I
After the breakfast was ended Winifred went over the entire drama of
that night of the landslip as far as she knew it. There was not an
important incident that she missed. Every detail of her narrative was
so vividly given that I lived it all over again. She recalled our
meeting on the sands, and my inexplicable bearing when she told me of
the seaman's present of precious stones to her father. She dwelt upon
my mysterious conduct in insisting upon our ascending the cliff by
different gangways. She recalled her picking up from the sands a
parchment scroll and spelling out by the moonlight the words of the
curse it called down upon the head of any one who should violate the
tomb from which the parchment and the jewel had been stolen, but as
she repeated the words of the curse she was evidently unconscious of
the tremendous import of the words in regard to herself and her
father. She told me of her desire to conceal from me, for my own sake
merely, the evidence afforded by the scroll that my father's tomb had
been violated. She recalled my seeing the parchment and being thrown
thereby into a state of the greatest mental agony. She recalled my
taking her hand as we neared the new tongue of land made by the
_débris_, and peering round it as though in dread of some concealed
foe, but evidently she had no idea of _what_ was behind there. She
described the way in which my 'foot slipped on the sand,' and how I
was thrown back upon her as she stood waiting to pass the _débris_
herself. She spoke of my unaccountable and apparently mad suggestion
that we should, although the tide was coming in, and we were already
in danger of being imprisoned in the cove and drowned, sit down on
the boulder made sacred to us both by our childish betrothal. She
spoke of her own suspicion, and then her conviction, that some great
calamity was threatening me on account of the violation of the tomb,
and that the knowledge of this was governing all these strange
movements of mine. She reminded me of my telling her that the shriek
we both heard at the moment when the cliff fell was connected with
the crime against my father, and that it was the call from the grave
which, according to wild traditions, will sometimes come to the heir
of an old family. She recalled the very words I used when I told her
that in answer to this call I intended to remain there until the tide
came in and drowned me. She dwelt upon the way in which I urged her
to go and leave me, her own resolution to die with me, and her
cutting up her shawl into a rope and tying herself to me. She
recalled the sudden thunderous noise of the settlement in response
to the tide, and my springing up and running to the mass of _débris_
and looking round it, and then my calling her to join me; and finally
she described her running toward Needle Point in order to pass round
it before the tide should get any higher, her plunging into the sea
and my pulling her round the Point.
It was manifest, from the first word she uttered to the last, that
she had no idea who was the 'miscreant,' to use her oft-repeated
word, who committed the sacrilege; and nothing could express what
relief this gave my heart. I felt as though I had just escaped from
some peril too dire to think of with calmness.
'You remember, Henry,' said she, 'how we ran to the cottage in our
wet clothes. You remember how we parted at the cottage door. From
that night till now we have never met, and now we meet--here on
Snowdon--at the very llyn I was always so fond of.
'But tell me more, Winnie--tell me what occurred to you on the next
morning.'
'Well,' said she, 'I was always a sound sleeper, but my fatigue that
night made me sleep until quite late the next morning. I hurried up
and got breakfast ready for father and myself. I then went and rapped
at his door, but I got no answer. His room was empty.'
Winifred paused here as though she expected me to say something. A
thousand things occurred to me to ask, but until I knew more--until I
knew how much and how little she remembered of that dreadful time, I
dared ask her nothing--I dared make no remark at all. I said, 'Go on,
Winnie; pray do not break your story.'
'Well,' said she, 'I found that my father had not returned during the
night. I did not feel disturbed at that, his ways were so uncertain.
I did not even hurry over my breakfast, but dallied over it,
recalling the scenes of the previous night, and wondering what some
of them could mean. I then went down the gangway at Needle Point to
walk on the sands. I thought I might meet father coming from
Dullingham. I had to pass the landslip, where a great number of
Raxton people were gathered. They were looking at the frightful
relics of Raxton churchyard. They were too dreadful for me to look
at. I walked right to Dullingham without meeting my father. At
Dullingham I was told that he had not been there for some days. Then,
for the first time, I began to be haunted by fears, but they took no
distinct shape. When I returned to the landslip the people were still
there, and still very excited about it. In the afternoon I went again
on the sands, thinking that I might see my father and also that I
might see you. I walked about till dusk without seeing either of you,
and then I went back to the cottage. I had now become very anxious
about my father, and sat up all night. The next morning after
breakfast I went again on the sands. The number of people collected
round the landslip seemed greater than ever, and many of them, I
think, came from Graylingham, Rington, and Dullingham. They seemed
more excited than they had been on the previous day, and they did not
notice me as I joined them. I heard some one say in a cracked and
piping voice, "Well, it's my belief as Tom lays under that there
settlement. It's my belief that he wur standing on the edge of the
churchyard cliff, and when the cliff fell he fell with it." Then the
kind and good-natured little tailor Shales saw me, and I thought he
must have made some signal to the others, for they all stood silent.
I felt sure now that for some reason, unknown to me, it was generally
believed that my father had perished in the landslip. Mrs. Shales
took me by the hand, and gently led me away up the gangway. When we
reached the cottage I asked her whether my father's body had been
found. She told me that it had not, and was not likely to be found,
for if he had really fallen with the landslip his body lay under tons
upon tons of earth. I shall never forget the misery of that night;
kind Mrs. Shales would not leave me, but slept in the cottage. I had
very little doubt that the Raxton people were right in their dreadful
guesses about my father. I had very little doubt that while walking
along the cliff, either to or from the cottage, he had reached the
point at the back of the church at the moment of the landslip, and
been carried down with it, and I now felt sure that the shriek you
and I both heard was his shriek of terror as he fell. I bethought me
of the jewels that my father's sailor friend was to give him, and
searched the cottage for them. As I could not find them, I felt sure
that it was on his return from his meeting with his sailor friend,
when the jewels were upon him, that he fell with the landslip.'
Again Winnie paused as if awaiting some question, or at least some
remark from me.
'Did you make no inquiries about me?' I said.
'Oh yes,' said she; 'my grief at the loss of my father was very much
increased by my not being able to see you. Mrs. Shales told me that
you were ill--very ill. And altogether, you may imagine my misery.
Day after day I got worse and worse news of you. 'And day after day
it became more and more certain, that my father had perished in the
way people supposed. I used to spend most of the day on the sands,
gazing at the landslip, and searching for my father's body. Every
one tried to persuade me to give up my search, as it was hopeless,
for his body was certain to be buried deep under the new tongue of
land.'
'But you still continued your search, Winnie?' I said, remembering
every word Dr. Mivart had told me in connection with her being found
by the fishermen.
'Yes, I found it impossible not to go on with it. But one morning
after there had been a great storm followed by a further settlement
of the landslip, I went out alone on the cliffs. I said to myself,
"This shall be my last search." By this time the news of your illness
and the anxiety I felt about you helped much in blunting the anxiety
I felt about my father's loss. But on this very morning I am speaking
of something very extraordinary happened.
'Don't tell me, Winnie. For God's sake, don't tell me! It will
disturb you; it will make you ill again.'
She looked at me in evident astonishment at my words.
'Don't tell you, Henry? Why, there is nothing to tell,' said she. 'As
I was walking along the sands, looking at the new tongue of land made
by the landslip, I seem to have lost consciousness.'
'And you don't know what caused this?'
'Not in the least; unless it was my anxiety and want of sleep. This
was the beginning of the long illness that I spoke of, and I seem to
have remained quite without consciousness until a few weeks ago. I
often try to make my mind bring back the circumstances under which I
lost consciousness. I throw my thoughts, so to speak, upon a wall of
darkness, and they come reeling back like waves that are dashed
against a cliff.'
'Then don't do so any more, Winnie. I know enough of such matters to
tell you confidently that you never will recall the incidents
connected with your collapse, and that the endeavour to do so is
really injurious to you. What interests me very much more is to know
the circumstances under which you came to yourself. I am dying with
impatience to know all about that.'