A Stormy Night.
"HARK! What's that, Miss Conway? It sounds like a dog howling. There it
is again!" And the speaker, Margaret Fowler, put down the book she had
been reading, and rising from her chair by the fireplace, went to the
window, and peered into the darkness.
The governess and her two pupils were spending the hours between
tea-time and supper in the schoolroom at Greystone. A very pleasant
apartment it was, comfortably carpeted and curtained, with a bright
wood fire burning in the grate. Miss Conway glanced up from her
needlework as Margaret spoke, whilst Gerald ceased playing with the cat
on the hearthrug and listened for a few moments.
"I don't hear anything," the latter said.
He turned his attention to his playfellow again, but puss was tired
and had no desire to prolong the game. In vain, he dangled a piece
of string before her eyes to entice her to spring at it. She had had
enough of him, and sat on the hearthrug, complacently washing her face
and blinking in the firelight.
"Selfish thing!" he exclaimed, "I—oh, yes, I do hear something now!"
And he joined his sister at the window.
The sound which fell upon the ears of the listeners was like the low
wail of some animal in distress. Margaret's fair cheeks paled as she
listened, for there was something eerie in the faint, indistinct sound.
"I don't think it's a dog," said Miss Conway doubtfully. "No, I believe
it's the wind rising. If so, we shall have a wild night. Let us open
the window and make certain what it is."
They did so; and then ascertained that it was indeed the wind which
they heard. The night was pitch dark, with heavy clouds overhead. It
had been a still, sombre, autumn day, with that hush in the air which
generally portends a storm. Now, the wind was rising, whilst the
breakers could be heard dashing against the base of the cliffs.
"Yes, it is only the wind," Miss Conway decided. "How mournful it
sounds. Shut the window, children, and come back to the fire. How
thankful we should be that we have a good roof over our heads! Gerald,
don't tease the cat, my dear; she doesn't want to play any more."
"Josiah Petherick said this afternoon that we were going to have a
storm," Gerald remarked. "I saw him on the beach, tarring his boat.
None of the fishermen had gone to sea."
"I suppose they considered the weather too uncertain?" Miss Conway
interrogated.
"Yes," the boy replied. "Father says they are all very weather-wise. I
don't mind a storm, do you, Miss Conway? I wonder if there will be a
wreck."
"Oh, I sincerely trust not!" the governess exclaimed hastily.
"I should like to see a wreck," Gerald informed her. "Josiah Petherick
has seen several, and he has saved the lives of heaps of people. He
must be a very brave man. I don't believe he's afraid of anything.
Can't we have our supper upstairs to-night instead of in the
dining-room? It's so jolly and cosy here."
Miss Conway assented. Mr. and Mrs. Fowler were in London, and the house
seemed dull without them. Margaret had taken up her book again; but
she was not reading, for the sound of the rising gale distracted her
attention and made her feel restless and uneasy.
"If we have a storm, perhaps there will be a wreck," Gerald proceeded
presently. "It is so dark, that I should not be surprised, should you,
Miss Conway, if a ship ran on the rocks?"
"Oh, Gerald, pray don't suggest such a probability!" she cried, with a
shudder.
"If there was a wreck, would you let me go down to the beach?" he
inquired eagerly. "Say you would, Miss Conway!"
"I shall certainly say no such thing. If there was a wreck—which God
forbid!—I should insist on your remaining in the house. Nothing would
induce me to give you permission to go out in a storm. But we need not
speak of it. Ring the bell, Gerald, and I will order supper."
The boy obeyed, though with a cloud on his brow; he realised argument
was of no avail when his governess spoke in that decided tone. After
supper, he went to bed at his usual time, and forgetful of the rising
storm, and the prospect of a wreck, was soon asleep. Miss Conway and
Margaret sat up till ten o'clock, alternately talking and listening
to the wind, which was now howling dolefully around the house, almost
driving in the window-panes, and mingling its sobs and wails with the
angry roar of the sea; and then they, too, retired to their respective
rooms. The gale increased in fury however, and then came the rain.
Meanwhile, the villagers were all alert, for there was little rest for
anyone at Yelton on such a night as this, with a westerly gale raging,
and the sea like great walls of foam. The fishermen hesitated to seek
their beds, whilst some of the most venturesome braved the furious
wind and the heavy rain, which was now descending in torrents, and
kept watch by the sea-shore, their hearts anxiously expectant, as they
recalled similar occasions when their assistance had been required to
help those in peril on the sea.
In the Pethericks' cottage, Salome stood by the kitchen window,
listening to the storm, and patiently waiting for her father. He was
not at the "Crab and Cockle," she was certain of that, but on the
beach; and she felt no anxiety about him. He was accustomed to rough
weather; and on such a night as this, she knew he would be his true
self—brave, fearless, and reliable. As was her custom when alone, she
was singing softly:
"Lead us, heavenly Father, lead us
O'er the world's tempestuous sea;
Guide us, guard us, keep us, feed us,
For we have no help but Thee,
Yet possessing every blessing
If our God our Father be."
Seen by the subdued light of the lamp in the centre of the table, the
little girl's face wore a look of great contentment. For the time, she
had forgotten how troublous was her life, as her soul rose on the wings
of faith to an altitude which set her far above the trials of this
world. She sang the hymn from beginning to end in a soft undertone,
with the wailing wind for an accompanyment; then, opening the window,
she thrust out her head and listened. She heard hurrying footsteps
passing the cottage, and men's hoarse voices shouting.
"Who goes there?" Salome cried. "Is anything amiss?"
"I hope nothing is wrong," she thought, as she received no answer; "but
I suppose they are obliged to shout to make themselves heard."
She tried in vain to pierce the darkness.
"If a vessel had been in distress, the crew would fire guns, or send up
rockets," she reflected.
The rain beat against her face, so she drew back from the window,
which she shut, and turned her attention to the fire, remembering that
her father would certainly return drenched to the skin. Suddenly the
cottage door was flung open, and Margaret Fowler, hatless, and with her
fair hair hanging around her face, stood before her.
"Oh, Salome!" she gasped breathlessly. "Is he here? Have you seen
Gerald?"
"No, miss. What is wrong?"
"We've lost Gerald, and I thought he might have come here. All the
servants are looking for him, and Miss Conway too. Oh, what shall we
do? He went to bed as usual, and was fast asleep at ten o'clock, but
when Miss Conway peeped into his room half-an-hour ago, to see if the
storm had disturbed him, his bed was empty. He had dressed, and we
believe, he must have gone out."
"Perhaps he is somewhere hiding in the house," Salome suggested.
"Surely he would not go out on a night like this."
"Yes, I think he would. He wanted so much to see a wreck—he seemed
to have made up his mind there would be one to-night—and he is quite
fearless."
"I expect he is safe. Oh, how wet you are, Miss Margaret!"
"Yes, and the wind blew away my hat coming down the hill, but no
matter. Oh, where can Gerald have gone? I believe he must be on the
beach."
"If he is, father will be sure to notice him and take care of him,"
Salome said consolingly. "Don't be frightened, miss; I feel sure Master
Gerald will come to no harm."
"If he does, it will kill mother!" Margaret cried, despairingly. "She
loves him so dearly. No, I mustn't stay; I must go and find Gerald if I
can;" and opening the door, she rushed away into the darkness again.
After a few minutes of indecision, Salome put on her jacket, tied a
shawl around her head, and leaving the cottage door unlocked, hastened
towards the beach. She had not gone far, however, before she came upon
a group of fishermen, one of whom was her father. She explained that
the little boy from Greystone was missing from his home, but no one
had seen him. Her father was vexed that she had ventured out in such a
storm, and peremptorily ordered her to return.
"I'll look around an' see if I can find Master Gerald," he said. "But
he'll come to no harm, I warrant."
"Oh, I am so glad to hear you say that!"
It was Margaret who spoke. She had been led in the direction of the
group by the sound of voices; and clutched Josiah by the arm to steady
herself, as a fierce gust of wind nearly took her off her feet.
"Do you go back with Salome, miss," he said. "This is no fit place for
you two little maids. I promise I'll look for Master Gerald, and find
him, too, if he's hereabouts."
"Oh, thank you!" Margaret replied earnestly.
She was really nearly done up with battling against the wind and the
rain, so she raised no objection to returning with Salome. The little
girls reached the cottage in safety, and upon entering, found Miss
Conway in the kitchen. Having knocked in vain at the door, she had
tried to open it, and finding it unlocked, had gone in; she too had
thought it possible that Gerald might be there.
"If he's on the beach, father will find him, you may depend upon that,"
Salome assured her. "And he will bring him straight here. I fear you
will both catch dreadful colds," and she glanced commiseratingly from
Margaret to the governess.
"We shan't mind that, so long as Gerald is safe," Margaret returned.
She was shivering and her teeth were chattering, as much with fright on
her brother's account as with cold. "Oh, Miss Conway, what shall we do
if anything has happened to him? Mother will never forgive us if—"
"Dear Margaret, don't be morbid; neither you nor I have been to
blame," Miss Conway reminded her. "If harm has come to your brother,
it has been through no fault of ours. Who would imagine that he would
deliberately get up and dress and steal out of the house unknown to
anyone? Whatever the result of this mad freak of his proves to be, will
have been his own doing."
"It is terrible to think what may have happened to him. The wind is
high enough to blow him into the sea if he is really on the beach. Oh,
mother will hate the sight of me for ever, if Gerald is drowned!" And
Margaret burst into tears.
"Don't, dear, don't!" Miss Conway said imploringly.
"You know it is true," Margaret cried passionately. "If I was killed,
mother would not care—not much; but Gerald is as the apple of her eye."
Before any answer could be made to this, the cottage door opened, and
Josiah strode into the kitchen, bearing Gerald in his arms. He had
discovered the little boy crouched in the shelter of a boat which had
been drawn high up on the beach, out of the reach of the tide.
"There is no wreck," Gerald said disgustedly, as Josiah set him down on
the floor, "and I'm cold and wet, and should like to go home."