The Derelict (Bottome, Century Magazine, 1917)/Chapter 8
CHAPTER VIII
The catastrophe would never have taken place if Emily had not seen a new and exquisite duty, and performed it. It may have been the wood with the hart's-tongue ferns and bluebells that decided her, or the hunger in Geoffrey's eyes, or the fact that there was no doubting the power he had got into Fanny's portraits; but whatever the pressure that unlocked Emily's heart, she let St. Mary Abbott's go, she let her triumph over the Amberleys go, she agreed to an almost immediate marriage with Geoffrey.
They would be married in the little wind-blown Cornish church on the downs of Lelant, facing the golden sands; and meanwhile, despite the increasing fullness of the days of preparation, Emily never forgot Fanny.
That was probably where the mistake came. Fanny, forgotten, would have looked after herself and found her own level.
But Emily was far too thoughtful to forget Fanny, and she found an American sculptor, an enthusiastic and energetic lady, to whom she committed her.
Miss Adelaide P. Loomis seized upon Fanny with rapture.
"You have given me Venus, you have given me the Madonna!" she said to Emily, a figure of speech likely to displease both her famous companions. To Fanny she said, "My dear, you are Helen of Troy."
Fanny said she was n't. Her name was Fanny and she came from London.
She sat to Miss Loomis for three hours every morning, and in the afternoon she played with the landlady's children.
One of Emily's ways of keeping Fanny in her circle of happiness was to describe to her the life that she and Geoffrey purposed to lead in London. It was to be a broad, full life, lived, if possible, in an oak-paneled house in Chelsea, and it was to include Fanny.
Fanny listened with an absorbed attention, especially to Emily's description of the house. It was wonderful to Fanny to imagine a place where you could really stay and have your things to yourself, and not have first one man and then another, and servants who knew you were married. Fanny had often had maids who knew she was n't.
And then Emily spoke of the great sanctity of marriage and motherhood, and Fanny thought of the landlady's children.
Fanny herself could never have a child. She said this once to Emily, who changed the subject; but she came back to it again later because she wanted Fanny to realize the dedication of marriage. She thought that for Fanny to have this ideal in her heart might preserve her from any baser feelings. She told Fanny this, and Fanny said that she was n't sure that having things in your heart was much of a help. Still, Emily could see that Fanny was improving. Her mind seemed to dwell upon higher things. The next evening Fanny walked across the sands to meet Emily. She had not done this before; she had always waited for Emily to come to her.
They talked about Emily's wedding-dress. After Emily had described it—it was being made in London—Fanny gave a deep sigh. Then she said:
"That's a thing I used to think a lot about, being in white and orange-blossoms and so on. You would n't believe what a time it took before it got out of my head."
Emily urged upon Fanny the deeper things, which need never leave her, and then Fanny said:
"Miss Emily, what would you do if you were sick of life?"
It was a curious question, and Fanny asked it curiously, drawing in her breath a little and digging her fingers into the sand while she waited for an answer.
Emily gazed out tenderly over the still sea. The waves hardly broke; they seemed to lift and sink as quietly as the heart of a child asleep.
"Dear Fanny, I should seek a new one," she answered softly. "Newness of life—that's the most beautiful phrase I know."
"Yes, it does sound nice," agreed Fanny.
When she left her that evening Emily kissed Fanny, and Fanny strangely clung to her. Emily had often kissed Fanny before, but she had never known Fanny to cling.
It was this new softness in Fanny that made Emily agree to Geoffrey's request. She felt that Fanny was developing a moral sense, and when Geoffrey urged that Marcel Dupin should at last be allowed to join them, she looked to Fanny's moral sense to preserve the situation.
"It's difficult to keep on putting him off," Geoffrey pleaded, "and I don't see that it matters very much even if he does run across Fanny now, do you?"
Emily considered thoughtfully, then she said:
"I don't like their being much together; but Fanny is so busy just now with Miss Loomis, and so wonderfully improved and deepened, that I should think it would be safe. I 'll talk to him a little, myself. If he knows her story and is, on his honor, I think we can confide in the chivalry of a Frenchman."
"Oh, Marcel 'll be all right," Geoffrey agreed hurriedly. He had a dislike he could n't quite understand to any talk about Fanny as if she needed safeguarding.
He could n't have explained quite what he felt just now about Fanny, but he did not really like to talk about her at all. Whenever he thought of her or her name was mentioned, he felt as if he had trod on a thorn.
The next day a storm came up. The sea was gloriously wild, and Geoffrey and Emily spent a morning watching the breaking of the waves at Clodgy Point.
After lunch Geoffrey went back alone. The wind was still strong, and the water thundered and pummeled at the rocks, with an intermittent, gigantic sound. Geoffrey pushed on beyond Fanny's cottage to the desolate expanse of headland, where there was nothing but the wild gorse, the black rocks, and the enraged and foaming sea.
There is probably no coast in Cornwall so safe as the coast of St. Ives, but if you walk far enough you can come to danger. There is a point where a group of rocks run out into the sea. At the rise of the tide they are cut off from the shore, and at the tide's height they are completely engulfed. It was too windy to paint, but Geoffrey felt as if he could watch forever the oncoming of the waves; he loved the feathered flight of them, as the tops seemed to bend above the solid green and then drew back, and were swallowed up, only to fringe it once more in a wild, breaking whiteness as they roared past the black rocks and flung themselves in heaps upon the shore. He passed the point, and saw the rocks were virtually cut off. A few feet off, foaming water separated them from the shore; the thunder of the breaking waves and the high shriek of the gulls filled the noisy air with glee. Far out on the farthest rock was a figure, oblivious in the tumultuous sound, watching the oncoming hosts, with her back turned to the side rush of the tide.
Geoffrey knew in an instant whose the figure was. She had sat to him in the same position, her elbow on her knee, her chin on her hand. He had a strange flash of wondering what her eyes were like, facing the terrible seas.
He flung off his coat and boots; he would have liked to forget the pull of his great happiness, but he could not forget it. He cursed Fanny under his breath as the waters caught him, bitter and cold, with their thrusting, vicious force. There were only a few yards of sea between him and the rocks on which Fanny sat. He held his breath for the struggle. Twice he clutched at the nearest rock, and twice he was washed from his hold and dashed heavily against the precipitous, high sides. The third time the wave receded he flung himself upward into safety. Then he shouted. Fanny turned at the sound of his voice. Her eyes were all terror, but she never looked at the sea; her terror was only for him.
"O Mr. Amberley!" she cried, "why did you come! Go back! Go back!"
"If you don't do what I tell you, Fanny," he shouted, "I 'll drown!"
He wondered afterward why he had n't said, "you 'll drown!" At the time he knew why he said it.
"I "ll do whatever you tell me," said Fanny.
"Put your hands on my shoulders and get to one side of me," Geoffrey said. "Don't hang round my neck,—d' you understand?—and if you let go, I 'll go to—I'm not going back without you." He was quite sure he hated Fanny, but he knew he was n't going back without her.
"All right, Mr. Amberley," said Fanny; "I won't let go."
He was back into the water as he spoke, dragging her after him. It was only up to his knees, but the undercurrent dragged at them with a blind and awful force; then the waves rushed in, half a dozen of them, one after the other. They were off their feet in a moment, and Geoffrey was fighting his way up then, and diving down beneath their death-like fringes. Once the surf caught them, they would have no further chance.
The weight of Fanny was appalling and intolerable. She eased it by holding on to only one shoulder and attempting to swim beside him.
They went down together under the green waves three times. Geoffrey dared not look at the shore. The tide was settling in toward it, and the current was with them, but the current set to a more distant point of shore, and it was no use attempting to fight against it.
Geoffrey weakened slowly; his stroke grew uneven and jerky. The weight of Fanny was heavier; probably she could no longer attempt to swim. Suddenly he heard her voice.
"We 're very near in; can't you stand, Mr. Amberley?"
He tried to gain his footing; then suddenly he failed to ride the oncoming green wave. It broke above them, the surf caught them, smothering over their heads with a deafening roar. His struggle stopped.
When he opened his eyes he found they had been thrown over and over on the beach, and as if by a miracle on the only piece of sand along the rock-strewn shore.
Fanny was bending over him, but when she saw his eyes open, she lurched face downward on the sands beside him. He saw her hands clench and unclench like the hands of the dying. He could not see her face. He thought he heard her say:
"Then that's that!" and "O God! O God!"
They lay there for a long time, beaten and breathless. Then a wave ran up and licked their feet; that galvanized them into life. They got up stiffly, and, leaning on each other, reached the cliff path. They took shelter in a coast-guard's hut, and Geoffrey told their story, while Fanny, wrapped in blankets, lay on a horsehair sofa, her great eyes fixed on him.
When Geoffrey told her to drink hot brandy and water she drank it, but she said nothing, not even when he said:
"Now, Fanny, you 're not to worry about this. Neither of us has been drowned, and I must cut along and tell Miss Emily, or it 'll be all over the place."
Her eyes still followed him to the door. He came back, and stood looking down at her a little awkwardly.
"It's all right, Fanny, is n't it?" he said. He spoke as a man speaks who has been found out very much in the wrong. It was as if he ought to be rather ashamed of himself for having saved her life.
"I did n't know you'd be there," Fanny whispered.
"No, of course not," said Geoffrey, reassuringly, "or the Atlantic, for that matter."
She shut her eyes as if she agreed with him about not knowing that the Atlantic would be there.
Emily was extraordinarily sweet over the whole business. She went to see Fanny later in the evening, and the only thing she said to her which could possibly be construed into a reproach was:
"And you 'll never, dear Fanny, go out on to those rocks again, will you?"
"No," said Fanny, slowly, "I won't do that again. I have n't got the nerve, and that's a fact."