Alcott, Louisa May - SSC 15

by Plots (and) Counterplots (v1. 1)

  “Aye, aye, sir; this squall line sent more than one philandering young couple home in a hurry. The last came in twenty minutes ago, just in time to save the crew from more water than they bargained for.”

  “Did you observe them? Was the lady beautiful? The gentleman young? Did you catch the name of either? Where—”

  “Drop anchor there, sir, till I overhaul the first cargo of questions,” broke in the man, for Yorke was hurrying one inquiry upon the heels of another without waiting for an answer to any. “Did I observe ’em? No, I didn’t, particularly. Was the lady pretty? Don’t know; she was wrapped up and scared. Was the gentleman young? Not more than three-and-twenty, I should say. Did I catch their names? Not a name, being busy with the boats.”

  “Did they seem fond of one another? Were they in a hurry? Which way did they go?”

  “Uncommon fond, and in a devil of a hurry. Which way they went I can’t tell; it was no business of mine, so I didn’t look. Anything more, sir?” said the man good-humoredly.

  “Yes; take this for your trouble, and show me the boat they came in.”

  “Thanky, sir; that’s it over yonder. The lad must have been halfseas over with love or liquor, to bring his sweetheart all the way from the Point in a cockleshell like that.”

  “From the Point? It is a hotel boat, then?”

  “Aye, sir; I know ’em all, and the Water Witch is the worst of the lot, but her smart rigging gives her a rakish look to them that don’t know a mud scow from a wherry.”

  “Did the young man give you any orders about the boat?”

  “Only to keep her till she was called for.”

  “And you have no idea which way they went?”

  “No, sir; they steered straight ahead as far as the corners, but what course they took then I can’t say.”

  Yorke was gone before the man had finished his sentence, and with Judas at his heels, turned toward his old home, feeling little doubt but he should find the fugitives at Mrs. Norton’s close by; for though she was absent for the summer, her house was accessible to her son. Admitting himself without noise, he searched his own premises, and from the garden reconnoitered the adjoining ones. Every window was closely shuttered; no light anywhere appeared, and the house was evidently unoccupied. Hester, when called, had heard and seen nothing of Mr. Alfred for months, and was much surprised at her master’s sudden appearance, though he fabricated a plausible excuse for it. Out he went again into the storm that now raged furiously, and for several hours searched every place where there was the least possibility of finding those he sought. He looked also for Germain, hoping he might lend some help; but he was in none of his usual haunts, and no clue to the lost wife was found.

  Drenched, despairing, and exhausted with his fruitless quest, he stepped into a lighted doorway for shelter, while he took a moment’s thought what course to pursue next. As he stood there, Ascot, the young artist, came from the billiard room within; he had been Yorke’s guest the night before, and recognizing his host in the haggard, weatherbeaten man standing in the light, he greeted him gaily.

  “Good evening, ancient mariner; you look as if your last voyage had not been a prosperous one. I can sympathize with you, for thanks to that confounded Water Witch, we nearly went to the bottom in the squall this afternoon.”

  “The Water Witch?” cried Yorke, checking himself in the act of abruptly quitting Ascot, whose gaiety was unbearable just then.

  “Yes, I warn you against her. We came over from the Point in her, and had a narrow escape of being made ‘demd, damp, moist, unpleasant bodies,’ as Manteline says.”

  “This afternoon, Ascot? At what time?”

  “Between five and six.”

  “Did you leave the boat at the lower wharf where we usually land?”

  “Yes; and there she may stay till doomsday, though we ought to be grateful to her, after all.”

  “We? Then you were not alone?”

  “No, my Grace was with me—” There Ascot stopped, looking half embarrassed, half relieved, but added, with a frank laugh, “I never could keep a secret, and as I have betrayed myself, I may as well confess that I took advantage of the storm and danger to make myself a very happy man. Give me joy, Yorke; Grace Coventry is mine.”

  “Joy! Your torment has but just begun,” with which gloomy answer Yorke left the astonished young gentleman to console himself with love dreams and a cigar.

  “Have I lost my senses as well as my heart, that I go chasing shadows, and deluding myself with jealous fears and fancies, when perhaps there is no mystery or wrong but what I conjure up?” mused Yorke, as he crossed the deserted park, intent upon a new and hopeful thought. Having made one mistake, he began to believe that he had made another, and wasted time and strength in looking for what never had been lost. Weariness calmed him now, the rain beating on his uncovered head cooled the felver of his blood, and the new hope seemed to brighten as he cherished it.

  “I’ll go back and wait; perhaps she has already come, or tidings of her. Anything is better than this terrible suspense,” he said, and set about executing his design in spite of all obstacles.

  It was nearly midnight now, too dark and wild to attempt returning by water, and the last train had left; but only a few miles lay between him and home, and neither weariness nor tempest could deter him. Soon mounted on a powerful horse, he was riding swifdy through the night, recalling legends of the Wild Huntsman to the few belated travelers who saw the dark horseman dash by them, with the dark hound following noiselessly behind. The storm was in accordance with his mood, and he liked it better than a summer night, though the gusts buffeted him and the rain poured down with unabated violence. At the first point where the Cliffs were visible, he reined up and strained his eyes to catch a glimpse of the light that should assure him of Cecils safety. But a thick mist obscured land and sea, and no cheering ray could pierce the darkness. A mile nearer his eye was gladdened by the sight of a pale gleam high above the lower lights that glimmered along the shore. Brighter and brighter it grew as he approached, and soon, with a thrill of joy that made his heart leap, he saw that it shone clear and strong from the little turret window. An irrepressible shout broke from his lips as he galloped up the steep road, leaped the gate, and burst into the hall before man or maid could open for him.

  “Where is she?” he cried, in a voice that would have assured the wanderer of a tender welcome had she been there to hear and answer it.

  Anthony started from a restless doze in his chair, and shook his gray head as he eyed his master pitifully.

  “She ain’t here, sir, but we’ve had news of her; so I lit the lamp to bring you home.”

  Yorke dropped into a seat as if he had been shot, for with the loss of his one hope, all strength seemed to desert him, and he could only look at Anthony with such imploring yet despairing eyes that the old man’s hard face began to work as he said below his breath, “After you’d gone, sir, I went down to the Point and stayed round there till dark. Just as I was coming away, old Joe came in bringing a sail he’d picked up halfway down the harbor. There were several of us standing about the pier, and naturally we asked questions. Then it come out from one and another that the sail belonged to the boat Mr. Alfred took this afternoon. He left there alone, but one of the men saw him with a lady afterward, and by his description I knew it was Mistress/'

  Yorke covered up his face as if he knew what was coming and had not courage to meet it; but soon he said, brokenly, “Go on," and Anthony obeyed.

  “The man wasn't quite sure about Mr. Alfred, as he don't know him, and didn't mind him much; but he was sure of Mistress, and could swear to the boat and sail, for he helped rig it, and his sweetheart made the streamer. I'd like to think he was wrong, but as Mr. Alfred hired the boat, and the dear lady was seen in it, I'm awfully afraid they were wrecked in the squall."

  How still the house seemed as the words dropped slowly from Anthony's lips. Nothing stirred but poor Judas panting on his mat, and nothing broke t
he silence but the soft tick of a clock and the sobbing of the wind without. Yorke had laid down his head as if he never cared to lift it up again, and sat motionless in an attitude of utter despair, while the old servant stood respectfully silent, with tears rolling down his withered cheeks, for his gentle mistress had won his heart, and he mourned for her as for a child of his own.

  Suddenly Yorke looked up and spoke.

  “Have you sent anyone to look for them?"

  “Yes, master, long ago, and—"

  “What is it? You keep something back. Out with it, man; I can bear anything but suspense."

  “They found the boat, and it was empty, master."

  “Where was it? Tell me all, Anthony."

  “Just outside the little bay, where the gale would blow hardest and the tide run strongest. The mast was broken short off, the boat half full of water, and one broken oar still hung in the rowlock, but there was no signs of anyone except this."

  Turning his face away, Anthony offered a little silken scarf, wet, torn, and stained, but too familiar to be mistaken. Yorke took it, looked at it with eyes out of which light and life seemed to have died, then put it in his breast, and turning to the faithful hound, said in a tone the more pathetic for its calmness: “Come, Judas; we went together to look for her alive, now let us go together and look for her dead."

  Before Anthony could detain him he had flung himself into the saddle and was gone. All that night he haunted the shores, looking long after others had relinquished the vain search, and morning found him back in the city, inquiring along the wharves for tidings of the lost.

  Taking his own boat, he turned homeward at last, feeling that he could do no more, for the reaction had begun, and he was utterly spent. The storm had passed, and dawn was breaking beautifully in the east; the sea was calm, the sky cloudless; the wind blew balmily, and the sea gull floated along a path of gold as the sun sent its first shaft of light over the blue waste. A strange sense of peace came to the lonely man after that wild night of tempest and despair. The thought of Cecil quiet underneath the sea was more bearable than the thought of Cecil happy with another, for in spite of repentance and remorse, he could not accept his punishment from Alfred’s hand, and clung to the belief that she was dead, trying to find some poor consolation for his loss in the thought that life was made desolate by death, not by treachery. So sailing slowly through the rosy splendor of a summer dawn, he came among the cluster of small islands that lay midway between the city and the little bay. Some were green and fair, some were piles of barren rocks; none were inhabited, but on one still stood a rude hut, used as a temporary shelter for pleasure parties or such fishermen as frequented the neighborhood. Yorke saw nothing of the beauty all about him; his eyes were fixed upon the white villa that once was home; his mind was busy with memories of the past, and he was conscious of nothing but the love that had gone down into that shining sea. Judas was more alert, for, though sitting with his head on his master s knee, as if trying to comfort him by demonstrations of mute affection, he caught sight of a little white flag fluttering from the low roof of the hut, and leaped up with a bound that nearly took him overboard. The motion roused Yorke, and following the direction of the dog’s keen eye, he saw the signal—saw, also, a woman wrapped in a dark cloak sitting in the doorway, with her head upon her knees, as if asleep.

  In an instant both dog and man were trembling with excitement, for there was something strangely familiar about the cloak, the bent head with its falling hair, the slender hands folded one upon another. Like one inspired with sudden life, Yorke plied his oars with such energy that a few vigorous strokes sent the boat high upon the pebbly shore, and leaping up the bank, while Judas followed baying with delight, he saw the figure start to its feet, and found himself face to face with Cecil.

  Chapter X

  AT LAST

  WHILE Yorke slept, on the previous afternoon, Cecil met Alfred on the beach, talked with him for half an hour, and when he left her, hastily, she stood waving her hand till he was out of sight; then she looked about her, as if in search of someone, and her face brightened as she saw Germain approaching.

  “I am glad you are come,” she said, “for I was just trying to find a man to take this boat home, and here I find a gentleman. Alfred came in it, but delayed so long that he had only time to run across the cliffs and catch the train. Will you ferry me over to the Point, and add another favor to the many I already owe you?”

  “Nothing would please me better, but instead of landing so soon, let me take you down below the lighthouse, as I promised you I would. This will be my only opportunity, for I go away tomorrow, and you know you said I should have one more happy day.”

  “Did Bazil tell you that?” asked Cecil, looking disturbed, as his words recalled last night’s adventure.

  “No, but I am well aware that I trouble you—that you wish me gone, and I shall obey; but give me this last pleasure, for I may never come again.”

  The smile he gave her was both melancholy and submissive; she longed to bid him stay but dared not, yet remembering Bazil’s wish that she should bear with him a little longer, she was glad to grant it, for she felt her power over this man, and feared nothing for herself. A moment’s hesitation, then she went toward the boat, saying, in her friendliest tone, “I trust you, and you shall have your pleasure; but, believe me, if I wish you gone it is for your own sake, not mine.”

  “I know it—I am grateful for your pity, and I will not disturb your confidence by any violence. Indeed, I think I’m done with my old self, and grow quieter as the end approaches.”

  Cecil doubted that, as she remembered the scene before the fountain, but Germain was certainly his gentlest self now, and as they sailed across the bay before the freshening wind she found the hour full of real rest and enjoyment despite her care. Absorbed in animated conversation, and unconscious of the lapse of time, they glided past the Point, the pleasant islands, the city with its cloud of smoke, the lighthouse on its lonely rock, and were floating far down the harbor, when the growling of distant thunder recalled them from the delights of a musical discussion to the dangers of an impending storm. A bank of black clouds was piled up in the west, the wind came in strong gusts, the waves rolled in long swells, and sea and sky portended a summer squall.

  “How careless I have been,” exclaimed Germain, looking anxiously about him. “But I fancy we need fear nothing except a drenching, for it will take some time to return in the teeth of this gale. Wrap your cloak about you, and enjoy the fine sight, while I do my best to atone for my forgetfulness.”

  Cecil had no fear, for Germain was a skillful boatman, and she loved to watch the grand effects of light and shade as the thunderous clouds swept across the sky, blotting out the blue and making the water somber with their shadows. An occasional flash seemed to rend the dark wall, but no rain fell, and by frequent tacking Germain was rapidly decreasing the distance between them and home. Safely past the city they went, for Cecil would not land there lest Yorke should be alarmed at her long absence, and as the storm still delayed, she hoped to reach shelter before it broke.

  “Once past the islands and we are quite safe, for the little bay is quiet, and we can land at any point if the rain begins. A few minutes more of this rough work, and we can laugh at the gale. Bend your head, please, I must tack again else—”

  The rest of the sentence was lost in a crash of thunder like the report of cannon, as a fierce gust swept down upon them, snapping the slender mast like a bulrush, and carrying Germain overboard wrapped in the falling sail. With a cry of horror Cecil sprang up, eager yet impotent to save either herself or him; but in a moment he appeared, swimming strongly, cleared away the wreck of the sail, righted the boat, and climbed in, dripping but unhurt.

  “Only another of my narrow escapes. I’m surely born to die quietly in my bed, for nothing kills me,” he said coolly, as he brushed the wet hair from his eyes and took breath.

  “Thank heaven! You are safe. Land anywhere,
for now the sail is gone we must not think of reaching home,” cried Cecil, looking about her for the nearest shore.

  “We will make for .the lower island; the storm will not last long, and we can find shelter there. Unfortunate that I am, to make my last day one of danger and discomfort for you.”

  “I like it, and shall enjoy relating my adventures when we are at home. Let me row, it is too violent exercise for you,” she said, as he drew out the oars and took off his coat.

  “It will not hurt me—or if it does what matter? I would gladly give my life to see you safe.”

  “No, no, you must not do it. Let the boat drift, or give me an oar; I am strong; I fear nothing; let me help you, Germain.”

  “Take the rudder then and steer for the island; that will help me, and the sight of you will give me strength for a short tussle with the elements.”

  Cecil changed her seat, and with her hand upon the helm, her steady eyes upon the green spot before them, sat smiling at the storm, so fair and fearless that the sight would have put power into any arm, courage into any heart. For a time it seemed to inspire Germain, and he pulled stoutly against wind and tide; but soon, to his dismay, he felt his strength deserting him, each stroke cost a greater effort, each heartbeat was a pang of pain. Cecil watched the drops gather on his forehead, heard his labored breathing, and saw him loosen the ribbon at his throat, and more than once dash water over his face, alternately deeply flushed and deadly pale. Again and again she implored him to desist, to let her take his place, or trust to chance for help, rather than harm himself by such dangerous exertion. But to all entreaties, suggestions, and commands, he answered with a gentle but inflexible denial, an utter disregard of self, and looks of silent love that Cecil never could forget.

  The rain fell now in torrents, the gale steadily increased, and the waves were white with foam as they dashed high against the rocky shore of the island which the little boat was struggling to reach. Nearer and nearer it crept, as Germain urged it on with the strength of desperation, till, taking advantage of a coming billow, they were carried up and left upon the sand, with a violence that nearly threw them on their faces. Cecil sprang out at once; Germain leaned over the broken oars panting heavily, as if conscious of nothing but the suffering that racked him.