Elba lay more sheltered from South-east winds under the slopes of down than any other house in Crikswich. The South-caster struck off the cliff to a martello tower and the house on the beach, leaving Elba to repose, so that the worst wind for that coast was one of the most comfortable for the owner of the hall, and he looked from his upper window on a sea of crumbling grey chalk, lashed unremittingly by the featureless piping gale, without fear that his elevated grounds and walls would be open at high tide to the ravage of water. Van Diemen had no idea of calamity being at work on land when he sat down to breakfast. He told Herbert that he had prayed for poor fellows at sea last night. Mary Fellingham and Annette were anxious to finish breakfast and mount the down to gaze on the sea, and receiving a caution from Van Diemen not to go too near the cliff, they were inclined to think he was needlessly timorous on their account.
Before they were half way through the meal, word was brought in of great breaches in the shingle, and water covering the common. Van Diemen sent for his head gardener, whose report of the state of things outside took the comprehensive form of prophecy; he predicted the fall of the town.
“Nonsense; what do you mean, John Scott?” said Van Diemen, eyeing his orderly breakfast table and the man in turns. “It does n’t seem like that, yet, does it?”
“The house on the beach won’t stand an hour longer, sir.”
“Who says so?”
“It’s cut off from land now, and waves mast-high all about it.”
“Mart Tinman?” cried Van Diemen.
All started; all jumped up; and there was a scampering for hats and cloaks. Maids and men of the house ran in and out confirming the news of inundation. Some in terror for the fate of relatives, others pleasantly excited, glad of catastrophe if it but killed monotony, for at any rate it was a change of demons.
The view from the outer bank of Elba was of water covering the space of the common up to the stones of Marine Parade and Belle Vue. But at a distance it had not the appearance of angry water; the ladies thought it picturesque, and the house on the beach was seen standing firm. A second look showed the house completely isolated; and as the party led by Van Diemen circled hurriedly toward the town, they discerned heavy cataracts of foam pouring down the wrecked mound of shingle on either side of the house.
“Why, the outer wall’s washed away,” said Van Diemen. “Are they in real danger?” asked Annette, her teeth chattering, and the cold and other matters at her heart precluding for the moment such warmth of sympathy as she hoped soon to feel for them. She was glad to hear her father say:
“Oh! they’re high and dry by this time. We shall find them in the town And we’ll take them in and comfort them. Ten to one they have n’t breakfasted. They sha’n’t go to an inn while I’m handy.”
He dashed ahead, followed closely by Herbert. The ladies beheld them talking to townsfolk as they passed along the upper streets, and did not augur well of their increase of speed. At the head of the town water was visible, part of the way up the main street, and crossing it, the ladies went swiftly under the old church, on the tower of which were spectators, through the churchyard to a high meadow that dropped to a stone wall fixed between the meadow and a grass bank above the level of the road, where now salt water beat and cast some spray. Not less than a hundred people were in this field, among them Crickledon and his wife. All were in silent watch of the house on the beach, which was to east of the field, at a distance of perhaps three stonethrows. The scene was wild. Continuously the torrents poured through the shingleclefts, and momently a thunder sounded, and high leapt a billow that topped the house and folded it weltering.
“They tell me Mart Tinman’s in the house,” Van Diemen roared to Herbert. He listened to further information, and bellowed: “There’s no boat!”
Herbert answered: “It must be a mistake, I think; here’s Crickledon says he had a warning before dawn and managed to move most of his things, and the people over there must have been awakened by the row in time to get off.”
“I can’t hear a word you say;” Van Diemen tried to pitch his voice higher than the wind. “Did you say a boat? But where?”
Crickledon the carpenter made signal to Herbert. They stepped rapidly up the field.
“Women feels their weakness in times like these, my dear,” Mrs. Crickledon said to Annette. “What with our clothes and our cowardice it do seem we’re not the equals of men when winds is high.”
Annette expressed the hope to her that she had not lost much property. Mrs. Crickledon said she was glad to let her know she was insured in an Accident Company. “But,” said she, “I do grieve for that poor man Tinman, if alive he be, and comes ashore to find his property wrecked by water. Bless ye! he wouldn’t insure against anything less common than fire; and my house and Crickledon’s shop are floating timbers by this time; and Marine Parade and Belle Vue are safe to go. And it’ll be a pretty welcome for him, poor man, from his investments.”
A cry at a tremendous blow of a wave on the doomed house rose from the field. Back and front door were broken down, and the force of water drove a round volume through the channel, shaking the walls.
“I can’t stand this,” Van Diemen cried.
Annette was too late to hold him back. He ran up the field. She was preparing to run after when Mrs. Crickledon touched her arm and implored her: “Interfere not with men, but let them follow their judgements when it’s seasons of mighty peril, my dear. If any one’s guilty it’s me, for minding my husband of a boat that was launched for a life-boat here, and wouldn’t answer, and is at the shed by the Crouch—left lying there, I’ve often said, as if it was a-sulking. My goodness!”
A linen sheet bad been flung out from one of the windows of the house on the beach, and flew loose and flapping in sign of distress.
“It looks as if they had gone mad in that house, to have waited so long for to declare theirselves, poor souls,” Mrs. Crickledon said, sighing.
She was assured right and left that signals had been seen before, and some one stated that the cook of Mr. Tinman, and also Mrs. Cavely, were on shore.
“It’s his furniture, poor man, he sticks to: and nothing gets round the heart so!” resumed Mrs. Crickledon. “There goes his bed-linen!”
The sheet was whirled and snapped away by the wind; distended doubled, like a flock of winter geese changeing alphabetical letters on the clouds, darted this way and that, and finally outspread on the waters breaking against Marine Parade.
“They cannot have thought there was positive danger in remaining,” said Annette.
“Mr. Tinman was waiting for the cheapest Insurance office,” a man remarked to Mrs. Crickledon.
“The least to pay is to the undertaker,” she replied, standing on tiptoe. “And it’s to be hoped he ‘ll pay more to-day. If only those walls don’t fall and stop the chance of the boat to save him for more outlay, poor man! What boats was on the beach last night, high up and over the ridge as they was, are planks by this time and only good for carpenters.”
“Half our town’s done for,” one old man said; and another followed him in a pious tone: “From water we came and to water we go.”
They talked of ancient inroads of the sea, none so serious as this threatened to be for them. The gallant solidity, of the house on the beach had withstood heavy gales: it was a brave house. Heaven be thanked, no fishing boats were out. Chiefly well-to-do people would be the sufferers—an exceptional case. For it is the mysterious and unexplained dispensation that: “Mostly heaven chastises we.”
A knot of excited gazers drew the rest of the field to them. Mrs. Crickledon, on the edge of the crowd, reported what was doing to Annette and Miss Fellingham. A boat had been launched from the town. “Praise the Lord, there’s none but coastguard in it!” she exclaimed, and excused herself for having her heart on her husband.
Annette was as deeply thankful that her father was not in the boat.
They looked round and saw Herbert beside them. Van Diemen was in the rear, panting, and straining his neck to catch sight of the boat now pulling fast across a tumbled sea to where Tinman himself was perceived, beckoning them wildly, half out of one of the windows.
“A pound apiece to those fellows, and two if they land Mart Tinman dry; I’ve promised it, and they’ll earn it. Look at that! Quick, you rascals!”
To the east a portion of the house had fallen, melted away. Where it stood, just below the line of shingle, it was now like a structure wasting on a tormented submerged reef. The whole line was given over to the waves.
“Where is his sister?” Annette shrieked to her father.
“Safe ashore; and one of the women with her. But Mart Tinman would stop, the fool! to-poor old boy! save his papers and things; and has n’t a head to do it, Martha Cavely tells me. They’re at him now! They’ve got him in! There’s another? Oh! it’s a girl, who would n’t go and leave him. They’ll pull to the field here. Brave lads!—By jingo, why ain’t Englishmen always in danger!—eh? if you want to see them shine!”
“It’s little Jane,” said Mrs. Crickledon, who had been joined by her husband, and now that she knew him to be no longer in peril, kept her hand on him to restrain him, just for comfort’s sake.
The boat held under the lee of the house-wreck a minute; then, as if shooting a small rapid, came down on a wave crowned with foam, to hurrahs from the townsmen.
“They’re all right,” said Van Diemen, puffing as at a mist before his eyes. “They’ll pull westward, with the wind, and land him among us. I remember when old Mart and I were bathing once, he was younger than me, and could n’t swim much, and I saw him going down. It’d have been hard to see him washed off before one’s eyes thirty years afterwards. Here they come. He’s all right. He’s in his dressing-gown!”
The crowd made way for Mr. Van Diemen Smith to welcome his friend. Two of the coastguard jumped out, and handed him to the dry bank, while Herbert, Van Diemen, and Crickledon took him by hand and arm, and hoisted him on to the flint wall, preparatory to his descent into the field. In this exposed situation the wind, whose pranks are endless when it is once up, seized and blew Martin Tinman’s dressing-gown wide as two violently flapping wings on each side of him, and finally over his head.
Van Diemen turned a pair of stupefied flat eyes on Herbert, who cast a sly look at the ladies. Tinman had sprung down. But not before the world, in one tempestuous glimpse, had caught sight of the Court suit.
Perfect gravity greeted him from the crowd.
“Safe, old Mart! and glad to be able to say it,” said Van Diemen.
“We are so happy,” said Annette.
“House, furniture, property, everything I possess!” ejaculated Tinman, shivering.
“Fiddle, man; you want some hot breakfast in you. Your sister has gone on—to Elba. Come you too, old Man; and where’s that plucky little girl who stood by—”
“Was there a girl?” said Tinman.
“Yes, and there was a boy wanted to help.” Van Diemen pointed at Herbert.
Tinman looked, and piteously asked, “Have you examined Marine Parade and Belle Vue? It depends on the tide!”
“Here is little Jane, sir,” said Mrs. Crickledon.
“Fall in,” Van Diemen said to little Jane.
The girl was bobbing curtseys to Annette, on her introduction by Mrs. Crickledon.
“Martin, you stay at my house; you stay at Elba till you get things comfortable about you, and then you shall have the Crouch for a year, rent free. Eh, Netty?”
Annette chimed in: “Anything we can do, anything. Nothing can be too much.”
Van Diemen was praising little Jane for her devotion to her master.
“Master have been so kind to me,” said little Jane.
“Now, march; it is cold,” Van Diemen gave the word, and Herbert stood by Mary rather dejectedly, foreseeing that his prospects at Elba were darkened.
“Now then, Mart, left leg forward,” Van Diemen linked his arm in his friend’s.
“I must have a look,” Tinman broke from him, and cast a forlorn look of farewell on the last of the house on the beach.
“You’ve got me left to you, old Mart; don’t forget that,” said Van Diemen.
Tinman’s chest fell. “Yes, yes,” he responded. He was touched.
“And I told those fellows if they landed you dry they should have—I’d give them double pay; and I do believe they’ve earned their money.”
“I don’t think I’m very wet, I’m cold,” said Tinman.
“You can’t help being cold, so come along.”
“But, Philip!” Tinman lifted his voice; “I’ve lost everything. I tried to save a little. I worked hard, I exposed my life, and all in vain.”
The voice of little Jane was heard.
“What’s the matter with the child?” said Van Diemen.
Annette went up to her quietly.
But little Jane was addressing her master.
“Oh! if you please, I did manage to save something the last thing when the boat was at the window, and if you please, sir, all the bundles is lost, but I saved you a papercutter, and a letter Horse Guards, and here they are, sir.”
The grateful little creature drew the square letter and paper-cutter from her bosom, and held them out to Mr. Tinman.
It was a letter of the imposing size, with THE HORSE GUARDS very distinctly inscribed on it in Tinman’s best round hand, to strike his vindictive spirit as positively intended for transmission, and give him sight of his power to wound if it pleased him; as it might.
“What!” cried he, not clearly comprehending how much her devotion had accomplished for him.
“A letter to the Horse Guards!” cried Van Diemen.
“Here, give it me,” said little Jane’s master, and grasped it nervously.
“What’s in that letter?” Van Diemen asked. “Let me look at that letter. Don’t tell me it’s private correspondence.”
“My dear Philip, dear friend, kind thanks; it’s not a letter,” said Tinman.
“Not a letter! why, I read the address, ‘Horse Guards.’ I read it as it passed into your hands. Now, my man, one look at that letter, or take the consequences.”
“Kind thanks for your assistance, dear Philip, indeed! Oh! this? Oh! it’s nothing.” He tore it in halves.
His face was of the winter sea-colour, with the chalk wash on it.
“Tear again, and I shall know what to think of the contents,” Van Diemen frowned. “Let me see what you’ve said. You’ve sworn you would do it, and there it is at last, by miracle; but let me see it and I’ll overlook it, and you shall be my house-mate still. If not!——”
Tinman tore away.
“You mistake, you mistake, you’re entirely wrong,” he said, as he pursued with desperation his task of rendering every word unreadable.
Van Diemen stood fronting him; the accumulation of stores of petty injuries and meannesses which he had endured from this man, swelled under the whip of the conclusive exhibition of treachery. He looked so black that Annette called, “Papa!”
“Philip,” said Tinman. “Philip! my best friend!”
“Pooh, you’re a poor creature. Come along and breakfast at Elba, and you can sleep at the Crouch, and goodnight to you. Crickledon,” he called to the houseless couple, “you stop at Elba till I build you a shop.”
With these words, Van Diemen led the way, walking alone. Herbert was compelled to walk with Tinman.
Mary and Annette came behind, and Mary pinched Annette’s arm so sharply that she must have cried out aloud had it been possible for her to feel pain at that moment, instead of a personal exultation, flying wildly over the clash of astonishment and horror, like a sea-bird over the foam.
In the first silent place they came to, Mary murmured the words: “Little Jane.”
Annette looked round at Mrs. Crickledon, who wound up the procession, taking little Jane by the hand. Little Jane was walking demurely, with a placid face. Annette glanced at Tinman. Her excited feelings nearly rose to a scream of laughter. For hours after, Mary had only to say to her: “Little Jane,” to produce the same convulsion. It rolled her heart and senses in a headlong surge, shook her to burning tears, and seemed to her ideas the most wonderful running together of opposite things ever known on this earth. The young lady was ashamed of her laughter; but she was deeply indebted to it, for never was mind made so clear by that beneficent exercise.
ETEXT EDITOR’S BOOKMARKS:
Adversary at once offensive and helpless provokes brutality
Causes him to be popularly weighed
Distinguished by his not allowing himself to be provoked
Eccentric behaviour in trifles
Excited, glad of catastrophe if it but killed monotony
Generally he noticed nothing
Good jokes are not always good policy
I make a point of never recommending my own house
Indulged in their privilege of thinking what they liked
Infants are said to have their ideas, and why not young ladies?
Lend him your own generosity
Men love to boast of things nobody else has seen
Naughtily Australian and kangarooly
Not in love—She was only not unwilling to be in love
Rich and poor ‘s all right, if I’m rich and you’re poor
She began to feel that this was life in earnest
She dealt in the flashes which connect ideas
She sought, by looking hard, to understand it better
Sunning itself in the glass of Envy
That which fine cookery does for the cementing of couples
The intricate, which she takes for the infinite
Tossed him from repulsion to incredulity, and so back
Two principal roads by which poor sinners come to a conscience
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