Kitabı oku: «The Mistress of Shenstone», sayfa 5

CHAPTER VIII
IN HORSESHOE COVE

Lady Ingleby sat in the honeysuckle arbour, pouring her tea from a little brown earthenware teapot, and spreading substantial slices of home-made bread with the creamiest of farm butter, when the aged postman hobbled up to the garden gate of the Moorhead Inn, with a letter for Mrs. O’Mara.

For a moment she could scarcely bring herself to open an envelope bearing another name than her own. Then, smiling at her momentary hesitation, she tore it open with the keen delight of one, who, accustomed to a dozen letters a day, has passed a week without receiving any.

She read Mrs. Dalmain’s letter through rapidly; and once she laughed aloud; and once a sudden colour flamed into her cheeks.

Then she laid it down, and helped herself to honey – real heather-honey, golden in the comb.

She took up her letter again, and read it carefully, weighing each word.

Then: – “Good old Jane!” she said; “that is rather neatly put: the ‘safely abstract’ becoming the ‘perilously personal.’ She has acquired the knack of terse and forceful phraseology from her long friendship with the doctor. I can do it myself, when I try; only, my Sir Derycky sentences are apt merely to sound well, and mean nothing at all. And – after all —does this of Jane’s mean anything worthy of consideration? Could six foot five of abstraction – eating its breakfast in complete unconsciousness of one’s presence, returning one’s timid ‘good-morning’ with perfunctory politeness, and relegating one, while still debating the possibility of venturing a remark on the weather, to obvious oblivion – ever become perilously personal?”

Lady Ingleby laughed again, returned the letter to its envelope, and proceeded to cut herself a slice of home-made currant cake. As she finished it, with a final cup of tea, she thought with amusement of the difference between this substantial meal in the honeysuckle arbour of the old inn garden, and the fashionable teas then going on in crowded drawing-rooms in town, where people hurried in, took a tiny roll of thin bread-and-butter, and a sip at luke-warm tea, which had stood sufficiently long to leave an abiding taste of tannin; heard or imparted a few more or less detrimental facts concerning mutual friends; then hurried on elsewhere, to a cucumber sandwich, colder tea, which had stood even longer, and a fresh instalment of gossip.

“Oh, why do we do it?” mused Lady Ingleby. Then, taking up her scarlet parasol, she crossed the little lawn, and stood at the garden gate, in the afternoon sunlight, debating in which direction she should go.

Usually her walks took her along the top of the cliffs, where the larks, springing from the short turf and clumps of waving harebells, sang themselves up into the sky. She loved being high above the sea, and hearing the distant thunder of the breakers on the rocks below.

But to-day the steep little street, down through the fishing village, to the cove, looked inviting. The tide was out, and the sands gleamed golden.

Also, from her seat in the arbour, she had seen Jim Airth’s tall figure go swinging along the cliff edge, silhouetted against the clear blue of the sky. And one sentence in the letter she had just received, made this into a factor which turned her feet toward the shore.

The friendly Cornish folk, sitting on their doorsteps in the sunshine, smiled at the lovely woman in white serge, who passed down their village street, so tall and graceful, beneath the shade of her scarlet parasol. An item in the doctor’s prescription had been the discarding of widow’s weeds, and it had seemed quite natural to Myra to come down to her first Cornish breakfast in a cream serge gown.

Arrived at the shore, she turned in the direction she usually took when up above, and walked quickly along the firm smooth sand; pausing occasionally to pick up a beautifully marked stone, or to examine a brilliant sea-anemone or gleaming jelly-fish, left stranded by the tide.

Presently she reached a place where the cliff jutted out toward the sea; and, climbing over slippery rocks, studded with shining pools in which crimson seaweed waved, crabs scudded sideways from her passing shadow, and darting shrimps flicked across and buried themselves hastily in the sand, Myra found herself in a most fascinating cove. The line of cliff here made a horseshoe, not quite half a mile in length. The little bay, within this curve, was a place of almost fairy-like beauty; the sand a soft glistening white, decked with delicate crimson seaweed. The cliffs, towering up above, gave welcome shadow to the shore; yet the sun behind them still gleamed and sparkled on the distant sea.

Myra walked to the centre of the horseshoe; then, picking up a piece of driftwood, scooped out a comfortable hollow in the sand, about a dozen yards from the foot of the cliff; stuck her open parasol up behind it, to shield herself from the observation, from above, of any chance passer-by; and, settling comfortably into the soft hollow, lay back, watching, through half-closed lids, the fleeting shadows, the blue sky, the gently moving sea. Little white clouds blushed rosy red. An opal tint gleamed on the water. The moving ripple seemed too far away to break the restful silence.

Lady Ingleby’s eyelids drooped lower and lower.

“Yes, my dear Jane,” she murmured, dreamily watching a snow-white sail, as it rounded the point, curtseyed, and vanished from view; “undoubtedly a – a well-expressed sentence; but far from – from – being fact. The safely abstract could hardly require – a – a – a cameo – ”

The long walk, the sea breeze, the distant lapping of the water – all these combined had done their soothing work.

Lady Ingleby slept peacefully in Horseshoe Cove; and the rising tide crept in.

CHAPTER IX
JIM AIRTH TO THE RESCUE

An hour later, a man swung along the path at the summit of the cliffs, whistling like a blackbird.

The sun was setting; and, as he walked, he revelled in the gold and crimson of the sky; in the opal tints upon the heaving sea.

The wind had risen as the sun set, and breakers were beginning to pound along the shore.

Suddenly something caught his eye, far down below.

“By Jove!” he said. “A scarlet poppy on the sands!”

He walked on, until his rapid stride brought him to the centre of the cliff above Horseshoe Cove.

Then – “Good Lord!” said Jim Airth, and stood still.

He had caught sight of Lady Ingleby’s white skirt reposing on the sand, beyond the scarlet parasol.

“Good Lord!” said Jim Airth.

Then he scanned the horizon. Not a boat to be seen.

His quick eye travelled along the cliff, the way he had come. Not a living thing in sight.

On to the fishing village. Faint threads of ascending vapour indicated chimneys. “Two miles at least,” muttered Jim Airth. “I could not run it and get back with a boat, under three quarters of an hour.”

Then he looked down into the cove.

“Both ends cut off. The water will reach her feet in ten minutes; will sweep the base of the cliff, in twenty.”

Exactly beneath the spot where he stood, more than half way down, was a ledge about six feet long by four feet wide.

Letting himself over the edge, holding to tufts of grass, tiny shrubs, jutting stones, cracks in the surface of the sandstone, he managed to reach this narrow ledge, dropping the last ten feet, and landing on it by an almost superhuman effort of balance.

One moment he paused; carefully took its measure; then, leaning over, looked down. Sixty feet remained, a precipitous slope, with nothing to which foot could hold, or hand could cling.

Jim Airth buttoned his Norfolk jacket, and tightened his belt. Then slipping, feet foremost off the ledge, he glissaded down on his back, bending his knees at the exact moment when his feet thudded heavily on to the sand.

For a moment the shock stunned him. Then he got up and looked around.

He stood, within ten yards of the scarlet parasol, on the small strip of sand still left uncovered by the rapidly advancing sweep of the rising tide.

CHAPTER X
“YEO HO, WE GO!”

“A cameo chaperonage,” murmured Lady Ingleby, and suddenly opened her eyes.

Sky and sea were still there, but between them, closer than sea or sky, looking down upon her with a tense light in his blue eyes, stood Jim Airth.

“Why, I have been asleep!” said Lady Ingleby.

“You have,” said Jim Airth; “and meanwhile the sun has set, and – the tide has come up. Allow me to assist you to rise.”

Lady Ingleby put her hand into his, and he helped her to her feet. She stood beside him gazing, with wide startled eyes, at the expanse of sea, the rushing waves, the tiny strip of sand.

“The tide seems very high,” said Lady Ingleby.

“Very high,” agreed Jim Airth. He stood close beside her, but his eyes still eagerly scanned the water. If by any chance a boat came round the point there would still be time to hail it.

“We seem to be cut off,” said Lady Ingleby.

“We are cut off,” replied Jim Airth, laconically.

“Then I suppose we must have a boat,” said Lady Ingleby.

“An excellent suggestion,” replied Jim Airth, drily, “if a boat were to be had. But, unfortunately, we are two miles from the hamlet, and this is not a time when boats pass in and out; nor would they come this way. When I saw you, from the top of the cliff, I calculated the chances as to whether I could reach the boats, and be back here in time. But, before I could have returned with a boat, you would have – been very wet,” finished Jim Airth, somewhat lamely.

He looked at the lovely face, close to his shoulder. It was pale and serious, but showed no sign of fear.

He glanced at the point of cliff beyond. Twenty feet above its rocky base the breakers were dashing; but round that point would be safety.

“Can you swim?” asked Jim Airth, eagerly.

Myra’s calm grey eyes met his, steadily. A gleam of amusement dawned in them.

“If you put your hand under my chin, and count ‘one – two! one – two!’ very loud and quickly, I can swim nearly ten yards,” she said.

Jim Airth laughed. His eyes met hers, in sudden comprehending comradeship. “By Jove, you’re plucky!” they seemed to say. But what he really said was: “Then swimming is no go.”

“No go, for me,” said Myra, earnestly, “nor for you, weighted by me. We should never get round that eddying whirlpool. It would merely mean that we should both be drowned. But you can easily do it alone. Oh, go at once! Go quickly! And – don’t look back. I shall be all right. I shall just sit down against the cliff, and wait. I have always been fond of the sea.”

Jim Airth looked at her again. And, this time, open admiration shone in his keen eyes.

“Ah, brave!” he said. “A mother of soldiers! Such women make of us a fighting race.”

Myra laid her hand on his sleeve. “My friend,” she said, “it was never given me to be a mother. But I am a soldier’s daughter, and a soldier’s widow; and – I am not afraid to die. Oh, I do beg of you – give me one handclasp and go!”

Jim Airth took the hand held out, but he kept it firmly in his own.

“You shall not die,” he said, between his teeth. “Do you suppose I would leave any woman to die alone? And you– you, of all women! – By heaven,” he repeated, doggedly; “you shall not die. Do you think I could go; and leave – ” he broke off abruptly.

Myra smiled. His hand was very strong, and her heart felt strangely restful. And had he not said: “You, of all women?” But, even in what seemed likely to be her last moments, Lady Ingleby’s unfailing instinct was to be tactful.

“I am sure you would leave no woman in danger,” she said; “and some, alas! might have been easier to save than I. Plump little Miss Susie would have floated.”

Jim Airth’s big laugh rang out. “And Miss Murgatroyd could have sailed away in her cameo,” he said.

Then, as if that laugh had broken the spell which held him inactive: “Come,” he cried, and drew her to the foot of the cliff; “we have not a moment to lose! Look! Do you see the way I came down? See that long slide in the sand? I tobogganed down there on my back. Pretty steep, and nothing to hold to, I admit; but not so very far up, after all. And, where my slide begins, is a blessed ledge four foot by six.” He pulled out a huge clasp-knife, opened the largest blade, and commenced hacking steps in the face of the cliff. “We must climb,” said Jim Airth.

“I have never climbed,” whispered Myra’s voice behind him.

“You must climb to-day,” said Jim Airth.

“I could never even climb trees,” whispered Myra.

“You must climb a cliff to-night. It is our only chance.”

He hacked on, rapidly.

Suddenly he paused. “Show me your reach,” he said. “Mine would not do. Put your left hand there; so. Now stretch up with your right; as high as you can, easily… Ah! three foot six, or thereabouts. Now your left foot close to the bottom. Step up with your right, as high as you can comfortably… Two foot, nine. Good! One step, more or less, might make all the difference, by-and-by. Now listen, while I work. What a God-send for us that there happens to be, just here, this stratum of soft sand. We should have been done for, had the cliff been serpentine marble. You must choose between two plans. I could scrape you a step, wider than the rest – almost a ledge – just out of reach of the water, leaving you there, while I go on up, and finish. Then I could return for you. You could climb in front, I helping from below. You would feel safer. Or – you must follow me up now, step by step, as I cut them.”

“I could not wait on a ledge alone,” said Myra. “I will follow you, step by step.”

“Good,” said Jim Airth; “it will save time. I am afraid you must take off your shoes and stockings. Nothing will do for this work, but naked feet. We shall need to stick our toes into the sand, and make them cling on like fingers.”

He pulled off his own boots and stockings; then drew the belt from his Norfolk jacket, and fastened it firmly round his left ankle in such a way that a long end would hang down behind him as he mounted.

“See that?” he said. “When you are in the niches below me, it will hang close to your hands. If you are slipping, and feel you must clutch at something, catch hold of that. Only, if possible, shout first, and I will stick on like a limpet, and try to withstand the strain. But don’t do it, unless really necessary.”

He picked up Myra’s shoes and stockings, and put them into his big pockets.

At that moment an advance wave rushed up the sand and caught their bare feet.

“Oh, Jim Airth,” cried Myra, “go without me! I have not a steady head. I cannot climb.”

He put his hands upon her shoulders, and looked full into her eyes.

“You can climb,” he said. “You must climb. You shall climb. We must climb – or drown. And, remember: if you fall, I fall too. You will not be saving me, by letting yourself go.”

She looked up into his eyes, despairingly. They blazed into hers from beneath his bent brows. She felt the tremendous mastery of his will. Her own gave one final struggle.

“I have nothing to live for, Jim Airth,” she said. “I am alone in the world.”

“So am I,” he cried. “I have been worse than alone, for a half score of years. But there is life to live for. Would you throw away the highest of all gifts? I want to live – Good God! I must live; and so must you. We live or die together.”

He loosed her shoulders and took her by the wrists. He lifted her trembling hands, and held them against his breast.

For a moment they stood so, in absolute silence.

Then Myra felt herself completely dominated. All fear slipped from her; but the assurance which took its place was his courage, not hers; and she knew it. Lifting her head, she smiled at him, with white lips.

“I shall not fall,” she said.

Another wave swept round their ankles, and remained there.

“Good,” said Jim Airth, and loosed her wrists. “We shall owe our lives to each other. Next time I look into your face, please God, we shall be in safety. Come!”

He sprang up the face of the cliff, standing in the highest niches he had made.

“Now follow me, carefully,” he said; “slowly, and carefully. We are not in a position to hurry. Always keep each hand and each foot firmly in a niche. Are you there? Good!.. Now don’t look either up or down, but keep your eyes on my heels. Directly I move, come on into the empty places. See?.. Now then. Can you manage?.. Good! On we go! After all it won’t take long… I say, what fun if the Miss Murgatroyds peeped over the cliff! Amelia would be so shocked at our bare feet. Eliza would cry: ‘Oh my dear love!’ And Susie would promptly fall upon us! Hullo! Steady down there! Don’t laugh too much… Fine knife, this. I bought it in Mexico. And if the big blade gives out, there are two more; also a saw, and a cork-screw… Mind the falling sand does not get into your eyes… Tell me if the niches are not deep enough, and remember there is no hurry, we are not aiming to catch any particular train! Steady down there! Don’t laugh… Up we go! Oh, good! This is a third of the way. Don’t look either up or down. Watch my heels – I wish they were more worth looking at – and remember the belt is quite handy, and I am as firm as a rock up here. You and all the Miss Murgatroyds might hang on to it together. Steady down there!.. All right; I won’t mention them… By the way, the water must be fairly deep below us now. If you fell, you would merely get a ducking. I should slide down and pull you out, and we would start afresh… Good Lord!.. Oh, never mind! Nothing. Only, my knife slipped, but I caught it again… We must be half way, by now. How lucky we have my glissading marks to guide us. I can’t see the ledge from here. Let’s sing ‘Nancy Lee.’ I suppose you know it. I can always work better to a good rollicking tune.”

Then, as he drove his blade into the cliff, Jim Airth’s gay voice rang out:

 
“Of all the wives as e’er you know,
Yeo ho! lads! ho!
Yeo ho! Yeo ho!
There’s none like Nancy Lee, I trow,
Yeo ho! lads! ho!
Yeo ho!
See there she stands
 

– Blow! I’ve struck a rock! Not a big one though. Remember this step will be slightly more to your right

– and waves her hands,

 
Upon the quay,
And ev’ry day when I’m away,
She’ll watch for me;
And whisper low, when tempests blow —
 

Oh, hang these unexpected stones! That’s finished my big blade!

 
– For Jack at sea,
Yeo ho! lads, ho! Yeo ho!
 

Now the chorus.

 
The sailor’s wife the sailor’s star shall be, —
 

Come on! You sing too!”

 
“Yeo ho! we go,
Across the sea!”
 

came Lady Ingleby’s voice from below, rather faint and quavering.

“That’s right!” shouted Jim Airth. “Keep it up! I can see the ledge now, just above us.

 
The bo’s’n pipes the watch below,
Yeo ho! lads! ho!
Yeo ho! Yeo ho!
Then here’s a health afore we go,
Yeo ho! lads! ho!
Yeo ho!
A long, long life to my sweet wife,
And mates at sea
 

– Keep it up down there! I have one hand on the ledge —

 
And keep our bones from Davy Jones
Where’er we be!”
“And – keep our bones – from —
Davy Jones – who e’er he be,”
 

quavered Lady Ingleby, making one final effort to move up into the vacant niches, though conscious that her fingers and toes were so numb that she could not feel them grip the sand.

Then Jim Airth’s whole body vanished suddenly from above her, as he drew himself on to the ledge.

“Yeo ho! we go!” Came his gay voice from above.

 
“Yeo ho! Yeo ho!”
 

sang Lady Ingleby, in a faint whisper.

She could not move on into the empty niches. She could only remain where she was, clinging to the face of the cliff.

She suddenly thought of a fly on a wall; and remembered a particular fly, years ago, on her nursery wall. She had followed its ascent with a small interested finger, and her nurse had come by with a duster, and saying: “Nasty thing!” had ruthlessly flicked it off. The fly had fallen – fallen dead, on the nursery carpet… Lady Ingleby felt she too was falling. She gave one agonised glance upward to the towering cliff, with the line of sky above it. Then everything swayed and rocked. “A mother of soldiers,” her brain insisted, “must fall without screaming.” Then – A long arm shot down from above; a strong hand gripped her firmly.

“One step more,” said Jim Airth’s voice, close to her ear, “and I can lift you.”

She made the effort, and he drew her on to the ledge beside him.

“Thank you very much,” said Lady Ingleby. “And who was Davy Jones?”

Jim Airth’s face was streaming with perspiration. His mouth was full of sand. His heart was beating in his throat. But he loved to play the game, and he loved to see another do it. So he laughed as he put his arm around her, holding her tightly so that she should not realise how much she was trembling.

“Davy Jones,” he said, “is a gentleman who has a locker at the bottom of the sea, into which all drown’d things go. I am afraid your pretty parasol has gone there, and my boots and stockings. But we may well spare him those… Oh, I say!.. Yes, do have a good cry. Don’t mind me. And don’t you think between us we could remember some sort of a prayer? For if ever two people faced death together, we have faced it; and, by God’s mercy, here we are – alive.”