not one word did she say; there was no
necessity to say it. That one look told Conroy all he cared to know.
He folded her in his arms, he pressed his lips to hers, he whispered
words in her ears sacred to her alone.
As they were walking slowly back arm in arm through the park, Conroy
broke the thrilling silence. "Do you know, cara mia, what the world
will call me? It will brand me as a fortune-hunter, and say that I
should never have sought you for my wife had you not been the mistress
of Heron Dyke."
The words sent a shock through her, like a dart. Was she the mistress
of Heron Dyke? She was not, if there were truth in what Hubert Stone
had declared to her. Her lover's constancy might be put to the test
before long in a way he little dreamed of now. "You can afford to
smile at anything the world may choose to say," she answered. "So can
I so long as I have vanity enough to think that you care for me for
myself alone."
"But that I had the fear of your broad acres before my eyes I should
have spoken to you long ere this," he answered. "Had your uncle been a
poor man, or you not his heiress, I should have asked you at his hands
last autumn."
How sweet the words sounded to her--how true was their ring!--and
after what that other man had said!
"Suppose that when you return from Spain, you should find that I am no
longer mistress of Heron Dyke!" she cried impulsively. "Suppose you
should find that, by some mischance or other, I am poor instead of
rich? What would you say then to your intended wife?"
"I should say, 'What seems to you a loss has made me one of the
happiest fellows alive.' I should say, 'Let us marry at once, however
humble our home may be.' I should say, 'I am glad that your riches
have taken to themselves wings; it is only fit and proper that a man
should work for his wife.' I don't think," he added, "that I could
love you more than I do now, but somehow you might perhaps seem closer
to me if you came to me as the beggar-maid went to King Cophetua."
Ella sighed. It was happiness to hear him talk thus; and yet his words
brought to her a sting of pain. How glad she would be to endow him
with every worldly good--and who seemed so fit to be the master of
Heron Dyke? And yet, perhaps--who could say?--he might love her all
the better if she went to him in a cotton gown, with a simple flower
in her hair.
"But what makes you talk as if Heron Dyke and you were about to part
company?" he presently asked.
"Perhaps we may be: I cannot tell," she answered, a cloud as of
trouble passing over her face.
Conroy saw it, and looked perplexed. He bit his lip.
"Pardon me, Ella, but I do not see how anything of that kind could
come to pass. Your uncle was too shrewd a man not to take every proper
precaution in a matter so gravely important."
Ella did not answer for a few moments, and when she spoke it was with
hesitation. "Might there not be such a thing as a flaw in the title?"
Conroy started slightly. "In his title, do you mean? I cannot think of
anything more improbable. Have you any reason for suggesting this?"
"Here we are at home," said Ella hurriedly, for they had reached it.
"I cannot tell you anything more, and you must please not ask me to.
In any case, whatever happens, I trust that I shall be enabled to do
my duty."
"That I am sure you will always do," responded Conroy, warmly.
"Remember," he added in a low tone, "that in good fortune or evil
fortune my love for you can never change."
They were standing under the porch, not yet having rung. She looked up
with a shy sweet smile as he spoke. The opportunity was too tempting
to be resisted; he might not have another one for ever so long. He was
an audacious man in many ways, and before Ella was aware, his arms
were round her and his lips pressed to hers.