IV.
FOR six or seven months I saw no more of Mr. Slinkton. He called once atmy house, but I was not at home; and he once asked me to dine with him inthe Temple, but I was engaged. His friend’s assurance was effected inMarch. Late in September or early in October I was down at Scarboroughfor a breath of sea-air, where I met him on the beach. It was a hotevening; he came toward me with his hat in his hand; and there was thewalk I had felt so strongly disinclined to take in perfect order again,exactly in front of the bridge of my nose.
He was not alone, but had a young lady on his arm.
She was dressed in mourning, and I looked at her with great interest.She had the appearance of being extremely delicate, and her face wasremarkably pale and melancholy; but she was very pretty. He introducedher as his niece, Miss Niner.
‘Are you strolling, Mr. Sampson? Is it possible you can be idle?’
It _was_ possible, and I _was_ strolling.
‘Shall we stroll together?’
‘With pleasure.’
The young lady walked between us, and we walked on the cool sea sand, inthe direction of Filey.
‘There have been wheels here,’ said Mr. Slinkton. ‘And now I look again,the wheels of a hand-carriage! Margaret, my love, your shadow withoutdoubt!’
‘Miss Niner’s shadow?’ I repeated, looking down at it on the sand.
‘Not that one,’ Mr. Slinkton returned, laughing. ‘Margaret, my dear,tell Mr. Sampson.’
‘Indeed,’ said the young lady, turning to me, ‘there is nothing totell—except that I constantly see the same invalid old gentleman at alltimes, wherever I go. I have mentioned it to my uncle, and he calls thegentleman my shadow.’
‘Does he live in Scarborough?’ I asked.
‘He is staying here.’
‘Do you live in Scarborough?’
‘No, I am staying here. My uncle has placed me with a family here, formy health.’
‘And your shadow?’ said I, smiling.
‘My shadow,’ she answered, smiling too, ‘is—like myself—not very robust,I fear; for I lose my shadow sometimes, as my shadow loses me at othertimes. We both seem liable to confinement to the house. I have not seenmy shadow for days and days; but it does oddly happen, occasionally, thatwherever I go, for many days together, this gentleman goes. We have cometogether in the most unfrequented nooks on this shore.’
‘Is this he?’ said I, pointing before us.
The wheels had swept down to the water’s edge, and described a great loopon the sand in turning. Bringing the loop back towards us, and spinningit out as it came, was a hand-carriage, drawn by a man.
‘Yes,’ said Miss Niner, ‘this really is my shadow, uncle.’
As the carriage approached us and we approached the carriage, I sawwithin it an old man, whose head was sunk on his breast, and who wasenveloped in a variety of wrappers. He was drawn by a very quiet butvery keen-looking man, with iron-gray hair, who was slightly lame. Theyhad passed us, when the carriage stopped, and the old gentleman within,putting out his arm, called to me by my name. I went back, and wasabsent from Mr. Slinkton and his niece for about five minutes.
When I rejoined them, Mr. Slinkton was the first to speak. Indeed, hesaid to me in a raised voice before I came up with him:
‘It is well you have not been longer, or my niece might have died ofcuriosity to know who her shadow is, Mr. Sampson.’
‘An old East India Director,’ said I. ‘An intimate friend of ourfriend’s, at whose house I first had the pleasure of meeting you. Acertain Major Banks. You have heard of him?’
‘Never.’
‘Very rich, Miss Niner; but very old, and very crippled. An amiable man,sensible—much interested in you. He has just been expatiating on theaffection that he has observed to exist between you and your uncle.’
Mr. Slinkton was holding his hat again, and he passed his hand up thestraight walk, as if he himself went up it serenely, after me.
‘Mr. Sampson,’ he said, tenderly pressing his niece’s arm in his, ‘ouraffection was always a strong one, for we have had but few near ties. Wehave still fewer now. We have associations to bring us together, thatare not of this world, Margaret.’
‘Dear uncle!’ murmured the young lady, and turned her face aside to hideher tears.
‘My niece and I have such remembrances and regrets in common, Mr.Sampson,’ he feelingly pursued, ‘that it would be strange indeed if therelations between us were cold or indifferent. If I remember aconversation we once had together, you will understand the reference Imake. Cheer up, dear Margaret. Don’t droop, don’t droop. My Margaret!I cannot bear to see you droop!’
The poor young lady was very much affected, but controlled herself. Hisfeelings, too, were very acute. In a word, he found himself under suchgreat need of a restorative, that he presently went away, to take a bathof sea-water, leaving the young lady and me sitting by a point of rock,and probably presuming—but that you will say was a pardonable indulgencein a luxury—that she would praise him with all her heart.
She did, poor thing! With all her confiding heart, she praised him tome, for his care of her dead sister, and for his untiring devotion in herlast illness. The sister had wasted away very slowly, and wild andterrible fantasies had come over her toward the end, but he had neverbeen impatient with her, or at a loss; had always been gentle, watchful,and self-possessed. The sister had known him, as she had known him, tobe the best of men, the kindest of men, and yet a man of such admirablestrength of character, as to be a very tower for the support of theirweak natures while their poor lives endured.
‘I shall leave him, Mr. Sampson, very soon,’ said the young lady; ‘I knowmy life is drawing to an end; and when I am gone, I hope he will marryand be happy. I am sure he has lived single so long, only for my sake,and for my poor, poor sister’s.’
The little hand-carriage had made another great loop on the damp sand,and was coming back again, gradually spinning out a slim figure of eight,half a mile long.
‘Young lady,’ said I, looking around, laying my hand upon her arm, andspeaking in a low voice, ‘time presses. You hear the gentle murmur ofthat sea?’
[Picture: “Young Lady,” said I, laying my Hand upon her Arm . . . “Time presses”]
She looked at me with the utmost wonder and alarm, saying, ‘Yes!’
‘And you know what a voice is in it when the storm comes?’
‘Yes!’
‘You see how quiet and peaceful it lies before us, and you know what anawful sight of power without pity it might be, this very night!’
‘Yes!’
‘But if you had never heard or seen it, or heard of it in its cruelty,could you believe that it beats every inanimate thing in its way topieces, without mercy, and destroys life without remorse?’
‘You terrify me, sir, by these questions!’
‘To save you, young lady, to save you! For God’s sake, collect yourstrength and collect your firmness! If you were here alone, and hemmedin by the rising tide on the flow to fifty feet above your head, youcould not be in greater danger than the danger you are now to be savedfrom.’
The figure on the sand was spun out, and straggled off into a crookedlittle jerk that ended at the cliff very near us.
‘As I am, before Heaven and the Judge of all mankind, your friend, andyour dead sister’s friend, I solemnly entreat you, Miss Niner, withoutone moment’s loss of time, to come to this gentleman with me!’
If the little carriage had been less near to us, I doubt if I could havegot her away; but it was so near that we were there before she hadrecovered the hurry of being urged from the rock. I did not remain therewith her two minutes. Certainly within five, I had the inexpressiblesatisfaction of seeing her—from the point we had sat on, and to which Ihad returned—half supported and half carried up some rude steps notchedin the cliff, by the figure of an active man. With that figure besideher, I knew she was safe anywhere.
I sat alone on the rock, awaiting Mr. Slinkton’s return. The twilightwas deepening and the shadows were heavy, when he came round the point,with his hat hanging at his button-hole, smoothing his wet hair with oneof his hands, and picking out the old path with the other and apocket-comb.
‘My niece not here, Mr. Sampson?’ he said, looking about.
‘Miss Niner seemed to feel a chill in the air after the sun was down, andhas gone home.’
He looked surprised, as though she were not accustomed to do anythingwithout him; even to originate so slight a proceeding.
‘I persuaded Miss Niner,’ I explained.
‘Ah!’ said he. ‘She is easily persuaded—for her good. Thank you, Mr.Sampson; she is better within doors. The bathing-place was farther thanI thought, to say the truth.’
‘Miss Niner is very delicate,’ I observed.
He shook his head and drew a deep sigh. ‘Very, very, very. You mayrecollect my saying so. The time that has since intervened has notstrengthened her. The gloomy shadow that fell upon her sister so earlyin life seems, in my anxious eyes, to gather over her, ever darker, everdarker. Dear Margaret, dear Margaret! But we must hope.’
The
Hunted Down: The Detective Stories of Charles Dickens Page 4