第 125 页

lieu of the batteries; and someone knocking and calling at my door.

‘What is the matter?’ I cried.

‘A wreck! Close by!’

I sprung out of bed, and asked, what wreck?

‘A schooner, from Spain or Portugal, laden with fruit and wine. Make

haste, sir, if you want to see her! It’s thought, down on the beach,

she’ll go to pieces every moment.’

The excited voice went clamouring along the staircase; and I wrapped

myself in my clothes as quickly as I could, and ran into the street.

Numbers of people were there before me, all running in one direction, to

the beach. I ran the same way, outstripping a good many, and soon came

facing the wild sea.

The wind might by this time have lulled a little, though not more

sensibly than if the cannonading I had dreamed of, had been diminished

by the silencing of half-a-dozen guns out of hundreds. But the sea,

having upon it the additional agitation of the whole night, was

infinitely more terrific than when I had seen it last. Every appearance

it had then presented, bore the expression of being swelled; and the

height to which the breakers rose, and, looking over one another,

bore one another down, and rolled in, in interminable hosts, was most

appalling. In the difficulty of hearing anything but wind and waves,

and in the crowd, and the unspeakable confusion, and my first breathless

efforts to stand against the weather, I was so confused that I looked

out to sea for the wreck, and saw nothing but the foaming heads of the

great waves. A half-dressed boatman, standing next me, pointed with his

bare arm (a tattoo’d arrow on it, pointing in the same direction) to the

left. Then, O great Heaven, I saw it, close in upon us!

One mast was broken short off, six or eight feet from the deck, and lay

over the side, entangled in a maze of sail and rigging; and all that

ruin, as the ship rolled and beat--which she did without a moment’s

pause, and with a violence quite inconceivable--beat the side as if it

would stave it in. Some efforts were even then being made, to cut this

portion of the wreck away; for, as the ship, which was broadside on,

turned towards us in her rolling, I plainly descried her people at

work with axes, especially one active figure with long curling hair,

conspicuous among the rest. But a great cry, which was audible even

above the wind and water, rose from the shore at this moment; the sea,

sweeping over the rolling wreck, made a clean breach, and carried men,

spars, casks, planks, bulwarks, heaps of such toys, into the boiling

surge.

The second mast was yet standing, with the rags of a rent sail, and

a wild confusion of broken cordage flapping to and fro. The ship had

struck once, the same boatman hoarsely said in my ear, and then lifted

in and struck again. I understood him to add that she was parting

amidships, and I could readily suppose so, for the rolling and beating

were too tremendous for any human work to suffer long. As he spoke,

there was another great cry of pity from the beach; four men arose with

the wreck out of the deep, clinging to the rigging of the remaining

mast; uppermost, the active figure with the curling hair.

There was a bell on board; and as the ship rolled and dashed, like a

desperate creature driven mad, now showing us the whole sweep of her

deck, as she turned on her beam-ends towards the shore, now nothing but

her keel, as she sprung wildly over and turned towards the sea, the bell

rang; and its sound, the knell of those unhappy men, was borne towards

us on the wind. Again we lost her, and again she rose. Two men were

gone. The agony on the shore increased. Men groaned, and clasped their

hands; women shrieked, and turned away their faces. Some ran wildly

up and down along the beach, crying for help where no help could be. I

found myself one of these, frantically imploring a knot of sailors whom

I knew, not to let those two lost creatures perish before our eyes.

They were making out to me, in an agitated way--I don’t know how,

for the little I could hear I was scarcely composed enough to

understand--that the lifeboat had been bravely manned an hour ago, and

could do nothing; and that as no man would be so desperate as to attempt

to wade off with a rope, and establish a communication with the shore,

there was nothing left to try; when I noticed that some new sensation

moved the people on the beach, and saw them part, and Ham come breaking

through them to the front.

I ran to him--as well as I know, to repeat my appeal for help. But,

distracted though I was, by a sight so new to me and terrible, the

determination in his face, and his look out to sea--exactly the same

look as I remembered in connexion with the morning after Emily’s

flight--awoke me to a knowledge of his danger. I held him back with both

arms; and implored the men with whom I had been speaking, not to listen

to him, not to do murder, not to let him stir from off that sand!

Another cry arose on shore; and looking to the wreck, we saw the cruel

sail, with blow on blow, beat off the lower of the two men, and fly up

in triumph round the active figure left alone upon the mast.

Against such a sight, and against such determination as that of the

calmly desperate man who was already accustomed to lead half the people

present, I might as hopefully have entreated the wind. ‘Mas’r Davy,’

he said, cheerily grasping me by both hands, ‘if my time is come, ‘tis

come. If ‘tan’t, I’ll bide it. Lord above bless you, and bless all!

Mates, make me ready! I’m a-going off!’

I was swept away, but not unkindly, to some distance, where the people

around me made me stay; urging, as I confusedly perceived, that he was

bent on going, with help or without, and that I should endanger the

precautions for his safety by troubling those with whom they rested. I

don’t know what I answered, or what they rejoined; but I saw hurry on

the beach, and men running with ropes from a capstan that was there, and

penetrating into a circle of figures that hid him from me. Then, I saw

him standing alone, in a seaman’s frock and trousers: a rope in his

hand, or slung to his wrist: another round his body: and several of the

best men holding, at a little distance, to the latter, which he laid out

himself, slack upon the shore, at his feet.

The wreck, even to my unpractised eye, was breaking up. I saw that she

was parting in the middle, and that the life of the solitary man upon

the mast hung by a thread. Still, he clung to it. He had a singular red

cap on,--not like a sailor’s cap, but of a finer colour; and as the few

yielding planks between him and destruction rolled and bulged, and his

anticipative death-knell rung, he was seen by all of us to wave it. I

saw him do it now, and thought I was going distracted, when his action

brought an old remembrance to my mind of a once dear friend.

Ham watched the sea, standing alone, with the silence of suspended

breath behind him, and the storm before, until there was a great

retiring wave, when, with a backward glance at those who held the rope

which was made fast round his body, he dashed in after it, and in a

moment was buffeting with the water; rising with the hills, falling

with the valleys, lost beneath the foam; then drawn again to land. They

hauled in hastily.

He was hurt. I saw blood on his face, from where I stood; but he took

no thought of that. He seemed hurriedly to give them some directions for

leaving him more free--or so I judged from the motion of his arm--and

was gone as before.

And now he made for the wreck, rising with the hills, falling with the

valleys, lost beneath the rugged foam, borne in towards the shore,

borne on towards the ship, striving hard and valiantly. The distance was

nothing, but the power of the sea and wind made the strife deadly. At

length he neared the wreck. He was so near, that with one more of his

vigorous strokes he would be clinging to it,--when a high, green, vast

hill-side of water, moving on shoreward, from beyond the ship, he seemed

to leap up into it with a mighty bound, and the ship was gone!

Some eddying fragments I saw in the sea, as if a mere cask had been

broken, in running to the spot where they were hauling in. Consternation

was in every face. They drew him to my very feet--insensible--dead.

He was carried to the nearest house; and, no one preventing me now, I

remained near him, busy, while every means of restoration were tried;

but he had been beaten to death by the great wave, and his generous

heart was stilled for ever.

As I sat beside the bed, when hope was abandoned and all was done, a

fisherman, who had known me when Emily and I were children, and ever

since, whispered my name at the door.

‘Sir,’ said he, with tears starting to his weather-beaten face, which,

with his trembling lips, was ashy pale, ‘will you come over yonder?’

The old remembrance that had been recalled to me, was in his look. I

asked him, terror-stricken, leaning on the arm he held out to support

me:

‘Has a body come ashore?’

He said, ‘Yes.’

‘Do I know it?’ I asked then.

He answered nothing.

But he led me to the shore. And on that part of it where she and I had

looked for shells, two children--on that part of it where some lighter

fragments of the old boat, blown down last night, had been scattered by

the wind--among the ruins of the home he had wronged--I saw him lying

with his head upon his arm, as I had often seen him lie at school.

CHAPTER 56. THE NEW WOUND, AND THE OLD

No need, O Steerforth, to have said, when we last spoke together, in

that hour which I so little deemed to be our parting-hour--no need to

have said, ‘Think of me at my best!’ I had done that ever; and could I

change now, looking on this sight!

They brought a hand-bier, and laid him on it, and covered him with a

flag, and took him up and bore him on towards the houses. All the men

who carried him had known him, and gone sailing with him, and seen him

merry and bold. They carried him through the wild roar, a hush in the

midst of all the tumult; and took him to the cottage where Death was

already.

But when they set the bier down on the threshold, they looked at one

another, and at me, and whispered. I knew why. They felt as if it were

not right to lay him down in the same quiet room.

We went into the town, and took our burden to the inn. So soon as I

could at all collect my thoughts, I sent for Joram, and begged him to

provide me a conveyance in which it could be got to London in the night.

I knew that the care of it, and the hard duty of preparing his mother to

receive it, could only rest with me; and I was anxious to discharge that

duty as faithfully as I could.

I chose the night for the journey, that there might be less curiosity

when I left the town. But, although it was nearly midnight when I came

out of the yard in a chaise, followed by what I had in charge, there

were many people waiting. At intervals, along the town, and even a

little way out upon the road, I saw more: but at length only the bleak

night and the open country were around me, and the ashes of my youthful

friendship.

Upon a mellow autumn day, about noon, when the ground was perfumed by

fallen leaves, and many more, in beautiful tints of yellow, red, and

brown, yet hung upon the trees, through which the sun was shining, I

arrived at Highgate. I walked the last mile, thinking as I went along of

what I had to do; and left the carriage that had followed me all through

the night, awaiting orders to advance.

The house, when I came up to it, looked just the same. Not a blind was

raised; no sign of life was in the dull paved court, with its covered

way leading to the disused door. The wind had quite gone down, and

nothing moved.

I had not, at first, the courage to ring at the gate; and when I did

ring, my errand seemed to me to be expressed in the very sound of the

bell. The little parlour-maid came out, with the key in her hand; and

looking earnestly at me as she unlocked the gate, said:

‘I beg your pardon, sir. Are you ill?’

‘I have been much agitated, and am fatigued.’

‘Is anything the matter, sir?---Mr. James?--’ ‘Hush!’ said I. ‘Yes,

something has happened, that I have to break to Mrs. Steerforth. She is

at home?’

The girl anxiously replied that her mistress was very seldom out now,

even in a carriage; that she kept her room; that she saw no company, but

would see me. Her mistress was up, she said, and Miss Dartle was with

her. What message should she take upstairs?

Giving her a strict charge to be careful of her manner, and only to

carry in my card and say I waited, I sat down in the drawing-room (which

we had now reached) until she should come back. Its former pleasant air

of occupation was gone, and the shutters were half closed. The harp had

not been used for many and many a day. His picture, as a boy, was

there. The cabinet in which his mother had kept his letters was there. I

wondered if she ever read them now; if she would ever read them more!

The house was so still that I heard the girl’s light step upstairs. On

her return, she brought a message, to the effect that Mrs. Steerforth

was an invalid and could not come down; but that if I would excuse her

being in her chamber, she would be glad to see me. In a few moments I

stood before her.

She was in his room; not in her own. I felt, of course, that she had

taken to occupy it, in remembrance of him; and that the many tokens

of his old sports and accomplishments, by which she was surrounded,

remained there, just as he had left them, for the same reason. She

murmured, however, even in her reception of me, that she was out of her

own chamber because its aspect was unsuited to her infirmity; and with

her stately look repelled the least suspicion of the truth.

At her chair, as usual, was Rosa Dartle. From the first moment of

her dark eyes resting on me, I saw she knew I was the bearer of evil

tidings. The scar sprung into view that instant. She withdrew herself

a step behind the chair, to keep her own face out of Mrs. Steerforth’s

observation; and scrutinized me with a piercing gaze that never

faltered, never shrunk.

‘I am sorry to observe you are in mourning, sir,’ said Mrs. Steerforth.