Then a new cry beat itself upon the curtain of mist: "Lady Maud! Lady
Maud! it is I--Rick! Rick Halmar." And the boy's voice reached further
than the man's, as moment by moment the sea-haugh lightened, softened,
rose, until it seemed no more than a golden halo round the climbing
sun.
"It is I--Rick! Rick Halmar."
His hands clenched tighter and tighter as he ran. To Eustace the
danger had been uncertain, unreal, but Rick knew every inch of the
ground, and knew that each step left hope further behind. Already his
accustomed ear had caught the curious whispering hush with which the
land gives way before the sea. And he knew what that meant on Grada
Sands. Firm foothold for a second and then a shivering and murmuring
sliding gulf. Oh, horrible, most horrible to think of her.
"Lady Maud! it is I--Rick, only Rick."
The thought came to him suddenly that it was his birthday. She had
promised to give him something. Ah! fate could not be so cruel on his
birthday of all days in the year! Foolish irrational thought which
somehow brought him comfort as his keen eyes sought a sign and found
nothing but those shining footsteps, whence the water filtered even as
he sped past them. Thank Heaven for so much! since it showed that the
tide was still far off; that as yet there was time. Lighter and
lighter too! Soon he might be able to see her, ghostlike, through the
mist, or at least judge the distance of that creeping line of foam
which, still unseen, and still, he hoped fiercely, far, far off, yet
seemed to occupy his every thought, to fill his memory. Tortuous like
a snake, with the snake's low hiss as it curled along the quivering
sand. Suddenly his heart stood still, for there out of the golden mist
grew the tall black spar of the old wreck with its message of warning:
"Pretty safe so far, most times; beyond that--" The recollection of
his own careless words prompted another cry.
"My lady--my dearest lady. It is I, Rick--only Rick."
What was that on the sand--blotting the yellow sand just below the
spar? A stone? seaweed? No--that was a woman's dress; she was there,
face downwards on the sand, fallen insensible perhaps--but saved.
Thank God! saved. He stumbled in his mad haste to reach her. Was it a
stumble, or had his foot broken through the firmer crust? Again, this
time both feet. Could he have come so far, so close, only to fail?
Impossible! Then beneath him he felt a tremor, the first slight tremor
heralding the dissolution of dry land. With the sudden resolve which,
in time of danger, separates one man from his fellow, decisively,
absolutely, to the utter annihilation of all cant about equality, he
put all his strength into one bold leap forward. The next instant he
was clinging to the spar like a monkey, or a sailor. The tremor
passed; the sand settled once more with a low gurgling murmur,
proclaiming the back draw of the wave still hidden by the haze.
Cautiously he tried one foot beyond the single plank between him and
destruction. Hopeless, even if he stood still, and to reach her he
must take a step or two. Again the tremor came,--the shifting, sliding
sparkle of the sand-grains as they parted,--and the figure lying with
its face hidden, resting on the right arm, sank a little. Only a very
little; yet still it sank. He had come prepared for danger, with a
rope wound about his waist; and almost with his first foothold on the
wreck, his hands had been busy with the coil even while his thoughts
and eyes were elsewhere. A bight here, a bend there, and it was fast
as sailor's lore could make it, to the spars and to his body. No! not
there; for it had to be doubled to bear the strain, and he could not
afford to lose an inch. So, tight over one shoulder with a treble
twist round his outstretched arm. That would not give way unless it
tore the arm from its socket; and then the rope, being high up on the
spar, would give him greater purchase when the time came for strength.
How long these thoughts, these actions, seemed to take; yet he could
not spare one of them even though, with a soft, swishing rush, the
hidden enemy made another sally. This time lingering half a moment
round that figure on the sand as if to gain a firmer hold upon it.
Perhaps! but not so firm as his would be. Now he was ready! With a
swing backwards and forwards to gain additional impetus, the rope
coiled loosely so as not to drag, he leapt clear of the wreck towards
her. An instant's doubt, and he had her by the hand, the left hand,
which lay stretched on the sand as she had fallen. How cold it was!
Could she be dead? But the horror of the thought was forgotten in
fight; for now, with the same chuckling sound as if the devils below
were laughing at him, came the back draw. Not an inch, not a quarter
to be yielded, come what might. The rope, despite his bitter clench
upon its strands, cut deep into his arm; it seemed as if a red-hot
iron pierced his shoulder, as the sinews strained to their uttermost.
Ah! that was a relief, but her weight was heavier surely, and that
meant less stable support. Hanging as he was, by one arm,--the other
outstretched to keep his hold on her,--he could see nothing save the
unsteady sand closing round him. He seemed to feel nothing save the
little cold hand in his. It was now or never. Grasping the rope as
high as he could reach, he put out his whole strength, hoping to move
her but an inch nearer to him. Hopeless; and the back draw, coming on
him unawares, found him, as it were, on the rack, and seized its
opportunity. He set his teeth and endured. How, he never knew, but
when the agony passed, a dew, like that of death, was on his face, and
he hung nerveless, helpless, save for the desperate resolve to keep
his hold--to keep her hand in his. The wave again. Little bubbles this
time, as if some one was drowning close by. Ah! if he could only see
her, even though it was to see her gripped in that pulsating horror!
"Maud! it is I--only Rick." The cry came from him as he hung on
the rack once more. Perhaps, if he could keep his hold, the coming
tide would slacken that grip--it might--it must. How far had she
sunk--already? Had the golden head disappeared? Was there nothing
left save the little cold hand where he could feel the ring--his
ring--slipping under his clasp? Ah! there was the wave again--surging
in his ears, whispering, whispering, whispering, surely of some
far-off country, of a great rest, and peace, and forgetfulness.
* * * * *
Rick Halmar hung limp upon the rope. Nature had stepped in; her
patience was exhausted, she would have no more heroism, no more delay.
Those two hands had held each other long enough. The time had come for
them to part quietly, peacefully. Not in a moment, but gradually, as
if even in unconsciousness the spirit strove against the flesh, those
slender fingers slipped through the strong ones. Slipped and slipped,
till, with a little jerk, Rick's hand closed upon itself, and fell
back inert, while the other, still stretched in mute appeal, sank
slowly into the sand.
The sun, having escaped from its halo, saw the deed done, and smiled
down upon the sight cheerfully. Only a boy with a birthday present in
his hand. Only one more woman loved and lost. What was that to weep
over? A wheeling gull, sweeping by on broad white wings, suggested
sympathy, but, in reality, it came to see if the deed portended food
for its young ones. There were no other spectators. Had there been,
they would have been so occupied by vain attempts to aid, that the
essence of it all would have escaped them. Such things are better told
than witnessed.
* * * * *
So thought Miss Willina when, three weeks afterwards, Rick, with his
left arm still in a sling, tried to make her understand it was not his
fault. He wore the silver ring on his right hand; they had found it
there tight clasped when, set on the track by Eustace Gordon, they
came in a boat to the rescue. Just too late to do more than release
Rick from a torture none the less painful afterwards because it was
unfelt at the time. Perhaps, with her older eyes, Miss Willina saw
further into the blame than he did; but she said nothing.
So Rick kept the ring, with its legend "Beautiful, constant, chaste,"
as his birthday present. He did not even give it to his wife. It
belonged, he said, to the most perfect woman he had ever seen, and
when people suggested the propriety of this being a euphonism for the
one he had chosen as his life-companion, he shook his head with a
smile.
Nevertheless, Miss Willina was not silent of blame. She poured vials
of it on her own head for having neglected a clear duty. If she had
only insisted on the other devil being burnt as well, this terrible
thing might not have come to pass. Anyhow, she would go over to the
deserted Lodge without delay, and destroy the wicked idol, lest it
should do more harm.
"Let me come too," said Rick in a low voice.
This time Miss Willina did not meet his request with the query, "Was
she so pretty as all that, dear?" Indeed, the memory of those words
choked her.
So Rick went for the first time into the little sanctum where Lady
Maud had stood adrift at the window. The image was still on the
mantelpiece, and he started at the sight of it. "Aunt Will!" he cried
in quick, half-alarmed tones, "I never made that--it is not my work."
It was not. The professor had been right for once, when he called it a
genuine savage conception of fate, brought thither by the Gulf Stream.
Rick took it up in his hands and looked at it curiously. "I wonder,"
he said, half to himself, "if things would have been different." Then,
with a sort of appeal, he turned to Miss Willina. "Aunt Will--you
don't really believe--all that rubbish--do you?"
Her answer was decisive. She took the image from him, and marched off
with it to Kirsty's peat fire.
So that was an end of the tragic comedy of Roederay. When Rick set off
to sail the seas, all the actors in it had disappeared, save Miss
Willina in the windblown Noah's Ark at Eval.
Will Lockhart came back the next summer, and painted a picture of
Eilean-a-fa-ash, with a golden sea-haugh hanging over drifted sand,
and the skeleton of a hand showing from a stone coffin. It was
gruesome and morbid; so it was much admired by the Gulf Stream of
society in the Royal Academy. Miss Willina, however, still refused to
find entertainment in a magic lantern. The past was sacred, she said,
and no good ever came in disbelieving in it. Besides, what would
become of her animals?
He came again the next summer, bringing with him a tale about the
"flusteration midst the bastes of all creation," which followed on the
introduction of the "Spirit of fell Denial into the Ark," whereat they
both laughed.
And that year he sent a picture to the Royal Academy, which a few
critics admired. But then, it was only the portrait of a middle-aged
woman with a sick gosling on her lap, and half a dozen zoological
specimens grouped around her. Yet you could almost feel the northwest
wind which was ruffling the coils of hair, and smell the fresh, salt,
wholesome breeze which had swept the sand from those dead fingers at
Eilean-a-fa-ash. It was the other side of the picture; but it did not
suit the public taste so well. _Chacun a son gout_.