by F. W. Farrar
CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT.
THE STUPOR BROKEN.
The white stone, unfractured, ranks as most precious; The blue lily, unblemished, emits the finest fragrance; The heart, when it is harassed, finds no place of rest; The mind, in the midst of bitterness, thinks only of grief.
_The Sorrows of Han, a Chinese Tragedy_.
After these days Kenrick returned to Saint Winifred's, as he supposed,for the last time. His guardian, a stiff, unsympathising man, hadinformed him, that as his mother's annuity ceased with her life, therewas very little left to support him. The sale, however, of the house atFuzby, and the scholarship which he had just won, would serve tomaintain him for a few years, and meanwhile his guardian would endeavourto secure for him a place in some merchant's office, where gradually hewould be able to earn a livelihood.
It was a very different life from that which this fine, cleverhigh-spirited boy had imagined for himself, and he looked forward to theprospect with settled despair. But he seemed now to regard himself as avictim of destiny, regretting nothing, and opposing nothing, and caringfor nothing. He told Walter with bitter exaggeration "that he must_indeed_ thank him for giving up the scholarship, as he supposed that ithad saved him from starvation. His guardian, who had a family of hisown, didn't seem to care a straw for him; and he had no friend in theworld besides."
And as, for days and weeks, he brooded over these gloomy thoughts andsad memories, he fell into a weary, broken, aimless kind of life. Manytried to comfort him, but they could not reach his sorrow; in theirseveral ways his school friends did all they could to cheer him up, butthey all failed. He grew moody, solitary, silent. Walter often soughthim out, and talked in his lively, cheerful, happy strain; but even_his_ society Kenrick seemed to shun. He was in that morbid, unhealthystate when to meet others inspires a positive shrinking of mind. Heseemed to have no pleasure except in shutting himself up in his study,and in taking long lonely walks. He performed his house dutiesmechanically, and by routine; when he read the lessons in chapel, hisvoice sounded as though it came from afar, like the voice of one whodreamed; he sat with his books before him for long hours, and made noprogress, hardly knowing the page on which he was employed. In school,he sat listlessly playing with his pen, taking no notes, seeming asthough he heard nothing, and was scarcely aware of what was going on.His friends could not guess what would come of it, but they grew afraidfor him when they saw him mope thus inconsolably, and pine away withoutrespite, till his eyes grew heavy, and his face pale and thin. He hadchanged all his ways; he seemed to have altered his very nature; heplayed no games, took no interest in anything, and dropped all his oldpursuits. His work was quite spiritless, and he grew so absent that heforgot the commonest occupations of every day--living as in a wakingsleep.
Power and Walter, in talking of him, often wondered whether it was theuncertainty of his future prospects which had thus affected him; and inthe full belief that this must have something to do with his morbidmelancholy, Power mentioned the matter to Dr Lane as soon as he had theopportunity.
Dr Lane had observed, with much pity, the depression which had fastenedon Kenrick like a disease. He was not surprised to see him come backdeeply affected; but if "the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts,"its sorrows are usually short and transient, and he looked upon it asunnatural that Kenrick's grief should seem thus incurable, and that ayoung boy like him should thus refuse to be comforted. It was not longbefore he introduced the subject, while talking to Power after lookingover his composition.
"Kenrick has just been here, Power," he said; "it pains me to see him sosadly altered. I can hardly get him to speak a word; all things seemequally indifferent to him, and his eyes look to me as though they werealways ready to overflow with tears. What can we manage to do for him?Would not a little cheerful society brighten him up? We had him herethe other day, but he did not speak once the whole evening. Can't evenHenderson get him to smile somehow?"
"I'm afraid not, sir," said Power. "Henderson and Evson and I have alltried, but he seems to avoid seeing any one. It makes him ill at easeapparently. I am afraid, for one thing, that he is vexing himself aboutnot being allowed to return, and about being sent into a merchant'soffice, which he detests."
"If that is all, there can be no difficulty about it," said the Doctor;"we have often kept deserving boys here, when funds failed, and I caneasily assure his guardian, without his knowing of it, that the expenseneed not for a moment stand in the way of his return."
These generous acts are common at Saint Winifred's, for she is indeed an_alma mater_ to all her children; and since Kenrick had confided thisparticular sorrow to _Walter_, Walter undertook to remove it by tellinghim that Dr Lane would persuade his guardian to let him return.Kenrick appeared glad of the news, as though it brought him a littlerelief, but it made no long change in his present ways.
Nor even did a still further piece of good fortune, when his guardianwrote and told him that, _on condition of his being sent to theUniversity_, an unknown and anonymous friend had placed at his disposal100 pounds a year, to be continued until such time as he was able tomaintain himself; and that this generous gift would of course permit ofhis receiving the advantage of an Oxford training, and obviate thenecessity of his entering an office, by clearing for him the way to oneof the learned professions. This news stirred him up a little, and fora time--but not for long. He looked upon it all as destiny: he couldnot guess, he hardly tried to surmise, who the unknown friend could be.Nor did he know till years afterwards that the aid was given by the goodand wealthy Sir Lawrence Power, at his son's earnest and generousrequest. For Power did this kind deed by stealth, and mentioned it tono one, not even to Walter; and Kenrick little thought when he told thegood news to Power, and received his kind congratulations, that Powerhad known of it before he did himself. But still, in spite of all,Kenrick seemed sick at heart, and his life crept on in a sluggishcourse, like a river that loses its bright stream in the desert, and allwhose silver runnels are choked up with dust and sand.
The fact was, that the blows of punishment had fallen on him so fast andso heavily that he felt crushed to the very earth. The expulsion of thereprobates with whom he had consorted, his degradation and censure,Wilton's theft and removal, the violent tension and revulsion of feelingcaused by his awakened conscience, his confession, and the gnawing senseof shame, the failure of his ambition, and then his mother's deathcoming as the awful climax of the calamities he had undergone, andfollowed by the cold unfeeling harshness of his guardian, and thedamping of his hopes--all these things had broken the boy's spiritutterly. Disgrace, and sorrow, and bereavement, and the stings ofremorse, and the suffering of punishment--the forfeiture of a guiltypast, and the gloom of a lonely future--these things unmanned him, bowedhim down, poisoned his tranquillity of mind, unhinged every energy ofhis soul, seemed to dry up the very springs of life. The hand of mancould not rouse him from the stupor caused by the chastisements of God.
But the rousing came at last, and in due time; and it all came from avery little matter--so slight a matter as a little puff of seaward air.A trivial accident, you will say; yes, one of those very trivialaccidents that so often affect the destinies of a lifetime, and:
"Shape our ends, Rough-hew them how we will."
Kenrick, as usual, was walking along the top of the cliffs alone--restless, aimless, and miserable--"mooning," as the boys would havecalled it--unable even to analyse his own thoughts, conscious only thatit was folly in him to nurse this long-continued and hopelessmelancholy, yet quite incapable of making the one strong effort whichwould have enabled him to throw it off. And in this mood he sat downnear the cliff, thinking of nothing, but watching, with idle guesses asto their destination and history, the few vessels that passed by on thehorizon. The evening was drawing-in, cold and windy; and suddenlyremembering that he must be back by tea-time, he rose up to return. Themotion displaced his straw hat, and the next moment the breeze hadcarried it a little w
ay over the edge of the cliff, where it was caughtin a low bush of tamarisk. It rested but a few feet below him, and thechalky front of the cliff was sufficiently rough to admit of hisdescent. He climbed to it, and had just succeeded in disengaging itwith his foot, when before he had time to seize it, it again fell, androlled down some thirty feet. Kenrick, finding that he had been able toget down with tolerable ease, determined to continue his descent inorder to secure it. It never occurred to him that the hat was of nogreat importance, and that it would have been infinitely less trouble towalk home without it, and buy a new one, than to run the risk andencounter the trouble of his climb. However, he _did_ manage to reachit, and put it on with some satisfaction, when, as he was beginning toremount, a considerable mass of chalk crumbled away under his feet, andmade him cling on with both hands to avoid being precipitated. He hadbeen able to get down well enough, because, if the chalk slipped, heglided on safely with it, but in climbing up he was obliged to press hisfeet strongly downwards in order to gain his spring; and every time hedid this, he found that the chalk kept giving way, exhausting him withfutile efforts, filling his shoes with dust and pebbles, slipping intohis clothes, and blinding his eyes. Every person who has climbed atall, whether in the Alps or elsewhere, knows that it is easy enough toget down places which it is almost impossible to mount again; andKenrick, after many attempts, found that he had been most imprudent, andbecoming seriously alarmed, was forced, when he had quite tired himselfwith fruitless exertions and had once or twice nearly fallen, to give upthe attempt altogether, and do his best to secure another way of escape.
This was to climb down quite to the bottom of the cliff, and make hisway, as best he could, over rocks and shingle round the bluff which shutin one side of the little bay on which he stood, and along the narrowline of beach, to Saint Winifred's head. This was possible sometimes,and he fancied that the tide was sufficiently far out to enable him todo it now. At any rate herein lay, so far as he saw, his only chance ofsafety.
Down the cliff then he climbed once more, and though it was some ninetyfeet high he found no difficulty in doing this, with care, till he cameto a place where its surface was precipitous for a height of some tenfeet, worn smooth by the beating of the waves. Holding with his handsto the edge, he let himself fall down this height, and found himselfstanding, a little shaken though unhurt, in a small pebbly bay orindentation of the shore formed by a curve in the line of cliffs, with aseries of headlands and precipices trending away on one side far to hisright, and with the Ness of Saint Winifred's reaching out to his left.Once round that headland he would be safe, and indeed if he once gotbeyond the little pebbly inlet where he stood, he hoped to find someplace where he might scale the rocks, and so cross the promontory andget home.
There was no time to be lost, and he ran with all his speed over theloose stones towards the bluff, letting the unlucky straw hat drop onthe shore, as it had no string, and it impeded him to be obliged to holdit on with one hand. Reaching the end of the shingle, he stumbled withdifficulty over some scattered rocks slimy with ooze and seagrass,hoping with intense hope that when he rounded the projection of cliff,he would see a line of beach, narrow indeed, but still wide enough toallow of his running along it before the tide had come in, and reachingsome part of Saint Winifred's Head which he might be able to scale bymeans of a sheep-path, or with the help of hands and knees. Veryquickly he reached the corner, and hardly dared to look; but when he_did_ look, a glance showed him that but slender hope was left. At onespot the tide had already reached the foot of the cliffs; but if hecould get to that spot while the water was yet sufficiently shallow toallow him to run through it, he trusted that he might yet be saved. Theplace was far-off, but he ran and ran; and ever as he ran the placeseemed to get farther and farther, and his knees failed him for fatigue,as he sank at every step in the noisy and yielding mixture of sand andpebbles.
Reader, have you ever run a race with the sea? If not, accept thetestimony of one who has had to do it more than once, that it is a verypainful and exciting race. I ran it once successfully with one who,though we then escaped, has since been overtaken and swallowed up by thegreat dark waves of that other sea, whose tides are ever advancing uponus, and must sooner or later absorb us all--the great dark waves ofDeath. But to take your life in your hand, and run and to know that thesea is gaining upon you, and that, however great the speed with whichfear wings your feet, your subtle hundred-handed enemy is interceptingyou with its many deep inlets, and does not bate an instant's speed, orwithhold itself a hair's-breadth for all your danger--is an awful thingto feel. And then to see that it _has_ intercepted you is worst of all;it is a moment not to be forgotten. And all this was what Kenrick hadto undergo. He ran until he panted for breath, and stumbled for veryweariness--but he was too late. A broad sheet of water now bathed thebases of the cliff, and the waves, as though angry with the opposingbreeze, were leaping up with a frantic hiss, and deluging the rocks withsheets of spray and foam.
Experience had taught him with what speed and fury on that dangerouscoast the treacherous tide came in. There was not a moment to spare,and as he flew back to the small shelter of the pebbly cove, the waterwas already gliding close to him, and stretching its arms like a hungrymedusa round the seaweed-matted lumps of scattered rock over which hestrode.
His face wetted with the salt dew, his brown hair scattered on therising wind, he flew rather than ran once more to the place where he haddescended, to renew the wild attempt to scale the cliff which seemed toafford him the only shadow of a hope. Yet a mere glance might have beenenough to show him that this hope was vain. Both at that spot, and asfar as he could see, the sheer base of the cliff offered him no placewhere it was possible to rest a foot, no place where he could mountthree feet above the shingle. But his scrutiny brought home to himanother appalling fact--namely, that the sea-mark, where the highesttide fringed its barriers with a triumphal wreath of hanging seaweed,and below which no foliage grew, was high up upon the cliff, far abovehis head.
It was too late to curse his rashness and folly, nor would he even tryto face his frightful situation till he had thought of every conceivablemeans by which to escape. A friend of mine had, and I suppose stillhas, a pen-and-ink sketch which made one shudder to look at it. Allthat you see is a long sea-wall, apparently the side of some stone pier,so drawn as to give the impression of great height, and the top of itnot visible in the picture; by the side of this ripples and plashes along dark reach of sea water, lazily waving the weeds which it hasplanted in the crevices of stone, and extending, like the wall itself,farther than you can guess. The only living thing in the picture is asingle spent, shaggy dog, its paws rested for a moment on a sort ofhollow in the wall, and half its dripping body emergent from the darkwater. It is staring up with a look of despondent exhaustion, yet muteappeal. The sketch powerfully recalls and typifies the exact positionin which poor Kenrick: now found himself placed--before him the hungry,angry darkening sea, behind him the inaccessible bastions of forbiddingcliff. It is a horrible predicament, and those can most thrillinglyappreciate it who, like the author, have been in it themselves.
There was yet one thing, and one thing only, to be tried, and it wastruly the refuge of desperation. Kenrick was an excellent swimmer; manya time in bathing at Saint Winifred's, even when he was a little boy, hehad struck out boldly far into the bay, even as far as the huge tumblingred buoy, that spent its restless life in "ever climbing with theclimbing wave." If he could swim for pleasure, could he not swim forlife? It was true that the swim before him was, beyond all comparison,farther and more hazardous than he had ever dreamt of. But swimming isan art which inspires extraordinary confidence; it makes us fancy thatdrowning is impossible to us, because we cannot imagine ourselves sofatigued as to fail in keeping above water. Kenrick knew that theattempt was only one to be undertaken at dire extremity; but thatextremity had now arrived, and it was literally the last chance that laybetween him and--what he would not think of
yet.
So, in the wintry air, with the strong wind blowing keenly and the redgleam of sunset already beginning to fail, he flung off his clothes onthe damp beach, and as one who rushes on a forlorn hope in the teeth ofan enemy, he ran down the rough uneven shore, hardly noticing how muchit hurt his feet, and plunged boldly into the hideous yeast of seethingwaves. The cold made him shiver and shiver in every limb; his teethchattered; he was afraid of cramp; the slimy seaweeds that his feettouched, the tangled and rotting string of sea-twine that waved abouthis legs, sent a strong shudder through him; and there was a sick clammyfeeling about the frothy spume through which he had to plunge. But whenhe had once ploughed his way through all this, and was fairly out of hisdepth, the exercise warmed him, and he rose with a swimmer's triumphantmotion over the yielding waves. On and on he swam, thinking only ofthat, not looking before him; but when he began to feel quite tired, and_did_ look, he saw that he was not nearly halfway to the headland. Hesaw, too, how the breakers were lashing and fighting with the iron shorewhich he was madly striving to reach. Even if he could swim so far--andhe now _felt_ that he could not--how could he ever land at such a spot?Would not one of those billows toss him up in its playful spray, anddash him as it dashed its own unpitied offspring, dead upon the rocks?And as this conviction dawned on him, withering all his energy of heart,the wind wailed over him, the water bubbled in his ears, and thesea-mew, napping as it flew past him, uttered above his head itsplaintive scream. His heart sank within him. With a quick motion heturned in the water, and with arms wearied-out he swam back again, asfor dear life, towards the little landing-place which alone divided himfrom instant death; struggling on heavily, with limbs so weary that hecould barely move them through the waves, whose increasing swell oftenbroke around his head. Already the tide had reached the spot where hehad let his straw hat drop on the beach; the sea was scornfully playingwith it, tossing it up and down, whirling it round and round like afeather; the wind blew it to the sea, and the sea, receiving no giftsfrom an enemy, flung it back again; but the wind carried the day, andwhile Kenrick was wringing the brine out of his dripping hair, andhuddling his clothes again over his wet, benumbed, and aching limbs, hesaw the straw hat fairly launched, and floating away over the waves.
And then it was that, as the vision of sudden death glared out beforehis eyes, and the horror of it leapt upon him, that a scream--a loud,wild, echoing scream, which sounded strange in that lonely place, androse above the rude song that the wind was now singing,--broke from hisblanched lips. And another, and another, and then silence; for Kenrickwas now crouching at the cliff's foot furthest off from the swellingflood, with his eyes fixed motionless in a wild stare on its advancingline of foam. He was conjuring up before his imagination the time whenthose waves should have reached him; should have swept him away from theshelter of the shore, or risen above his lips; should have forced himagain to struggle and swim, until his strength, already impaired byhunger, and thirst, and cold, and fatigue, should have failed himaltogether, and he would sink, and the water gurgle wildly in his ears,and stop his breath--and all would be still. And when he had picturedthis scene to himself with a vividness which made him experience all itsagony, for a time his mind flew back through all the faultful past up tothat very day; memory lighted her lantern, and threw its blaze on everydark corner, on every hidden recess, every forgotten nook--left no spotunsearched, unilluminated with sudden flash; all his past sins werebefore him, words, looks, thoughts, everything. As when a man descendswith a light in his diving-bell into the heaving sea, the strangemonsters of the deep, attracted by the unknown glimmer, throng andwallow terribly around him, so did uncouth thoughts and forgotten sinswelter in fearful multitudes round this light of memory in the deep seaof that poor human soul. And finally, as though in demon voices, camethis message whispered to him, touted to him tauntingly, rising andfalling with maddening alternation on the rising and falling of thewind--"You have been wasting your life, moodily abandoning yourself toidle misery, neglecting your duties, letting your talents rust--_Godwill take from you the life you know not how to use_." And then, asthough in answer to this, another voice, low, soft, sweet, that hisheart knew well--another voice filling the interspaces of the otherswith unseen music, whispered to him soothingly--"It shall be given youagain, use it better; awake, use it better, _it shall be given youagain_."
Those three wild shrieks of his had been heard; he did not know it, butthey had been heard. The whole coast was in general so lonely that youcould usually pace it for miles without meeting a single human being,and it never even occurred to him that some one might pass that way.But it so happened that the boisterous weather of the last few days hadcast away a schooner at a place some five miles from Saint Winifred's,and Walter Evson had walked with Charlie to see the wreck, and wasreturning along the cliff. As they passed the spot where Kenrick was,they had been first startled and then horrified by those shrieks, andwhile they stood listening another came to their ears, more piercing,more heart-rending than the rest.
"Good heavens! there _must_ be some one down there!" exclaimed Walter.
"Why, how could any one have got there?" asked Charlie.
"Well, but didn't you hear some one scream?"
"Yes, several times. O Walter, do look here!" Charlie pointed to thetraces on the cliff showing that some one had descended there.
"Who could have wanted to get down _there_, I wonder; and for whatpossible purpose?"
"Do you see any one, Walter?"
"No, I don't; there's nothing but the sea"--for Kenrick, crouching underthe cliff, was hidden from sight, and now the tide had come up so farthat, from the summit, none of the shingle was visible--"but what'sthat?"
"Why, Walter, _it's a straw hat_; it must be one of our fellows downthere; I see the ribbon distinctly, dark blue and white, twistedtogether."
"_Dark blue and white_! why, then, it must be some one in the footballeleven: Charlie, it must be Kenrick! Heavens, what can have happened?"
"Kenrick!" they both shouted at the top of their voices.
But the cliff was high, and the wind, momently rising to a blast, sweptaway their shouts, and although Kenrick might have heard them distinctlyunder ordinary circumstances, they now only mingled with, and gave newform and body to, the wild madness which terror was beginning to kindlein his brain. So they shouted, and no answer came.
"No answer comes, Charlie; but there's someone down there as sure as weare here," said Walter. Charlie had already begun to try and descendthe face of the cliff. "Stop, stop, Charlie," said Walter, seizing himand dragging him up again, "you mustn't try that--nay, Charlie, youreally _must not_. If it's possible _I_ will." He tried, but threeminutes showed him that, however practicable a descent might be, anascent afterwards would be wholly beyond his power. Besides, if he diddescend, what could he do? Clearly nothing; and with another plan inview, he with difficulty reached his former position.
"Nothing to be done that way, Charlie." At that moment another crycame, for Kenrick, in a momentary lull of the wind, had fancied that hehad heard sounds and voices other than those of his perturbed andagitated fancy. "Ha! you heard that?" said Walter, and he shoutedagain, but no sound was returned.
"We must fly to Saint Winifred's, Charlie; there's a boy down on theshore beyond a doubt. You stay behind, if you like, for you can't runas fast as me. I'm afraid, though, it's not the least good. SaintWinifred's is three miles from here, and long before I've got help andcome three miles back, it's clear that no one can be alive down there;still we must try," and he was starting when Charlie seized his arm.
"Don't you remember, Walter, the hut at Bryce's cove? There's an oldboat there, and it's a mile and a half nearer than Saint Win's."
"_Capital_ boy, Charlie," said Walter; "how good of you to think of it;it's the very thing. Come."
They flew along at full speed, Walter taking Charlie's hand, and saying,"Never mind stretching your legs for once, even if you _are_ tired. Howwell yo
u run! we shall be there in no time."
They gained the cove, flew down the steep narrow path, and reached thehut door. Their summons was answered only by the furious barking of adog. No one was in.
"Never mind: there's the boat; we must take French leave;" and Walter,springing down, hastily unmoored it.
"Wah! what a horrid old tub, and it wants baling, Walter."
"We can't stay for that, Charlie boy; it's a good thing that Semlyn Lakehas taught us both to row, isn't it?"
"O yes; don't you wish we had the little _Pearl_ here now, Walter?Wouldn't we make it fly, instead of this cranky old wretch."
"Well, we must fancy that this is the _Pearl_ and this Semlyn Lake,"said Walter, wading up to the knees to launch the boat, and springing inwhen he had given it the final shove.
They were excellent rowers, but Charlie had never tried his skill in asea like that, and was timid, for which there was every excuse.
"How very rough it is, Walter," he said, as the boat tossed up and downlike an egg-shell on the high waves.
"Keep up your heart, Charlie, and row steadily; don't be afraid."
"No, Walter, I won't, as you're with me; but--Walter?"
"Well?"
"It'll be dark in half an hour."
"Not quite, and we shall be there by that time; we needn't go far out,and the tide's with us." So the two brave brothers rowed steadily on,with only one more remark from Charlie, ushered in by the word--
"Walter?"
"Anything more to frighten me with, Charlie?" he answered cheerily; "youshan't succeed."
"Well, Walter," he answered, with a little touch of shame, "I was onlygoing to say that, if you look, you'll see that your oar's been broken,and is only spliced together."
"I've seen it all along, Charlie, and will use the oar gingerly; andnow, Charlie, I see you're a little frightened, my boy. I'm going tobrace you up. Rest on your oar a minute."
He did so. "Now turn round and _look_."
He pointed with his finger to a dark figure, now distinctly seen,cowering low at the white cliff's foot.
"O Walter, I'm ready; I won't say a word more;" and he leant to his oar,and plied it like a man.
It is a pretty, a delightful thing, in idle summer-time to lie at fulllength upon the beach on some ambrosial summer evening, when a glowfloats over the water, whose calm surface is tenderly rippled with goldand blue. And while the children play beside you, dabbling and paddlingin the wavelets, and digging up the ridges of yellow sand, which takethe print of their pattering footsteps, nothing is more pleasant than tolet the transparent stream of the quiet tide plash musically with itslight and motion to your very feet; nothing more pleasant than to listento its silken murmurs, and to watch it flow upwards with its beneficentcoolness, and take possession of the shore. But it is a very differentthing when there rises behind you a wall of frowning cliff, precipitous,inaccessible, affording no hope of refuge; and when, for the golden calmof summer eventide, you have the cheerless drawing-in of a loud andstormy February night; and when you have the furious hissing violence ofrock-and-wind-struck breakers for the violet-coloured margin of ripplingwaves--knowing that the wind is wailing forth your requiem, and that,with the fall of every breaker, unseen hands are ringing your knell ofdeath.
The boy crouched there, his face white as the cliffs above him, hisundried limbs almost powerless for cold, and his clothes wetted throughand through with spray--pushing aside every moment the dripping locks ofhair which the wind scattered over his forehead, that he might look withhollow, staring eyes on the Death which was advancing towards him,wrapping him already in its huge mantle-folds, calling aloud to him,beckoning him, freezing him to the very bone with the touch of its icyhands.
And the brutal tide coming on, according to the pitiless irreversiblecertainty of the fixed laws that governed it--coming on like a hugewallowing monster, dumb and blind--knew not, and recked not, of theyoung life that quivered on the verge of its advance--that it was aboutto devour remorselessly, with no wrath to satiate, with no hunger toappease. None the less for the boy's presence, unregardful of hisgrowing horror and wild suspense, it continued its uncouth play--leapingabout the rocks, springing upwards and stretching high hands to pluckdown the cliffs, seeming to laugh as it fell back shattered andexhausted, but unsubdued; charging up sometimes like a herd of whitehorses, bounding one over the other, shaking their foaming manes--hissing sometimes like a brood of huge sea-serpents, as it insinuated itwinding streams among the boulders of the shore.
It might have seemed to be in sport with _him_ as it ran first up to hisfeet, and playfully splashed him, as a bather might splash a person onthe shore from head to heel, and then ran back again for a moment, andthen up again a little farther, till, as he sat on the extreme line ofthe shore and with his back huddled up close against the cliff, it firstwetted the soles of his feet, and then was over his shoes, thenankle-deep, then knee deep, then to the waist. Already it seemed tobuoy him up; he knew that in a few moments more he would be forced toswim, and the last struggle would commence.
His brain was dull, his senses blunted, his mind half-idiotic, whenfirst (for his eyes had been fixed downwards on the growing, encroachingwaters) he caught a glimpse, in the failing daylight, of the blackoutline of a boat, not twenty yards from him, and caught the sound ofits plashing oars. He stared eagerly at it, and just as it came besidehim he lost all his strength, uttered a faint cry, and slipped downfainting into the waves.