IT was so fatally easy.
St. Bride’s Bay lay between two very dangerous points along the coast. Its south extremity was bounded by the long jagged reef known as the Smuggler’s Reef, whilst its northern limit was formed by the jutting cliff upon which Penarvon Castle had been built, and by those two huge crescent-like projecting rocks, significantly termed the Bull’s Horns, just below the castle walls, with the treacherous silting, shifting bed of quicksand between.
For many years now in one turret of the castle there had burned from dusk till dawn a strong, steady light, warning vessels along the coast of this dangerous spot. The lantern-tower, as it was commonly called, had a separate entrance and staircase of its own, and the light was watched and tended by a disabled fisherman, who had been appointed by the late Duchess to the office when unfit for more active work. Although growing old and feeble now, he still clung to his task, and had never been found unfaithful to his post, or unable to fulfil the light duties it imposed upon him.
The light in this lantern-tower warned vessels of their exact position, and was a most valuable beacon to them; for as soon as ever they had passed it, it became necessary (if they were passing down Channel) to set the ship’s head almost due east, so as to avoid a dangerous cross current round some sunken rocks out at sea, and to keep for some short distance very near in-shore, the water being at this point very deep, and free from any rock or reef.
The plan fermenting in the darkened mind of Saul Tresithny became thus fatally easy. A small body of determined men had only to go to the lantern-tower after the household at the castle had retired to rest, overpower the old custodian, extinguish the light, and light a false beacon farther along the coast—a little to the south of the Smuggler’s Reef—and the thing was done. Any vessel beating down Channel would see the light, would clear it, and then turn sharp towards the land, and upon a dark and moonless night would strike hopelessly, and without a moment’s warning, upon those cruel Bull’s Horns, from whose deadly embrace there would be no escape. The vessel would shatter, the crew and passengers would be sucked into a living tomb. The men bent on plunder would have time to secure for themselves a certain amount of the cargo, but before morning dawned the vessel would in all probability have disappeared utterly and entirely. Saul’s act of purposeless vengeance would be accomplished, and he told himself that he should then have some peace.
Of the hapless crew—men drawn from his own class—he would not allow himself to think. They always went, more or less, with their lives in their hands, and sooner or later a large proportion met a watery death. They must take their chance. It was not with them he was concerned. What he longed to do was to strike a blow at wealth, prosperity, and rank. He was unable to take any part in the turbulent scenes enacting in the country round; but if he could lure to its fate some great vessel with its freight of passengers—one of those new vessels which worked by steam-power, that were just beginning to make headway and to appear along the coasts, to the astonishment and superstitious terror of the fishermen—if he could lure one of these vessels, which always carried wealthy passengers, who could afford to pay for the extra advantages of speed and independence of contrary wind, he felt he should be striking a blow at the hated world of wealth and opulence; and little recked he of any personal peril he might run were the thing found out.
As to his own fate, he was perfectly indifferent. A fierce despair mingled with his reckless hatred of his kind. He would willingly lay down his own life if he could by those means compass the ruin of his enemies. He would sometimes sit and ponder, with a fierce brooding envy, over the story of the death of Samson, with which Abner’s reading of the Scriptures to him in his childhood had made him familiar. If only he could achieve an act of vengeance like that! What a glorious death it would be! But there was no such way open to him of avenging his nameless wrongs against the world. He could only accomplish an isolated act of malevolent cruelty and destruction. But he brooded over that, and thought out its details, till he seemed in his feverish dreams to see the thing enacted over and over, till every detail was familiar. He used to dream that the vessel had struck, that she was going to pieces fast, that he and his comrades were out in their boats, listening to the cries and shrieks of the drowning wretches, always avoiding giving the help so agonisingly demanded, pushing savagely from the gunnel of their boat any frantic hand that might cling to it, and laughing with fiendish joy as the wretched victims sank with a gurgling cry, or were washed within the region of the treacherous quicksand.
Such dreams might well work a sort of madness in a brain inflamed with hatred, and a mind all but unhinged by illness, and perpetual revolt against the conditions of life. Saul had every detail planned by this time with almost diabolical precision. All that was wanted now was the right moment and the right vessel. He had his scouts out along the coast. He knew they would receive warning of the approach of such a vessel as would afford a rich prey for plunderers and a rich vengeance for him.
“Papa,” said Bride one morning, seeking her father with an open letter in her hand, and a soft flush upon her cheek, “I have a letter here from Eustace. He thinks of coming to the castle to tell us all about the bill, and what has been happening in London, and what is likely to happen.”
The Duke looked up with something approaching eagerness in his face. He had missed his young kinsman during these past months, and was beginning to feel it pleasant to have Eustace about the place, even though they were by no means of entire accord in their views or in their outlook on life. Although he seldom spoke on the subject, the old peer had begun to feel his hold upon life rather uncertain. He had never recovered the shock of his wife’s death, and he experienced from time to time an uneasy sensation in the region of the heart, which made him suspect that that organ was in some sort affected. His father had died suddenly of syncope at seventy years of age, and the Duke remembered hearing him describe sensations exceedingly like those from which he began at times to suffer himself.
He could not therefore but feel a wish to see something settled as to Bride’s future. She was very much alone in the world, and would be in sore need of a protector were her father taken away. He had long felt that a husband’s loving and protecting care was what she truly needed, and rather blamed himself for having kept her so entirely from meeting with men of her own age and station. But if his own heir, this young enthusiast Eustace, of whom he was really beginning to think well and to regard with affection, had really succeeded in making an impression upon the girl’s sensitive heart, nothing could be more entirely satisfactory from a worldly standpoint. No one knew better than the Duke how well fitted his daughter was to be the future Duchess of Penarvon, and how greatly she would be beloved by all, as indeed she was already. He had entertained this hope when first Eustace came amongst them, and had then allowed it to fall into abeyance, fearing how the young man’s character would turn out, and that he and Bride would never agree. But hope had revived upon the second visit, when Eustace had shown a different calibre of mind and a greater moderation and thoughtfulness. The hearts of both father and daughter had changed towards him, and again a hope had awakened within the Duke’s heart that he should still live to see his daughter the wife of the man who must succeed him at Penarvon.
Thus this announcement of Bride’s came upon him with a note of gladness, and he looked at her with unwonted animation.
“A visit from Eustace? That is good hearing. I had written to ask if he could not spend his Christmas with us. Is this his answer?”
“I think he can hardly have got your letter. It does not sound like an answer. But he speaks of a wish to see Penarvon again, and to consult with you about the political outlook. He knows he will be welcome, from other things you have said. He will get your invitation, I dare say, before he starts. I hope he will be with us then. It is hard to be happy at Christmas—hard not to feel it a sorrowful instead of a joyful day; but it will help us to have Eustace. I am glad he will be with us.”
“Does he say when he will come?”
“Not exactly; he does not know when he can get away. He seems very busy; but he says he thinks he shall come by water. The roads are so very heavy after the long autumn rains.”
“It may be easier and more comfortable,” said the Duke, “but I have always preferred land travelling myself. Contrary winds make water journeys too tedious at times, and I am not a lover of the sea.”
“I think Eustace is. And he says he will not come if he has to take a sailing-vessel; but he thinks he can travel by one of those wonderful new boats which go by steam-power. He has been in one before. He went to Scotland so once, he told me. Last time he was here he was very full of it. He thinks there will soon be nothing else used for long voyages. It is wonderful to think how they can move through the water without sails or oars. He says in his letter he thinks he may soon have a chance of coming along the coast in one of these strange and wonderful vessels, and will be put ashore either at Plymouth or Falmouth, and come on to us from there.”
“That would not be a bad plan. I myself have sometimes wished to travel by these new boats; but I hardly think I shall do so in my time. In yours they may become more common. Eustace was telling me of them himself. If I knew where he would land, I would travel down to meet him and see the ship myself.”
“Ah! I wish we did know,” answered Bride, with brightening eyes; “I would go with you, papa, and see the wonderful new ship too.”
The Duke was studying her face attentively.
“You are pleased to think of having your cousin here again, Bride?” he asked tentatively.
Her face was very sweet in its soft increase of colour, but her eyes were steady, and truthfully fearless.
“I think I am very glad,” she said softly. There was a pause after this which neither seemed exactly to know how to break; but at last Bride said in a different tone, “And I am glad for another reason too. Eustace is the only person who has any influence over poor Saul Tresithny. It seems as though he were the only person in the world that Saul has ever loved. He does love him. His name is just the one thing that will rouse him to listen to Abner, or which wins him a look from me if I try to speak to him. Whatever harm Eustace may have done Saul in the beginning—and I fear he did help to rouse in him those fierce and evil passions which have worked such havoc of his life—at least he has won the only love of a heart that seems closed to all the world besides; and Abner thinks as I do, and Mr. St. Aubyn also, that no soul is quite dead, no spirit altogether beyond hope of reclaim in which the spirit of love yet burns, however feebly and fitfully. Eustace always believes that it was to save him from being trampled down by the sudden turning and plunging of the horses that day in the crowd, which made Saul spring at them, and almost cost him his life. If so, there must be a vein of gold in his nature somewhere; and I always think that Eustace will find it some day, somehow. Poor Saul! He looks most terribly haggard and wild and miserable. Everybody else has failed to touch him; but I do think Eustace may succeed when he comes. He had to leave last time, before Saul had recovered consciousness enough to bear the excitement of a visit.”
“I trust it may be so, for the sake of the unhappy young man himself, and of his patient and heroic old grandfather. Abner’s faith is a lesson to us all. May God send him at last his heart’s desire!”
It was so seldom that her father spoke thus, that sudden tears sprang to the girl’s eyes; and instead of answering, she laid her hand softly on his shoulder, the mute caress speaking more eloquently than words. For a moment there was silence between them, and then the Duke asked—
“Shall you let Saul know that Eustace is coming?”
“I shall tell Abner. I never see Saul now. He can do as he thinks best; but I believe he will decide to say nothing, but let Eustace come upon him quite unexpectedly, before Saul knows anything about his being here, or has had time to harden his heart, as he might try to do, even against Eustace, if he were prepared beforehand. I think with such natures as his it is better to give no time for that. But Abner will know best.”
“Now’s our chance. Her be beatin’ down Channel. The lads ’a sighted she round t’ corner. Her’ll be passin’, in an hour. ’Tis zo dark’s a hadge out o’ doors, and ’twill be cruel cold bimbye. The bwoys are all out ready with the false light. We’m goin’ to put out t’other light, then we’ll be all ready.”
The light leaped into Saul’s sombre eyes as this news was brought by a pair of breathless and excited fishermen, after more than ten days of anxious watching. So soon as the last moon had begun to wane, a close watch was established all along the coast, and had been continued on every dark night since; and as all the nights had been wild and dark, the watch had never been relaxed. The watchers kept their look-out from a little cove not more than four miles off as the crow flies, but situated just where the coast made a great bend, so that the coasting vessels had to make a great détour, and took a considerable time getting round the point, especially with a raging north-westerly gale driving up Channel as on to-night.
“Be she a zailin’ ship?” asked Saul.
“Naw, her be one o’ they new-fangled ones wi’ smoke querkin’ out of her middle. Yu’ll be gwoin’ to the bwoat, Zaul, mappen, and get she out. Us’ll be a’ter yu quick’s us can. ’Twidden tak’ us long to put out ol’ Joey’s light.”
“I’ll go tu the boat,” answered Saul, seizing his crutch “She’s all ready at her moorin’s. Yu’ll find me there when yu’ve changed the lights. I’ll watch for yu tu come. I s’pose it’s pretty quiet in the bay?”
“Ess zure. Win’s tu northerly tu hurt she. Us wunt keep yu long waitin’. Coome on, lad. Us is bound vur tu be sharp.”
The men hurried off through the driving rain and bitter wind of midnight upon their diabolic errand; and Saul, with a look upon his face which spoke of a purpose equally diabolic, limped down to the shore, seeming to see in the dark like a cat, and took up his place in his own stout and seaworthy little boat.
It was what sailors call a “dirty night,” a stiff half-gale blowing, and scuds of rain driving over, making the darkness more pitchy whilst they lasted. There was no moon, and the sky was obscured by a thick pall of low-lying cloud. It was the kind of night just suited to a deed of darkness and wickedness, such as the one about to be perpetrated.
Saul, with a face that matched in gloom and wildness the night itself, sat in his boat with his eyes fixed steadfastly upon the gleaming light in the lantern-tower of the castle, that strong and steady light which shone out over the waste of waters like a blessing as well as a beacon. All at once, even whilst he watched, the light suddenly flickered and went out, whilst at the very same instant up sprang another light, equally steady and strong, on the other side of the bay, which, after flickering for a few moments, settled down as it were, and burned on with a fixed and calm radiance.
Saul’s face, turned towards it, seemed to catch a momentary gleam. His dark eyes glowed and flashed in their hollow caverns. His hands clenched themselves convulsively upon the tiller by which he sat. There was in his fierce heart a throb of triumphant satisfaction which made life almost a joy to him at that moment. He felt a spring of life well up within him, such as he had not experienced for months. After all, so long as vengeance remained to him, life was not altogether devoid of joy.
The sound of voices approaching from the shore warned him that his confederates were approaching. Some came from the castle, others from the neighbourhood of the false light they had kindled. In all there were a dozen of them, stout fierce men, bent on plunder, and caring nothing for the loss of human life, like too many of their race all along the coast in those days.
Some of these men pushed off in a second boat, others joined Saul in his small cutter. They carried no lights with them, nor did they do more than row out into the bay. Once safely off from shore, they lay still on their oars, and listened and watched intently, talking in low tones to one another from time to time, but mostly absorbed in the excitement of expectation.
All at once out of the darkness hove a light, out beyond the Smuggler’s Reef, where the false light was burning, and a stilled exclamation of triumph burst from all—
“That be she!”
Then deep silence fell again, and the men held their breath to watch her course. She went slowly by the reef; they could hear the throb of her engines in pauses of the gale; and then suddenly they saw her lights shift—she had fallen into the trap—she was turning inwards. In a few short minutes more she would strike upon those cruel horns, and be dashed to pieces before them, without the chance of escape. If they struck outside the rock, there would be more spoil and prey; but it might be safer for the wreckers if she went within the extended horns and grounded there. Then the quicksands would suck down all traces in a very short time, and none would know the fate of the missing vessel, which would be supposed to have met her death through the failure of the new-fangled machinery.
Onward, ever onward, came the doomed ship, riding fearlessly through the angry sea, secure of the course she was going. She had slowed down a little in turning, but the engines were at work now at full power. Her light was very near. The men in the boats almost felt as though their close proximity would be observed....
CRASH!
It was an awful sound. No man of those who heard it that night ever forgot it, and it rang in Saul’s ears for many a long weary day, driving him well-nigh to madness.
One terrific splintering crash, and then an awful sound of grinding and tearing and battering. The ship’s lights heaved up and fell again in a terrible fashion, and amid the shrill whistling of the gale there rang out a wail of human anguish and despair, and then hoarse loud voices, as if in command; though there was no distinguishing words in the strife of the elements.
Motionless, awed, triumphant, yet withal almost terrified, the wreckers sat in their boats and listened and waited. It needed no great exercise of knowledge to tell them that the great vessel had heeled over and was settling—settling slowly to her end; that there could be no launching of boats—no hope for any on board unless they were stout and sturdy swimmers and well acquainted with the coast. The vessel had actually impaled itself, as it were, upon the cruel sharp point of one of the horns. The water had rushed in through the ruptured side, and almost at once the great floating monster had heeled over, and, though partially upheld by the rocks, was being battered and dashed in the most fearful way, so that no living being could long escape either being drawn down to a watery death, or battered out of all human form upon the cruel jagged rocks.
At first a shriek and a cry of human anguish would rend the silence for a moment, and then sink again. But now many moments had passed and no such sound had been heard. Moments grew into minutes, and perhaps a quarter of an hour passed thus in watching the one light rising and falling as the vessel rose on the crests of the waves only to be dashed down again with renewed fury, whilst the rending of timbers and snapping of spars told a tale that was intelligible enough to the fierce men only a stone’s throw from the doomed vessel.
At last they deemed they had waited long enough. From the very nature of the catastrophe, it was unlikely there would be many survivors. All who were below must have perished like rats in a trap, and the few on deck would quickly have been swept overboard. It was time the plundering began, else there might be little left to plunder. As it was, there would be peril in trying to rifle the hull; but these men knew what they were about, and producing their dark lanterns, they cautiously approached the floating mass, and after due precautions, scrambled one after another upon her, and commenced a rapid but cautious search.
With this sort of thing Saul had no concern. He knew that his comrades must be gratified in their thirst for plunder, but his work had been accomplished when the great vessel struck without hope of succour. As the larger boat could not approach too nearly to the wreck, all the men had gone off in the smaller one, and were to bring to him from time to time such valuables as they could find and secure. Twice already had this been done, and the men reported that there was more still to come, and that they might make a second journey to the wreck perhaps, if she would only hold together whilst both the laden boats put ashore and came out again empty. His comrades were daring and skilful, and ran less risk than they appeared to do in thus treading the decks of the vessel. She had lodged now, and though still swept by heavy seas, was not tossed about as she had been at first. The tide was falling and had landed her fast upon a serrated ledge of rock. Unless she broke up, she would lie there till the next tide dashed her off again and sucked her into the quicksand. But as the water fell, more and more booty became accessible. The greed in the men’s hearts rose with what they found. They told themselves that this night’s work would make them rich for life.
But Saul would not leave the spot. A curious fascination held him rooted to it. When the boats were filled and the men insisted on going, he said he would get upon the wreck and await their return there. The wind was abating. The sea was running less high. It was clear to experienced eyes that for some hours at least the vessel would lie where she was, and that there would be no great peril in remaining on her. Saul was not a man easy to thwart or contradict. His comrades raised no objection to what he proposed. It was his affair, not theirs, and they helped him to a station on the deck and left him. They left a light with him—it would serve them as a beacon in returning.
Saul sat where he had been placed and watched them row away, their light growing fainter and fainter over the great crested waves. He sat alone upon the shivering, heaving wreck, pondering on the night’s work, and on all he had seen and done. He pictured the scene that these decks must have witnessed but one short hour ago, and thought of all the dead men—and fair women, perhaps—lying drowned and dead in the cabins beneath his feet. A savage light came into his eyes. A wild triumphant laugh rang out in the silence and the darkness. He thought for a moment of trying to get below and looking upon the dead faces of his foes—men and women he had hated for no other cause than that they lived in a world that was for him a place of evil and oppression, and deserved to die for the tyranny and oppression of the race they represented to his disordered imagination.
But he did not go. For one thing, his lameness hindered him; for another, there was something almost too ghastly even for him in the thought. But as he sat brooding and thinking of it all out in the cold and the darkness of the night, well might he have been taken for the very spirit of the storm, sitting wild-eyed and sullenly triumphant in the midst of all this destruction, gloating over the death of his fellow-men, and picturing the ghastly details with the fascination of a mind on the verge of madness.
Suddenly an object floating in the water, quite near to the vessel, took his eyes, and roused him from his lethargy. In another moment his experienced and cat-like eyes had grasped its outline, and he knew what it was.
A human creature—a man, in all probability—supported in the water by a life-belt, for he could see the outlines of head and shoulders above the crests of the waves. Well could Saul guess what had happened. This man—sailor or passenger, whichever he might be—had been on deck when the ship struck. He had had the good fortune and presence of mind to secure a life-belt about him during the few minutes that the ship kept above water, and probably struck out for shore when washed from the deck. In all probability he had quickly been dashed against the rocks and deprived of consciousness, and the ebb of the tide had dragged and sucked him back from the shore and in the direction of the wreck. A little more and he would be washed upon the shoals of treacherous quicksand—and then!
A sudden fierce desire came upon Saul to see the face of this man. He was floating almost close to the wreck now, rising and falling upon the heaving waves without any motion save what they endowed him with. Saul turned and possessed himself of his lantern, and moving cautiously to the very edge of the wreck, turned the light full upon the floating object in the water.
Then the silence of the night was rent by a wild and exceeding bitter cry; and in the midst of the darkness and terror of that winter’s night, the soul of Saul Tresithny suddenly awoke, amid throbs of untold anguish, from its long lethargy and death. In one moment of intense illumination, in which for a moment he seemed wrapped in flame—scorched by a remorse and despair that was in essence different from anything he had experienced hitherto, he saw his past life and the crime of the night in a totally new aspect. It was a moment not to be analysed, not to be described; but the impression was such that its memory was graven on his mind ever after in characters of fire. It was as if in that awful moment something within him had died and something been born. Heart and soul, for those few brief seconds in which he stood mute and paralysed with horror, were crowded with all the bitterness of death and the pangs of birth. Yet it was scarce five seconds that the spell held him in its thrall.
What was it that he saw in that heaving waste of waters?
The face of the one man that he loved. The face of the only human creature whom he had thought on as a friend. The face of Eustace Marchmont!
And he—Saul Tresithny—had lured his only friend, and the one being he loved and trusted—to a terrible and hideous death.
It was as he realised this that the awful cry broke from him, and after that the five seconds of paralysed waiting and watching that seemed like an eternity to him.
Then in the midst of that unspeakable agony there came one whisper as of hope—the voice of an angel—penetrating the terrible despairing anguish of his soul.
“Perhaps he is not yet dead. Perchance it may be given you to save him yet. But lose not a moment, else your chance may come too late.”
When Saul heard that voice, he hesitated not one second. Flinging off his heavy pilot-coat, and casting a rope round him, which he fastened to a broken mast, he plunged without a moment’s hesitation into the sea, striking out for the floating object now just being carried beyond the circle of light cast by the lamp.
Saul had always been a strong and bold swimmer, but since he became maimed and lame and enfeebled, he had seldom been in the water save for the purpose of launching his boat or getting it in, and he had done no swimming for many months. Still there was no difficulty in reaching Eustace and getting a firm grip round his neck. The life-buoy supported the double weight well; but when Saul strove to strike out in the direction of the ship, he found that the ebb of the tide was carrying them both farther and farther away. Struggle as he would, he could get no nearer, but saw the light as it were receding from him, and knew that the ebb was sucking them little by little towards those terrible quicksands close at hand, which if they touched, their doom was sealed.
When would the rope be payed out and stop them? He had not guessed how long it was when he had tied one end about his waist and fastened the other about the broken mast. Would it never become taut, that he could try hauling himself and his comrade in? And even where they now were they might touch the sand any moment with the fall of the tide. It was constantly changing and shifting. No one knew exactly where it would lie from day to day and week to week.
A sense of cold numb horror fell upon Saul. He was growing faint and giddy. A whisper in another voice now assailed his ears.
“Save yourself at least—and leave him to perish. Likely enough he is dead already; why risk your life for a corpse? Without his weight you could easily make the ship. Save yourself, and leave him to his fate. What is he to you?”
Saul’s senses were leaving him fast, ebbing away in a deadly faintness that made even the terror of his position more like a dream than a reality. But even so the words of the tempter fell powerless upon his ears. His answer was to set his teeth and close his embrace more fast around his friend.
“If he dies, I will die with him!” was the unspoken thought of his heart.
A sudden jerk told him that the rope was all payed out. Had he strength to pull it in again? Rallying his failing powers with an almost superhuman effort, and still keeping his arms clasped about Eustace, he got hold of the rope behind his back, and bit by bit he pulled upon it, drawing the double burden slowly—oh! how slowly and painfully!—inch by inch towards the wreck.
The whole of his past life seemed to rise up in review before him without any volition on his own part—his happy childhood with his grandfather in the gardener’s cottage—Abner’s words of loving admonition and instruction—the teaching he had imbibed almost without knowing it, and had deliberately thrust from him later on. Then he seemed to see himself at the farm, working early and late with Farmer Teazel’s men; his brief but ardent courting of Genefer seemed like nothing but a dream; whilst the sudden appearance of Eustace Marchmont into his life was stamped upon his soul as in characters of fire. This man had called him friend—had taught him, cared for him, put himself on an equality with him—had taken his hand as brother might the hand of brother. And he—Saul—had brought him to this—had perhaps done him to death! It must not—it should not be!
A noise of rushing was in his ears. His breath came in laboured gasps. His heart seemed bursting; his eyes were blinded, and could see nothing but a floating, blood-red haze. In laboured gasps of agony the words came from him—words of the first prayer which had ever passed his lips since the days of his childhood—
“Lord, have mercy upon us! God, give me strength to save him!”
And even with those words on his lips his consciousness failed him; black darkness swallowed him up.