What are you moving them stones for? Them stones belongs to
grandfather.” And in her wrath she made a movement as though she were
going to fly at him.
“Let him be, Mally,” said the old man; “let him be. He’ll get his
punishment. He’ll come to be drowned some day if he comes down here when
the wind is in shore.”
“That he may be drowned then!” said Mally, in her anger. “If he was in
that big hole there among the rocks, and the sea running in at half
tide, I wouldn’t lift a hand to help him out.”
“Yes you would, Mally; you’d fish me up with your hook like a big stick
of seaweed.”
She turned from him with scorn as he said this, and went into the hut.
It was time for her to get ready for her work, and one of the great
injuries done her lay in this,--that such a one as Barty Gunliffe should
come and look at her during her toil among the breakers.
It was an afternoon in April, and the hour was something after four
o’clock. There had been a heavy wind from the north-west all the
morning, with gusts of rain, and the sea-gulls had been in and out of
the cove all the day, which was a sure sign to Mally that the incoming
tide would cover the rocks with weed.
The quick waves were now returning with wonderful celerity over the low
reefs, and the time had come at which the treasure must be seized, if it
was to be garnered on that day. By seven o’clock it would be growing
dark, at nine it would be high water, and before daylight the crop would
be carried out again if not collected. All this Mally understood very
well, and some of this Barty was beginning to understand also.
As Mally came down with her bare feet, bearing her long hook in her
hand, she saw Barty’s pony standing patiently on the sand, and in her
heart she longed to attack the brute. Barty at this moment, with a
common three-pronged fork in his hand, was standing down on a large
rock, gazing forth towards the waters. He had declared that he would
gather the weed only at places which were inaccessible to Mally, and he
was looking out that he might settle where he would begin.
“Let un be, let un be,” shouted the old man to Mally, as he saw her take
a step towards the beast, which she hated almost as much as she hated
the man.
Hearing her grandfather’s voice through the wind, she desisted from her
purpose, if any purpose she had had, and went forth to her work. As she
passed down the cove, and scrambled in among the rocks, she saw Barty
still standing on his perch; out beyond, the white-curling waves were
cresting and breaking themselves with violence, and the wind was
howling among the caverns and abutments of the cliff.
Every now and then there came a squall of rain, and though there was
sufficient light, the heavens were black with clouds. A scene more
beautiful might hardly be found by those who love the glories of the
coast. The light for such objects was perfect. Nothing could exceed the
grandeur of the colours,--the blue of the open sea, the white of the
breaking waves, the yellow sands, or the streaks of red and brown which
gave such richness to the cliff.
But neither Mally nor Barty were thinking of such things as these.
Indeed they were hardly thinking of their trade after its ordinary
forms. Barty was meditating how he could best accomplish his purpose of
working beyond the reach of Mally’s feminine powers, and Mally was
resolving that wherever Barty went she would go farther.
And, in many respects, Mally had the advantage. She knew every rock in
the spot, and was sure of those which gave a good foothold, and sure
also of those which did not. And then her activity had been made perfect
by practice for the purpose to which it was to be devoted. Barty, no
doubt, was stronger than she, and quite as active. But Barty could not
jump among the waves from one stone to another as she could do, nor was
he as yet able to get aid in his work from the very force of the water
as she could get it. She had been hunting seaweed in that cove since she
had been an urchin of six years old, and she knew every hole and corner
and every spot of vantage. The waves were her friends, and she could use
them. She could measure their strength, and knew when and where it would
cease.
Mally was great down in the salt pools of her own cove,--great, and very
fearless. As she watched Barty make his way forward from rock to rock,
she told herself, gleefully, that he was going astray. The curl of the
wind as it blew into the cove would not carry the weed up to the
northern buttresses of the cove; and then there was the great hole just
there,--the great hole of which she had spoken when she wished him evil.
And now she went to work, hooking up the dishevelled hairs of the ocean,
and landing many a cargo on the extreme margin of the sand, from whence
she would be able in the evening to drag it back before the invading
waters would return to reclaim the spoil.
And on his side also Barty made his heap up against the northern
buttresses of which I have spoken. Barty’s heap became big and still
bigger, so that he knew, let the pony work as he might, he could not
take it all up that evening. But still it was not as large as Mally’s
heap. Mally’s hook was better than his fork, and Mally’s skill was
better than his strength. And when he failed in some haul Mally would
jeer him with a wild, weird laughter, and shriek to him through the wind
that he was not half a man. At first he answered her with laughing
words, but before long, as she boasted of her success and pointed to his
failure, he became angry, and then he answered her no more. He became
angry with himself, in that he missed so much of the plunder before him.
The broken sea was full of the long straggling growth which the waves
had torn up from the bottom of the ocean, but the masses were carried
past him, away from him,--nay, once or twice over him; and then Mally’s
weird voice would sound in his ear, jeering him. The gloom among the
rocks was now becoming thicker and thicker, the tide was beating in with
increased strength, and the gusts of wind came with quicker and greater
violence. But still he worked on. While Mally worked he would work, and
he would work for some time after she was driven in. He would not be
beaten by a girl.
The great hole was now full of water, but of water which seemed to be
boiling as though in a pot. And the pot was full of floating
masses,--large treasures of seaweed which were thrown to and fro upon
its surface, but lying there so thick that one would seem almost able to
rest upon it without sinking.
Mally knew well how useless it was to attempt to rescue aught from the
fury of that boiling caldron. The hole went in under the rocks, and the
side of it towards the shore lay high, slippery, and steep. The hole,
even at low water, was never empty; and Mally believed that there was no
bottom to it. Fish thrown in there could escape out to the ocean, miles
away,--so Mally in her softer moods would tell the visitors to the cove.
She knew the hole well. Poulnadioul she was accustomed to call it; which
was supposed, when translated, to mean that this was the hole of the
Evil One. Never did Mally attempt to make her own of weed which had
found its way into that pot.
But Barty Gunliffe knew no better, and she watched him as he endeavoured
to steady himself on the treacherously slippery edge of the pool. He
fixed himself there and made a haul, with some small success. How he
managed it she hardly knew, but she stood still for a while watching him
anxiously, and then she saw him slip. He slipped, and recovered
himself;--slipped again, and again recovered himself.
“Barty, you fool!” she screamed, “if you get yourself pitched in there,
you’ll never come out no more.”
Whether she simply wished to frighten him, or whether her heart relented
and she had thought of his danger with dismay, who shall say? She could
not have told herself. She hated him as much as ever,--but she could
hardly have wished to see him drowned before her eyes.
“You go on, and don’t mind me,” said he, speaking in a hoarse angry
tone.
“Mind you!--who minds you?” retorted the girl. And then she again
prepared herself for her work.
But as she went down over the rocks with her long hook balanced in her
hands, she suddenly heard a splash, and, turning quickly round, saw the
body of her enemy tumbling amidst the eddying waves in the pool. The
tide had now come up so far that every succeeding wave washed into it
and over it from the side nearest to the sea, and then ran down again
back from the rocks, as the rolling wave receded, with a noise like the
fall of a cataract. And then, when the surplus water had retreated for a
moment, the surface of the pool would be partly calm, though the
fretting bubbles would still boil up and down, and there was ever a
simmer on the surface, as though, in truth, the caldron were heated.
But this time of comparative rest was but a moment, for the succeeding
breaker would come up almost as soon as the foam of the preceding one
had gone, and then again the waters would be dashed upon the rocks, and
the sides would echo with the roar of the angry wave.
Instantly Mally hurried across to the edge of the pool, crouching down
upon her hands and knees for security as she did so. As a wave receded,
Barty’s head and face was carried round near to her, and she could see
that his forehead was covered with blood. Whether he were alive or dead
she did not know. She had seen nothing but his blood, and the
light-coloured hair of his head lying amidst the foam. Then his body was
drawn along by the suction of the retreating wave; but the mass of water
that escaped was not on this occasion large enough to carry the man out
with it.
Instantly Mally was at work with her hook, and getting it fixed into his
coat, dragged him towards the spot on which she was kneeling. During the
half minute of repose she got him so close that she could touch his
shoulder. Straining herself down, laying herself over the long bending
handle of the hook, she strove to grasp him with her right hand. But she
could not do it; she could only touch him.
Then came the next breaker, forcing itself on with a roar, looking to
Mally as though it must certainly knock her from her resting-place, and
destroy them both. But she had nothing for it but to kneel, and hold by
her hook.
What prayer passed through her mind at that moment for herself or for
him, or for that old man who was sitting unconsciously up at the cabin,
who can say? The great wave came and rushed over her as she lay almost
prostrate, and when the water was gone from her eyes, and the tumult of
the foam, and the violence of the roaring breaker had passed by her, she
found herself at her length upon the rock, while his body had been
lifted up, free from her hook, and was lying upon the slippery ledge,
half in the water and half out of it. As she looked at him, in that
instant, she could see that his eyes were open and that he was
struggling with his hands.
“Hold by the hook, Barty,” she cried, pushing the stick of it before
him, while she seized the collar of his coat in her hands.
Had he been her brother, her lover, her father, she could not have clung
to him with more of the energy of despair. He did contrive to hold by
the stick which she had given him, and when the succeeding wave had
passed by, he was still on the ledge. In the next moment she was seated
a yard or two above the hole, in comparative safety, while Barty lay
upon the rocks with his still bleeding head resting upon her lap.
What could she do now? She could not carry him; and in fifteen minutes
the sea would be up where she was sitting. He was quite insensible, and
very pale, and the blood was coming slowly,--very slowly,--from the
wound on his forehead. Ever so gently she put her hand upon his hair to
move it back from his face; and then she bent over his mouth to see if
he breathed, and as she looked at him she knew that he was beautiful.
What would she not give that he might live? Nothing now was so precious
to her as his life,--as this life which she had so far rescued from the
waters. But what could she do? Her grandfather could scarcely get
himself down over the rocks, if indeed he could succeed in doing so much
as that. Could she drag the wounded man backwards, if it were only a few
feet, so that he might lie above the reach of the waves till further
assistance could be procured?
She set herself to work and she moved him, almost lifting him. As she
did so she wondered at her own strength, but she was very strong at that
moment. Slowly, tenderly, falling on the rocks herself so that he might
fall on her, she got him back to the margin of the sand, to a spot which
the waters would not reach for the next two hours.
Here her grandfather met them, having seen at last what had happened
from the door.
“Dada,” she said, “he fell into the pool yonder, and was battered
against the rocks. See there at his forehead.”
“Mally, I’m thinking that he’s dead already,” said old Glos, peering
down over the body.
“No, dada; he is not dead; but mayhap he’s dying. But I’ll go at once up
to the farm.”
“Mally,” said the old man, “look at his head. They’ll say we murdered
him.”
“Who’ll say so? Who’ll lie like that? Didn’t I pull him out of the
hole?”
“What matters that? His father’ll say we killed him.”
It was manifest to Mally that whatever any one might say hereafter, her
present course was plain before her. She must run up the path to
Gunliffe’s farm and get necessary assistance. If the world were as bad
as her grandfather said, it would be so bad that she would not care to
live longer in it. But be that as it might, there was no doubt as to
what she must do now.
So away she went as fast as her naked feet could carry her up the cliff.
When at the top she looked round to see if any person might be within
ken, but she saw no one. So she ran with all her speed along the
headland of the corn-field which led in the direction of old Gunliffe’s
house, and as she drew near to the homestead she saw that Barty’s mother
was leaning on the gate. As she approached she attempted to call, but
her breath failed her for any purpose of loud speech, so she ran on till
she was able to grasp Mrs. Gunliffe by the arm.
“Where’s himself?” she said, holding her hand upon her beating heart
that she might husband her breath.
“Who is it you mean?” said Mrs. Gunliffe, who participated in the family
feud against Trenglos and his granddaughter. “What does the girl clutch
me for in that way?”
“He’s dying then, that’s all.”
“Who is dying? Is it old Malachi? If the old man’s bad, we’ll send some
one down.”
“It aint dada; it’s Barty! Where’s himself? where’s the master?” But by
this time Mrs. Gunliffe was in an agony of despair, and was calling out
for assistance lustily. Happily Gunliffe, the father, was at hand, and
with him a man from the neighbouring village.
“Will you not send for the doctor?” said Mally. “Oh, man, you should
send for the doctor!”
Whether any orders were given for the doctor she did not know, but in a
very few minutes she was hurrying across the field again towards the
path to the cove, and Gunliffe with the other man and his wife were
following her.
As Mally went along she recovered her voice, for their step was not so
quick as hers, and that which to them was a hurried movement, allowed
her to get her breath again. And as she went she tried to explain to the
father what had happened, saying but little, however, of her own doings
in the matter. The wife hung behind listening, exclaiming every now and
again that her boy was killed, and then asking wild questions as to his
being yet alive. The father, as he went, said little. He was known as a
silent, sober man, well spoken of for diligence and general conduct, but
supposed to be stern and very hard when angered.
As they drew near to the top of the path the other man whispered
something to him, and then he turned round upon Mally and stopped her.
“If he has come by his death between you, your blood shall be taken for
his,” said he.
Then the wife shrieked out that her child had been murdered, and Mally,
looking round into the faces of the three, saw that her grandfather’s
words had come true. They suspected her of having taken the life, in
saving which she had nearly lost her own.
She looked round at them with awe in her face, and then, without saying
a word, preceded them down the path. What had she to answer when such a
charge as that was made against her? If they chose to say that she
pushed him into the pool and hit him with her hook as he lay amidst the
waters, how could she show that it was not so?
Poor Mally knew little of the law of evidence, and it seemed to her that
she was in their hands. But as she went down the steep track with a
hurried step,--a step so quick that they could not keep up with
her,--her heart was very full,--very full and very high. She had striven
for the man’s life as though he had been her brother. The blood was yet
not dry on her own legs and arms, where she had torn them in his
service. At one moment she had felt sure that she would die with him in
that pool. And now they said that she had murdered him! It may be that
he was not dead, and what would he say if ever he should speak again?
Then she thought of that moment when his eyes had opened, and he had
seemed to see her. She had no fear for herself, for her heart was very
high. But it was full also,--full of scorn, disdain, and wrath.
When she had reached the bottom, she stood close to the door of the hut
waiting for them, so that they might precede her to the other group,
which was there in front of them, at a little distance on the sand.
“He is there, and dada is with him. Go and look at him,” said Mally.
The father and mother ran on stumbling over the stones, but Mally
remained behind by the door of the hut.
Barty Gunliffe was lying on the sand where Mally had left him, and old
Malachi Trenglos was standing over him, resting himself with difficulty
upon a stick.
“Not a move he’s moved since she left him,” said he; “not a move. I put
his head on the old rug as you see, and I tried ’un with a drop of gin,
but he wouldn’t take it,--he wouldn’t take it.”
“Oh, my boy! my boy!” said the mother, throwing herself beside her son
upon the sand.
“Haud your tongue, woman,” said the father, kneeling down slowly by the
lad’s head, “whimpering that way will do ’un no good.”
Then having gazed for a minute or two upon the pale face beneath him,
he looked up sternly into that of Malachi Trenglos.
The old man hardly knew how to bear this terrible inquisition.
“He would come,” said Malachi; “he brought it all upon hisself.”
“Who was it struck him?” said the father.
“Sure he struck hisself, as he fell among the breakers.”
“Liar!” said the father, looking up at the old man.
“They have murdered him!--they have murdered him!” shrieked the mother.
“Haud your peace, woman!” said the husband again. “They shall give us
blood for blood.”
Mally, leaning against the corner of the hovel, heard it all, but did
not stir. They might say what they liked. They might make it out to be
murder. They might drag her and her grandfather to Camelford Gaol, and
then to Bodmin, and the gallows; but they could not take from her the
conscious feeling that was her own. She had done her best to save
him,--her very best. And she had saved him!
She remembered her threat to him before they had gone down on the rocks
together, and her evil wish. Those words had been very wicked; but since
that she had risked her life to save his. They might say what they
pleased of her, and do what they pleased. She knew what she knew.
Then the father raised his son’s head and shoulders in his arms, and
called on the others to assist him in carrying Barty towards the path.
They raised him between them carefully and tenderly, and lifted their
burden on towards the spot at which Mally was standing. She never moved,
but watched them at their work; and the old man followed them, hobbling
after them with his crutch.
When they had reached the end of the hut she looked upon Barty’s face,
and saw that it was very pale. There was no longer blood upon the
forehead, but the great gash was to be seen there plainly, with its
jagged cut, and the skin livid and blue round the orifice. His light
brown hair was hanging back, as she had made it to hang when she had
gathered it with her hand after the big wave had passed over them. Ah,
how beautiful he was in Mally’s eyes with that pale face, and the sad
scar upon his brow! She turned her face away, that they might not see
her tears; but she did not move, nor did she speak.
But now, when they had passed the end of the hut, shuffling along with
their burden, she heard a sound which stirred her. She roused herself
quickly from her leaning posture, and stretched forth her head as
though to listen; then she moved to follow them. Yes, they had stopped
at the bottom of the path, and had again laid the body on the rocks. She
heard that sound again, as of a long, long sigh, and then, regardless of
any of them, she ran to the wounded man’s head.
“He is not dead,” she said. “There; he is not dead.”
As she spoke Barty’s eyes opened, and he looked about him.
“Barty, my boy, speak to me,” said the mother.
Barty turned his face upon his mother, smiled, and then stared about him
wildly.
“How is it with thee, lad?” said his father. Then Barty turned his face
again to the latter voice, and as he did so his eyes fell upon Mally.
“Mally!” he said, “Mally!”
It could have wanted nothing further to any of those present to teach
them that, according to Barty’s own view of the case, Mally had not been
his enemy; and, in truth, Mally herself wanted no further triumph. That
word had vindicated her, and she withdrew back to the hut.
“Dada,” she said, “Barty is not dead, and I’m thinking they won’t say
anything more about our hurting him.”
Old Glos shook his head. He was glad the lad hadn’t met his death
there; he didn’t want the young man’s blood, but he knew what folk would
say. The poorer he was the more sure the world would be to trample on
him. Mally said what she could to comfort him, being full of comfort
herself.
She would have crept up to the farm if she dared, to ask how Barty was.
But her courage failed her when she thought of that, so she went to work
again, dragging back the weed she had saved to the spot at which on the
morrow she would load the donkey. As she did this she saw Barty’s pony
still standing patiently under the rock; so she got a lock of fodder and
threw it down before the beast.
It had become dark down in the cove, but she was still dragging back the
seaweed, when she saw the glimmer of a lantern coming down the pathway.
It was a most unusual sight, for lanterns were not common down in
Malachi’s Cove. Down came the lantern rather slowly,--much more slowly
than she was in the habit of descending, and then through the gloom she
saw the figure of a man standing at the bottom of the path. She went up
to him, and saw that it was Mr. Gunliffe, the father.
“Is that Mally?” said Gunliffe.
“Yes, it is Mally; and how is Barty, Mr. Gunliffe?”
“You must come to ’un yourself, now at once,” said the farmer. “He won’t
sleep a wink till he’s seed you. You must not say but you’ll come.”
“Sure I’ll come if I’m wanted,” said Mally.
Gunliffe waited a moment, thinking that Mally might have to prepare
herself, but Mally needed no preparation. She was dripping with salt
water from the weed which she had been dragging, and her elfin locks
were streaming wildly from her head; but, such as she was, she was
ready.
“Dada’s in bed,” she said, “and I can go now if you please.”
Then Gunliffe turned round and followed her up the path, wondering at
the life which this girl led so far away from all her sex. It was now
dark night, and he had found her working at the very edge of the rolling
waves by herself, in the darkness, while the only human being who might
seem to be her protector had already gone to his bed.
When they were at the top of the cliff Gunliffe took her by her hand,
and led her along. She did not comprehend this, but she made no attempt
to take her hand from his. Something he said about falling on the
cliffs, but it was muttered so lowly that Mally hardly understood him.
But in truth the man knew that she had saved his boy’s life, and that
he had injured her instead of thanking her. He was now taking her to his
heart, and as words were wanting to him, he was showing his love after
this silent fashion. He held her by the hand as though she were a child,
and Mally tripped along at his side asking him no questions.
When they were at the farm-yard gate he stopped there for a moment.
“Mally, my girl,” he said, “he’ll not be content till he sees thee, but
thou must not stay long wi’ him, lass. Doctor says he’s weak like, and
wants sleep badly.”