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"By-the-way, in a moment you will see why people got a superstitious feeling about that tower. Right in our wake is the Castle, and we are steering right into the sun. We could not be better placed to see the witch's fire dance on the tower. The sun is just dipping. Now watch the tower. There! Did you see that? That flash on the top of the tower? That's what the people call the witch's fire. There it is again, now. I never saw it brighter – never. Look again. The boat is right in the track of the sun, and the wash of the paddles makes the light flicker. I never saw – "
At that instant he ceased to speak – for ever. An iron bar struck him at the throat, severing the head from the body, and killing also a man who stood behind him.
The after end of the bridge was flung upward, and all upon it, the living and the dead, were shot down upon the fore-deck.
Coal and planks and wreck of the saloon, and bodies of those who had been on the after-deck and in the saloon, toiled upward a moment in a dense cloud of steam and water, hung a moment suspended in air, while a dull groaning sound spread abroad from the steamer. Then all descended again, falling upon the ruined boat, upon the placid water, with thud and hiss and shriek.
For a second all was still.
Then a dull groan from those forward. Then screams and yells when it was plain the shell of the boat could not float more than a few seconds.
About fifty people were still alive.
The wreck made a drive astern. The water washed over the fore-deck, and, striking the forward bulwark, laid the steamer on an even keel for a breath's space.
Then the water rushed aft once more, and in a stern-board the stern went under water, the boat fell over to star-board, swung half-way back again, and then heeled steadily over and went down.
The boiler of the Rodwell had burst, and the steamer Rodwell had gone down before any one who still survived had had time to jump overboard.
CHAPTER XIV
ON THE RIVER
Still calling out for help, Grey reached the Castle. When he got in front of the chief gateway he paused a moment, and pressed his hand over his forehead, trying to collect his thoughts.
The Rodwell had blown up. Yes, that was clear. And all the people who had not been killed or drowned were now struggling in the water, and his wife had been aboard.
No good purpose could be served by alarming the people at the Castle. They could render no assistance, and they had trouble enough there just now. The best thing to do was to dash across the Island, tell the ferryman to hasten to the scene of the wreck (he could not have seen the steamer from the northern shore of the Island), jump into a boat, and pull rapidly towards the fatal spot.
Grey crossed the Island at the top of his speed; paused a moment to recover his breath; then shouted to the ferryman the news of the disaster, and, bidding him row with all his might to the place, jumped into another boat himself and pulled rapidly down the river.
Under the circumstances nothing could have been better for him than the exertion necessary for driving the boat forward.
He was a powerful man and a skilful oarsman. He bent forward and flung himself back with swift and weighty regularity, that made the boat fly. He deliberately kept his mind free from thought. He concentrated all his attention upon the physical work. When a young man he had often pulled in local amateur races, but never before with such strictly undivided attention.
"Get all way on the boat! Make her go through the water!" were the thoughts that filled his mind. Gradually as he warmed to his work he felt his power increase. He felt conscious of great skill and enormous strength.
As he drove onward muscle after muscle of his body seemed to come into sympathy with those in his legs and back and arms, to increase his force. While the muscles came into play their action stole the sluggish blood from his head, sent up his pulse, cooled his forehead, and cleared his mind.
"There is no use in thinking now. No use in my thinking until I am there and know all. Now I have only to make this boat fly."
As he swung himself backward and forward, and plucked the blades through the hissing water, he felt all things possible to man were possible to him then.
"I could crush this wherry flat in my arms, or command a burning ship, or lead a forlorn hope to certain victory at this moment," he thought. "But I must be careful not to break an oar. To break an oar now would be fatal. How they bend! They are the twisted ropes of the catapult, and the wherry is the bolt, and we are going almost as fast as a flying bolt.
"That's the tail of the Island at last. There is no use in my looking round; it might disturb me. All I have to think of now is, Eyes in boat, a clean wake, and give way with a will.
"Half ebb, by the marks. Give her a sheer out into mid-stream, and get the crawl of the ebb under her. It's only a crawl compared to what we're doing, although it's a five-knot ebb."
He was out of training, and his mouth became dry, his tongue parched, and his breathing short; his muscles, under the unaccustomed strain, tingled and grew heated, and his joints fiery hot. But he felt all the better pleased for this. He took a fierce delight in squandering the magnificent resources of his strength.
"My will," he thought, "is stronger than my body and my arms and my legs, and if they fancy they are to get the better of my will I'll show them their mistake. On you go! ay, faster." And he tore the blades hissing from the water, and feathered, and switched the blades into the water without a sound or a splash.
"Already," he continued, "the Island dead astern. The Black Rock and the Witches' Tower, my Tower of Silence, in a line, and I out in mid-stream. This means I am near."
"Where are you going? Eh? Where are you going with that wherry?" Grey was hailed from ahead.
Backing water with his right hand and pulling with his left he swung the boat round, bringing her gunwale under.
He had almost run into a four-oared river fishing-boat that had a variety of floating objects in tow, and a few small things in the boat. Four or five other boats were pulling slowly hither and thither, with a man standing up in the bow of each.
When Grey ceased to pull it was growing dusk. For a moment he sat with his oars peaked, staring around him. Then he tried to speak, but when he opened his mouth his tongue rattled like a bone against his teeth, and his throat felt dusty dry. Notwithstanding that the water here was strong and brackish he leaned out of the boat, and filled his right hand and drank. Then his tongue became flexible again, and although his voice was hoarse and ragged, he could speak.
"You were here soon after it happened; how long is it now?"
Notwithstanding the gloom the men in the fishing-boat recognised him, and their manner turned to civility at once.
"Close upon an hour ago, sir. I did not know your back, Mr. Grey; and you were running right into us, and with such way on too."
"One, two, three, four, five, six," counts Grey. "Six boats?"
"Yes, sir, six boats. It's the awfullest thing ever happened on the river in my time; and I'm on the Weeslade, man and boy, upwards of forty year."
"An hour ago. I did not think it was so long. I came as quickly as I could."
"I saw you pull a punt-race twenty-five years ago, sir, and you'd have beaten your pulling in the punt then by your pulling in the wherry this evening. Ay, sir, you'd have pulled that wherry round the punt."
"How many were saved?"
"About forty."
"Were they landed at one or both sides of the river?"
"They were all landed at Asherton's Quay over there."
"Do you know – did you see any of the saved?"
"Most of them. I helped to bring in some thirteen."
"There is, if it is an hour since she blew up, no chance of any more being alive in the water, even clinging on to anything."
"No, Mr. Grey."
"Do you know – " His tongue was dry again, and he dipped his hand into the brackish water and drank out of his palm.
The fisherman shuddered at this. "It's brackish at best," thought the man; "but after what has happened – ugh! He must be drunk or queer in his head."
Grey drew in both oars before completing the question, "Do you know – Mrs. Grey – my wife?"
"Yes, sir, I know her well. I often sold her salmon, and saw her with you on the Rodwell. I humbly hope, sir, she wasn't aboard this evening?"
"You did not see her among the saved?"
"Mr. Grey, I may be mistaken – "
"Answer me, man, or – " He suddenly sprang up in the boat, and, whirling an oar in his hands, threatened the fisherman in the other boat. "Answer, man, or I'll brain you, d'ye hear? And if you tell me a lie I'll come back and brain you when I find it out. Is my wife saved?"
"I did not see her," answered the man, shoving off the wherry.
But Grey hooked the fishing-boat to the wherry with his foot, and, brandishing the oar aloft, whirled it over the head of the cowering man, and shouted out in a voice that crossed the waters and crept up the hushed shores: "Damn you, man, don't you see I mean to brain you if you won't speak?"
"She was not saved. No one on the after-deck or in the saloon was saved. It was the boilers blew up, and all aft were killed or drowned."
Grey unhooked his foot from the fishing-boat, and with his foot pushed off from her. Then throwing down the oar in the boat, he folded his arms tightly across his chest, and, still standing, drifted down the river, his large figure standing out in black against the fading purple of the west, his face turned towards the blackening east.
"Only that he lost his reason with his wife," said the fisherman, "I'd take the law of him."
"Ay," answered another man in the boat, "it's an excuse for a man to do any wild thing to lose his wife like this."
They had drifted a bit, and were now pulling back towards the spot where they had first hailed Grey.
"He's standing up still in that wherry. With a big man like him standing up in a cockleshell of a craft like that, the swell of a steamboat wouldn't think much of twisting her from under his feet," said the first speaker.
"And maybe he wouldn't much mind if it did, poor gentleman," in kindly tone, said the man whom Grey had threatened.
The wherry drifted on, but for a time Grey never altered his position. He was without his coat, without his hat; his white sleeves were rolled up above the elbows, and his powerful arms tightened across his wide chest. Gradually the boat, as it drifted, swung round, and brought his face to the fading east.
There was not a ripple on the river, not a murmur in the trees; a faint thin rustle of the water where it touched the shore was the only sound. Night was coming, with its healing dew and spacious silence for universal sleep.
Upright he stood still. The boat began to swing round once more. He did not move. Again his face was towards the darkening east.
At length the wherry gave a sudden lurch; it had encountered something, and had almost capsized.
He instinctively brought the boat on an even keel by throwing the weight of his whole body on the rising side. In a few moments the boat was still as of old. With a sudden shake and shudder he came back to a consciousness of where he was.
"That is the red No. 4 Buoy I ran foul of; it nearly capsized me," he thought.
Then shading his eyes with his open right hand, he stared back into the eastern gloom long and fixedly.
"My wife and the Rodwell are both gone," he whispered. "Bee and my five thousand. My wife and my five thousand pounds are gone. She brought me about five thousand when she came to me, long ago. It was to have gone to her children, if she had any, and away from me if she had none. Now she is gone, and that five thousand and another five: and I am saved! Saved!
"Saved!"
He sat down in the boat, and, keeping his legs wide apart, rested his elbows on his knees and his head on his hands. His shirt-collar was open, and yet he felt his throat tighten, and put his hand to it. When he found it free he muttered:
"It is only the hangman untying the knot; for in spirit I was a murderer. And yet I remember the day I saw her first. I can tell you all about the day I told her I loved her. I could show you the way she looked; pretty, and with her head this way. Then I knew she was mine. She was small, Bee was small; and I lifted her up and kissed her – not often, but once; once, and I felt weak for joy at that kiss; and something happened in my head or heart, and I saw all my life before me, and felt her always on my arm. And after that I was calm. It seemed we had known one another always, and had been married years.
"And I remember the first thing I said after that was not anything wild or romantic; it was:
"'In the back of the Bank-house there is a bay-window like this, but there are creepers on it.' And she asked me what kind the creepers were; and I laughed and said I did not know. 'But,' I said, a kind of foolish pun, 'my Bee shall come and tell me, won't she?' And Bee said, 'Maybe so.'
"And I remember when I bought the engaged ring, and how she kissed me then the first time of her own accord.
"And I remember how when we were married first she clung to me, and seemed to grudge her eyes for anything but me. And I remember how I used to walk around her and about her through the streets, if anything seemed to threaten her with disturbance – a dog, or a draught, or a cab, or a – "
"He suddenly threw up his face to the deep purple sky, and cried out, in a hoarse whisper:
"And to-night, by God, I am not man enough to weep that she is dead! I am not man enough to wish her back again!"
He looked around the water, as though he expected to see some form of temporal or eternal vengeance approaching him.
As his eyes fell upon the water, something came very slowly floating towards him. Something which was almost wholly submerged, and, owing to that fact, drifted more quickly than the boat. As the thing drew nearer it gradually settled down in the water, and, before he could touch it, sank.
"It looked like a cloak," he whispered. "What have I been doing here? I must get ashore, and see if the – " He could not bring himself to say "body," and without thought sat down, and began rowing rapidly towards Asherton's Quay.
CHAPTER XV
THE FUTURE AS IT SEEMED
When Grey's boat came alongside the little quay he jumped out, and went hastily to a crowd of people assembled round the bodies and wreckage landed already.
His manner was highly excited, and the questions put by him came in such an incoherent torrent the people did not know where to begin the answers.
Some of the survivors, some of those who had been on the fore-deck, stood near: these he asked if they knew Mrs. Grey.
Yes, some of them knew Mrs. Grey.
Had they seen her either before or after the boat went down? Did they see her go aboard? She was to have been on board, and he was to have gone too, but he had been called away. Then he was to have joined the steamer off the Island; but she slipped him by, and he was not able to go on board. Could it be possible no one had seen his wife, Mrs. Grey? Could no one give him any tale or tidings of his wife?
No. No one could tell him anything about her. No one had seen her; but then that was not to be wondered at, for all the people who survived had been on the fore-deck, and from the fore-deck it was impossible, or nearly impossible, to see the people on the after-deck.
But surely some of those who had been saved knew whether his wife had or had not gone on board at Daneford? That was simple enough.
They could not say; they only knew they had neither seen her nor heard of her that evening on the Rodwell, or in connection with the Rodwell.
Among that sad group on the shore, Grey was the first who came enquiring for friend or relative, and those who knew him pitied him with all their hearts; for they recollected his marriage had been the result of a love-match, and that he was reputed to be the kindest, most generous, and most loyal husband in the city. His constant good-humour and kindly actions, his generosity, and his great importance and usefulness to the people of Daneford, added in no slight way to increase the sympathy and respect of those who stood on the little quay that night and heard his excited questions, and answered him back gently and with tears in their hearts.
For his own part he had not yet been able to bring the results of the disaster sharply before his mind. The fact that the disaster had occurred was never clearly with his apprehension. As soon as he removed his eyes from the salvage and the dead, and looked out upon the broad peaceful river, it seemed impossible that at the very spot he had recently rowed over scores of people lay dead, and among the dead his wife.
The news of the catastrophe spread quickly, and gradually the crowd gathered and swelled. From the neighbourhood, some who had friends in the unlucky boat came, and found their friends alive in houses around the landing-place. Others found friends or relatives beneath the cloths which had been spread over the dead. Others were in a condition similar to Grey: could find no trace of those whom they supposed to be in the boat at the time she blew up.
Among the last-named searchers was a man who lived on the banks of the river, and had heard the explosion and hastened to the spot. He had reason to fear his only son had been in the boat, but he could not to be certain, as the young man lived at Daneford, and often, though not invariably, took the boat on a Friday evening. The father was distracted, and at last came to Grey, whom he knew slightly, and, under the impression that the banker had been a passenger, asked for tidings of his son.
After a few half-incoherent replies from Grey, the father gathered the facts of the latter's case, and found they were both circumstanced in the same way. For a moment the old man felt utterly helpless and desperate. Then his mind seemed to clear up suddenly, and, turning to Grey, he said:
"Neither of us is sure he is a sufferer by this awful calamity, nor can we be certain as long as we stay here unless our worst fears come true." He pointed to the river and shuddered. "They have already begun dragging, but it will be days before all are found, if all are ever found. Each of us may hope still. Suppose, instead of this sickening waiting here, we drive back to the city? There we may find those whom we fear to find here. Is not that better than watching each boat, and bending over each poor body that is landed?"
"You are right!" cried Grey eagerly, all his faculties suddenly starting into life, and his mind for the first time seizing upon the idea of getting certain knowledge speedily. The torpor which had fallen upon his intellectual faculties at the moment of the explosion left him, and he not only warmly seconded the old man's plan, but before the other could speak, had secured and was seated in one of the many flys which had already begun to arrive with helpers and friends at the scene of the wreck.
In a few seconds the fly was spinning along in the direction of Daneford. Both the men in the vehicle were too much occupied with their own concerns for conversation. Grey's thoughts ran on:
"She is dead. Beyond all doubt she is dead. Poor Bee! poor Bee! I wonder did she think of me with her last thought. I wonder was she glad or sorry to go. And now that she is gone, my poor Bee, I don't know how I feel.
"Poor Bee, I shall miss her. I have been unkind and unjust to her. I have treated her cruelly, cruelly. My being unkind and scornful to her did no one any good. It hurt her, and it hurt me. Poor thing!
"The house will be strange now. The rooms where she has been will feel so quiet, so useless. What is a house for but a woman? A man does not want a house of many rooms. Least of all does he want a house of many rooms haunted by a memory. A man wants only two rooms, one to eat in and one to sleep in. When a childless man's wife dies he ought to give up housekeeping. What is the use of hollow rooms all round a man's head? They are only chilling storehouses of recollection."
Here his mind halted a long time. When he resumed at the point where he had left off, he added but one more thought:
"I'll sell the Manor."
He paused much longer, said to himself, as though he were familiarising himself with the whole situation by repeating the words forming the key to it:
"I'll sell the Manor."
After going over the words so often that they began to lose their meaning, he started suddenly:
"No. I cannot sell the Manor. I cannot sell the Manor House. A man in my position must have a house. A man in my position —
"My position! My position! My position!
"Curse it, why can't I keep my head clear? I am not going mad, I should hope. What an amusing maniac I should make just now! The people would gather from all sides to hear honest Wat raving about stealing the property of the baronet. It would be town talk. Never was mad-mad so mad, they would say. But let me get on —
"Of course a man in my position ought to have a house. I must have a place to see my friends in. I must entertain a little and – "
His thoughts paused again a while, and then he abandoned thinking on the line he had been following with the mental exclamation: "No, no! I must not think of that now. I must not think of that – over the open grave of poor Bee!"
He shook himself and endeavoured to fix his mind on matters of the hour, and to keep it free of the future:
"How the purely business aspect of things has altered within these awful twenty-four hours! Sir Alexander has become powerless to alter that will, and still lives. The longer he lives now, the better for me. While he retained his faculties there was always great danger he might make some change. Now there is no longer any fear of that.
"What a terrible scene that was at the bedside! If I had known anything of the kind was about to occur, I don't think I should have had the courage to face it. I fear I would have gone the fatal length before I would have knowingly encountered it. It was so awful to hold her hand and swear such things in the face of the facts. But it is all over, and I am well out of it. Perhaps, after all, it is better the scene should have taken place.
"I suppose I shall be much at the Castle now. In fact, I don't know who is to give any orders now if I do not. It will be all thrown on me, I can plainly see that. Often at the Castle means meeting her often, and meeting her often means that we shall be good friends.
"How long did we stand hand-in-hand this evening? Not long. I did not note her beauty then, but now I can call back the face and change the surroundings —
"No, no! I must not sell the Manor. A man in my position must have a house for – I may marry again."
He set his teeth and clenched his hands, and drove the nails of his fingers into his palms. Then he faced the position resolutely:
"A while ago I shirked looking into the future across an open grave. But my own grave is open too. Can I fill it up? I think I can. Self-preservation is the first law. I cannot get back my five thousand pounds from the Rodwell. I cannot get back my wife from the Weeslade: can I get back my life? That is the question of questions, and it is idle out of feeble sentimentalism to defer looking at such grave business in a straightforward and candid way.
"I must marry, and I must marry this girl. Nothing else can save me, and I think nothing can prevent my doing it. I hold the winning cards in my hand at last, and I mean to win."
The old gentleman here broke in upon the banker's reverie with: "We are passing your house, Mr. Grey."
"Ah, so we are; thank you. Drop me here; I'll walk up, and you take the fly on. I hope you will find your son all safe."
"God grant it! I hope you will find your wife at the house."
"Thank you; good-night."
"Good-night."
Grey turned into the Park, and walked slowly in the direction of his house.
Twice he paused and faced round, as though the place were new to him, and he wished to fix indelibly on his memory what could be seen in the dim light. Or was it that he now looked at the Park in a new aspect, from a new standpoint? Or was it that he wanted to gain time and composure before reaching the house? He could not have told himself why he stopped, in fact he was perfectly unconscious of having ceased to move forward; and although his eyes passed deliberately from tree to tree, and seemed to be dissatisfied with the want of light, he was not aware his thought was occupied with the scene. The pause in his walk indicated merely a pause in his thought. While he moved towards the house he had but one idea.
"I must marry, and I must marry this girl. Nothing else can save me."
With this thought beating through his brain he shook himself, straightened his figure, and collected his faculties for meeting the servants and formally ascertaining his wife had left the house and taken passage in the ill-fated Rodwell.
With a steady stride, and head erect, he walked up to the front door and into the hall.
He looked round hastily, and then asked:
"James, where is your mistress?"
The man blinked in surprise at seeing his master and being asked such a question. Mrs. Grey had told the servants that morning she and Mr. Grey were going to Seacliff that evening, and now here was his master come back alone, and asking in a startling manner where the mistress was. He had better be guarded in his reply. "I don't know, sir," was his answer.
"Is she in the house, James?"
"No, sir."
"Are you quite sure?"
"Quite sure."
"When did she go out?"
"I did not see her go out, sir; but at luncheon she said she was going out, and I have not seen her since."
"Did she say where she was going?"
"Yes, sir. She said if anyone called I was to tell them she had gone to Seacliff with you this evening."
"Are you quite sure of all this?"
"Quite sure, sir. The cook was in the dining-room at the time, and heard the mistress tell me. Mistress had the cook up to give her orders about to-morrow."
"James, you will never see your poor mistress again. The Rodwell blew up, and she was not among the saved."
"Good God!" exclaimed the old soldier, starting back and involuntarily bringing his hand to his forehead, as though he found himself thrust into the presence of the general of the enemy. He fell back two paces, and, dropping his hand to his mouth, uttered a sob. "Good God!" exclaimed the near-sighted servant, whose heart was full of dumb gratitude and desolate sense of loss. "The last words she said to me were, 'Thank you for the flowers, James; I know it was you put them fresh in the vases. Thank you, James.' That's what she said to me as she went down the passage to her own room. When she was in the passage she turned back, and said so that I shouldn't forget it, 'Thank you, James; and recollect if anyone calls I'll be back to-morrow.' And now to think that she is dead!" He had forgotten the presence of his master, who stood irresolute a moment, and then with a heavy sigh walked into the inner hall and disappeared up the gloomy unlit staircase.
Neither master nor mistress having been expected home, there was no light in any of the rooms or passages on the first floor. With heavy slow step Mr. Grey proceeded to his own bedroom and lit the gas.
How cold and dreary and desolate it looked!
He poured out some water and bathed his face. This revived and invigorated him. Then he rang the bell. The chambermaid answered it.
"Jane, I suppose you have heard the awful news from James?"
"Yes, sir." The girl burst out crying.
"Do you know the exact time at which your poor mistress left the house for the boat?"
"No, sir. None of us saw her go; but none of us were in the front of the house after luncheon. We dined at three, just after the mistress had her luncheon; and we all think she must have gone out while we were sitting down."
"That will do, Jane, thank you."
"Thank you, sir; and if you please, sir, we're all very sorry for her and for you," crying. "She was a good kind mistress, and never took any of us up short, or refused us anything in reason."
"She was a good kind mistress, Jane. I am very much obliged to you and to them. Tell all of them below that."
The girl withdrew, weeping bitterly.
Once more he was alone.
Until now there had lingered in his mind a haunting doubt. He could not believe the evidence before him. Now all was simple and intelligible.
He commenced to pace the room. At first his step was firm and slow. He was weighing mighty thoughts.
Gradually the past seemed to fall from him like a cope of lead. He folded his arms on his breast. He threw up his head into the air, as in fancy he stepped across the threshold of his new life. The colour came into his cheeks and the sparkle into his eye. He strode beneath triumphal arches, and heard the shouts of surging multitudes in his ears.
Yes, the past was now vanished into the darkness, which need never again be explored, be visited, be contemplated. Let the past bury its dead. Let him look at the future.
It was brighter now than ever. The position of the Bank was secure above all chances of assault. He should marry that girl, and by that marriage cover up for ever the crime he had committed. The reputation of her fortune would enormously increase the security and business of the Bank.
Then – long-deferred ambition – then he might enter Parliament. The best society would gradually open to him. He should be successful in the House; he should possibly rise to place; if this happened, considering he should have the reputation of great wealth, and for a wife the beautiful daughter of a baronet, of a race that went back to the Conquest, what more possible than that there should in a few years, in Debrett, be the name of Sir Henry Walter Grey, Bart.?
The prospect was not unreasonable. What intoxicating probabilities were these!
He would like a little brandy now. He did not care to go downstairs for it, or to ring again. There was some, no doubt, in the tower cupboard. Yes, that would do. Here was the key in his pocket.
