Kitabı oku: «Modern Broods; Or, Developments Unlooked For», sayfa 16
CHAPTER XXX—THE MAIDEN ROCKS
“What need we more if hearts be true,
Our voyage safe, our port in view.”
—Keble.
A telegram that a steamer had been wrecked on the Maiden Rocks filled three homes with dismay. The rocks were sought out in maps, and found to be specks lying between County Antrim and Scotland—no doubt terrible in their reality.
Another day brought something more definite. It was the Afra,—“wrecked in the fog of October 11th. Boats got off.”
That was all; but a day’s post brought letters, of which the fullest was from Dolores:
“Corncastle, Larne, co. Antrim, Ireland,October 12.
“Dearest Aunt Lily,—
“I trust Phyllis has by this time heard from Bernard, as I heard him called on, as a good oarsman, to go in the first boat, and we saw Angela’s bonnet. We—that is Wilfred, Nag, and the Bishop—are all safe here, with eight or nine others. Will will do well, I trust. He quite owes his life to Nag. This is how it was: We had not long been out of the Mersey before an impenetrable fog came down upon us, and we could not see across the deck; but on we went, on what proved to be our blind way, till, after a night and day, just as we were getting up from dinner, there came a hideous shock and concussion, throwing us all about the room; and in less than a minute it was repeated, with horrible crackings, tearings, yells and shouts. No one needed to tell us what it meant, and down came the call, ‘Don’t wait to save your things, only wraps, ladies! Up on deck! Life-belts if you can!’ I remember Bernard standing at the top of the ladder, helping us up, and somehow, I understand from him, that we were on a reef, and might either remain there, and sink, or be washed off. The fog was clearing, and there was a dim light up high, somewhere, one of the lighthouses, I believe. I don’t quite know how it all went; I think we kept in the background, round the Bishop, and that a boat full of emigrant women was put off. I know there were only about half a dozen women left, who had been crying and refusing to leave their husbands; and about thirty altogether, men and women, were somehow got into our boat with the chief mate; the Bishop all consolation and prayer; poor Wilfred limp, cold and trembling, for he had been very seasick till the last moment, when Bernard pulled him out of his berth, and put him into a lifebelt. The sea was not very rough, with an east wind; but the mate said the current was so strong he could make no way against it. It would bring us on to the Irish cliffs, and then, God help us! Knowing what that coast is, I thought there was no hope; and as it was beginning to grow light there rose an awful wall, all black and white, ready to close upon us; but just as I set my teeth and tried to recollect prayers, or follow the Bishop’s, but I could only squeeze Agatha harder and harder, there was a fresh shouting among the men, and the boat was heaved up in a fearful way, then down. It was tide, and we were near upon breakers; but there were answering shouts, or so they said—I believe a line was thrown, and a light shown. But as the boat rose again, Nag and I expected to be hurled on the rocks the next moment, and clung together. But instead—though the waves had almost torn us asunder—we were lying on a stony beach, and human hands were dragging at us—voices calling and shouting about our not being dead. God had helped us! We had been carried into a clift where there is a coastguard station; and the good men had come down and were helping us on shore. But before I well knew anything, Agatha was on her feet; I heard her cry ‘Wilfred, Wilfred!’ and then I saw her dragging him, quite like a dead thing, out of the surf, just in time before another great wave rushed in which would have washed them both back, if a man had not grappled her at the very moment, calling out, ‘Let go, let go, he’s a dead man!’ She did not let go; when the wave broke, happily, just short of them, and another came to help, and saved them from being sucked back. Then the Bishop came and assured us that he was alive, and got the men to carry him up to the coastguard cottages; indeed, it was an awful escape; for of our boatload most were lost altogether, three lie dead, dashed against the rock, and two more, the mate one of them, have broken limbs. Wilfred was unconscious for a long time, at least an hour; but by the help of spoonfuls of whiskey he came round to a dreamy kind of state, and he does not seem to suffer much; and the Bishop, the Preventive man and Nag all are sure no limbs are broken, but he seems incapable of movement except his hands. It may be only jar upon the spine, and go off in another day or two; but we do not dare to send for a doctor, or anything else, indeed, till we have some money; for we all of us have lost everything except five shillings in my pocket and two in Nag’s. Even our wraps were washed off—I believe Agatha gave hers to a shivering woman in the boat. The Bishop, too, gave away his coat, forgetting to secure his purse. But the people are very kind to us—North, or Scotch Irish Presbyterians, I think—for they don’t seem to know what to make of his being a Bishop when they found he was not R.C., though they call him His Reverence. Please send us an order to get cashed, at Larne, six miles off, where this is posted. Wilfred lies on the good Preventive woman’s bed, clean and fairly comfortable, and they have made a shake-down in their parlour for Nag and me. The Bishop says he is well off, but I believe he is always looking after the mate and the other man in the other house, and sleeps, if at all, in a chair. Nag is the nurse. She had ambulance lessons, you know, when at the High School, and profited by them more than I ever did, and Wilfred likes to have her about him, and when he is dazed, as he always is at first waking, he calls her Vera. But don’t be uneasy about him, dear Aunt Lily. Deadly sea-sickness, a night of tossing and cold, and then this terrible landing may well upset him, and probably he will be on his legs by the time you get this letter.
“I find our disaster was on the Maiden Rocks, a horrible group, I only wonder that any one gets past them. There are five of them, the wicked Sirens, and three have lighthouses, but not very efficient ones, and apt to disappear in the fog, and there are reefs beneath on one of which we came to grief. The folk here think a wreck on these Maidens absolutely fatal, so we cannot be but most thankful for being alive, though it is a worse experience than the Rotuma earthquake.
“Fergus would think the place worth all we have undergone. The crags are wonderful, chalk at the bottom, basalt above, and of course all round to the Giant’s Causeway it is finer still. Well may we, as the Bishop is always doing, give thanks that we were taken, by the Divine Hand guiding tide and current, to this milder and less inhospitable opening.
“We can afford to dispense with less majesty, for one of those finer cliffs would have been our destruction.
“This is going to Larne, where there is a railway station and something of a town, and the Bishop has written to the doctor of the place. I will write again when he has been here. I hope to send you another and more cheery account to-morrow, or whenever post goes.
“Nag is writing to her sister. I trust you will have heard of Bernard and Angela. Their boat was a better one than ours, and certainly got off safely. Let us know as soon you can.
“Your most loving niece,“D. M. Mohun.”
Agatha had also written to Magdalen, very briefly, to assure her of her safety and thankfulness, and to say she could not leave Wilfred till more efficient care arrived, or till she had means to come back with. She was evidently too busy over her patient to have much possibility of writing, even if she had paper, which seemed to be scarce at Corncastle.
The Bishop also wrote to Clement, and to Sir Jasper and others; but he also could say little, only that he trusted that Angela and Bernard were safe elsewhere, having heard them called, and, as he believed, seen them off in the first boat, so that probably they had been already heard of before these letters arrived. Their own party had been spared from being dashed against the rocks almost by a miracle; and Agatha Prescott’s courage and readiness, as now her nursing faculties, were beyond all praise, as indeed was the brave patience of Miss Mohun. He could only look on and be thankful, and hope for tidings of those who were as his own children. The next day’s letters spoke of the doctor as so much perplexed about Wilfred, and nothing had been heard at Larne of the other boats.
But no tidings came; there was too much cause to fear that the first boat had been borne away by the currents and swamped. Lady Merrifield could not leave Phyllis in such a crisis of suspense, and Sir Jasper was hardly fit for such a journey, so that his wife was much relieved when her brother, General Mohun, came to Clipstone, and undertook to hasten out to Corncastle, with money and appliances, including a nurse.
“Oh, Reggie, always good at need! I hardly dare to send my good old Halfpenny—!”
“No, Mamma, send me. You know I had the ambulance lessons with Nag,” said Mysie, “and we could get a real nurse from Belfast or Dublin, if it was wanted.”
So it was arranged, and uncle and niece started, but hope faded more and more! Were those two precious young lives so early quenched?
CHAPTER XXXI—THE WRECK
“How purer were earth, if all its martyrdoms,
If all its struggling sighs of sacrifice
Were swept away!”
E. Hamilton King.
No tidings of Bernard and Angela. The suspense began to diminish into “wanhope” or despair; and the brothers and sisters continued to say that they were sorry above all for Phyllis, whose gentle sweetness had made her one with them.
But at last, one forenoon, a telegram was put into Clement’s hand, dated from Ewmouth:
Muriel Ellen, Ewmouth Harbour, October 14th. Blaine to Rev. Underwood. Brother here. Come to infirmary.
Clement and Geraldine lost no time in driving to the infirmary, too anxious to speak to one another. Blaine’s name was known to them as a Gwenworth lad, who had gone to sea, and risen to be sailing master of the Muriel Ellen, a trader plying between Londonderry and Bristol. He, with another, who proved to be the American captain of the Afra, were at the gate of the hospital, where an ambulance had just entered.
“Oh! Sir,” as Clement held out his hand, “I could not save her. I’d have given my life!”
“My brother?” as Clement returned his grasp fervently.
“We’ve just got him in here, Sir. I hope! I hope! And here’s the doctor.”
The house surgeon, who, of course, knew the Rector of Vale Leston, met him with, “Best see him before we touch him, it will set his mind at rest—You must be prepared, Sir—No, better not you, Mrs. Grinstead.”
Clement followed in silence, leaving Geraldine to the care of the matron. All he was allowed to see was a ghastly, death-like face and form, covered with rugs, lying prostrate on a mattress; but as he came in, at the sound of his step, there was a quiver of recognition, the eyes opened and looked up, the lips moved, and as Clement bent down with a kiss, there was a faint sound gasped out, “Telegraph to Clipstone.”
“I will, I will at once.”
“It was noble!” Then was added, “She gave herself for the Bishop, for me.” Then the eyes closed, and unconsciousness seemed to prevail. Some one came and put Clement aside, saying—
“Go now, Sir; you shall hear!”
Clement, who thought it might be death, would have stayed at hand; but he was turned away, and could only murmur an inarticulate blessing and prayer, as he meant to fulfil the earnest desire that was thought to have been conned over and over again by Bernard, as these half sentences recurred again and again in semi-consciousness. His telegram despatched, Clement returned to his sister, to hear from the two masters all they had to tell. Captain Miller, of the Afra, had slight hurts, which had been looked to before he should take the train for London; and Blaine had waited to tell his story before pursuing his voyage to Bristol, both, indeed, to hear the report of the patient, and likewise to collect the news of the few who had been landed at Corncastle, to the great relief of Captain Miller; but of the first boat there were no tidings, and Blaine thought there was little probability that it had not sunk or been dashed against the crags of the savage coast.
Captain Miller’s account was, that not long after leaving the Mersey, there had set in an impenetrable fog, lasting for a night and a day. There was perhaps some confusion as to charts, and the scarcely visible lights upon the Maidens. At any rate, the Afra had suddenly struck on a reef, and, shifting at once, had been hopelessly rent, so as to leave no hope save in the boats. Every one seemed to have behaved with the resolute fortitude and unselfishness generally shown by English and Americans in the like circumstances. The sea was not in a dangerous state, and there was a steady east wind, so that the boats were lowered without much difficulty, and most of the women disposed of in the first.
Before the second could be put off however, the water had reached the fires; there was a violent lurch, the ship had heeled completely over, washing many overboard, and of course causing a great confusion among those who had been steady before, and making the deck almost perpendicular. The captain, however, succeeded in lowering another boat, and putting into it, as he trusted, the few remaining women, the Bishop, and most of the men. This was, of course, that which had safely reached Corncastle, and of which he only now heard. The last boat was so overcrowded that he, with three of his crew, had thought it best to remain for the almost desperate chance of being picked up before they sank.
He had supposed Mr. Underwood had been washed overboard in the heeling over of the ship, and that his sister had been put into the first boat; but presently he heard a call.
“Oh, help me, please!” And he became aware that Sister Angela was hanging over her brother, who lay crushed by a heavy chest which had fallen on him, and thrown him against the gunwale, though a moan or two showed him to be still alive. The remaining sailors removed the weight, lifted him, and laid him in the best place and position they could, while his sister hung over him and supported his head. To Miller’s dismayed exclamation at finding a woman still on board, she replied—
“It was no fault of yours. I hid below. Other lives—the Bishop’s—were what mattered! I am glad to be here!”
He believed that Mr. Underwood had revived enough to know his sister, for he had heard her voice talking to him. Yes, and singing; but it was not for very long. The wreck was in motion, being carried by current and tide along the Channel, and if it did not sink, might be perceived now that daylight had come, and a signal of distress might be seen by some passing vessel.
Seen it was, in fact, and that there were persons to be rescued; and Blaine, who was on his way from Londonderry to Bristol, in the Muriel Ellen, a cattle-boat, possessed a boat in which to attempt a rescue.
All that experienced sailors could do in transferring the helpless and unconscious form to the boat first, and then to the sloop had been done; but it was no wonder that in the transit Angela, more heedful of her brother’s safety than her own, had fallen between, and been lost in the waves, to the extreme grief of Tom Blaine, who had been one of her scholars, and devoted to her, as all the boys of Vale Leston were.
The cattle-boat had few facilities for comfort, and all he could do was to let Mr. Bernard Underwood lie, as softly as could be contrived, on deck, and make sail for Ewmouth, so as to land him as near home as possible. How far he had been conscious it was impossible to say, though once he had asked for Angela, but had seemed to understand from an evasion, that she was missing, and had said no more, but muttered parts of these requests, as if afraid of not being capable of them.
All this had been told or implied, while messages came down that the surgeons did not think the injuries need be mortal, provided the exhaustion and exposure had not fatal consequences. The left arm, two ribs, and the leg had been broken, and were reduced before the doctors ventured on a hopeful report with which to send home the brother and sister. One sight, Clement was allowed of a more unconscious, but much less distressed face, and one murmur, “Noble! Phyllis!” and he was promised a telegram later in the day. The two hardly knew which to feel most; grief or thankfulness, the loss or the mercy, and yet—and yet—after the fitful, wayward, yet always devout life, with all its strains, there was a sense of wistful acceptance of such a close.
They felt it all the more deeply when, a day or two later, Bernard was able to say, at intervals, for the injury rendered speech difficult and almost dangerous, as Clement leant over him—
“Yes! I woke to see her face over me, all bright in wavy hair just as when we were children, and she said, ‘Bear! Bear! we are going together!’ Then somehow she tried to help me to trust for Phyllis and Lily.”
Then his voice sank, but presently he added, “There was more, but it is like a dream. She was singing in her own, own voice. There was ‘Lead, kindly Light!’ and when it came to ‘Angel faces smile’ there was a cry—quite glad—‘There! there on the water! Felix! Coming for us! Oh! and another One! Lord, into Thy hands.’ That is all I know—a kiss here, and ‘Yes! thanks! For me!’ But the lifting hurt so much that I lost all sense, when she must have fallen between the wreck and the boat. You are glad for her! Mine own! mine Angel!”
“Safe home!” said Clement. “Oh, thankworthy!”
CHAPTER XXXII—ANCHORED
“Safe home, safe home in port,
Rent cordage, shattered deck;
Torn sails, provision short,
And only not a wreck;
But all the joy upon the shore,
To tell our voyage the perils o’er!”
Safe home! It might be said in another sense for Bernard, for he was naturally so strong and healthy that the effects of exposure and exhaustion were not long in passing off, the injury to the chest proved to be only temporary; and having cased him like a statue in plaster of Paris, the surgeons decided, to the joy of his family, that the more serious injuries would be better recovered from in the fresh air of Vale Leston, than in the fishy, muddy atmosphere of Ewmouth.
So he was transported thither, and installed in Felix’s study, among the familiar sights and sounds, and where another joy awaited him, and where he lay in happy stillness.
Phyllis had borne up bravely through the suspense, never relinquishing a strong assurance of hope; but when that hope was actually crowned by the first telegram, the reaction set in, and she had broken down so entirely that her mother durst not let her move at first, and indeed accompanied her and her little girl as far as the junction, being herself on the way to Larne.
And Geraldine’s heart was at peace when she saw Phyllis sitting by the bed, her hand in his, content to see and not to speak. Another visitor appeared the following day, namely, the Bishop of Albertstown, who had remained at Larne till he could see his fellow passengers in safe hands. Then he had crossed to Bristol, and before his hurried visit to his sisters he could not but come to see his beloved old pupil, Clement, and share with him those reminiscences of her, who, as he had only now learnt, had given her young superabundant life for him, a man growing into age, whose work might be nearly done.
He only saw Bernard in silence, but heard from Clement the account of those last moments, which showed how entirely Angela had been conscious of what she was doing, and how willingly she had devoted herself to save those whom she loved and valued.
While yet they talked, there was a fresh arrival. Sir Ferdinand Travis Underwood, who could not forbear the running down to hear perfectly all that was to be heard, and to make arrangements that might relieve Bernard’s mind, if he were indeed on the way of recovery.
In fact, almost the first thought after that of the wife and child had been the security of the drenched, stained, and soiled pocket-book; nor would the patient be satisfied till he had been allowed himself to hand it over to the head of his firm, with, “There, Fernan, safe, though smashed with me. Tell Brown.”
“Never mind Brown or anything else but getting well, Bernard. I have taken our passage for next week. I shall get things arranged so that you need not think of being wanted again out there. We will find a berth for you in the office in town, as soon as you are about again.”
Bernard’s eye lightened. “I hope—”
But Ferdinand would not let him either thank or hope, scarcely even allow any words from Phyllis, who could not be grateful enough for the relief. To Alda, who had received her old companion, since Marilda seemed unable to let her husband out of her sight; it was explained that she was going too, happen what would. Oh, yes, it was true she was a shocking bad sailor, but she was not going to have Fernan’s ships running upon rocks or getting on fire, or anything of that sort, without her. She wanted to see about Ludmilla Schmetterling, who was reported to have found a lover while studying at a class in the States, and she also meant to settle her own especial niece Emilia, whose husband was to take Bernard’s place in Ceylon and who had become heartily tired of London’s second-rate gaieties.
Those thus concerned met at the memorial service in the morning before the Bishop quitted them, where many parishioners gathered who had been spellbound in Angela’s freakish days of early girlhood, and who were greatly touched when the committal to the deep was inserted from the Forms of Prayer to be used at Sea.
It brought a deep sense of awe and thankfulness to those who had feared and wondered through the stormy uncertain life, and now could exult in what was almost a martyrdom, and had brought their beloved one to the great pure grave, as her Baptism for eternity.
Some months later, while Bernard still lay on his couch, but could speak and be glad, he rejoiced indeed, for a sore in his heart was healed, when two fair babes were brought to him,—a boy who would be as another firstborn son, and a little maiden who would bear that name which had become dear and saintly in the peculiar calendar of Vale Leston.
