by E. F. Benson
Then, oh, blessed moment! he caught hold of the side of the lurching fishing-smack, and a pale little boyish frightened face was close to his. He clung for a second to the side, and they went up and down two big billows together. Then he got breath enough to speak.
“Now, little chap,” he said, “don’t be frightened, for we’re all right. Catch hold of the rope here, close to my body, and just jump in. Yes, that’s right. Plucky boy! Take hold with both hands of the rope. Not so cold, is it?”
Once again, before he let go of the boat, they rose to an immense wall of water, and Hugh saw the figures on the beach, four of them standing in the wash of the sea, paying out the rope, and one standing there also a little apart waving seawards, clapping her hands. And what she said came to him clear and distinct across the hills and valleys of destruction.
“Oh, Hughie, well done, well done!” she cried.
“Now pull, all of you, pull him in!”
He was glad she added that, for in the hurry of the moment he had given no instructions as to what they were to do when he reached the boat; and what seemed so obvious out here might not have seemed so obvious to those on the beach, and he was not sure that there was enough power left in him to shout to them. But Nadine understood: once she had said she understood him too well. It was enough now that she understood him enough.
He let go of the boat. For a moment it seemed inclined to follow them, and he thought the bowsprit was going to hit him. Then he felt a little pull on the rope under his shoulders, and the boat made a sort of bow of farewell, and slid away towards the spouting towers of foam. Hugh was utterly exhausted: he could just paddle with a hand or kick downwards to keep his head above water, but he gave away one breath yet.
“Nothing to be frightened at,” he said. “We’re all right now.”
The buoyant water, for all the wickedness of its foam and savage hunger, sustained him sufficiently. He turned round seawards in the water so that the great surges did not overwhelm him from behind, and put an arm on the rope underneath the boy’s neck, so as to support them both. He forced himself even in his utter weariness to be collected and to remember that for several minutes yet there was nothing whatever to be done, except with the minimum possible of exertion to keep afloat, while the rope towed them back towards that line of steep towers and curling precipices beyond which lay the shore, and those who stood on the shore. Sometimes the crest of a wave broke over them, almost smothering him, but then again they found themselves on a downward hillside of water, where the panting lungs could be satisfied, and the laboring heart supplied. Somewhere inside of him he knew he wanted to know where this poor foundered fishing-smack had come from and how this young boy had managed to cling to it, but he had not sufficient strength to give voice to his desire, for all that he had must be husbanded to meet that final assault of the row of breakers through which they had to pass.
And as they got nearer, he began to form his plan. This young unknown life, precious to him now as an unborn baby to a woman, was given into his charge. It seemed to him that, as a woman has to bring the life within her to birth whatever it costs her, so he had to save the life of this unknown little fisher-boy, and take all risks himself. Whatever lay beyond that line of breakers, his business was here, and he did not for one second argue the values. He did not forget Nadine nor her last cry to him as he set forth on his peril, but for the moment there was something that concerned him even more than Nadine, and he had to make the best plans he could for saving this young life that had been put in his hands, even if he fought God over it. The only question was how to get the best chance of saving it.
They were close in now, and this three-minute pause of floating had restored him. He was just conscious of bitter cold, even as he was conscious of the group on the edge of the sand, and of the hissing waters. But none of these things seemed to have anything to do with him; they were but external phenomena. Between him and the shore were still three towering lines of breakers, sharp-edged and steep as rocks: the third of these suddenly fumbled and disappeared with a thick thud, and an uprising of shattered spray. And suddenly his plan proved itself, fully-finished to his mind.
He had been swimming for not more than a quarter of an hour, and the minutes of that fierce outward struggle which had seemed so long to him had to Nadine passed in a flash. For once she had got completely outside herself, and, concentrated and absorbed in another, the time had gone by in one flare of triumphant expectation. For one moment after that heart’s cry had been flung out of her she had sat dazed and bewildered by the consciousness that it seemed to have revealed to her, for until she had cried out that Seymour, that anybody but Hugh, must make the desperate attempt, she had not known her own heart, nor could she have, for it was not till then that it was unlocked to herself. When she looked up again Hugh had already plunged through the breakers, and was swimming, and instantly her soul was with him there in the inhuman sea, glorying in his strength, proud of the splendid and desperate adventure, and not for one moment doubtful of its success. None but he, she felt, could do it, and it was impossible that he should fail. She would not have had him back by her side saying that the attempt was mere suicide, for all the happiness that the world contained, and had she been able to change places with the boy who clung to the helpless boat, she would have sprung ecstatic to the noble risk, for the sake of having Hugh battle the seas on his way to rescue her. Failing that, it had been gloriously ordained that he should do this, and that she should stand with heart uplifted and be privileged to see the triumphant venture. She saw him reach the boat, knowing that he would, and clapped her hands and called to him, and with bright eyes and laughing mouth she eagerly watched him getting nearer. Then, just at the moment when Hugh made his plan, she realized that between him and her there lay that precipice of water that kept flinging itself down in thunder on the shore, and ever re-forming again. And the light died out of her face, and she grew ashen gray to the lips and watched.
Hugh had been floating with his face seawards. Now he turned round to the shore again. She saw him smile at the boy, as they rose on the crest of a wave, and she saw him speak.
“Now we’re all right,” was what he said. “Get on my back, and hold on to my shoulders.”
The rope had ceased to pull. The men in control of it just held it taut, waiting to pull when the exact moment came. The boy did as he was told, and next moment the two rose up on the crest of the line of breakers. Twenty feet below him as they topped it, Hugh looked over upon the backwash of the preceding wave which was being dragged into the billow which bore them and was growing higher as it rose to its ruin. But the boy’s fall would be broken: at least this plan seemed to give the best chance.
Then the wave curled, and he was flung forwards, twisting as he fell. He saw the slim little figure he had been carrying shot over his shoulder, and flung clear of the direct impact of the wave on the beach, and he heard his mind say, “That won’t hurt him.”
Then he felt something stupendous, as heavy as the world, strike him on the back. After that he felt nothing more at all.
As dusk was closing in, Nadine sat in the window of her big black-painted bedroom, where so many well-attended sessions had been held. Hugh had been in the surgeon’s hands since they carried him in, and all that could be done had been done. Afterwards Nadine had seen the surgeon, and learned from him all there was to fear and the little there was to hope for. It was possible that Hugh might not live till the morning, but simply pass away from the shock of his injuries. On the other hand his splendid constitution might pull him through that. But given that he lived through the immediate danger, it was doubtful if he could ever lead an active life again. The boy he had saved was practically unhurt, and was fast asleep.
Nadine sat there very quiet both in mind and body. She did not want to rave or rebel, she merely let her mind sit, as it were, in front of these things, and contemplate them, like a picture, until they became familiar. She felt they were not familiar yet
; though she knew them to be true, they were somehow unreal and incredible. She did not yet grasp them: it seemed to her that her mind was stunned and was incapable of apprehending them. So she had to keep her attention fixed on them, until they became real. Yet she found it difficult to control her mind: it kept wandering off into concentric circles round the center of the only significant thing in the world.
Out on the sea the sun had set, and there were cloud-bars of fading crimson on the horizon level across a field of saffron yellow. This yellow toned off into pale watery green, and high up in the middle of that was one little cloud like an island that still blazed in the sunlight of the upper air. Somehow that aroused a train of half-forgotten reminiscences. There had been a patch of sunlight once like an island, on the gray of the sea ... it was connected with a picture ... yes, it was a sketch which Esther had made for Hugh, and she had put in the island reluctantly, saying it looked unreal in nature and would be worse in art. But Hugh had wanted it there, and, as Esther worked, she herself had walked with him along the beach from which he had been carried up to-day, and she had told him that he lived in unrealities, and pictured to himself that some day he and she would live on some golden sunlit island together. She remembered it all now.
Her mind came back to the center again, and started off anew on that splendid deed of the morning. She had quite lost her head when she called out, “No, Hughie, not you!” It must have been Hugh to do it, no one else could have done it. The idea of Berts or Seymour wrestling with and overcoming that mountainous and maddened sea was unthinkable. Only Hugh could have done it, and the deed was as much part of him as his brown eyes or his white strong teeth. And if at the end the sea had flung him down and broken him, that was after he had laughed at the peril and snatched its prey out of its very jaws! Even as things were now with him, Nadine could not regret what he had done, and if time had run back, and she saw him again plunging into that riot and turmoil, she felt that she would not now cry out to him like that. She would have called Godspeed to him instead.
Once again her mind rippled away from its center. She had called out to Seymour or Berts to go. At the time it had been quite instinctive, but she saw now what had prompted her instinct. She meant — though then she did not know she meant it — that she could spare any one but Hugh. That was what it came to, and she wondered if Hugh had understood that. Seymour without doubt must have done so: he was so clever. Probably he would tell her he understood, and ask her if it was not that which was implied. But all such consideration seemed to her to matter very little. There was only one thing that mattered, and that was not whether Hugh lived or died even, but simply the fact of Hugh.
Her mother had telegraphed that she was coming at once; and Nadine remembering that she had not told the servants got up and rang the bell. But before it was answered there came an interruption for which she had been waiting. One of the two nurses whom the surgeon from Chester had brought with him knocked at the door. She had been tidying up, and removing all traces of what had been done.
“The room is neat again now,” she said, “and you may come and just look at him.”
“Is he conscious or in pain?” asked Nadine.
“No; but he may regain consciousness at any time, but I don’t think he will have any pain.”
They went together up the long silent passages in which there hung that curious hush which settles down on a house when death is hovering by it, and came to his door which stood ajar. Then from some sudden qualm and weakness of flesh, Nadine halted, shrinking from entering.
“Do not come unless you feel up to it,” said Nurse Bryerley. “But there is nothing that will shock you.”
Nadine hesitated no more, but entered.
They had carried him not to his own room, but to another with a dressing-room adjoining. His bed stood along the wall to the left of the door, and he lay on his back with his head a little sideways towards it. There was nothing in the room that suggested illness, and when Nadine looked at his face there was nothing there that suggested it either. His eyes were closed, but his face was as untroubled as that of some quiet sleeper. In the wall opposite were the western-looking windows and the room was lit only by that fast-fading splendor. The cloud-island still hung in the sky, but it had turned gray as the light left it.
Then even as Nadine looked at him, his eyes opened and he saw her.
“Nadine,” he said.
The nurse stepped to the bedside.
“Ah, you are awake again,” she said. “How do you feel?”
“Rather tired. But I want to speak to Nadine.”
“Yes, you can speak to her,” she said and signed to the girl to come.
Nadine came across the room to him, and knelt down.
“Oh, Hughie,” she said, “well done!”
He looked at her, puzzled for the moment, with troubled eyes.
“You said that before,” he said. “It was the last thing you said. Why did you — oh, I remember now. Yes, what a bang I came! How’s the little fellow, the one on my back?”
“Quite unhurt, Hughie. He is asleep.”
“I thought he wouldn’t be hurt. It was the best plan I could think of. I say, why did you call to me not to go at first? I had to.”
“I know now you had to,” said she.
“I want to ask you something else. How badly am I hurt?”
Nadine looked up at the nurse a moment, who nodded to her. She understood exactly what that meant.
“You are very badly hurt, dear Hughie,” she said; “But — but it is worth it fifty times over.”
Hugh was silent a moment.
“Am I going to die?” he asked.
Nadine did not need instruction about this.
“No, a thousand times, no!” she said. “You’re going to get quite well. But you must be patient and rest and sleep.”
Nadine’s throat grew suddenly small and aching, and she could not find her voice for a moment.
“You are quite certainly going to live,” she said. “To begin with, I can’t spare you!”
Hugh’s eyelids fluttered and quivered.
“By Jove!” he said, and next moment they had quite closed.
The nurse signed to Nadine to get up and she rose very softly and tiptoed away. At the door she looked round once at Hugh, but already he was asleep. Then still softly she came back and kissed him on the forehead and was gone again.
She had been with him but a couple of minutes, but as she went back to her room, she heard the stir of arrivals in the hall, and went down. Dodo had that moment arrived.
“Nadine, my dear,” she said, “I started the moment I got your telegram. Tell me all you can. How is he? How did it happen? You only said he had had a bad accident, and wanted me.”
Nadine kissed her.
“Oh! Mama,” she said. “Thank God it wasn’t an accident. It was done on purpose. He meant it just like that. But you don’t know anything; I forgot. Will you come to my room?”
“Yes, let us go. Now tell me at once.”
“We have had a frightful gale,” she said, “and this morning Hughie saw a fishing-boat close in land, driving on to the reef. There was just one shrimp of a boy on it, and Hughie went straight in, like a duck to water, and got him off and swam back with him. There was a rope and Seymour and Berts pulled him in. And when they got close in, Hughie put the boy on his back — oh, Mama, thank God for men like that! — and the breakers banged him down on the beach, and the boy was unhurt. And Hughie may die very soon, or he may live—”
Nadine’s voice choked for a moment. All day she had not felt a sob rise in her throat.
“And if he lives,” she said, “he may never be able to walk again, and I love him.”
Then came the tempest of tears, tears of joy and sorrow, a storm of them, fruitful as autumn rain, fruitful as the sudden deluges of April, with God-knows-what warmth of sun behind. The drought of summer in her, the ice of winter in her had been broken up in the rain that makes the growth a
nd the life of the world. The frozen ground melted under it, the soil, cracked with drought, drank it in: the parody of life that she had lived became but the farce that preceded sweet serious drama, tragedy it might be, but something human.... And Dodo, woman also, understood that: she too had lived years that parodied herself, and knew what the awakening to womanhood was, and the immensity of that unsuspected kingdom. It had come late to her, to Nadine early: some were almost born in consciousness of their birthright, others died without realizing it. So, mother and daughter, they sat there in silence, while Nadine wept her fill.
“It was the splendidest adventure,” she said at length, lifting her head. “It was all so gay. He shouted to that little boy in the boat to encourage him to cling on, and oh, those damned reefs were so close. And when they rode in, Hughie like a horse with a child on his back over that — that precipice, he said something again to encourage him.”
Nadine broke down again for a moment.
“Hughie never thought about himself at all,” she said. “He used always to think about me. But when he went on his adventure he didn’t think about me. He thought only of that little stupid boy, God bless him. And, oh, Mummie, I gave myself away — I got down to the beach just before Hughie went in, and I lost my head and I screamed out, ‘Not you, Hughie: Seymour, Berts, anybody, but not you!’ It wasn’t I who screamed; something inside me screamed, and the one who screamed was — was my love for Hughie, and I never knew of it. But inside me something swelled, and it burst. Yes: Hughie heard, I am sure, and Seymour heard, and I don’t care at all.”
Nadine sat up, with a sort of unconscious pride in her erectness.
“I saw him just now,” she said, “and he quite knew me, and asked if he was going to die. I told him ‘he certainly was not; I couldn’t spare him.’”
Nadine gave a little croaking laugh.
“And he instantly went to sleep,” she said.
The veracious historian is bound to state that this was an adventure absolutely after Dodo’s heart. All her life she had loved impulse, and disregarded its possibly appalling consequences. Never had she reasoned before she acted, and she could almost have laughed for joy at these blind strokes of fate. Hugh’s splendid venture thrilled her, even as it thrilled Nadine, and for the moment the result seemed negligible. A great thing had ‘got done’ in the world: now by all means let them hope for the best in its sequel, and do their utmost to bring about the best, not with a fainting or regretful heart, but with a heart that rejoiced and sang over the glory of the impetuous deed that brought about these dealings of love and life.