CHAPTER XII

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.

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THE GENTLEMAN OF FIFTY AND THE DAMSEL OF NINETEEN

(An early uncompleted and hitherto unpublished fragment.)

By GEORGE MEREDITH