Stella Fregelius - H. Rider Haggard (e book reader pdf .TXT) 📗
- Author: H. Rider Haggard
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“Tight! hold tight!” he cried, “or she will suck us after her.”
Suck she did, till the water poured over the gunwale. Then, the worst passed, and the boat rose again. The foam bubbles burst or floated away in little snowy heaps; the sea resumed its level, and, save for the floating debris, became as it had been for thousands of years before the lost Trondhjem rushed downward to its depths.
Now, for the first time, knowing the immediate peril past, Morris looked at the face of his companion. It was a fine face, and beautiful in its way. Dark eyes, very large and perfect, whereof the pupils seemed to expand and contract in answer to every impulse of the thoughts within. Above the eyes long curving lashes and delicately pencilled, arched eyebrows, and above them again a forehead low and broad. The chin rounded; the lips full, rich, and sensitive; the complexion of a clear and beautiful pallor; the ears tiny; the hands delicate; the figure slim, of medium height, and alive with grace; the general effect most uncommon, and, without being lovely, breathing a curious power and personality.
Such was the woman whom he had saved from death.
“Oh, how splendid!” she said in her deep voice, and clasping her hands. “What a death! For ship or man, what a death! And after it the great calm sea, taking and ready to take for ever.”
“Thank Heaven that it did not take you,” answered Morris wrathfully.
“Why?” she answered.
“Because you are still alive, who by now would have been dead.”
“It seems that it was not fated this time,” she answered, adding: “The next it may be different.”
“Yes,” he said reflectively; “the next it may be different, Miss Fregelius.”
She started. “How do you know my name?” she asked.
“From your father’s lips. He is ashore at my house. The sailors must have seen the light in my workshop and steered for it.”
“My father?” she gasped. “He is still alive? But, oh, how is that possible? He would never have left me.”
“Yes, he lives, but with a broken thigh and his head cut open. He was brought ashore senseless, so you need not be ashamed of him. Those sailors are the cowards.”
She sighed, as though in deep relief. “I am very glad. I had made up my mind that he must be dead, for of course I knew that he would never have left me otherwise. It did not occur to me that he might be carried away senseless. Is he—” and she paused, then added: “tell me the worst—quick.”
“No; the doctor thinks in no danger at present; only a break of the thigh and a scalp wound. Of course, he could not help himself, for he can have known no more than a corpse of what was passing,” he went on. “It is those sailors who are to blame—for leaving you on the ship, I mean.”
She shrugged her shoulders contemptuously.
“The sailors! From such rough men one does not expect much. They had little time, and thought of themselves, not of a passenger, whom they had scarcely seen. Thank God they did not leave my father behind also.”
“You do not thank God for yourself,” said Morris curiously, as he prepared to hoist the sail, for his mind harked back to his old wonderment.
“Yes, I do, but it was not His will that I should die last night. I have told you that it was not fated,” she answered.
“Quite so. That is evident now; but were I in your case this really remarkable escape would make me wonder what is fated.”
“Yes, it does a little; but not too much, for you see I shall learn in time. You might as well wonder how it happened that you arrived to save me, and to what end.”
Morris hesitated, for this was a new view of the case, before he answered.
“That your life should be saved, I suppose.”
“And why should it happen that your boat should come to save me?”
“I don’t know; chance, I suppose.”
“Neither do I; but I don’t believe in chance. Everything has its meaning and purpose.”
“Only one so seldom finds it out. Life is too short, I suppose,” replied Morris.
By now the sail was up, the boat was drawing ahead, and he was seated at her side holding the tiller.
“Why did you go down into the saloon, Miss Fregelius?” he asked presently.
She glanced at herself, and now, for the first time, he noticed that she wore a dress beneath her red cloak, and that there were slippers on her feet, which had been bare.
“I could not come into the boat as I was,” she explained, dropping her eyes. “The costume which is good enough to be drowned in is not fitted for company. My cabin was well forward, and I guessed that by wading I could reach it. Also, I had some trinkets and one or two books I did not wish to lose,” and she nodded at the hand-bag which she had thrown into the boat.
Morris smiled. “It is very nice of you to pay so much respect to appearances,” he said; “but I suppose you forgot that the vessel might come off the rocks at any moment and crush me, who was waiting.”
“Oh, no,” she answered; “I thought of it. I have always been accustomed to the sea, and know about such things.”
“And still you went for your dress and your trinkets?”
“Yes, because I was certain that it wouldn’t happen and that no harm would come to either of us by waiting a few minutes.”
“Indeed, and who told you that?”
“I don’t know, but from the moment that I saw you in the boat I was certain that the danger was done with—at least, the immediate danger,” she added.
CHAPTER IX MISS FREGELIUS
While Miss Fregelius was speaking, Morris had been staring at the sail, which, after drawing for a time in an indifferent fashion, had begun to flap aimlessly.
“What is the matter?” asked his companion. “Has the wind veered again?”
He nodded. “Dead from the west, now, and rising fast. I hope that your spirit of prophecy still speaks smooth things, for, upon my word, I believe we are both of us in a worse mess than ever.”
“Can’t we row ashore? It is only a few miles, is it?”
“We can try, but I am afraid we are in for a regular tearer. We get them sometimes on this coast after a spell of calm weather.”
“Please give me an oar,” she said. “I am used to rowing—of a sort.”
So he let down the sail, and they began to row. For ten minutes or so they struggled against the ever-rising gale. Then Morris called to her to ship oars.
“It is no use exhausting ourselves, Miss Fregelius,” he said, “for now the tide is on the ebb, and dead against us, as well as the wind.”
“What are you going to do?” she asked.
Morris glanced back to where a mile behind them the sea was beginning to foam ominously over the Sunk Rocks, here and there throwing up isolated jets of spray, like those caused by the blowing of a whale.
“I am going to try to clear them,” he said, “and then run before it. Perhaps we might make the Far Lightship five and twenty miles away. Help me to pull up the sail. So, that’s enough; she can’t stand too much. Now hold the sheet, and if I bid you, let go that instant. I’ll steer.”
A few seconds later the boat’s head had come round, and she was rushing through the water at great speed, parallel with the line of the Sunk Rocks, but being momentarily driven nearer to them. The girl, Stella Fregelius, stared at the farthest point of foam which marked the end of the reef.
“You must hold her up if you want to clear it,” she said quietly.
“I can’t do any more in this wind,” he answered. “You seem to know about boats; you will understand.”
She nodded, and on they rushed, the ever-freshening gale on their beam.
“This boat sails well,” said Stella, as a little water trickled over the gunwale.
Morris made no answer, his eyes were fixed upon the point of rock; only bidding his companion hold the tiller, he did something to the sail. Now they were not more than five hundred yards away.
“It will be a very near thing,” she said.
“Very,” he answered, “and I don’t want to be officious, but I suggest that you might do well to say your prayers.”
She looked at him, and bowed her head for a minute or so. Then suddenly she lifted it again and stared at the terror ahead of them with wide, unflinching eyes.
On sped the boat while more and more did tide and gale turn her prow into the reef. At the end of it a large, humpbacked rock showed now and again through the surf, like the fin of a black whale. That was the rock which they must clear if they would live. Morris took the boat-hook and laid it by his side. They were very near now. They would clear it; no, the wash sucked them in like a magnet.
“Good-bye,” said Morris instinctively, but Stella answered nothing.
The wave that lifted them broke upon the rock in a cloud of spray wherein for some few instants their boat seemed to vanish. They were against it; the boat touched, and Stella felt a long ribbon of seaweed cut her like a whip across the face. Kneeling down, Morris thrust madly with the boat-hook, and thus for an instant—just one—held her off. His arms doubled beneath the strain, and then came the back-wash.
Oh, heaven! it had swept them clear. The rock was behind, the sail drew, and swiftly they fled away from the death that had seemed certain.
Stella sighed aloud, while Morris wiped the water from his face.
“Are we clear?” she asked presently.
“Of the Sunk Rocks? Yes, we are round them. But the North Sea is in front of us, and what looks like the worst gale that has blown this autumn is rising behind.”
“This is a good sea-boat, and on the open water I think perhaps that we ought to weather it,” she said, trying to speak cheerfully, as Morris stowed the sail, for in that wind they wanted no canvas.
“I wish we had something to eat,” she added presently; “I am so hungry.”
“By good luck I can help you there,” he answered. “Yesterday I was out fishing and took lunch for myself and the boatman; but the fish wouldn’t bite, so we came back without eating it, and it is still in the locker. Shift a little, please, I will get the basket.”
She obeyed, and there was the food sure enough, plenty of it. A thick packet of sandwiches, and two boiled eggs, a loaf, and a large lump of cheese for the boatman, a flask of whiskey, a bottle of beer, another of water, and two of soda. They ate up the sandwiches and the eggs, Morris drinking the beer and Stella the soda water, for whiskey as yet she would not touch.
“Now,” she said, “we are still provisioned for twenty-four hours with the bread and cheese, the water and the soda which is left.”
“Yes,” he answered, “if we don’t sink or die of cold we shall not starve. I never thought that sandwiches were so good before;” and he looked hungrily at the loaf.
“You had better put it away; you may want it later,” she suggested. And he put it away.
“Tell me, if you don’t mind,” he asked, for the food and the lightening of the strain upon his nerves had made him conversational, “what is that song which you sang upon the ship, and why did you sing it?”
She coloured a little, and smiled, a sweet smile that seemed to begin in her eyes.
“It is an old Norse chant which my mother taught me; she was a Dane, as my father is also
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