Alcott, Louisa May - SSC 15 (31 page)

 
          
“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 the 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.