CHAPTER VI - THE MINISTERS OF
THE DOOM
When at last I looked around me I was not
surprised at anything I saw; not even at the intense face of Gormala whose
eyes, bright in the full moonlight, were searching my face more eagerly than
ever. I was lying on the sand, and she was bending over me so closely that her
face almost touched mine. It was evident, even to my half-awake sensibilities,
that she was listening intently, lest even a whispered word from me should be
missed.
The witch-woman was still seemingly all afire, but
withal there was manifested in her face and bearing a sense of disappointment
which comforted me. I waited a few minutes until I felt my brain clear, and my
body rested from the intolerable strain which it had undergone in carrying that
terrific burden from Whinnyfold.
When I looked up again Gormala recognised the
change in me, and her own expression became different. The baleful glitter of
her eyes faded, and the blind, unreasoning hate and anger turned to keen
inquiry. She was not now merely baffled in her hopes, and face to face with an
unconscious man; there was at least a possibility of her gaining some
knowledge, and all the energy of her nature woke again as she spoke:
“So ye are back wi’ the moon and me. Whither went
ye when ye lay down upon the sand. Was it back ye went, or forrart; wi’ the
ghaists into the Holy Well and beyond in their manifold course; or back to
their comin’ frae the sea and all that could there be told? Oh! mon, what it is
to me that any ither can gang like that into spirit land, and me have to wait
here by my lanes; to wring my hands an’ torture my hairt in broken hopes!” I
answered her question with another:
“How do you mean that ghosts go into the well and
beyond?” Her answer was at the first given in a stern tone which became,
however, softer, as she went on.
“Knew ye not, that the Lammas Floods are the
carriers o’ the Dead; that on Lammas nicht the Dead can win their way to where
they will, under the airth by wherever there is rinnin’ watter. Happy be they
that can gain a Holy Well, an’ so pass into the bowels o’ the airth to where
they list.”
“And how and when do they return?”
“Dinna jest wi’ Fate an’ the Dead. They in their
scope can gang and return again; no een, save your ain, o’ man or Seer has seen
the method o’ their gangin’. No een, even yours, can see them steal out again
in the nicht, when the chosen graves that they hae sought hae taken from them
the dross o’ the airth.” I felt it was not wise to talk further, so without a
word I turned and walked home by the sheep tracks amongst the sand hills. Now
and again I stumbled in a rabbit hole, and as I would sink forward the wet bent
would brush against my face.
The walk back in the dark dawn seemed interminable.
All this time my mind was in a turmoil. I did not even seem to remember
anything definitely, or think consecutively; but facts and fancies swept
through my mind in a chaotic whirl. When I got to the house, I undressed
quickly and got into bed; I must have instantly fallen into a deep sleep.
Next afternoon I walked by the shore to
Whinnyfold. It was almost impossible to believe that I was looking at the same
place as on last night. I sat on the cliff where I had sat last night, the hot
August sun and the cool breeze from the sea being inconceivably soothing. So I
thought and thought.... The lack of sufficient sleep the night before and the
tired feeling of the physical strain I had undergone—my shoulders still
ached—told upon me, and I fell asleep.
When I waked Gormala stood in front of me.
After a long pause she spoke:
“I see that ye remember, else would ye ha’ spoken
to me. Will ye no tell me all that ye saw? Then, wi’ your Seer’s een an’ my
knowledge o’ the fact we may thegither win oot the great Secret o’ the Sea.” I
felt stronger than ever the instinctive conviction that I must remain keenly on
guard with her. So I said nothing; waiting thus I should learn something,
whether from her words or her silence. She could not stand this. I saw her
colour rise till her face was all aglow with a red flush that shamed the
sunset; and at last the anger blazed in her eyes. It was in a threatening tone
which she spoke, though the words were themselves sufficiently conciliatory:
“The Secrets o’ the Sea are to be won; and tae
thee and me it is given to win them. What hae been is but an earnest of what
will be. For ages ithers have tried to win but hae failed; and if we fail too
for lack o’ purpose or because ye like me not, then to ithers will come in time
the great reward. For the secrets are there, and the treasures lie awaiting.
The way is open for those to whom are the Gifts. Throw not away the favour of
the Fates. For if they be kind to give where they will, they are hard to
thwart, and their revenge is sure!” I must confess that her words began to
weaken my purpose. In one way inexorable logic was on her side. Powers such as
were mine were surely given for some purpose. Might I not be wrong in refusing
to use them. If the Final Cause of my powers were purposeful, then might not a
penalty be exacted from me because I had thwarted the project. Gormala, with
that diabolical cunning of hers, evidently followed the workings of my mind,
for her face lit up. How she knew, I know not, but I do know that her eyes
never left mine. I suppose it may be that the eyes which have power to see at
times the inwardness of things have some abnormal power also of expressing the
thoughts behind them. I felt, however, that I was in danger. All my instincts
told me that once in Gormala’s power I should rue it, so I spoke out on the
instant strongly:
“I shall have nothing to do with you whatever.
Last night when you refused to help me with the wounded man—whom you had
followed, remember, for weeks, hoping for his death—I saw you in your true
colours; and I mean to have nothing to do with you.” Fierce anger blazed again
in her eyes; but again she controlled herself and spoke with an appearance of
calm, though it was won with great effort, as I could see by the tension of her
muscles:
“An’ so ye would judge me that I would not help ye
to bring the Dead to life again! I knew that Lauchlane was dead! Aye! and ye
kent it too as weel as I did masel’. It needed no Seer to tell that, when ye
brocht him up the rocks oot o’ the tide. Then, when he was dead, for why wad ye
no use him? Do the Dead themselves object that they help the livin’ to their
ends while the blood is yet warm in them? Is it ye that object to the power of
the Dead? You whose veins have the power o’ divination of the quick; you to whom
the heavens themselves opened, and the airth and the watters under the airth,
when the spirit of the Dead that ye carried walked beside ye as ye ganged to
St. Olaf’s Well. An’ as for me, what hae I done that you should object. I saw,
as you did, that Lauchlane’s sands were run. You and I are alike in that. To us
baith was given to see, by signs that ages have made sacred, that Fate had
spoken in his ears though he had himself not heard the Voice. Nay more, to me
was only given to see that the Voice had spoken. But to you was shown how, and
when, and where the Doom should come, though you yersel’ that can read the
future as no ither that is known, canna read the past; and so could na tell
what a lesser one would ha’ guessed at lang syne. I followed the Doom; you
followed the Doom. I by my cunnin’; you when ye waked frae yer sleep, followin’
yer conviction, till we met thegither for Lauchlane’s death, amid Lammas floods
and under the gowden moon on the gowden sea. Through his aid—aye, young sir—for
wi’oot a fresh corp to aid, no Seer o’ airth could hae seen as ye did, that
lang line o’ ghaists ye saw last nicht. Through his aid the wonders o’ the
heavens and the deep, o’ airth and air, was opened till ye. Wha then be ye that
condemn me that only saw a sign an’ followed? Gin I be guilty, what be you?”
It would be impossible to describe the rude, wild,
natural eloquence with which this was spoken. In the sunset, the gaunt woman
seemed to tower above me; and as she moved her arms, the long shadows of them
stretched over the green down before us and away over the wrinkled sea as
though her gestures were, giant like, appealing to all nature.
I was distinctly impressed, for all that she said
was quite true. She had in reality done nothing that the law would call wrong.
Lauchlane’s death was in no possible way due to any act of hers. She had only
watched him; and as he did not even know that she watched he could not have
been influenced in any way by it or by her. As to my own part! Her words gave
me a new light. Why had I risen in the night and come out to Whinnyfold? Was it
intuition, or a call from the witch-woman, who in such case must have had some
hypnotic influence over me? Or was it——?
I stood appalled at the unspoken thought. Could it
be that the powers of Nature which had been revealed to me in the dread hour
had not only sentience but purpose!
I felt that my tone was more conciliatory as I
answered her:
“I did not mean to blame you for anything you had
done. I see now that your wrong was only passive.” I felt that my words were
weak, and my feeling was emphasised by the scorn of her reply:
“My wrang was only passive! My wrang! What wrang
hae I done that you should sit in judgment on me. Could I hae helpit it when
Lauchlane met his death amang the rocks in the tide. Why you yoursel’ sat here
beside me, an’ ye no helpit him or tried to, strong man though ye be, that
could carry his corp frae here to St. Olaf’s Well; for ye kenned that no livin’
arm could aid him in that hour o’ doom. Aye! laddie, the Fates know their wark
o’er weel to hae ony such betterment o’ their plans! An’ div ye think that by
any act o’ yer ain, or by any refusal o’ act or speech, ye can baffle the
purpose o’ the Doom. Ye are yet young and ye must learn; then learn it now
whiles ye can, that when the Word is spoken all follows as ordained. Aye!
though the Ministers o’ the Doom be many an’ various, an’ though they hae to
gather in ane from many ages an’ frae the furthermost ends o’ the airth!”
Gormala’s logic and the exactness of her statement
were too much for me. I felt that I owed her some reparation and told her so.
She received it in her gaunt way with the dignity of an empress.
But there her dignity stopped; for seeing that she
had got a lever in her hands she began at once, womanlike, to use it. Without
any hesitation or delay she asked me straightly to tell her what I had seen the
night before. The directness of her questioning was my best help; my heart
hardened and my lips closed. She saw my answer before I had spoken it, and
turned away with an eloquent, rugged gesture of despair. She felt that her last
hope was gone; that her last bolt had been sped in vain.
With her going, the link with last night seemed to
break, and as she passed up the road the whole of that strange experience became
dimmer and dimmer.
I walked home by Cruden sands in a sort of dream.
The chill and strain of the night before seemed to affect me more and more with
each hour. Feeling fatigued and drowsy I lay down on my bed and sank into a
heavy, lethargic sleep.
The last thing I remember is the sounding of the
dinner-gong, and a dim resolution not to answer its call....
*****
It was weeks after, when the fever had passed
away, that I left my bed in the Kilmarnock Arms.
CHAPTER VII - FROM OTHER AGES
AND THE ENDS OF THE EARTH
The last week in June of next year, 1898, found me
back in Cruden. My own house was in process of building. I had purposely
arranged with the builders that the fitting up and what the conveyancers call
“beautifyings” should not be done until I should be on the spot myself next
year, to be consulted about everything. Every day I went over to see the place
and become familiar with it before the plans for decoration should be taken in
hand. Still there was no enjoyment in getting wet every time I went and came,
or in remaining in wet clothes, so that my day was mainly spent at home.
One of my first visits was to Peterhead which
seemed to be in a state of absolute activity, for the herring fishing had been
good and trade of all kinds was brisk. At the market place which was half full
of booths, could be had almost everything required for the needs or comfort of
life such as it can be on a fishing boat. Fruit and all sorts of summer
luxuries were abundant. Being Saturday the boats had returned early and had got
their nets away to the drying-grounds, and the men had been able to shave and
dress tidily. The women, too, had got their dressing done early—the fish first
and themselves afterwards.
For awhile I wandered about aimlessly amongst the
booths, with that sort of unsatisfaction upon me which had of late been the
prelude to many of the manifestations of the power of Second Sight. This used
to be just as if something within me was groping or searching unsuccessfully
for something unknown, the satisfaction coming with the realization of the
objective of the search.
Presently I came to an itinerant auctioneer who
was dealing with a small cart-load of odds and ends, evidently picked up in
various places. His auction or “roup” was on the “Dutch” plan; an extravagant
price, according to his own idea, being placed on each article, and the offer
decreasing in default of bidders. The auctioneer was ready with his tongue; his
patter showed how well he understood the needs and ideas of the class whom he
addressed.
“Here’s the works of the Reverend Robert William
McAlister of Trottermaverish in twal volumes, wantin’ the first an’ the last
twa; three damaged by use, but still full of power in dealing with the
speeritual necessities o’ men who go down to the great deep in ships. A sermon
for every day in the year, in the Gaelic for them as has na got the English,
an’ in good English for them as has. How much for the twal volumes, wantin’ but
three? Not a bawbee less than nine shellin’, goin’ goin’. Wha says eight shellin’
for the lot. Seven shellin’ an’ no less. Goin’ for six. Five shellin’ for you
sir. Any bidder at four shellin’. Not a bawbee less than three shellin’; Half a
croon. Any bidder at twa shellin’. Gone for you sir!” the nine volumes were
handed over to a grave-looking old man, and the two shillings which he produced
from a heavy canvas bag duly pocketed by the auctioneer.
Everything he had, found some buyer; even a
blue-book seemed to have its attraction. The oddness of some of the odd lots
was occasionally amusing. When I had been round the basins of the harbour and
had seen the dressings and barrelling of the fish, I again came across the
auctioneer in the market place. He had evidently been using his time well, for
the cart was almost empty. He was just putting up the last article, an old oak
chest which up to now he had used as a sort of table on which to display the
object for sale. An old oak chest has always charms for me, and I was about
furnishing a house. I stepped over, opened the lid and looked in; there were
some papers tossed on the bottom of it. I asked the auctioneer if the contents
went with the chest, my real object being to get a look at the lock which
seemed a very old one of steel, though it was much damaged and lacked a key. I
was answered with a torrent of speech in true auctioneer fashion:
“Aye, good master. Take the lot just as it stands.
An oaken kist, hundreds of years aud and still worthy a rest in the house-place
of any man who has goods to guard. It wants a key, truth to tell; but the lock
is a fine aud one and you can easy fit a key. Moreover the contents, be they
what they may, are yours also. See! aud letters in some foreign tongue—French I
think. Yellow in age an’ the ink faded. Somebody’s love letters, I’m thinkin’.
Come now, young men here’s a chance. Maybe if ye’re no that fameeliar in
writin’ yer hairts oot to the lassies, ye can get some hints frae these. They
can learn ye, I warrant!”
I was not altogether unaccustomed to auctions, so
I affected a nonchalance which I did not feel. Indeed, I was unaccountably
excited. It might have been that my feelings and memories had been worked up by
the seeing again the pier where first I had met Lauchlane Macleod, and the
moving life which then had environed him. I felt coming over me that strange
impalpable influence or tendency which had been a part of my nature in the days
immediately before the drowning of the Out-islander. Even as I looked, I seemed
to feel rather than see fixed upon me the baleful eyes of the man in the
ghostly procession on that Lammas eve. I was recalled to myself by the voice of
the auctioneer:
“The kist and its contents will be sold for a
guinea and not a bawbee less.”
“I take it!” I cried impulsively. The auctioneer
who in his wildest dreams had no hope of such a price seemed startled into
momentary comparative silence. He quickly recovered himself and said: “The kist
is yours, good master; and that concludes the roup!”
I looked around to see if there was present any
one who could even suggest in any way the appearance of the man in the ghostly
procession. But there was no such person. I met only mirabile dictu, the greedy
eyes of Gormala MacNiel.
That evening in my room at the Kilmarnock Arms, I
examined the papers as well as I could by lamplight. They were in an
old-fashioned style of writing with long tails and many flourishes which made
an added difficulty to me. The language was Spanish, which tongue I did not
know; but by aid of French and what little Latin I could remember I made out a
few words here and there. The dates ranged between 1598 and 1610. The letters,
of which there were eight, were of manifest unimportance, short notes directed:
“Don de Escoban” and merely arranging meetings. Then there were a number of
loose pages of some printed folio, used perhaps as some kind of tally or
possibly a cipher, for they were marked all over with dots. The lot was
completed by a thin, narrow strip of paper covered with figures—possibly some
account. Papers of three centuries ago were valuable, were it only for their
style of writing. So I locked them all up carefully before I went to bed, with
full intention to examine them thoroughly some day. The appearance of Gormala
just at the time when I had become possessed of them seemed to connect them in
some mysterious way with the former weird experiences in which she had so
prominent a part.
That night I dreamed as usual, though my dreaming
was of a scattered and incoherent character. Gormala’s haunting presence and
all that had happened during the day, especially the buying of the chest with
the mysterious papers, as well as what had taken place since my arrival at
Cruden was mixed up in perpetually recurring images with the beginning of my
Second Sight and the death of Lauchlane Macleod. Again, and again, and again, I
saw with the eyes of memory, in fragmentary fashion, the grand form of the
fisherman standing in a blaze of gold, and later fighting his way through a
still sea of gold, of which the only reliefs were the scattered piles of black
rock and the pale face patched with blood. Again, and again, and again, the
ghostly procession came up the steep path from the depths of the sea, and
passed in slow silent measure into St. Olaf’s Well.
Gormala’s words were becoming a truth to me; that
above and around me was some force which was impelling to an end all things of
which I could take cognizance, myself amongst the rest. Here I stopped,
suddenly arrested by the thought that it was Gormala herself who had set my
mind working in this direction; and the words with which she had at once warned
and threatened me when after the night of Lauchlane’s death we stood at
Witsennan point:
“When the Word is spoken all follows as ordained.
Aye! though the Ministers of the Doom may be many and various, and though they
may have to gather in one from many ages and from the furthermost ends of the
earth!”
The next few days were delightfully fine, and life
was one long enjoyment. On Monday evening there was a sunset which I shall
never forget. The whole western sky seemed ablaze with red and gold; great
masses of cloud which had rolled up seemed like huge crimson canopies looped
with gold over the sun throned on the western mountains. I was standing on the
Hawklaw, whence I could get a good view; beside me was a shepherd whose flock
patched the steep green hillside as with snow. I turned to him and said:
“Is not that a glorious sight?”
“Aye! ’Tis grand. But like all beauty o’ the warld
it fadeth into naught; an’ is only a mask for dool.”
“You do not seem to hold a very optimistic opinion
of things generally.” He deliberately stoked himself from his snuff mull before
replying:
“Optimist nor pessimist am I, eechie nor ochie.
I’m thinkin’ the optimist and the pessimist are lears alike; takin’ a pairt for
the whole, an’ so guilty o’ the logical sin o’ a particulari ad universale.
Sophism they misca’ it; as if there were anything but a lee in a misstatement
o’ fac’. Fac’s is good eneuch for me; an’ that, let me tell ye, is why I said
that the splendour o’ the sunset is but a mask for dool. Look yon! The clouds
are all gold and glory, like a regiment goin’ oot to the battle. But bide ye
till the sun drops, not only below the horizon but beyond the angle o’
refraction. Then what see ye? All grim and grey, and waste, and dourness and
dool; like the army as it returns frae the fecht. There be some that think that
because the sun sets fine i’ the nicht, it will of necessity rise fine i’ the
morn. They seem to no ken that it has to traverse one half o’ the warld ere it
returns; and that the averages of fine and foul, o’ light and dark hae to be
aye maintained. It may be that the days o’ fine follow ane anither fast; or
that the foul times linger likewise. But in the end, the figures of fine and
foul tottle up, in accord wi’ their ordered sum. What use is it, then, to no
tak’ heed o’ fac’s? Weel I ken, that the fac’ o’ the morrow will differ sair
frae the fac’s o’ this nicht. Not in vain hae I seen the wisdom and glory o’
the Lord in sunsets an’ dawns wi’oot learnin’ the lessons that they teach. Mon,
I tell ye that it’s all those glories o’ pomp and pageantry—all the lasceevious
luxuries o’ colour an’ splendour, that are the forerinners o’ disaster. Do ye
no see the streaks o’ wind rinnin’ i’ the sky, frae the east to the west? Do ye
ken what they portend? I’m tellin’ ye, that before the sun sets the morrow
nicht there will be ruin and disaster on all this side o’ Scotland. The storm
will no begin here. It is perhaps ragin’ the noo away to the east. But it will
come quick, most likely wi’ the risin’ o’ the tide; and woe be then to them as
has no made safe wi’ all they can. Hark ye the stillness!” Shepherd-like he
took no account of his own sheep whose ceaseless bleating, sounding in every
note of the scale, broke the otherwise universal silence of nature. “I’m
thinkin’ it’s but the calm before the storm. Weel sir, I maun gang. The yowes
say it is time for the hame comin’. An’ mark ye, the collie! He looks at me
reproachful, as though I had forgot the yowes! My sairvice to ye, sir!”
“Good night” I answered, “I hope I shall meet you
again.”
“I’m thinkin’ the same masel’. I hae much enjoyed
yer pleasin’ converse. I hope it’s mony a crack we yet may hae thegither!” And
so my philosophical egoist moved homewards, blissfully unconscious of the fact
that my sole contribution to the “pleasing converse” was the remark that he did
not seem optimistic.
The whole mass of his charge moved homewards at an
even footpace, the collie making frantic dashes here and there to keep his
flock headed in the right direction. Presently I saw the herd pouring like a
foam-white noisy river across the narrow bridge over the Water of Cruden.
The next morning was fine, very hot, and of an
unusual stillness. Ordinarily I should have rejoiced at such a day; but the
warning of the erudite and philosophical shepherd made me mistrust. To me the
worst of the prophecy business was that it became a disturbing influence.
To-day, perforce, because it was fine, I had to expect that it would end badly.
About noon I walked over to Whinnyfold; it being Saturday I knew that the
workmen would have gone away early, and I wanted to have the house to myself so
that I could go over it quietly and finally arrange the scheme of colouring. I
remained there some hours, and then, when I had made up my mind as to things, I
set off for the hotel.
In those few hours the weather had changed
marvellously. Busy within doors and thinking of something else, I had not
noticed the change, which must have been gradual however speedy. The heat had
increased till it was most oppressive; and yet through it all there was now and
then a cold shiver in the air which almost made me wince. All was still, so
preternaturally still that occasional sounds seemed to strike the ear as
disturbances. The screaming of the seagulls had mainly ceased, and the sound of
breaking waves on rocks and shore was at variance with the silence over the
sea; the sheep and cattle were so quiet that now and again the “moo” of a cow
or the bleat of a sheep seemed strangely single. As I stood looking out seaward
there seemed to be rising a cold wind; I could not exactly feel it, but I knew
it was there. As I came down the path over the beach I thought I heard some one
calling—a faint far-away sound. At first I did not heed it, as I knew it could
not be any one calling to me; but when I found it continued, I looked round.
There is at least a sufficient amount of curiosity in each of us to make us
look round when there is a calling. At first I could not locate it; but then
sight came to aid of sound, and I saw out on a rock two women waving
handkerchiefs. The calling manifestly came from them. It was not good for any
one to be isolated on a rock at a time when a storm was coming up; and I knew
well the rocks which these women were amongst. I hurried on as quickly as I
could, for there was a good way to go to reach them.
Near the south end of Cruden Bay there is a
cluster of rocks which juts out from shore, something like a cock’s spur.
Beyond this cluster are isolated rocks, many of them invisible at high tide.
These form part of the rocky system of the Skares, which spread out fan-like
from the point of Whinnyfold. Amongst these rocks the sea runs at change of
tide with great force; more than once when swimming there I had been almost
carried away. What it was to be carried away amongst the rocks of the Skares I
knew too well from the fate of Lauchlane Macleod. I ran as fast as I could down
the steep pathway and along the boulder-strewn beach till I came to the Sand
Craigs. As I ran I could see from the quick inrush of waves, which though not
much at present were gathering force every instant, that the storm which the
shepherd had predicted was coming fast upon us. In such case every moment was
precious. Indeed it might mean life; and so in breathless haste I scrambled
over the rocks. Behind the main body of the Sand Craigs are two isolated rocks
whose tops are just uncovered at high tide, but which are washed with every
wave. The near one of these is at low water not separated from the main mass,
but only joined by a narrow isthmus a few feet long, over which the first waves
of the turning tide rush vigourously, for it is in the direct sweep of the
flowing tide. Beyond this, some ninety or a hundred feet off and separated by a
deep channel, is the outer rock, always in island form. From this spot at low
water is the best view of the multitudinous rocks of the Skares. On all sides
they rise round you as you stand, the granite seeming yellow with the washing
of the sea between the lines of high and low water; above the latter the black
seaweed ceases growing. This island is so hidden by the higher rocks around it
that it cannot be seen from any part of Cruden Bay or from Port Erroll across
it; it can only be seen from the path leading to Whinnyfold. It was fortunate
that some one had been passing just then, or the efforts of the poor women to
attract attention might have been made in vain.
When I reached the Sand Craigs I scrambled at once
to the farthest point of the rocks, and came within sight of the isolated rock.
Fortunately it was low water. The tide had only lately turned and was beginning
to flow rapidly through the rocks. When I had scrambled on the second last rock
I was only some thirty yards from the outermost one and could see clearly the
two women. One was stout and elderly, the other young and tall and of exceeding
beauty. The elderly one was in an almost frantic condition of fright; but the
younger one, though her face was deadly pale—and I could see from the anxious
glances which she kept casting round her that she was far from at ease—was
outwardly calm. For an instant there was a curious effect as her pale face
framed in dark hair stood out against the foam of the tide churning round the
far off rocks. It seemed as though her head were dressed with white flowers. As
there was no time to lose, I threw off my coat and shoes and braced myself for
a swim. I called as I did so: “What has become of your boat?” The answer came
back in a clear, young voice of manifestly American intonation:
“It drifted away. It has gone off amongst those
rocks at the headland.”
I had for a moment an idea that my best plan might
be to fetch it first, but a glance at the distance and at the condition of the
sea made me see the futility of any such hope. Already the waves were rising so
fast that they were beginning to sweep over the crest of the rocks. Even that
in front of me where the women stood was now topped by almost every wave.
Without further delay I jumped into the sea and swam across. The girl gave me a
hand up the rock, and I stood beside them, the old lady holding tight to me
whilst I held the younger one and the rising waves washing round our feet. For
a moment or two I considered the situation, and then asked them if either of
them could swim. The answer was in the negative. “Then,” I said decisively,
“you must leave yourselves to me, and I shall swim across with each of you in
turn.” The old lady groaned. I pointed out that there was no other way, and
that if we came at once it would not be difficult, as the distance was short
and the waves were not as yet troublesome. I tried to treat the matter as
though it were a nice holiday episode so that I might keep up their spirits;
but all the same I felt gravely anxious. The distance to swim was only some
thirty yards, but the channel was deep, and the tide running strong. Moreover
the waves were rising, and we should have to get a foothold on the slippery
seaweed-covered rock. However there was nothing to be done but to hasten; and
as I was considering how best I should take the old lady across I said:
“What a pity it is that we haven’t even a strong
cord, and then we could pull each other across.” The girl jumped at the idea
and said:
“There was plenty in the boat, but of course it is
gone. Still there should be a short piece here. I took care to fasten the
painter to a piece of rock; but like a woman forgot to see that the other end
was fixed to the boat, so that when the tide turned she drifted away with the
stream. The fast end should be here still.” When the coming wave had rolled on
she pointed to a short piece of rope tied round a jutting piece of rock; its
loose end swayed to and fro with every wave. I jumped for it at once, for I saw
a possible way out of our difficulty; even if the rope were short, so was the
distance, and its strands ravelled might cover the width of the channel. I
untied the rope as quickly as I could. It was not an easy task, for the waves
made it impossible to work except for a few seconds at a time; however, I got
it free at last and pulled it up. It was only a fragment some thirty feet in
length; but my heart leaped for I saw my way clear now. The girl saw it too and
said at once:
“Let me help you.” I gave her one end of the rope
and we commenced simultaneously to ravel the piles. It was a little difficult
to do, standing as we did upon the uneven surface of the rock with the waves
rushing over our feet and the old lady beside us groaning and moaning and
imploring us to hasten. Mostly she addressed herself to me, as in some way the
deus ex machina and thus superior to the occasion where helpless women were
concerned; but occasionally the wail was directed to her companion, who would
then, even in that time of stress and hurry, spare a moment to lay a comforting
hand on her as she said:
“Hush! oh hush! Do not say anything, dear. You
will only frighten yourself. Be brave!” and such phrases of kindness and
endearment. Once the girl stopped as a wave bigger than the rest broke over her
feet. The old lady tried to still her shriek into a moan as she held on to her,
saying “Oh Miss Anita! Oh Miss Anita!” plaintively over and over again.
At last we had ravelled the four strands of the
rope and I began to knot them together. The result was a rope long enough to
reach from rock to rock, though it was in places of very doubtful strength. I
made a big loop at one end of it and put it over the stout lady’s head and
under her armpits. I cautioned both women not to tax the cord too severely by a
great or sudden strain. The elder lady protested against going first, but was
promptly negatived by the young lady, whose wishes on the subject were to me a
foregone conclusion. I took the loose end of the rope and diving into the water
swam across to the other rock upon the top of which I scrambled with some
little trouble, for the waves, though not as yet in themselves dangerous, made
difficult any movement which exposed me to their force. I signed to the old
lady to slide into the sea which, assisted by the girl, she did very pluckily.
She gasped and gurgled a good deal and clutched the loop with a death grip; but
I kept a steady even strain on the rope whose strength I mistrusted. In a few
seconds she was safely across, and I was pulling her up by the hands up the
rock. When she was firmly fixed I gave her the loose end of the cord to hold
and swam back with the loop. The girl did not delay or give any trouble. As she
helped me up the rock I could not but notice what strength she had; her grip of
my wet hand was firm and strong, and there was in it no quiver of anxiety. I
felt that she had no care for herself, now that her companion was safe. I
signalled to the old lady to be ready; the girl slipped into the water, I going
in at the same time and swimming beside her. The old lady pulled zealously. So absorbed
was she in her work that she did not heed my warning cry not to pull too hard.
She pulled as though on her strength rested the issue of life and death; with
the result that before we were a third of the way across the rope broke and she
fell sitting on the rock behind her. For an instant the girl was submerged and
came up gasping. In the spasmodic impulse common at such moments she gripped me
so hard round the neck that I felt we were both in danger. Before we sank I
wrenched, though with some difficulty her hands away from me, so that when we
rose I had her at arm’s length. For a few seconds I held her so that she could
get her breath; and as I did so I could hear the old lady screaming out in an
agonised way:
“Marjory! Marjory! Marjory!” With her breath came
back the girl’s reason, and she left herself to me passively. As I held her by
the shoulder, a wave sweeping over the rock took us, and in my sudden effort to
hold her I tore away the gown at her throat. It was quite evident her wits were
all about her now for she cried out suddenly:
“Oh, my brooch! my brooch!” There was no time to
waste and no time for questions. When a man has to swim for two in a choppy
sea, and when the other one is a fully clothed woman, there is little to waste
of strength or effort. So I swam as I had never done, and brought her up to the
rock where the old lady helped her to scramble to her feet. When I had got my
breath I asked her about her brooch. She replied:
“I would not have lost it for all the world. It is
an heirloom.”
“Was it gold?” I asked, for I wanted to know its
appearance as I intended to dive for it.
“Yes!” she said, and without another word I jumped
into the channel again to swim to the outer rock, for it was close there it
must have been lost and I could dive from there. The channel between the rocks
has a sandy bottom, and it would be easy to see the gold. As I went she called
out to me to come back, not to mind, that she would rather lose it a thousand
times than have me run any risk, and so forth; things mightily pleasant to hear
when spoken by such lips. For myself I had only exultation. I had got off both
the women without accident, and the sea was as yet, not such as to give any
concern to a good swimmer. I dived from the rock and got bottom easily, the
depth being only ten or twelve feet; and after a few seconds looking round me I
saw the gleam of gold. When I had risen and swam to the inner rock the two
women pulled me up to my feet.
When I gave her the brooch the young lady pressed
it to her lips, and turning to me with tears in her eyes said:
“Oh you brave man! You kind, brave man! I would
not have lost this for anything I call mine. Thank you that you have saved our
lives; and that you have saved this for me.” Then with girlish impulsiveness
and unpremeditation she put up her face and kissed me.
That moment, with her wet face to mine, was the
happiest of my life.
