Kitabı oku: «The Duke's Sweetheart: A Romance», sayfa 11

CHAPTER XIX.
THE RESCUE

When the wave, which Cheyne had seen approaching, struck him, he was dashed violently against the rock behind. Fortunately he had got round the corner of the opening. Had he happened to be in the gap, he would to a certainty have been hurled through it into the sheltered water inside the reef, and the chances are that, if he had been thus taken unawares, he would have been killed in that gap. Another thing too, had been in his favour: the rock against which he had been thrown had a small cleft in it, and into this cleft he had been jambed by the force of the water. This fact prevented him from being knocked down and carried away.

Before another wave could strike him, he had extricated himself, and was ready to meet it. Crouching down in the recess, he bent his head, and received the full force of the weight on his crown. The moment the water fell he rose to his feet, and looked around. He was standing on a smooth piece of rock about level with the still water. On each side of him were irregular rocks, a man's height, resting on a bed of flat rock, not more than a few inches submerged in the intervals between the billows.

He looked up, and could now see the yacht forty or fifty yards off to the south-east of where he stood. He had not heard the cheer which went up from the crew when they caught sight of him, and guessed his mission. The crew did not see him until the wave which stunned him for a moment was upon him.

But while his strength was failing him, his object seemed as far from accomplishment as ever. He had now come to the end of the line, and he was still unable to reach the yacht. To venture among those low rocks out there, and face the waves, would be to court almost certain death; for it would be impossible for any one who, like him, knew absolutely nothing of the place, to move more than a couple of feet a minute, as it would be necessary for him to explore with his feet or hands every inch of the way he took, lest he should step into a hole. In case he attempted to run and missed his footing, and got into a hole, a wave would surely be upon him before he could recover himself, and then all would be lost.

Ail these thoughts passed through his mind with the rapidity of lightning. When he had done with them he looked up at the yacht.

They had not been idle there. Already a man was out on the foremast-head with a coil of rope. The man waited for the next wave to pass; then, when he saw Cheyne stand up once more, he threw the coil. Fortunately the wind was almost fair for the rope, and it fell within two feet of Cheyne. In an instant it was in his hand. In a few minutes more it was bent to the line Cheyne had tied round his wrist. Then Cheyne loosened the line from his wrist; he had not done so before lest by some mistake or failure of his strength-which he found momentarily giving way-the shore-line might be carried away before the communication had been established.

Then he drew in the slack of the line from the yacht until he had fifty or sixty yards to spare. He wound the line twice round him, and seizing the yacht end of the line, plunged forward through the shallow water. The men on board the yacht drew in the slack of the line, so as to keep it taut without putting any strain upon him.

He heard a roller burst upon the weather-side of the reef, and plunged forward with all his remaining force to reach the yacht before it was upon him.

At that moment he swayed suddenly forward and disappeared from view. He had fallen into one of holes he had feared to meet. As he did so, the tawny-headed monsters of the water dashed hissing in and swept over the pool in which he lay.

The conditions of this pool were very different from the low-level waters in the gap. Here the lower water was almost wholly undisturbed laterally, for the water, the plain of rock in which the hole was, lay almost on a level with the still water, and the water in the pool was consequently almost undisturbed by the waves.

Cheyne rose in a few seconds close to the spot where he sank. The men in the yacht had hauled in the line softly when they saw him come to the surface, and thus they drew him across the hole. In a few seconds he was once more upright, and before another wave had time to reach him he had gained the yacht. Just as they hauled him up the side, the water rose and touched him once more.

But this time it was powerless to hurt him, and with a cheer from those on board, he was drawn over the bulwark of the lee-side.

He was almost insensible. His shirt and drawers were torn into shreds, and beat in rags about him in the wind. He was bleeding from twenty wounds, not one of which, however, was dangerous. The line had chafed through his shirt at the waist, and a livid circle marked where it had tightened upon him. His left wrist was torn and discoloured by the coil, and his hands, feet, and knees were covered with bruises and small cuts from his conflict in the narrow passage.

They had to support him as he stood, while they forced some brandy down his throat. Up from the forecastle they brought blankets and wrapped them round him. It was some minutes before he had sufficiently recovered to speak.

In the meantime the sailors had not been idle.

Captain Drew was competent and energetic. He knew the yacht would not hold together very much longer, and that every second was of vital importance. Already the block had been lashed for the whip, the whip was rove, and the men on shore were now pulling in the whip by means of the line Cheyne had carried out.

When Cheyne was first carried up windward, both the Duke and the Marquis went up to him and thanked him cordially, and commended his valour. Then they saw he was not in a position to understand them, so they contented themselves with superintending the application of blankets and the administration of brandy, now and then lending a hand to support his drooping figure. All on the yacht saw he was a stranger. They had seen the attempt and failure of Bence. They had seen this other man, this strange man, strip and jump in with the rope; and then they had seen nothing of him until he emerged from that narrow opening in the rock and encountered the first wave. While he was swimming towards them unseen, they were not ignorant of his progress, for repeated signals from the men on shore kept them informed of the way he made.

At the moment Cheyne dived, the Duke turned to the captain and asked him what he thought was the chance of success.

"Bence has tried, and Bence has failed," answered Drew, with a shake of the head. There was no need to say more. The captain's opinion was plainly expressed by his words and manner. Bence had tried to swim out to the yacht with a rope, had failed, and there was no likelihood any other man would succeed.

But as time went on, and the men on shore signalled by an outward gesture of the arms, as in swimming, and by then holding up an arm for each opening passed, the excitement on board the yacht became intense. The captain ordered a man to the masthead with a rope; he also ordered another man aloft to cut away the topmast, so as to lighten her above. For now he had begun to hope.

The reason why it was utterly impossible for a man to swim from the yacht to the shore was simple enough. In order to do so it would be necessary to cross that comparatively open space between the yacht and the narrow passage, and to enter the passage with one's back to the source of danger. This alone was an enormous difficulty, added to the others already existing. But what prevented any member of the crew trying to swim ashore was the conviction that no human being could ever get through that passage with life. Bence had more than a local reputation as a swimmer, and anyone could understand his trying to do what no other man would attempt.

When at last the signal came that Cheyne had reached the seventh passage, the excitement on board became intense. Only a few seconds had before elapsed between the signal that Bence had entered and the signal that he had failed. Now minutes went by, and the men on board saw that the men ashore had not begun to draw in the line or made any signal of recall. The eyes of every man were now fixed on the mouth of the passage.

"If he does it," said the captain, "he deserves a monument."

"And he shall have it," said the Duke. No one had the least clue as to what station in life Cheyne belonged. The sailors assumed he was a seafaring man of some kind, because he would have been a credit to their class. While bathing it is difficult to recognise in the water an acquaintance until you hear his voice. But although Cheyne was battered and ragged and marred, there was something about him which told the Duke of Shropshire that the man who had come to the rescue was not an ordinary sailor. You can always tell a sailor by his hands; and the Duke saw by this man's hands that he had not had any long dealing with ropes. The hand was small and powerful, but the knuckles were not abnormally developed, and the nails were smooth and fine.

The men both ashore and on board worked with a will. The whip had been hauled ashore, and the block of it made fast; and now they were hauling the hawser to the beach. Once the hawser was made fast to the anchor on the knoll, they could begin sending the men ashore.

Meanwhile men had been busy in the ship preparing the jackets for the warp. The hawser was new and strong. The whip was of unusual thickness, and, as time was the only thing which could now beat them. Captain Drew decided that two men should go at a time.

Two deep baskets were lashed to a short spar, and then firmly to one another top and bottom. The spar was then secured to two patent blocks, and these patent blocks were slipped in on the hawser and secured. All now was ready for the first two men to go ashore.

Meanwhile Cheyne had recovered to a great extent. He was now able to stand alone. They had brought him clothes, which he had put on, and although he began to feel cold and sick the stiffness of reaction had not yet set in.

Cheyne was standing with his right arm round a pump, his blood-stained face dropped into his bloodstained hand, and his eyes fixed on the man he had sworn to destroy. The Duke and the Marquis stood by the weather rigging, anxiously watching the men at work on the baskets and hawser.

The captain stood at the lee-rigging, looking up at the men aloft. When all was ready, he crossed the deck and said to the Duke:

"Now, your grace, all is ready for you and his lordship."

The Duke pointed his long lean finger at Cheyne and said:

"That man must go first."

The captain drew back to the mast in surprise.

"But, your grace, I am afraid there is danger in delay."

The water was at every wave bursting over the rocks to the windward and rushing from aft along the deck, so that it was impossible to stand without holding on to something.

"There was danger for him when he swam with the rope. He and my son must go first. I will remain. My life is nearly done. If one is to die, let it be me."

As the Duke said this the captain noticed a change come over the Marquis. His eyes closed, his knees bent under him, and he fell to the deck. He had fainted. The relief of knowing there was now a chance of all of them being saved had been too much, and his exhausted strength had broken down under the reaction.

The men carried the insensible man to the basket, and lashed him in it.

"You are to go with the Marquis," said the captain to Cheyne.

"Go where?"

"Ashore in the sling. And here's a flask of brandy. His lordship has fainted. Give him some brandy as you are hauled ashore."

Cheyne took the flask.

"Who says I am to go ashore the first trip?"

"His grace the Duke."

"But does he know why I have come here, and who I am?"

"No, I don't think so. But do not waste any more time. If we are to escape, there must be no loss of time."

"Of course not," thought Cheyne. "The Duke may not know who I am, or anything about me. How could he know me? I have not told my name to anyone here. I thought it would be fine vengeance to come down here and kill this weakling. But would it not be a finer revenge to save him, and then, when he has recovered, declare who I am, and ask if it were likely I, who had risked my life to save him and his father from death, had written that book with an unworthy motive or could be the son of an unworthy mother? Yes, by all means, let me give what help I can."

Without a moment's hesitation he allowed himself to be hoisted up to the basket and secured.

The Marquis had not yet recovered. His head was drooping on his chest; his arms were hanging down lifelessly at his side. When Cheyne had got into the basket, and the men were lashing him, he supported the drooping head, and pressed the mouth of the flask against the white lips of the insensible man. They were above the reach of large bodies of water, but they were still deluged with heavy sheets of spray.

The gale not only continued to blow, but increased in fury. Every wave flung tons of water over the deck, and the difficulty of maintaining a position on it increased each minute.

The Duke was still standing by the weather-rigging. With his right hand he hung on by a ratlin. Already the seams of the planks on which the men stood began to gape, and when the water rushed up from the after end of the yacht and struck against the forecastle bulkhead below, it squirted up through the opening seams.

Twice had the Duke been forced from his hold and cast against the mast. He declined to be lashed. But he was no longer young, and his hold on the ratlin was not nearly as firm as it might be. The very smallness of the line, while it enabled him to grasp it round completely, tended to numb the hand. He felt cold and wretched. The wind and wetting had begun to produce pains in his shoulder more intense than any he had felt before.

The signal had been given by the man at the mast-head to the men on shore to haul in, and already the baskets had begun to glide away from the yacht, when a shout of warning and terror came from the man at the mast-head.

"On deck there, hold on for your lives!" shouted the man aloft.

The words were hardly out of his mouth when a huge wave, larger by far than any other which had struck the ill-fated yacht, burst upon her, and covered her with boiling torrents of tawny water, hissing foam, and swishing spray.

When the water cleared away two men were missing, a sailor and Reginald Francis Henry Cheyne, seventh Duke of Shropshire.

The men uttered a cry of dismay. Ropes were thrown, and two lifebuoys, which were secured to the pump-case. But neither the sailor nor the Duke was ever again seen alive by anyone on board that wreck. Before the nobleman, who left the Seabird as Marquis Southwold, and Charles Augustus Cheyne reached the shore, the Duke of Shropshire had died, and George Temple Cheyne, late Marquis of Southwold, was eighth Duke of Shropshire and virtual owner of four hundred thousand a year, five princely residences, and of all the power and influence of the great house.

Next day the bodies of the Duke and the sailor were found in a little cove at the top of the bay, and hard by the two a book in three volumes, bound with a string which was chafed and broken at the loose end. On opening these volumes they were found to be "The Duke of Fenwick: a Novel. By Charles Augustus Cheyne." The facts that the book had been found near the body of the dead nobleman, and that it had something to do with a duke, led the simple people who found it to believe that it had only come ashore from the wreck, and that it was in some way or other connected with the person of the late Duke, so they sent it up to the Castle in the same carriage with the body.

In that same carriage, on the day before, the present Duke and the bruised and battered Cheyne had been driven from the place where they had landed to Silverview Castle, above Silver Bay, the residence of the Duke of Shropshire.

CHAPTER XX.
FAME

The little household in Knightsbridge, where Marion Durrant lived with her invalid aunt, Miss Traynor, did not breakfast early. It was very rarely the teapot found its way to the table until ten o'clock. Miss Traynor was one of those invalids who suffer from sleeplessness, together with other maladies; and it was often three, four, or five o'clock in the morning before she closed her eyes.

Miss Traynor was old-fashioned and kindly, with none of the irritability or exactingness of the invalid about her. She was often in great pain; but at such times she wished to be alone. She was never irritable or capricious. She always behaved in her own house as though she were a guest, as far as herself was concerned. She hated ringing bells for the servant, and tried to prevent Marion doing a number of little services which many women in health exact of those around them.

But she was most decidedly old-fashioned. She had a great number of settled notions, notions acquired long ago, and which nothing in the world could shake. All the eloquence or argument in the world would not move her on any subject she had made up her mind about twenty or thirty years ago. She had an antipathy to new theories, new places, new people. She was an enthusiastic admirer of Church and State. She considered all Liberals murderers and regicides at heart, not that she had even a dim idea of what a Liberal was. Personally she would not have hurt the meanest of God's creatures, but she could have read with lively satisfaction that all the Liberals and Radicals had been drowned, provided all detail were omitted, and a bishop had something to do with the matter.

She looked on clergymen of the Church of England with the greatest respect, and she considered bishops infallible and impeccable. She did not put the least faith in missions to savages. She had a mean opinion of savages, and did not think them worth the trouble taken with them by pious folk of a certain way of thinking.

Her father before her had taken in The Times, and she took it in too; not that she read much of it, but that she thought every staid respectable house ought to have The Times; and that, after the Church and State, The Times was the most important institution in the country. She had no comprehensive notion of what the Church was, and her idea of the State was The Court Circular. But in what way The Times contributed to the welfare of the country, she had no conception whatever. She was always quite sure that whatever The Times said must infallibly be right. Any suggestion that, possibly, a conflict or difference of any kind could arise between these three, she would have treated with merciless scorn. There were the Church, State, and Times; and as long as they went on, England must continue to be the greatest, most pious, and most successful country under the sun.

After the Church, State, and Times the institution which claimed her greatest respect was the Peerage of England. She would cheerfully have allowed art and commerce to die if we might only retain our old nobility. She had no social ambition for herself. She knew she was not of the metal peers are made of. If a lord had spoken to her, she would have felt he was doing something derogatory to his order. She was a firm believer in caste, and did not wish those above her to come down any more than she wished herself to go up.

"We ought all to keep in our own places, my dear," she would say. "It pleases Heaven that we shall be born in a certain state of life. If Heaven intended we should fill any other, there is no doubt we should have been born in that state. We ought not to try and change these things. We are not in our own hands, but in the hands of those above. If a king is wanted, one is sent; if a lord is wanted, one is sent; and so on. And we ought not to try and alter these laws of Nature any more than any other laws of Nature."

Upon being reminded that great generals and lawyers and statesmen are often made lords of, she would say:

"These, my dear, were intended by Nature to be lords, but there was no vacancy for them at the time. But you see, in the end, Nature found a vacancy, and they became lords. If a man is intended by Nature to be a lord, nothing in the world will keep him from being one."

The morning after the wreck of the yacht Seabird, Miss Traynor was later than usual for breakfast. She came down looking white and worn. She had been more sleepless than usual that night. But on mornings after such nights she was more gentle and considerate than at other times.

"How are you this morning, Marion?" she asked as she kissed the girl and sank into her elbow-chair.

"Pretty well, aunt, only I slept badly. How are you? You look as if you had had one of your bad nights," said Marion, as she began pouring out the tea.

"So I had, my child, so I had. I heard every hour till four; and I did not go to sleep even soon after that. What kept you awake?"

"Oh, I don't know, aunt," said the girl wearily.

"Well, if you don't know, I do, Marion; and you are a little goose to fret about the matter. I know him, dear, better than you do."

Marion smiled. As though anyone, or all the world together, could know her Charlie as she knew him.

"And he's a noble-hearted splendid fellow any girl might rely on and be proud of!"

Marion pouted. As though any human being could be more proud of any other than she was of him!

"And, Marion, you ought not to be a goose and go fidget your life out because you have not heard from him for two or three days. Now, if it were weeks or months, you might have cause to be uneasy."

Marion looked at her aunt in horror. As though it would be possible for her to live if she were months without hearing from him!

"You know very well, child, there is not a more loyal or gentle-minded man in all London."

Marion looked and smiled. As though anyone knew anything of Charlie's gentle-mindedness compared with what she knew of it!

"I'll take another cup of tea, and I'll engage you hear from him before the week is out."

"Before the week is out, aunt!" said Marion, speaking aloud for the first time on the subject. "Before the week is out! If I don't hear before then, I shall know something dreadful has happened."

"But I tell you you shall. I have a presentiment, a very strong presentiment, you will have a letter from him the morning after to-morrow, saying he is in town, and will be out to see you that afternoon."

"But why could he not come out, aunt, if he was in London the night before, instead of writing?" Even talking of the chance of his being in London was so much better than thinking of him as far away.

"I did not say he would be in London the night before. Might he not post his letter in Wales, or Cornwall, or Scotland, or Ireland?"

"Yes; but then, aunt, he ought to be here as soon as his letter."

"Now you are an impatient girl. Business might prevent his coming on by the mail. He might come by a late train. My presentiments are always right, or nearly always; and this is one of the very strongest I ever had in all my life."

Marion shook her head in despair rather than incredulity. Whatever was the matter, Charlie might have written. What business had he anywhere? In the ordinary sense of the word, he had no business. What he had to do with editors and proprietors of papers and publishers, was all done in London, not in that hateful place to which he had gone, wherever it was.

She did not care for her breakfast that morning. She drank a cup of tea, ate a mouthful of dry bread, but left the eggs and bacon untouched.

Miss Traynor having done all she could to cheer her niece, and being one of those gentle natures which cannot endure the sight of unhappiness in others when she was powerless to lessen it, took up The Times, partly to try and distract herself, and partly to shut out from her eyes the painful sight of the young girl's saddened face.

The gale of the night and day before had been general in England, and London had got its share of it. But a whole gale on the coast never seems more than a stiff breeze in London. Nevertheless, the gale of yesterday had not passed over London without inflicting injury; and among the other things which it had done within the ten-mile radius was to fling a chimney-pot into the street, just opposite Miss Traynor's front-door.

This had been a terrible event in the mind of Miss Traynor.

She had been fascinated at the time, and anticipated nothing short of the destruction of her own house and of everyone in it. She had eventually congratulated herself a dozen times on the fact that her will was made, and that Marion should have all she had the power to bequeath, in complete forgetfulness that according to her own theory, Marion would be included among the slain.

However, as afternoon passed into evening, the gale subsided, and Miss Traynor's apprehensions declined. But as she ceased to fear, she began to feel an interest in the perils she had passed. Therefore when, this morning, she saw a column of The Times headed "Yesterday's Gale," it instantly attracted her interest, and settling her spectacles on her nose, she began to read.

"Oh dear!" she cried suddenly.

"What is it, aunt?" said Marion, with little interest.

"There has been a dreadful wreck of a yacht; and the owner of it, the great Duke of Shropshire, is drowned."

"Good gracious!" said Marion, somewhat roused from the contemplation of her own unhappiness.

The old woman read on, but did not say anything further.

Marion had raised her eyes in expectation of more news, and was now looking with awakened interest at her aunt.

Gradually Miss Traynor's face lengthened with astonishment. The mouth opened, the eyebrows went up, the eyes grew round, and the plump cheeks became almost hollow.

"What is it?" said Marion, now thoroughly alert.

At last Miss Traynor put down the paper, and looked speechlessly at her niece for awhile.

"Aunt, do tell me what it is!"

"What did I say about your being proud?"

"I'm sure I don't think I'm very proud," said the girl, in uneasy perplexity.

"Of him?"

"Of whom, aunt? Do tell me!"

"Of Charles?"

"Well, I'm sure I'm very proud of him. But what has he to do with the storm, and the wreck, and a duke, and the paper?" asked the girl almost piteously.

From her aunt's manner one might assume anything, so long as the thing was very violent and unusual.

"There, read for yourself!" cried the aunt, handing the paper across the table to her niece.

With sparkling eyes and trembling hands, Marion caught the paper and began to read.

The comment on the rescue wound up with these words:

"For endurance and gallantry we may search in vain for a case parallel to this of Mr. Charles Augustus Cheyne. He will receive the medal of the Royal Humane Society, as a matter of course. But in a case of this kind it is to be regretted that some even higher distinction cannot be awarded for endurance and courage inferior to nothing which has gained for a handful of our boldest soldiers the Victoria Cross."

When Marion had finished reading she put the paper down on the table before her, looked feebly at her aunt for a moment, and then fell fainting back in her chair.