A CONFESSION OF FAITH
“Are you ready?” he said, recovering himself from the pleasing shock of
this serge-draped vision of the mist.
“Yes,” said Beatrice. “You must head straight out to sea for a
little—not too far, for if we get beyond the shelter of Rumball Point
we might founder in the rollers—there are always rollers there—then
steer to the left. I will tell you when. And, Mr. Bingham, please be
careful of the paddle; it has been spliced, and won’t bear rough
usage.”
“All right,” he answered, and they started gaily enough, the light
canoe gliding swiftly forward beneath his sturdy strokes.
Beatrice was leaning back with her head bent a little forward, so that
he could only see her chin and the sweet curve of the lips above it.
But she could see all his face as it swayed towards her with each
motion of the paddle, and she watched it with interest. It was a new
type of face to her, so strong and manly, and yet so gentle about the
mouth—almost too gentle she thought. What made him marry Lady Honoria?
Beatrice wondered; she did not look particularly gentle, though she was
such a graceful woman.
And thus they went on for some time, each wondering about the other and
at heart admiring the other, which was not strange, for they were a
very proper pair, but saying no word till at last, after about a
quarter of an hour’s hard paddling, Geoffrey paused to rest.
“Do you do much of this kind of thing, Miss Granger?” he said with a
gasp, “because it is rather hard work.”
She laughed. “Ah,” she said, “I thought you would scarcely go on
paddling at that rate. Yes, I canoe a great deal in the summer time. It
is my way of taking exercise, and I can swim well, so I am not afraid
of an upset. At least it has been my way for the last two years since a
lady who was staying here gave me the canoe when she went away. Before
that I used to row in a boat—that is, before I went to college.”
“College? What college? Girton?”
“Oh, no, nothing half so grand. It was a college where you get
certificates that you are qualified to be a mistress in a Board school.
I wish it had been Girton.”
“Do you?”—you are too good for that, he was going to add, but changed
it to—“I think you were as well away. I don’t care about the Girton
stamp; those of them whom I have known are so hard.”
“So much the better for them,” she answered. “I should like to be hard
as a stone; a stone cannot feel. Don’t you think that women ought to
learn, then?”
“Do you?” he asked.
“Yes, certainly.”
“Have you learnt anything?”
“I have taught myself a little and picked up something at the college.
But I have no real knowledge, only a smattering of things.”
“What do you know—French and German?”
“Yes.”
“Latin?”
“Yes, I know something of it.”
“Greek?”
“I can read it fairly, but I am not a Greek scholar.”
“Mathematics?”
“No, I gave them up. There is no human nature about mathematics. They
work everything to a fixed conclusion that must result. Life is not
like that; what ought to be a square comes out a right angle, and _x_
always equals an unknown quantity, which is never ascertained till you
are dead.”
“Good gracious!” thought Geoffrey to himself between the strokes of the
paddle, “what an extraordinary girl. A flesh-and-blood blue-stocking,
and a lovely one into the bargain. At any rate I will bowl her out this
time.”
“Perhaps you have read law too?” he said with suppressed sarcasm.
“I have read some,” she answered calmly. “I like law, especially Equity
law; it is so subtle, and there is such a mass of it built upon such a
small foundation. It is like an overgrown mushroom, and the top will
fall off one day, however hard the lawyers try to prop it up. Perhaps
you can tell me——”
“No, I’m sure I cannot,” he answered. “I’m not a Chancery man. I am
Common law, and _I_ don’t take all knowledge for _my_ province. You
positively alarm me, Miss Granger. I wonder that the canoe does not
sink beneath so much learning.”
“Do I?” she answered sweetly. “I am glad that I have lived to frighten
somebody. I meant that I like Equity to study; but if I were a
barrister, I would be Common law, because there is so much more life
and struggle about it. Existence is not worth having unless one is
struggling with something and trying to overcome it.”
“Dear me, what a reposeful prospect,” said Geoffrey, aghast. He had
certainly never met such a woman as this before.
“Repose is only good when it is earned,” went on the fair philosopher,
“and in order to fit one to earn some more, otherwise it becomes
idleness, and that is misery. Fancy being idle when one has such a
little time to live. The only thing to do is to work and stifle
thought. I suppose that you have a large practice, Mr. Bingham?”
“You should not ask a barrister that question,” he answered, laughing;
“it is like looking at the pictures which an artist has turned to the
wall. No, to be frank, I have not. I have only taken to practising in
earnest during the last two years. Before I was a barrister in name,
and that is all.”
“Then why did you suddenly begin to work?”
“Because I lost my prospects, Miss Granger—from necessity, in short.”
“Oh, I beg your pardon!” she said, with a blush, which of course he
could not see. “I did not mean to be rude. But it is very lucky for
you, is it not?”
“Indeed! Some people don’t think so. Why is it lucky?”
“Because you will now rise and become a great man, and that is more
than being a rich man.”
“And why do you think that I shall become a great man?” he asked,
stopping paddling in his astonishment and looking at the dim form
before him.
“Oh! because it is written on your face,” she answered simply.
Her words rang true; there was no flattery or artifice in them.
Geoffrey felt that the girl was saying just what she thought.
“So you study physiognomy as well,” he said. “Well, Miss Granger, it is
rather odd, considering all things, but I will say to you what I have
never said to any one before. I believe that you are right. I shall
rise. If I live I feel that I have it in me.”
At this point it possibly occurred to Beatrice that, considering the
exceeding brevity of their acquaintance, they were drifting into
somewhat confidential conversation. At any rate, she quickly changed
the topic.
“I am afraid you are growing tired,” she said; “but we must be getting
on. It will soon be quite dark and we have still a long way to go. Look
there,” and she pointed seaward.
He looked. The whole bank of mist was breaking up and bearing down on
them in enormous billows of vapour. Presently, these were rolling over
them, so darkening the heavy air that, though the pair were within four
feet of each other, they could scarcely see one another’s faces. As yet
they felt no wind. The dense weight of mist choked the keen, impelling
air.
“I think the weather is breaking; we are going to have a storm,” said
Beatrice, a little anxiously.
Scarcely were the words out of her mouth when the mist passed away from
them, and from all the seaward expanse of ocean. Not a wrack of it was
left, and in its place the strong sea-breath beat upon their faces. Far
in the west the angry disc of the sun was sinking into the foam. A
great red ray shot from its bent edge and lay upon the awakened waters,
like a path of fire. The ominous light fell full upon the little boat
and full upon Beatrice’s lips. Then it passed on and lost itself in the
deep mists which still swathed the coast.
“Oh, how beautiful it is!” she cried, raising herself and pointing to
the glory of the dying sun.
“It is beautiful indeed!” he answered, but he looked, not at the
sunset, but at the woman’s face before him, glowing like a saint’s in
its golden aureole. For this also was most beautiful—so beautiful that
it stirred him strangely.
“It is like——” she began, and broke off suddenly.
“What is it like?” he asked.
“It is like finding truth at last,” she answered, speaking as much to
herself as to him. “Why, one might make an allegory out of it. We
wander in mist and darkness shaping a vague course for home. And then
suddenly the mists are blown away, glory fills the air, and there is no
more doubt, only before us is a splendour making all things clear and
lighting us over a deathless sea. It sounds rather too grand,” she
added, with a charming little laugh; “but there is something in it
somewhere, if only I could express myself. Oh, look!”
As she spoke a heavy storm-cloud rolled over the vanishing rim of the
sun. For a moment the light struggled with the eclipsing cloud, turning
its dull edge to the hue of copper, but the cloud was too strong and
the light vanished, leaving the sea in darkness.
“Well,” he said, “your allegory would have a dismal end if you worked
it out. It is getting as dark as pitch, and there’s a good deal in
_that_, if only _I_ could express myself.”
Beatrice dropped poetry, and came down to facts in a way that was very
commendable.
“There is a squall coming up, Mr. Bingham,” she said; “you must paddle
as hard as you can. I do not think we are more than two miles from
Bryngelly, and if we are lucky we may get there before the weather
breaks.”
“Yes, _if_ we are lucky,” he said grimly, as he bent himself to the
work. “But the question is where to paddle to—it’s so dark. Had not we
better run for the shore?”
“We are in the middle of the bay now,” she answered, “and almost as far
from the nearest land as we are from Bryngelly, besides it is all
rocks. No, you must go straight on. You will see the Poise light beyond
Coed presently. You know Coed is four miles on the other side of
Bryngelly, so when you see it head to the left.”
He obeyed her, and they neither of them spoke any more for some time.
Indeed the rising wind made conversation difficult, and so far as
Geoffrey was concerned he had little breath left to spare for words. He
was a strong man, but the unaccustomed labour was beginning to tell on
him, and his hands were blistering. For ten minutes or so he paddled on
through a darkness which was now almost total, wondering where on earth
he was wending, for it was quite impossible to see. For all he knew to
the contrary, he might be circling round and round. He had only one
thing to direct him, the sweep of the continually rising wind and the
wash of the gathering waves. So long as these struck the canoe, which
now began to roll ominously, on the starboard side, he must, he
thought, be keeping a right course. But in the turmoil of the rising
gale and the confusion of the night, this was no very satisfactory
guide. At length, however, a broad and brilliant flash sprung out
across the sea, almost straight ahead of him. It was the Poise light.
He altered his course a little and paddled steadily on. And now the
squall was breaking. Fortunately, it was not a very heavy one, or their
frail craft must have sunk and they with it. But it was quite serious
enough to put them in great danger. The canoe rose to the waves like a
feather, but she was broadside on, and rise as she would they began to
ship a little water. And they had not seen the worst of it. The weather
was still thickening.
Still he held on, though his heart sank within him, while Beatrice said
nothing. Presently a big wave came; he could just see its white crest
gleaming through the gloom, then it was on them. The canoe rose to it
gallantly; it seemed to curl right over her, making the craft roll till
Geoffrey thought that the end had come. But she rode it out, not,
however, without shipping more than a bucket of water. Without saying a
word, Beatrice took the cloth cap from her head and, leaning forward,
began to bale as best she could, and that was not very well.
“This will not do,” he called. “I must keep her head to the sea or we
shall be swamped.”
“Yes,” she answered, “keep her head up. We are in great danger.”
He glanced to his right; another white sea was heaving down on him; he
could just see its glittering crest. With all his force he dug the
paddle into the water; the canoe answered to it; she came round just in
time to ride out the wave with safety, but the paddle _snapped_. It was
already sprung, and the weight he put upon it was more than it could
bear. Right in two it broke, some nine inches above that blade which at
the moment was buried in the water. He felt it go, and despair took
hold of him.
“Great heavens!” he cried, “the paddle is broken.”
Beatrice gasped.
“You must use the other blade,” she said; “paddle first one side and
then on the other, and keep her head on.”
“Till we sink,” he answered.
“No, till we are saved—never talk of sinking.”
The girl’s courage shamed him, and he obeyed her instructions as best
he could. By dint of continually shifting what remained of the paddle
from one side of the canoe to the other, he did manage to keep her head
on to the waves that were now rolling in apace. But in their hearts
they both wondered how long this would last.
“Have you got any cartridges?” she asked presently.
“Yes, in my coat pocket,” he answered.
“Give me two, if you can manage it,” she said.
In an interval between the coming of two seas he contrived to slip his
hand into a pocket and transfer the cartridges. Apparently she knew
something of the working of a gun, for presently there was a flash and
a report, quickly followed by another.
“Give me some more cartridges,” she cried. He did so, but nothing
followed.
“It is no use,” she said at length, “the cartridges are wet. I cannot
get the empty cases out. But perhaps they may have seen or heard them.
Old Edward is sure to be watching for me. You had better throw the rest
into the sea if you can manage it,” she added by way of an
afterthought; “we may have to swim presently.”
To Geoffrey this seemed very probable, and whenever he got a chance he
acted on the hint till at length he was rid of all his cartridges. Just
then it began to rain in torrents. Though it was not warm the
perspiration was streaming from him at every pore, and the rain beating
on his face refreshed him somewhat; also with the rain the wind dropped
a little.
But he was becoming tired out and he knew it. Soon he would no longer
be able to keep the canoe straight, and then they must be swamped, and
in all human probability drowned. So this was to be the end of his life
and its ambitions. Before another hour had run its course, he would be
rolling to and fro in the arms of that angry sea. What would his wife
Honoria say when she heard the news, he wondered? Perhaps it would
shock her into some show of feeling. And Effie, his dear little
six-year-old daughter? Well, thank God, she was too young to feel his
loss for long. By the time that she was a woman she would almost have
forgotten that she ever had a father. But how would she get on without
him to guide her? Her mother did not love children, and a growing girl
would continually remind her of her growing years. He could not tell;
he could only hope for the best.
And for himself! What would become of him after the short sharp
struggle for life? Should he find endless sleep, or what? He was a
Christian, and his life had not been worse than that of other men.
Indeed, though he would have been the last to think it, he had some
redeeming virtues. But now at the end the spiritual horizon was as dark
as it had been at the beginning. There before him were the Gates of
Death, but not yet would they roll aside and show the traveller what
lay beyond their frowning face. How could he tell? Perhaps they would
not open at all. Perhaps he now bade his last farewell to
consciousness, to earth and sky and sea and love and all lovely things.
Well, that might be better than some prospects. At that moment Geoffrey
Bingham, in the last agony of doubt, would gladly have exchanged his
hopes of life beyond for a certainty of eternal sleep. That faith which
enables some of us to tread this awful way with an utter confidence is
not a wide prerogative, and, as yet, at any rate, it was not his,
though the time might come when he would attain it. There are not very
many, even among those without reproach, who can lay them down in the
arms of Death, knowing most certainly that when the veil is rent away
the countenance that they shall see will be that of the blessed
Guardian of Mankind. Alas! he could not be altogether sure, and where
doubt exists, hope is but a pin-pricked bladder. He sighed heavily,
murmured a little formula of prayer that had been on his lips most
nights during thirty years—he had learnt it as a child at his mother’s
knee—and then, while the tempest roared around him, gathered up his
strength to meet the end which seemed inevitable. At any rate he would
die like a man.
Then came a reaction. His vital forces rose again. He no longer felt
fearful, he only wondered with a strange impersonal wonder, as a man
wonders about the vital affairs of another. Then from wondering about
himself he began to wonder about the girl who sat opposite to him. With
the rain came a little lightning, and by the first flash he saw her
clearly. Her beautiful face was set, and as she bent forward searching
the darkness with her wide eyes, it wore, he thought, an almost defiant
air.
The canoe twisted round somewhat. He dug his broken paddle into the
water and once more brought her head on to the sea. Then he spoke.
“Are you afraid?” he asked of Beatrice.
“No,” she answered, “I am not afraid.”
“Do you know that we shall probably be drowned?”
“Yes, I know it. They say the death is easy. I brought you here.
Forgive me that. I should have tried to row you ashore as you said.”
“Never mind me; a man must meet his fate some day. Do not think of me.
But I can’t keep her head on much longer. You had better say your
prayers.”
Beatrice bent forward till her head was quite near his own. The wind
had blown some of her hair loose, and though he did not seem to notice
it at the time, he remembered afterwards that a lock of it struck him
on the face.
“I cannot pray,” she said; “I have nothing to pray to. I am not a
Christian.”
The words struck him like a blow. It seemed so awful to think of this
proud and brilliant woman, now balanced on the verge of what she
believed to be utter annihilation. Even the courage that induced her at
such a moment to confess her hopeless state seemed awful.
“Try,” he said with a gasp.
“No,” she answered, “I do not fear to die. Death cannot be worse than
life is for most of us. I have not prayed for years, not since—well,
never mind. I am not a coward. It would be cowardly to pray now because
I may be wrong. If there is a God who knows all, He will understand
that.”
Geoffrey said no more, but laboured at the broken paddle gallantly and
with an ever-failing strength. The lightning had passed away and the
darkness was very great, for the hurrying clouds hid the starlight.
Presently a sound arose above the turmoil of the storm, a crashing
thunderous sound towards which the send of the sea gradually bore them.
The sound came from the waves that beat upon the Bryngelly reef.
“Where are we drifting to?” he cried.
“Into the breakers, where we shall be lost,” she answered calmly. “Give
up paddling, it is of no use, and try to take off your coat. I have
loosened my skirt. Perhaps we can swim ashore.”
He thought to himself that in the dark and breakers such an event was
not probable, but he said nothing, and addressed himself to the task of
getting rid of his coat and waistcoat—no easy one in that confined
space. Meanwhile the canoe was whirling round and round like a walnut
shell upon a flooded gutter. For some distance before the waves broke
upon the reef and rocks they swept in towards them with a steady
foamless swell. On reaching the shallows, however, they pushed their
white shoulders high into the air, curved up and fell in thunder on the
reef.
The canoe rode towards the breakers, sucked upon its course by a
swelling sea.
“Good-bye,” called Geoffrey to Beatrice, as stretching out his wet hand
he found her own and took it, for companionship makes death a little
easier.
“Good-bye,” she cried, clinging to his hand. “Oh, why did I bring you
into this?”
For in their last extremity this woman thought rather of her companion
in peril than of herself.
One more turn, then suddenly the canoe beneath them was lifted like a
straw and tossed high into the air. A mighty mass of water boiled up
beneath it and around it. Then the foam rushed in, and vaguely Geoffrey
knew that they were wrapped in the curve of a billow.
A swift and mighty rush of water. Crash!—and his senses left him.