THE FATE OF THE SWIMMER.
Latimer was drifting on the tide, his long straight piece of timber,
very unsteady in its progress, at one time going at an angle as if it
would drive to the shore of Freston Tower, at another steering with a
wide course towards the Priory. Its progress was slow only when it
came among those long winding weeds, fine as the smallest ribbons,
and ten or twenty feet long, which would occasionally twist
themselves over the board.
This he felt to be his worst position, for whenever his plank was
delayed, he found the greatest difficulty to keep his place upon it.
The incessant spray, too, was such as to blind him, and scarcely
permitted him to see the light of the tower on the Freston side, or
upon that of Downham Reach. Still Latimer was thankful that he had
found this friendly help in the hour of need.
He looked at the light glimmering from that happy spot in which he
had spent the most enlightened moments of his life, he looked and
longed for that friendly shore: nor did he forget to pray both for
her whom he loved, and for her father, whose superstition, even at
that moment, he conceived to be the cause of the catastrophe. He
could not help thinking that if that watching had not been, he should
not then have been a solitary sufferer upon the waves of the Orwell.
Again, he thought it might have happened, even if De Freston had been
on board the boat, and a thrill of joy ran through his cold frame at
the thought that he was safe.
It was evident that his plank neared the Freston shore; for, as the
lightning flashed, he beheld the castle, and the tower, and the
trees, and even imagined that he distinguished the very stair in a
line with the light of the tower. Just at that time, too, his limbs
seemed to be released from the clinging sea-weed and his floating
spar to rush into deep water. It darted forward as if released from
confinement; its course seeming to be towards the shore. It was
evidently in the deep channel, and Latimer thought it was the very
channel which he knew swept up to the Freston shore. The light of
the tower was now behind him, and again the weeds stopt his plank.
It was then he thought of making his greatest effort.
'I am leaving the shore,' he said to himself; 'and my plank will soon
be drawn down by the weight of the weeds, and I shall go with it. I
must now try my strength, and with God's help, I may reach the land.'
He cast off his coat, he tore off his shoes, stript himself as much
as he could, and with prayer heavenward, and his eyes upon the
beacon, he cast himself upon the waters. In a moment, he felt those
long winding weeds twisting themselves around his limbs. His
presence of mind did not forsake him. He had often swam the waters
of the Severn and had been well tutored against weeds. To struggle
against them he knew to be vain. The old fisherman on his native
waters, had often told him that the only way to escape them was to
lay himself out as fleet as he could, and never to strike until they
untwisted themselves, which they would be sure to do if he would not
resist them. He did this directly, and though it delayed him, yet
delay in this instance was avoiding danger. He struck out as fleetly
as he could until he escaped these treacherous weeds, and to his
great joy he came into deep water.
His eye now rested upon the beacon, his arms expanded, his chest
breasted the waves, and hope, that sweet companion, hope in the mercy
of God, did not forsake him. It was a hard struggle, however, to
buffet the opposing waves, with both wind and tide against him. He
had youth, health, strength, hope, and love in his favor; and all
that a young man with a good heart could do, he did to reach the
wished-for shore.
There is, however, a limit to human exertion, beyond which no man's
strength can avail. He was ignorant of the distance he had to swim.
A light looks sometimes nearer than it really is, and the poor
smuggler's heart was greatly tried, as, with all his efforts, he did
not seem to near the shore. Yet the light seemed to burn higher up
in the sky; and as the lightning illumined the waters, he thought
that the dark woods were nearer.
Did the classical scholar think of the Hellespont as he breasted the
waves, or remember the fate of the far-famed Leander? The night was
such as to create despondency, without referring to the classical
allusion. But the Christian Latimer knew what Leander did not--that
God was his help. He had not presumptuously braved the waves for a
secret amour, and, much as he admired the true love of Leander, he
felt himself in a very different position, though Freston Tower was
then his aim, and he hoped that Ellen De Freston might be expecting
his return.
Great were his repeated exertions, but he felt his strength beginning
to fail him! He looked up at the light, and he thought it less
distinct. He felt a strange dimness overshadow his brain, a nervous
prostration of strength, and a weakness, which made him anxious only
to exert himself the more.
The light from the tower suddenly disappeared. Oh! how his soul
seemed to sink; and not only his soul, for a dimness, like a film,
seemed to spread itself over his eyes, and his hands and his feet to
sink lower, and to strike feebler beneath the waves.
Strange mists are beginning to fill those longing eyes, and
sparkling, star-like lights to flit across his vision. 'And is it
thy will, O Lord!' was the last exclamation from his fainting lips,
as he lifted his head in the darkness, and his feet sank motionless
downwards. That very motion in one moment convinced him of God's
mercy; that it was His will he should be saved. He felt the ground;
his feet touched the shore. With a bound of joy, such as angels may
be supposed to feel at the returning steps of the repentant, he
sprang forward--the tide had previously turned--the wave helped
him--and the flash of the now friendly lightning showed him the stair
of De Freston just before him!
One effort more--aloud cry of joy, and for help--he seized the step
of the stair--vain his effort to ascend; too weak, too feeble, too
exhausted, he fell, still grasping the lowest step of De Freston's
landing-place. All consciousness was gone; instinctively he grasped
the step, and every wave became less powerful, until it only washed
against his feet.
Ellen De Freston had cautioned her maid to take the lamp out of the
way of the window whilst she opened the casement looking down upon
the waves. Hers was rather a dangerous position, in a lofty tower
surrounded by trees, in the very midst of thunder and lightning.
Many minds would quail before such terrors; but love is very strong,
and when aided by education, and divested of all superstition, it in
a power of dependence upon God stronger than a castle.
She felt that her father and her friend were absent; that they were
returning from sacred duties, difficult to fulfil, and requiring the
assistance of her loving aid. Who can watch so well as they who wish
for our safety? And who can do this better than an affectionate
child?
Ellen De Freston opened her casement, anxious to hear some sound of
the plashing oars, or some voices upon the Orwell. She thought she
heard, through the lull of the storm, a faint moan. She listened
again--she did hear it.
'Hark, Maria! leave the lamp; come to the window. Hark! dost thou
not hear a moan?'
'I do, my lady--I do! It is some poor wretch upon the shore!'
'Haste thee below, maiden. Come, let us haste! But hold! we must
not take away the beacon.'
'Shall I run to the castle for help?'
'No, quickly descend, and ascend again with the torch that hangs upon
the porch door. Quick! quick! Maria. Fly! I can still hear the
moan of distress. We must be above our sex in the moment of danger.'
The torch was soon lit. Neither felt the coldness of the wind, nor
the fury of the storm. Some poor sufferer must be cast upon the
shore; and when is a woman's heart so deeply alive, and so warmly
engaged, as when conveying help to the disconsolate. The man that
cannot appreciate female philanthropy knows not what true pity is.
It glows so vividly, it comes so blessedly, it shines so graciously,
that the most warlike men have, in all ages, been subdued by it.
With rapid steps did Ellen De Freston and her maid hasten, by the
burning torchlight, to the shore. Their first care was to hasten to
the stair, by which they could descend to the level of the waves.
They reached it.
Holding down the torch, they see a form below--they descend--the
light shows them at once the features of Latimer, and their tender
hearts are struck with horror. A wild shriek reaches the castle of
De Freston, and arouses the inmates, who were awaiting their lord's
return. The ancient dame of the castle, with servants and men, came
running down the green sward towards the light which they saw burning
by the stairs.
They soon perceive their young mistress leaning over the apparently
lifeless body of a young man. They soon recognized the features, and
lent their aid to remove him to the castle.
Glad, indeed, was Ellen of their help, and quickly did she follow
them into that place of hospitality whence a sufferer never was
excluded, or failed to receive the kindest attention.
But such a sufferer as then entered the walls, and under such
circumstances, commanded all the interest of affection and pity.
He was quickly conveyed to a warm bed. Oh! what deep anxiety dwelt
in the mind of the maiden, as her unconscious friend was placed at
least out of further danger, and she received the assurance of her
old nurse that he was alive. She dropped upon her knees, put up her
prayers for help, and every returning minute confirmed the report of
his revival. Exhaustion was so great that the sufferer had no voice;
his eye only could speak his thankfulness, and this seemed eloquent
to heaven. Yet it beamed too with gratitude upon that dear friend
who had first relieved him from his cold, dark fate on the shore of
the Orwell.
It was long indeed--for hours are long to the suspended hopes and
fears of any--before the faintest whisper could narrate the miseries
of that dismal light. In faint, very faint, whispers did the
sufferer unfold to his kind attendants the catastrophe which had
occurred.
Ellen knew her father's intention to keep watch in the chapel; but
she thought of his anxieties, what they must be if any report should
reach him of the fate of his crew and the loss of Latimer. Happy,
very happy, was she in being the blessed instrument of his recovery,
though even that might be a longer work than she expected. She was
thankful that a whisper could be heard, that a consciousness of her
care had come to the sufferer.
This, indeed, had come long before he could express it. When he
could, it was exquisite pleasure so to do. Oh! how grateful do we
all feel to the kind hands which minister to our wants in sickness!
When are we more virtuous? When are we more thankful? When is our
love more lively than when, unable to do anything for ourselves, we
find a helping hand to lift up our weary head, and to place it upon
our softened pillow? Religion comes never sweeter in her influences
than when she approaches our sick bed, and tells us how grateful we
ought to be to our God.
How sweet is the first sleep after struggling nature, restored from
exhaustion, relieved from exertion, is lulled into repose, by the
rest of tenderness. 'Blessed, indeed, are all they who provide any
comfort for the sick and needy; they shall find relief when they are
themselves in need of help.'
In prayer for Ellen, came Latimer's first repose; and the maid of the
castle then gave orders for a boat to be prepared for the first sound
of the Priory matin-bell.
De Freston was the first to hear that sound and to rise from his
watch, to open the chapel-door, and, with a calm composure, to
receive the congratulations of the brotherhood. Well did he know
that he could afford no assistance to Latimer, if he were drowned in
the Orwell; and well he knew that the monks could best administer to
the wants of his men. He walked forth, therefore, from his devotions
with no surprise; nor was he astonished to find his boat ready, the
water baled out, all his men equipped in dry clothes, and quite
anxious to pass over to Freston Tower.
He thanked the learned fraternity for their kindness, paid all the
customary fees, and promised what he knew he could well perform for
their attention to his people. He walked to the shore, thinking of
his daughter; and before he could embark--though the tempest had
passed away, yet the waters were greatly troubled--he beheld that
daughter approaching from her Tower to convey tidings which every
soul upon that beach was glad to hear.
'Alas! my child,' exclaimed De Freston, as his beauteous Ellen rushed
to his arms, 'where is Latimer?'
'Safe, my dear father, in your own castle.'
'Then God be praised for his mercies!'
'Amen! amen! amen!' was the response from all; and soon were they
all, beneath happier auspices, passing over those now less formidable
waves, to the welcome precincts of Freston Tower.