Nothing Venture (33 page)

She came to him panting.

“He's coming!”

Jervis reached through the bars and turned the torch in her hand. She looked along the beam. The cleft on this side of the boulder was a much wider one. The action of water had so far hollowed it out that it was just conceivable she might escape notice there.

He said, “Quick!” and pushed her, at the same time turning out the torch; and as he did so, the light of Robert Leonard's lamp threw the boulder into black relief. It was horrible to have to run towards it, but she ran, reached the cleft, and crouched down in it, squeezing herself back and back and back until she felt as if the solid rock had been built up round her and would never let her go.

Robert Leonard came round the bend with the paraffin lamp in his hand, and stopped three yards from the mouth of the cleft because the rest of the passage was under water. He held the lamp above his head and laughed.

“Getting a bit wet?” he said.

“A bit,” said Jervis.

“I've come for the blanket Rosamund was fool enough to leave you. It's a good blanket, and you won't be wanting it any more.”

“Awkward for you if by any chance it got washed out to sea.”

“Bull's-eye!” said Robert Leonard. “It's not very likely, but accidents do happen—so you can hand it over.”

Jervis looked down at the sodden mass. It wouldn't be long before it floated off on the rising swell; half of it was afloat, and if he shifted his foot—

“Come and take it,” he said.

Nan moved in the grip of the rock. Robert Leonard's square bulk was between her and Jervis. She must see Jervis—she must look at him. Perhaps she would never look at him again. If she could get out, she could get round the bend. If Leonard would go a little farther away—if he would go forward to take the blanket … He wasn't going to. He laughed and said.

“Too wet for me! I can always get it when the tide goes down.”

Nan could see Jervis now. He was drenched and haggard, but he still had that look of having bought the earth; it was even a little intensified, and Nan's heart leapt to it.

“You're spoiling my night's rest, you know,” said Leonard. “Rosamund's quite anxious about you. She's just dragged me to the telephone to ask me whether I've noticed that there's a storm, and that being the case, there's likely to be a particularly high tide. She's quite fussed about it.”

“Damned good for her!” said Jervis.

“
Isn't
it? And do you know, it strikes me that she's right about the tide. She says last time you'd a gale off the sea and a spring tide together the waves broke right over the cliff road. She seems to think you won't be very comfortable where you are, and she wants me to unlock the gate.” He held out his wrist and turned it to get the light on the dial of his watch. “It's getting on for a quarter to four. It's not high tide till five, and as far as I could judge when I stepped outside a little while ago, the gale is still rising. Rosamund's wishes are, of course, my law, so I've come to give you your last chance. The price, by the way, is up to fifty thousand.”

Nan moved again. She had got to do something. If she could get away, she could save Jervis. If she couldn't get away, he wouldn't be any worse off.

“Ask a little more!” said Jervis.

Robert Leonard swore with a sudden savage violence.

“And so I will for that!” He pulled out a key on a steel chain and swung it to and fro. “Here's the key. D'you see it? You can buy it for sixty thousand pounds—and before you're dead you'll think it's cheap!
Sixty thousand
!”

Nan stood up in the mouth of the cleft. She was cold, and her heart shook her with its beating.

“Suppose I say yes?” Jervis had seen her and was making time.

She passed like a shadow along the boulder, touching it with her hand, keeping her face towards Leonard. The dreadful moment would come when she must turn her back on him and run for it. She had reached the boulder's edge, when he looked over his shoulder and saw her. For an instant the lamp-light dazzled in her eyes. She saw Jervis, the barred gate, the glistening walls, and a sudden surge of water. She saw Leonard against the light, and his shadow, black and formless, reaching towards her. Then, with the water about his ankles, he swung round, slipped, and came down with a splash. The paraffin lamp jerked out of his hand and smashed against the rock. There was a moment's wild flare of blazing oil.

Nan ran from it desperately, her fear choking her.

XLI

Nan ran for her life. No, not for her life—Jervis' life. If she could reach the cellar and slam down the trap, if she could get out again into the wild wind and the rain, she would be able to save Jervis. She had started to run with that thought in her mind; but as she ran, she knew nothing but terror—the acute nightmare terror of feet that follow in the dark. For a moment there was a flare of fire behind her, the glow of it filtered round the bend. It came with the sound of Leonard's furious cursing, and it died as he stumbled round the boulder and gave chase. She had about a dozen yards' start, but the sound of him and the sense of his pursuing rage had overtaken her already; yet she reached the first of the brick steps and saw the straight end of the passage, and the light from the cellar coming through the trap. For the first time, a real hope touched her. And then she too slipped and came down, falling hard, her hands stretched out on the brick paving, and her face all but touching it. For a moment a wild spasm of terror stopped her heart.

Robert Leonard passed her, running heavily; his wet foot brushed her arm. If he had trodden on her, she would hardly have felt it. He stood on the brick steps cursing her, but his words were just noise in her ears. She was so nearly fainting that she felt nothing when he slammed down the trap. The sharp sound of its fall came to her from far away, and after that a rumbling. He was rolling the barrel back into its place upon the trap door. Then there were no more sounds. It was very quiet, and very dark.

Nan lay where she was and let her forehead fall upon her hands. She had failed Jervis. There wasn't anything else that she could do. She wanted the tide to come up and drown her quickly.

Presently she remembered that it wouldn't reach her here. She got up very slowly and stiffly. She must go back to Jervis. But first she would see if she could raise the trap. She hadn't any hope, but she wouldn't go back to Jervis without trying. She felt her way to the steps, went up them as high as she could, and pushed with all her remaining strength. She might as well have pushed against one of the walls. She came down again, remembered that she had put her torch in the pocket of her rain-coat before she came out of the cleft, and felt for it.

She came at last to the boulder, and stood still in a new terror. The water ran to meet her in a low, dark wave with a tiny edge of foam where the rough rock path fretted it. She called, “Jervis!” and ran into the water. On the other side of the boulder it was up to her knees.

Jervis stood as he had stood before, with an arm round one of the bars. Even as she caught sight of him, the water lifted to his waist, fell a little, and lifted again.

He said, “Nan!” and all at once her terror was gone. It didn't really matter if they were together.

She came to him through the water, and found a place to set her torch, all very quietly. Then he was holding her, and nothing mattered.

Jervis said, “He caught you?”

“Yes—I fell.”

“He hasn't hurt you?”

“No. He's shut me in.”

He held her close and kissed her. Nothing mattered. The water rose, and would have lifted them if they had not held to the bars. Strange and cold, to have bars between them.

“Why did you marry me, Nan?” said Jervis.

“Didn't you know?”

“No. I thought …… Why did you?”

Nan trembled. His arm was cold and stiff, but it held her close.

“I loved you so much.”

“
Then?
You loved me
then
?”

“Of course!”

“Why?”

“I loved you when I was a little girl. I loved you so much that it used to hurt. And I never forgot. I used to dream about you. I never thought I should see you again. And the first time you came into Mr Page's office I thought I was asleep, and that I should wake up and find that you weren't there at all.” Her voice was sweetly shaken with laughter.

“Oh, Nan!”

“
Yes
. And then when you came in that day and said that Rosamund had thrown you over, the door was a little bit open into Mr Page's room, and I listened. You said dreadful things, and I didn't think I could bear it if you went away and married just anyone whom you could pick up like that—I
couldn't
bear it.”

“Nan—Nan! I'm not worth it. I've been a beast to you. But I do love you now.”

“Better than Rosamund?” said Nan in a whisper.

“I never loved Rosamund.”

“Are you
sure
? She's so beautiful.”

“What's that got to do with it? Of course I'm sure! I love you.”

The cold wash of the water shook them.

“Nan—” said Jervis. “You mustn't stay here.”

Nan pressed closer.

“Nan—darling—you mustn't. Go back up the passage. I may have to swim for it.”

“I'm not going.”

“Darling, you must! You see, I shall be able to keep afloat all right, and then when the tide has turned—”

“How high will it come?” said Nan.

“Oh, not much higher.”

“He said—there was more than an hour to high tide.”

A sudden movement of the whole dark flood thrust Jervis hard against the bars and almost took Nan out of his arms. It dragged back and he was put to it to keep his feet.

“You must go now,” he said. “Nan—
if you love me.
”

“I can't,” said Nan. “I'm not afraid if you hold me.”

That surging lift of the tide came again. They clung together, and felt the bars between them strain with the force of the water. And then with the backward pull something hard whipped about Nan's left ankle and clung there. She felt the sting of it, and in a flash of trembling hope she pulled herself free of Jervis and stooped down into the water, holding the bar with one hand. She had to go right under, to feel the cold weight of the sea upon her back, and the rushing saltiness against her lips, her ears, her eyes. The whole tide moved with her, and she had only her tired grasp of the bar to hold by.

And then she felt the chain. Her fingers closed on it, and she came up laughing and crying, and thrust it into the beam of the torch for Jervis to see. Eighteen inches of bright chain, and a small bright key with the water dripping from it in bright drops like diamonds. As far as they were concerned, it was the key of the world.

“He dropped it when he fell!” said Jervis. The words started with a shout, and ended in a gasp, because the water swirled up again, and the cold of it took his breath. He said, “Quick—quick!”—but they had both to hold on to the bars until the upward surge had spent itself.

He held her then, and she found the padlock and felt for the keyhole. Her hands shook and were cold, and the key jammed. And then the water rose again. It came right up to her neck, and over her chin and against her mouth; but she held on to the padlock and the key, and Jervis held on to her. The bars of the gate cut into her as he strained her against them. Then, as the water lapsed again, the key turned and the padlock fell.

At once the gate swung in with them, and so suddenly that they lost their footing. Nan was flung against the rock. Then Jervis had her by the arm and was striking out for the boulder. The forward rush of the water helped them. The passage rose to meet their stumbling feet. Drenched, panting, and exhausted, they came into water that was knee deep, ankle deep; and so, through splashing shallows, to the other side of the boulder, and a place where they could stand dry-shod and look back upon the danger out of which they had come. The faint glow of Nan's abandoned torch just made the darkness visible. The beam would go on shining across the black lifting water until it drowned, or until the battery failed.

They stood for what seemed like a long time, holding one another, looking back. Then Jervis said,

“We've left the torch. What mugs! I believe I could get it.”

Nan flung her arms round his neck and burst into tears. “No—no! I'll never speak to you again if you do!”

They went back up the passage with the light fainter and fainter behind them. There was no glow from the trap to guide them now. It seemed a long time before they came groping to the steps. Jervis pushed and strained at the trap, but he could not move it.

He came down again.

“We'll have to wait till someone comes.”

He felt Nan tremble against him.

“Will anyone come?”

“Bound to.” But in his heart he wondered.

“Who?”

“Oh—Rosamund—or Leonard. They've both been coming. I expect Leonard will want to make sure that I'm safely drowned.”

Nan shivered. All at once she felt as if she didn't care. She was too tired to care. They sat down on the steps. She shut her eyes and leaned against Jervis. Perhaps someone would come—perhaps no one would come—it didn't really matter—

XLII

Rosamund Carew put the telephone back upon the table by the bed. She was surrounded by the soft pastel shades beloved of Mabel Tetterley. There was an old-rose canopy over her head, and an eiderdown of shot lavender and blue folded back from her feet; a pale blue blanket and a pale pink blanket showed beneath it. Rose and lavender curtains fell from the silver cornice to the pale grey floor. A pink veiled light filled the room with a rosy glow.

Rosamund sat up straight against her pale blue pillows. She threw an oddly contemptuous glance about the room. Her own taste ran to something stronger. She pushed back the pink linen sheet, got out of bed, and went to the window that looked towards the sea. Hot as the night was, it had not been possible to keep it open. She stood and watched the wind shake it with gusts so strong that the whole room shook too, and even through the sound of the wind she could hear the roaring of the sea. She looked at the pink enamel clock on the mantel-piece. It was half past three. And it would be high tide at five. She turned away from the window with abrupt decision and dressed, putting on country shoes—a tweed skirt—a mackintosh. She covered her hair with a close tweed cap and got out of one of the dining-room windows.