ALONE IN GURGLEPOOL.
CONSTANCE CONWAY'S JOURNAL.
Written at intervals.
THE excursion to Gurglepool took place on Thursday, August 20. I have
much to say which I must jot down gradually.
We had bright sunshine. I think I should have been glad of rain to keep
us at home. For the whole morning I was haunted by the thought that
Arthur Lenox might after all respond to Maggie's invitation, and look
in at tea-time. Though not likely, it was not impossible. And I should
be absent!
Yet my duty remained the same. If going was an "ought" the day before,
it had not changed. I did feel sorely tempted to wish that I had
not arranged to be of the party, or that some excuse were even yet
possible. But conscience would not consent; neither would pride. I
cannot tell which was the stronger.
Till lunch I stayed indoors, having a good deal to do. At lunch Maggie
remarked—
"We've seen Captain Lenox again!"
"Have you?" asked Thyrza, who for some reason had not accompanied
Maggie and Miss Millington. I think she and Nona had enjoyed an
independent scramble with Denham.
"Yes,—we met him. And he and Millie had quite a talk together,—quite
confidential, wasn't it, Millie dear?" Both laughed. "He could have
come in to tea to-day, only we shan't be at home, so it would be no
use. He means to go away to-morrow morning,—no, I think he said he
should start this evening. But next time he visits the Denhams, he
hopes to make father's acquaintance."
"Yes; I thought him rather smitten," murmured Miss Millington, whereat
Maggie blushed.
The folly of this! As if girls of Maggie's type had not nonsense enough
in their heads, without its being helped on. Hardly anything could have
been in worse taste. If Mrs. Romilly knew!—with her refined delicacy of
feeling!
But what could I do? Too well I divined at whom the shaft was levelled;
and too keenly I realised what mischief Miss Millington's tongue might
have done to me in one short interview. But I was defenceless. I could
do nothing: and while my heart cried out bitterly against her, I was
outwardly calm.
Luncheon over, we started, though not without a good deal of delay. It
was a lovely ramble. How I could have enjoyed the fair surroundings of
dale and mountain, under different circumstances!
The walk proved longer than we expected: quite four miles I should
judge. Probably Denham missed the shortest route. We were all glad, on
reaching the wild little valley, to throw ourselves down for a good
rest; and most of our party were hungry enough to do good justice to
the substantial Yorkshire tea-cakes which we had brought with us, to be
eaten as buns.
Things had gone more smoothly thus far than I had feared. Part of the
way thither Denham had walked beside me, chatting; and Maggie seemed
good-humoured. I hoped that the extreme offence at my line of action
was lessening.
When scrambling explorations began, after our rest, I submitted to be
left in the rear. It would not do to seem suspicious or distrustful:
and I could not, of course, keep my eyes upon all of them the whole
time. Miss Millington was not likely to neglect the little ones; and
the elder girls knew me to be at hand, if any difficulty arose. I was
fain to be content with so much: and when they all rushed gaily off, I
made no attempt to follow.
Thereafter I had time enough for quiet thought,—more time perhaps than
was good for me. Shouts of laughter sounded faintly at intervals,
from one direction or another; and sometimes I caught a glimpse of a
flitting figure among the trees.
"Millie" was one of the merry party, but I was left alone. The feeling
of being shunned by those whom one loves, or could and would love, is
very painful.
I sat long near the lesser hole, disinclined for needless exertion: and
then strayed slowly towards Gurglepool. Whatever spot I chose to be in
was studiously avoided by the rest.
Some two hours must have passed in this fashion, and I knew that we
ought soon to start for home. Our walk and subsequent rest had occupied
long time, and days late in August are shorter than at midsummer.
With a good deal of difficulty I contrived to waylay Popsie, as she
was rushing down a path. She sprang aside, as if to escape, the moment
her eyes caught sight of me: but she obeyed my command to "stop;" and
I said, "Tell Maggie I want to speak to her, Popsie. We ought soon to
leave."
Popsie said "Yes," and flew away.
A long interval followed: and Maggie did not come. It was evident to me
that some preconcerted plan for making me repent my presence there was
being acted out. I blamed myself for being sure that Miss Millington
was to blame for this; yet I was sure. I sat waiting, alone and lonely.
It would never do for me to go in chase of Maggie: but I made up my
mind to speak to her seriously next day.
To my relief Denham dashed up. "Can't find Nona!" he said. I could not
make out from his face whether he were in fun or in earnest.
"When did you see her last?" I inquired.
"Oh, lots of time since. We're having a game of hide-and-seek, and
she's tucked herself away somewhere."
"You had better find her quickly, for it is time to start for home," I
said.
He dashed off again, and I heard his voice shouting, "Nona! Nona!
No—na!" all through the valley. I followed, and presently came upon
him, with Maggie, the children, and Miss Millington, seeming to hold a
consultation.
"Have you not found Nona yet?" I asked.
"No!" came in chorus.
"I sent a message by Popsie that I wished to speak to you, Maggie,
about going home," I observed. "But of course, we cannot leave till
Nona is found."
"Of course!" echoed the chorus.
I saw a disposition to laugh on Pet's face.
"And none of you knows where she is?" I put the question gravely,
looking at each in quick succession.
Maggie reddened, and a glance passed between her and Miss Millington.
All, however, joined in one emphatic and half-angry denial.
"Then there is nothing to be done but to search again," I said. "Nona
is very wrong to remain away so long. Where did any one see her last?"
Accounts agreed here. She had been observed standing near the lesser
hole. Denham further declared that he didn't see how she could have got
away from the trees in its neighbourhood, unnoticed: and I saw that he
either imagined, or wished me to imagine, the possibility that she had
fallen in. I did not believe he would view the idea so quietly, if he
really believed it; and I counted Nona too competent a climber as well
as too sensible a girl to do anything so foolish.
However, we all trooped thither, and peered over the edge into the
blackness below. Denham shouted Nona's name vigorously: and I was
conscious of an odd sense of unreality, almost inclining me to laugh.
"If she slipped over at all, she'd roll miles!" Denham declared.
"Hardly," I said. "But really, Denham, this is rather absurd."
"Why, that's the very thing you were afraid we should do!" cried Maggie.
"I don't think we must wait to discuss that now," I said. "If we do not
start at once, it will be dark before we reach home."
"Well, then, I say we'd better have another jolly good hunt," exclaimed
Denham. "And we'll all go off in different directions,—except that
Maggie can take Pet, and Millie can take Popsie. Mind you all scour the
place well. If that doesn't do, we shall just have to get a man and a
rope, and somebody must go down the hole."
They scattered again, and once more I was alone. I felt anxious, though
more than half believing that Nona had played us some trick, and that
the others either knew or suspected the same. The sky had clouded
over, and the little wood began to look somewhat dull and shady. As I
wandered about, searching and calling, a dread came over me,—suppose
something had happened to Nona! How terrible it would be!
The others did not return. I was struck with the cessation of their
voices. Denham's shouts had died away in the distance. I hoped none of
the searchers would manage to lose themselves.
I stood still to listen, and the absolute silence was oppressive.
Scarcely a leaf fluttered.
Could they have found Nona, and gone home without me?
This question did just occur to my mind, but I dismissed it at once. I
would not for a moment suspect Maggie or even Miss Millington of such
conduct, knowing as I knew they must know what my suspense would be.
Then I thought that nobody had been for a good while to Gurglepool; and
I remembered the woman in the cottage at the end of the little valley.
Why not appeal to her? She was acquainted with the place, and might
give us advice.
I went quickly first to Gurglepool, and stood on the edge of the huge
circular hole. The bottom, sixty or seventy feet below, was almost lost
in evening gloom. At first I could see nothing; but gradually outlines
grew a little more distinct.
Something lying on the steep pathway, half-a-dozen yards beneath where
I stood, drew my attention. I could not make it out: and the descent
was scarcely a tempting one, in lessening light and loneliness. I laid
a hand on the rail, however, and went a few steps carefully, till I
could pick up the thing.
It was Nona's silk scarf.
Somehow I had not thought of Gurglepool, so much as of the lesser
hole with its mysterious black depths. Gurglepool lay more open to
observation. If she had chosen to descend the path, she would have had
no means of hiding herself below, while daylight lasted.
Here seemed to be evidence that she had descended it, however, and
recently too. For if the scarf had been there not much more than
half-an-hour earlier, I must surely have seen it.
Could she be below still?
I spoke her name, called it, and had no answer. Gazing fixedly,
till my eyes ached, I fancied I could detect something close to the
pool-edge,—something like a human body lying prone. I believe one may
look and imagine in dim light, till one can see almost anything. I
thought at last that I could detect the very attitude, the pose of the
helpless limbs, the white face upturned.
Nothing of course remained to me but to go straight down. The others
might wonder where I was; but I could not delay.
The path was slimy and slippery from the heavy rain of the day before,
much worse than on my former visit. I meant to descend cautiously. I
suppose I was tired out, unnerved, overstrained, and the thought of
Nona lying there made my limbs tremble.
About three-quarters of the way to the bottom, when I had just loosened
my grasp of the hand-rail to pull up my skirt,—I slipped, and could not
recover myself.
It was a long moment's horror,—a helpless sliding quick descent, faster
and faster. I thought I should shoot into the dark deep pool, and
sink,—sucked downward into the underground river coursing through. And
in that instant, I wondered if Arthur Lenox would care.
Then I had arrived at the bottom,—not in the water, but on its muddy
margin, just where I had supposed Nona to be. No figure was there, only
a large whitish stone which had dropped from the rocky wall. I came
down kneeling upon this stone, my whole weight thrown almost entirely
upon the right knee; and with the impetus of my descent I rebounded
nearly a yard, rolling over on my side.
I have a distinct recollection of so much. Then I think I must
have lain stunned for half-a-minute. My first clear thought was of
thankfulness at having escaped the black deep water, so awfully close.
"Not yet death!" flashed through my mind; and I said aloud, "How
foolish I have been!"
Next I had a sense that I was very much hurt somewhere; but I thought I
would get up; and when I tried to move an inch, the pain in my knee was
so fearful, that I was obliged to desist at once.
I do not fancy I made any sound, for screaming is not at all in my
line; but I did feel dismayed. The position was not an enviable one. I
hoped that the pain might lessen soon; but it did not.
Then I recollected that I must try to make known where I was: and
I called repeatedly—"Maggie!" "Denham!" "Help!" But there was no
response. Indeed, I scarcely expected any. Even if the rest of my party
had not already gone home without me,—and I began to feel sure that
this must be the true state of the case,—they would content themselves
easily with the conjecture that I might have started first alone, and
would not search far. The woman in the cottage had very likely retired
with her family for the night. Unless a passer-by came near the edge
of Gurglepool, my voice from the depth would be unheard; and stray
passers-by, on such a spot and at such an hour, were in the highest
degree improbable.
I tried again to rise: but in vain. I tried to drag myself, crawling,
to the path, only a yard or two off, but I could not. The least motion
gave intolerable agony.
Darkness seemed to be coming all at once, in a rush. Outside
Gurglepool, no doubt, it was pleasant twilight still; but I lay in
black shadow; the straight rocky sides rising steeply for sixty feet
or more, all around, in a circle broken only by the path. Small bushes
sprouted out here and there from some tiny ledge; and overhead was a
circular grey sky. That was all I could see. Dim light above, under the
grey sky-roof; no light below. I could just make out the surface of the
still water, near to my side. No sound or stir of life was to be heard.
It was strangely solemn to be there, all alone; fir from any human
being; clear and calm in mind; but unable to stir.
While I kept absolutely still, the pain was so far bearable, that I
could think. But the more I thought, the more I saw that I could do
nothing, except endure passively until help should come. To climb the
path was physically impossible.
Help of course would come in time:—but when?
[Illustration: It was strangely solemn to be there all alone.]
That was the question. If the rest of the party had started without
me, they would not expect me to arrive till perhaps an hour after
themselves: and then they would wait before doing anything practical. I
knew how indignant and grieved Thyrza would be, at the mere thought of
my having been left behind alone. Perhaps she would see Mr. Stockmoor:
or send some one to meet me. By that time, however, I scarcely saw what
she or anybody could do. The walk over the hills in darkness would be
no easy matter: and how could they guess where I might be found?
I saw all this very plainly, and it did seem that I should almost
certainly have to remain where I was until the morning. The marvel
to me now is that I could view the prospect so quietly. I do not
think it was stupefaction. I only felt that Christ my Master was with
me—absolutely and actually present—whatever might happen: that He would
never forsake His own. And four little simple lines kept running in my
head:
"His Arm is beneath me,
His Eye is above:
His Spirit within me
Says—'Rest in My love.'"
It seemed at last a certainty that the trick, of which I had not liked
to suspect the others, had really been planned. Otherwise I must surely
have heard their voices calling my name, when they returned from the
search.
"Poor children! How silly of them!" I thought. For I knew that in
punishing me, they would—as is so often the case—have punished
themselves. And then I reverted to Thyrza, and I did grieve to picture
her trouble.
Suppose she went to the Farm, and told Mr. Stockmoor! And
suppose—suppose Arthur Lenox were there still! Would he come in search
of the missing governess? I felt that anything I might have to endure
would be worth such a consummation.
The sound of a slow drop—drop—drop on the pool-surface was followed
by big splashes upon my face. Rain came fast; no soft shower, but a
pelting sheet of water, hissing down the muddy pathway. Ascent would
be worse than ever after this. I should have been thankful for my
waterproof cloak, lying far above on the edge. In five minutes my
clothes were soaked.
Blacker and blacker grew the sky, heavier and heavier the rain. It
was one of Nature's shower-baths. I was soon thoroughly chilled and
shivering, less able to bear up. I remember the thought occurring,
"Even if I live till daylight, this may mean fatal illness,—may mean
the worst!" And then the question, "Would it be 'the worst' to me?"
And a murmured, "Even so, my Father,—if so it should seem good in Thy
sight."
How long a time passed thus I cannot tell, for I could not see the face
of my watch. Every two or three minutes I still called forlornly for
aid, though I felt the effort to be almost useless.
After what must have been a considerable while, I tried to change my
position. In so doing, I put out one hand, perhaps a foot off,—not on
the bank, as I expected, for it splashed into water.
Then—the pool was rising!
At once I understood. The woman had explained to me how these waters
did rise in heavy rain, slowly mounting up and up, towards the mouth of
the hole, curdling fiercely round like water in a saucepan vehemently
stirred, and finally "boiling" over on the grass outside.
I think I must have been getting at last a little stupefied with pain
and cold; for I kept picturing this to myself, in a dreamy fashion,
wondering if the waters would carry me up as they rose, and would whirl
me round in eddying circles, till finally I was cast out upon the
grassy slope.
Or I might instead be sucked downwards, drawn into the quiet river
below, carried through dark underground passages, and perhaps, a mile
or two farther on, be washed out through holes into light of day, just
where the hidden river bubbles up once more upon its stony bed, as I
had seen it when driving past in the dog-cart.
Maggie would be the one to be pitied,—poor Maggie! I felt such intense
compassion for her. I thought of Eustace, and of Keith's death. It did
seem strange, if something akin to that were to happen again in the
family. Not the same, yet so far alike that Maggie would certainly be
blamed for my death. People would say, "How terrible for Maggie! Such
a result from one little bout of girlish temper and silliness!" But
would that be true? Was it not rather the end of a long downsliding on
Maggie's part: a persistent yielding to ill temper and perversity?
I think I wanted to live most of all for Maggie's sake. It seemed to me
that my death just then would throw such a shadow over her life.
Of Miss Millington I thought little, and this now seems to me singular.
Maggie's face haunted me. I kept seeing the rounded peach-bloom cheeks,
and the sweet half-shy grey eyes, just as I had seen them when she
stepped forward to speak to Arthur Lenox. And, strange to say, the face
grew more dear, just because he had looked upon it admiringly.
Until those lonely hours in Gurglepool hollow, I never dreamt how I
loved Maggie, despite all her coldness. I can recall saying, with quite
a gleam of joy, "If I get through this, I shall be able now to write to
my friend as she wishes, about her darling."
The downpour continued, and the pool still rose. I could feel the water
creeping, creeping, like a snake of ice about my feet.
I found myself wondering what the process of drowning would be like.
Should I just fade away into a peaceful unconsciousness, or would
there be struggling and oppression? Two or three descriptions which I
had read came to me, written by some who had gone through the actual
experience, so far as all loss of sense. "Not worse in any case than
what many have to bear in their own beds," I thought.
And—"When thou passest through the waters I will be with thee!" was as
if whispered to my mind.
"Why, I am passing through them now," I said aloud.
Yet how far I realised danger, I do not know. For in the midst of all
this, I tried to reckon how many hours must pass before I could hope to
be rescued. Then I wondered again whether—perhaps—Arthur Lenox might
come. And I seemed to see him and Maggie wandering together, out of my
reach.
Consciousness must have been a little vague at times. Somehow it did
not occur to me to try again to move. I had quite ceased to call for
help, and the very wish to be saved faded gradually away. I hardly even
observed that by-and-bye the rain came to an end, and the pool was no
longer rising. All this must have taken much time: how much I cannot
tell.
There were cries at last,—shouts,—and I saw lanterns above, gleaming
through the darkness. I tried to call, but could not, for my voice
seemed gone; and I thought, "It does not matter; they will find my
cloak;" which indeed came to pass.
Then I knew that somebody was descending the path, followed by somebody
else. I have been told since that I was lying half in water, and my
remembrance of the exclamations around confirms this.
Some one drew me back gently,—so gently, that I believed it must be
Arthur. I did not say his name, but I managed to look up, and I saw—not
Captain Lenox, but Sir Keith Denham.
For a moment, I could hardly believe that it was Sir Keith,—his face
was so stern and grieved and pale. I felt no surprise at seeing him.
There was one sharp stab of disappointment; and then all other thoughts
were lost in the pain of being moved.
I shall never forget the ascent of that path; though indeed it was
managed beautifully. Two other men helped Sir Keith and Mr. Stockmoor;
and sometimes one or another slipped. They could not help it; but the
least jar was terrible to me; and I did not lose sense for a moment.
Then followed the long long drive in the waggonette, with its ceaseless
jolting. Thyrza was there, and she held me in her dear arms all the
while, tears often running down her cheeks. I cannot remember my first
sight of Thyrza. They say that she was on the edge of Gurglepool, and
that almost the only words I spoke were just these, "I am so sorry for
poor Maggie." The remark would be natural enough; but I can remember
little of anything, beyond the pain, and Thyrza's distress, and Sir
Keith's stern gentleness.
We reached home at last, and faces and voices came round. The sound of
Maggie's sobbing went to my heart, and I believe I burst into tears
then for the first time. They kept her away from me.
In the early morning, a doctor from Beckbergh arrived. I had thought
the pain in my knee all night as much as I could possibly endure: but
I had to bear worse from his hands. It was not a case of broken bones,
but of severe dislocation, with terrible bruises and swelling. At first
he feared permanent injury to the bone. That fear, I am thankful to
say, is now going off. He told me everything depended on absolute rest
and stillness for the limb; and indeed I have done my best to be quiet,
though it was not easy.
For three weeks, only Lady Denham and Thyrza and Rouse were allowed
in my room. During some days I had a sharp touch of rheumatic fever,
from lying so long in wet clothes. Things are much better now, and
I have permission to amuse myself by writing a little at times: so
when alone with Thyrza, I ask for my journal. The knee has still to
be kept motionless. But my doctor speaks of the improvement in it as
astonishingly rapid.
"Thanks, partly, to your being so good a patient," he says.
It was strange that Lady Denham and Sir Keith should have unexpectedly
arrived at the Farm that very afternoon. Captain Lenox had left only
one hour earlier, walking off with his carpet-bag, and telling nobody
where he meant to go. Sometimes I do long to know what passed between
him and Miss Millington,—but of course I shall never hear.
Friday. September 18.—Having written the above, piecemeal, up to this
day, I hope to resume my more regular journalising.
It is now over four weeks since the accident. Maggie and the twins come
in daily to see me: but they are all three more or less constrained and
uncomfortable. Nona chatters. Elfie looks pinched and forlorn. Maggie
seems at a loss what to say or do. I have seen none of them alone, and
scarcely an allusion has been made to the real cause of my illness. I
think it best to wait; not to try to force any expressions of regret.
There is unhappily an adverse influence.
Miss Millington has not been near me yet. I am told that she says, "It
is kinder not to crowd the room."