Every one knows that story, perhaps the most terrible of its kind for
many years--and Heaven grant! for many more to come--when a noble ship,
with her full complement of human beings, fought at once with winds, and
waves, and fire, until came down upon it, and upon all the homes which
that one hour desolated, the certain doom. One shudders even at writing
of such things, save that they must of necessity happen, and not rarely.
But for one such tale as that of the _Amazon_, which convulses a whole
kingdom with horror, there must be many unknown chronicles of equal
dread, save that the little vessel sinks unnoticed into its sea grave,
and the destruction carried with it passes not beyond its own immediate
sphere. Such was the case with the Ardente.
When the train neared Southampton it was already bright morning.
Everybody was moving about on the solid, safe, sunshiny earth--nobody
thought of shipwrecks and disasters at sea. Many a one looked lazily
at the glittering Southampton-water; no one dreamed how, far beyond the
curving line of horizon, human beings--husbands and brothers--might be
floating about without food or water, frozen, thirsting, dying or dead,
under the same sunny sky.
Passing the spot where the wide reach of bay opens, Marmaduke quickly
drew down the carriage-blind. He would not for worlds that the poor
Agatha should look at that merry-glancing, cruel sea. She seemed to
notice the movement, and stirred from the corner where she had sat
during all the journey, motionless, save for her perpetually open eyes.
“How light it is! quite morning!”
Marmaduke turned, felt her pulse, and began softly chafing her cold
hand.
“Don't, now,” she said piteously. “Don't be kind to me--please don't!
Talk a little. Tell me what you think it best to do first.”
The sharp-lined, worn face, not pallid, or without consciousness--some
people, to their misery, never can lose consciousness--mournfully did
worthy Duke regard it! But he did not say a word of sympathy; he knew
she could not bear it. Her physical powers were so tightly strung that
the least soft touch would make them give way altogether.
Mr. Dugdale stated briefly, and as if it had been the most
matter-of-fact thing in the world, how he meant to go to the owners of
the _Ardente_ and get the first tidings of her there; how, if neither
that nor any rumours he could catch in and about the docks, were
satisfactory, he should hire a small steamer and beat up and down
Channel, calling in at all the ports where it was likely boats might
have been picked up.
“They would be, probably, in twenty-four hours or so. If we don't hear
in three days--three days at this time of year”--he stopped with a
perceptible shudder--“then, Agatha,” and Duke's gentle voice grew
gentler, and solemn like a psalm, “then, my child, we'll go home.”
Agatha bowed her head. Bodily exhaustion calmed her mind, and soothed
her into a feeling which made even the last dread alternative less
fearful. She felt a conviction that such “going home” would only be a
prelude to the last going home of all, when she should never part from
her husband more. She did not much mind now, even if all were to end so.
Perhaps it would be best.
They got out of the carriage. All her limbs were cramped--she could
hardly stand. Mr. Dugdale took her unresisting, to a quiet inn he knew,
and there made her lie down and take food. Somehow, even in the last
extremity, Duke Dugdale could win people over to do his pleasure, which
was always for their own good.. He sat by her and talked, but only for
a few minutes--he had no thought of wasting even in kindness the time on
which might hang life or death.
“I am going now, and you must stay here till my return, which is sure
not to be for at least two hours.”
“Two hours!--Oh, take me with you!”
Duke shook his head. “You would only hinder me, I fear. See there, now!”
Trying to rise and cross the parlour, she had nearly fallen. A drowsy
weakness stole over her--she let her good brother have his own way
entirely. Very soon she found herself alone in the parlour, lying in the
dusky light of closed blinds, with the dull murmur creeping up from the
street--lying quietly in a state of passive patience.
No human brain can endure a great strain of mental anguish long. A
merciful numbness usually seizes it, in which everything grows hazy
and unreal, and consequently painless. Agatha felt convinced she was
half-asleep, and that she should wake up in her own room at Thorn-hurst
or at Kingcombe, and find out everything to be a dream. Or even granting
its reality, she seemed to view the whole story like some unconcerned
person, or some being from whom this troubled world had passed away, and
grown less than nothing and vanity. She gazed down upon herself as it
were from a great height, thinking how sad a story it was, and how
it would have grieved herself to hear it of any one else. But all her
thoughts were disconnected and unnatural. The only tangible feeling
was a sort of comfort in remembering the last day they had spent
together--in thinking how he loved her, and that, living or dying, he
would know how she loved him now.
In this state she lay for an indefinite time--a period that had no human
measurement. It seemed at once a day and a moment. No counted time could
ever appear so like eternity.
At last there was a hand upon the door. Mr. Dugdale had come back.
Agatha started up, and sat frozen. For her life she could not have
uttered a sound. He took her hand, saying, gently:
“My dear child!”
Surely he could not have spoken so, if--No, in that case his lips would
have been paralysed, like her own.
“We must bear up yet, little sister. There is a chance.”
The flood broke forth. Agatha flung herself on the sofa-cushions,
sobbing, weeping, and laughing at once. Duke patted her on the shoulder,
walked round her, stood eyeing her with his mild, investigating look, as
if he were pondering some great new problem in human nature. Finally, he
sat down beside her, and cried likewise.
Agatha for the first time spoke naturally. “Thank you, brother--you are
a very good brother to me. Now, tell me everything.”
“Everything is but little. It's like hanging on a thread--but we'll hold
on.”
“We will,” said Agatha, setting her lips together, and sitting down
firmly to listen. She was in her right senses now. She had undergone the
shock, and risen from it another woman.
“I wish you would make haste and tell me. You don't know how quiet I am
now, nor how much I can bear--only tell me.”
Marmaduke began, speaking in fragments hurriedly put together, looking
steadily down on his hands, using a brief business tone--just as if
every syllable had not been planned by him on his way back, so that the
tidings might fall most gradually on the poor wife's ear.
“It was indeed the Ardente. Four sailors were picked up yesterday, in
one of her boats. They say it's likely that others may have got off in
the same way.”
“Ah!” That wild sob of thanksgiving! Marmaduke seemed to dread it more
than despair. He hastily added:
“But they had many things against them. The fire happened at midnight.
When it broke out there was no one on deck but one passenger, walking
up and down. He was a young man, the sailors say, tall, with long light
hair.”
The speaker's voice faltered; he could not bear to see the misery he
inflicted. At last Agatha motioned to hear more.
“One sailor remembers him particularly, because during all the tumult he
was almost the only person who seemed to have his wits about him. He was
seen everywhere--getting out the boats, quieting the passengers--doing
it all, the man says, as steadily as if he had been in his own house on
shore, instead of in a burning ship. If there was any one likely to have
saved his own life and the lives of others, the sailors think it must be
that young man.”
“When did they see him last?”
“Not five minutes before the ship went down. He was in a boat with
several more. They think it was he because of his light hair. He was
leaning over towards a floating spar, helping in a woman and child.”
“Ah, then it was he! It was my husband!” cried Agatha, clasping her
hands, while her countenance glowed like that of some Roman wife, who,
dearer even than his life, esteemed her husband's honour.
“I believe,” she said, as that rapture faded, and the natural pang
returned--“I firmly believe that he has been saved. God would not let
him perish. He must have got safe off from the wreck in that boat. Don't
you think he has?”
Duke could not meet those eager eyes; he fidgeted in his seat, looked
down on his hands, and told them over, finger by finger. At last
he said, with that peculiar upward look which, amidst all his
eccentricities, showed the beautiful serenity of a righteous man--a man
who “walked with God:”
“Child, we can none of us be certain either way. We can only do all that
lies in human power, and leave the event in the hand of One who is wiser
and more loving than us all.”
Agatha bowed her head, and her heart with it, almost to the dust. She
remembered Anne Valery's saying--how much those who loved have need to
trust in God. Poor Anne! Never until this minute had any one thought of
Anne at home at Thornhurst. Shocked at the selfishness that often comes
with great misery, Agatha cried eagerly:
“Did you hear anything about Uncle Brian?”
“No--nothing.” The quick, husky tone, as Marmaduke turned and walked
away, betrayed how keenly the good man suffered, though he never spoke
of any sufferings but Agatha's. She was deeply touched.
“Take hope,” she said earnestly. “He will be saved. My husband would
never forsake Uncle Brian.”
“I know that; but then Nathanael is young, and has something to live
for, while Brian is getting on in years--older than I am.--I should like
to have seen him again, and have shown him little Brian; but--well
it's a strange world! Heaven's mercy is sure to give us a life to come,
perhaps many lives--if only to make clear the hard mysteries of this. I
should like to have talked that matter over once again with poor Brian.”
And Duke seemed wandering into his mild, dreamy philosophies, till
Agatha recalled him.
“Now, what is to be done? You said, if we heard nothing, the boats must
be drifting about somewhere in the Channel”--she shivered--“and then we
would take a little steamer, and go and look for them?”
“I know. She's getting ready.”
“That is right. Then we will go on board at once,” said Agatha, with
decision. She, who a week ago would have been terrified at the bare
thought of setting her foot on the deck of any vessel!
“Poor little delicate thing,” muttered Duke, watching her. “It will be
a rough sea to-night, and we may be a day or two in getting round the
coast. You had better go home, Agatha.”
She shook her head.
“Somebody once told me you had never been at sea in your life; and in
winter-time this Dorset coast is rough always, sometimes dangerous.”
“Dangerous! and he is there!” She began tying on her bonnet, hastily,
but steadily, as steadily as if preparing for an every-day walk. “Now, I
am quite ready. Let us start.”
Her brother made no more objections, but took her through the busy
Southampton streets. Once, on the quay, two lounging sailors touched
their hats to Mr. Dugdale, and Agatha heard a whisper of “Belongs to
some o' the poor fellows as went down in the _Ardente_.” She shuddered,
as if there were already upon her the awful sign of widowhood.
--The wide Southampton harbour, with the crafts of all nations gliding
to and fro upon it--the bustle of the landing and embarking place--the
hurrying crowd, eager after their own business, none thinking of the
one little vessel suddenly whelmed in that wondrous sea-highway, ever
thronged, yet ever lonely, or of the wrecked crew drifting hither and
thither, no one knew where. The tale had been a day's talk, a day's
pity--then forgotten.
Agatha stood in the midst of all, but saw nothing. Nothing but the grey,
bleak, merciless sea, howling and dancing to her feet like a victorious
enemy, or sweeping off into the silence of the wintry horizon, there
grimly folding up its mystery, as if to say, “Of me thou shalt know
nothing.” But Agatha felt as if, to win that secret, she was ready to
pierce into nethermost hell.
“Quick, let us go,” she said, and almost bounded into the little vessel.
She stood on the deck, trembling with excitement, watched the paddles
crash into obedience the cruel waves, ride over them, on--on--to the
mouth of the bay. And now for the first time she was out on the open
sea.
It was one of those gloomy winter days when the whole ocean looks
sullen--heavy with brooding storms. No blue foamy sweeps, no lovely
sea-green calms; nothing but leaden-coloured hills of water, swelling
and sinking, with black valleys between. Agatha remembered a story she
had read or heard in her childish days, of some wrecked sailor lad,
doomed to death by his mates because the boat was too full for safety,
who asked leave to sit on the gunwale until after the curl of the wave,
and then quietly dropped off into the smooth hollow below.
It was horrible! She could not look at the sea--it made her mad. She
could only look skywards, and try to find a break in the dun clouds; or
else over to the horizon, to see something--ever so faint and small a
something--breaking the line of water and sky.
The men on board apparently knew Mr. Dugdale, and he them. They worked
with a respectful solemnity, as if aware of their sad errand. The boat
was a little steam-tug, and she cut her way over the heavy seas like
a bird. Two men, and Marmaduke, kept watch constantly with the glass,
shorewards and seawards. Sometimes they went so far out that the hazy
coast-line almost vanished, and then again they ran in-shore under the
gigantic cliffs that lock the south of England coast.
Hour after hour, the poor wife remained on deck, sometimes walking about
restlessly, sometimes lying wrapped in sails and rugs, her face turned
seaward in a dumb hopelessness that was more piteous than any moans. The
seamen, if they happened to come near, looked at her with a sort of awe,
mingled with that compassionate gentleness which sailors almost always
show towards women. More than once, great rough hands brought her
food, or put to use half-a-dozen clever nautical contrivances for the
sheltering of “the poor lady.”
Late at night she went down below; by daybreak she was on deck again.
She found Mr. Dugdale in his old place by the compass and the telescope.
He had slept by snatches where he sat, never giving up his watch for a
single hour.
“E--h!” he said, when she came and touched him. “I was dreaming of the
Missus and the little ones at home!”
“Do you want to go home?”
“No--no!--not while there's a hope. Keep heart, my child!”
But they looked at each other's faces in the dawn, and saw how pale and
disconsolate both were. And still the little lonely boat kept rocking
over the sea--the pitiless sea, that returned neither answer nor sign.
Another day--another night: just the same. Once or twice they came on
the track of some vessel; a ship outward or homeward bound, and told
their story; shouting it out, in brief business-like words--how horrible
they sounded! And the ship's people would be seen to come to her side,
stand a while looking at the melancholy little steamer on its
hopeless search--then pass on. All the world seemed passing on slowly,
slowly--leaving them to that blank sea and sky, and to their own
despair.
On the evening of the third day, Marmaduke, who had kept aloof for
several hours, came and stood by his sister-in-law. She was leaning at
the stern, looking shorewards at two columns of rock, which the watery
wear of ages had parted from the cliffs, leaving them set upright in
the sea, a little distance from one another, with the breakers boiling
between.
“There's 'Old Harry and his wife,' as the Dorset people call them. We
are near home now, Agatha.”
“Home!” She gasped the word in an agony, and turned her face again
seawards--towards the grey desolate line where the Channel melted away.
“The steamer can't run on much longer without putting in-shore,” said
Duke, after an interval.
Agatha almost shrieked; “You are not going to land? We have been out
such a little--little while! And you said yourself the boats would live
a long time in the open Channel.”
“But that was three days ago.”
“Three days--oh, Heaven!--three days.”
And the black, black cloud fell over her; the near vision of an
existence wherein _he_ was not--the going home a widow--or worse,
because she could never have the certainty of widowhood. To be
incessantly watching by day, and starting up at night, with the thought
that he was come! Never to know when, where, or in what manner he died;
to have no last blessing--no last kiss! At the moment, Agatha would have
given her whole future life--nay, her immortal soul--to cling for one
minute round her husband's neck and tell him how she loved him--with
the one perfect love which nothing now could ever alter, weaken, or
estrange.
Mr. Dugdale moved aside. He knew that for this burst of anguish there
was no consolation. After a time, he came and said those few soothing
words which are all that people can say, without being those “miserable
comforters” who only torture the more.
Even then, in that last moment of anguish, there was power in the good
and soothing influence so peculiar to Marmaduke Dugdale. Agatha grew
calmer--at least more passive. Soon, she saw that the little steamer's
head was turned to the shore. A convulsion passed over her, but she did
not rebel.
“There is a faint hope even yet,” said Duke, with a melancholy voice
that almost gave the lie to his words. “They may have drifted safe
ashore somewhere--though it would be almost a miracle. Or they may have
been carried far out to sea, and been picked up by some outward-bound
ship. It's just a chance--but”--
Agatha understood that “but” Nothing but strong conviction would have
forced it from her brother-in-law's lips. Her last hope died.
An hour or two more they spent in gliding up the narrow channel of that
salt-water swamp, which at high tide appeared so glittering from the
Thornhurst road. When approached, it was a muddy chaos, desolate as an
uninhabited world.
They went as far up-stream as the little steamer could run, and then
landed on the bank which abutted on some rushy meadows. It was a dark
winter's night--there was not a soul abroad, though some faint light
showed they were near the town. The bells of Kingcombe Church were
ringing merrily through the mist.
“I had quite forgotten,” muttered Duke to himself. “This must be
Christmas-eve.”
What a Christmas-eve!
He half led, half lifted Agatha through the wet fields and along the
road.
“You will go to my house, and let the Missus and me take care of you, my
child?”
“No, no; I will go home!”
So, without any further argument, he took her to her own gate. There
it was, the familiar gate, with its shiny evergreens glittering in the
lamp-light; beyond it, the dusky line of Kingcombe Street.. The cottage
within was all dark, except for the faintest ray creeping under the
hall-door. Marmaduke opened it, and called Dorcas. She came, and when
she saw them, rushed forward sobbing.
“Oh, missus, missus--is it my missus?”
It was indeed the sorrowful mistress, who stood like a spectre in her
desolate home. But Dorcas dragged her in, and opened the parlour-door.
There was an odour of warmth--bright light, which so dazzled Agatha that
at first she saw nothing. Then she saw some one lying on the sofa.
And lo! there--half-buried in pillows, haggard and death-like, yet
alive--was a face she knew--a calm, sleeping face--falling round it the
long light hair.