the expedition to ormfell had been a failure from idris' point of view. deaf to the voice of reason he had clung to the idea that the viking's tomb held a clue that would aid him in finding his father. having now received clear proof of the fallacy of that hope idris, after a few hours' sleep, wandered forth by the seashore to consider what his next step should be.
it was an afternoon of brilliant sunshine. the tide was out, but without making any inquiries as to the time of its return, he strolled leisurely onward, wrapped in meditation.
casually raising his eyes from the ribbed sea-sand he caught sight of a structure, locally known as "the stairs of david." this was an arrangement of three ladders, suspended one above another on the face of the cliff, which at this point rose vertically to a height of more than a hundred feet. iron hooks kept these ladders in position. the structure, a very frail one, had been put up originally to enable crab-fishers to reach this part of the beach with more expedition.
still deep in thought idris passed on, and had left the ladder about a mile in his rear, when he suddenly paused and looked in the direction of the murmuring sound—the sound he had heard for some time, but to which he had given no heed.
the tide was coming in, and coming in so quickly, that unless he hastened back at once he ran the risk of being[pg 133] drowned: for steep cliffs rose above him, and the open beach was at least five miles away.
just on the point of setting off at a run he was checked by the recollection of "the stairs of david." it would be easy to scale the cliff by means of this structure.
he moved onward at a leisurely pace, and then stopped abruptly. what was that object rising and falling on the surface of the water a few yards in rear of the advancing line of foam? let "the stairs of david" be far off or close by, he must satisfy his curiosity before mounting them.
he ran to the edge of the breakers, and, with a thrill of surprise, discovered that the undulating object was a woman's hat.
how came it there? he had not, so far as he could remember, encountered anybody in his walk along the shore. he looked over the dancing waves, but neither boat nor vessel was visible: he looked up and down the beach: he looked along the craggy summit of the cliffs that rose in frowning grandeur above him, but could see neither man nor woman. he stood, a solitary figure, on a shore that stretched away north and south for many miles.
regardless of the advancing tide he remained motionless, fascinated by the sight of the hat, his uneasiness deepening each moment. there was something familiar in the grey felt with its once graceful feather bedrenched with the salt spray.
he advanced into the shallow water and lifted the hat for a closer survey. it was rarely that idris took note of a woman's attire, but he could recall every detail of the dress worn by mademoiselle rivière on the day he saw her in the ravengar chantry, and he knew that this hat was hers.
his heart, weighted by a terrible idea, sank within him[pg 134] like lead. half expecting to see a dead form come floating past he glanced again over the surface of the rippling tide.
he now recollected, what he had hitherto forgotten, that there were dangerous quicksands along this part of the coast. must he believe that mademoiselle rivière had become engulfed, and that the tide was now foaming jubilantly over her head?
once more he looked along the shore, and, as he looked, his pulses thrilled with a sudden and delicious relief; for at the sandy base of a distant cliff he caught sight of a figure lying prone.
dropping the hat he hurried over the intervening space, and in a moment more was kneeling beside the form of lorelie rivière. beneath her lay the third and lowest of the three ladders that formed the so-called "stairs of david." she had been either ascending or descending the frail structure, and it had given way. the ladder, worm-eaten with age, had snapped into three portions on touching the sands, and the shock of its fall had deprived her of consciousness.
her eyelids were closed. silent and motionless she lay, her breathing so faint as scarce to seem breathing at all, her delicate fingers still clinging to a rung of the fallen ladder.
"thank heaven, she is alive!" murmured idris, a great dread rolling from his heart.
he gently detached her fingers from the rung of the ladder, and, tenderly raising her, rested her head upon his knee, turning her face towards the breeze. as he did so, the murmuring sound, that had never once ceased, seemed to swell louder, and his heart almost leaped into his mouth when he noticed how rapidly the tide was advancing.
that terrible tide!
[pg 135]
were it not for the rush of waters swirling forward he might have thought that some good fairy was favouring his heart's dearest wish. the loveliest maiden whom he had ever seen was resting within his arms, dependent upon him for safety. but what safety could he give? their position seemed hopeless. the last rung of the middle ladder hung forty feet or more above his head. the lowest ladder lay on the sands in three portions, and he realized at a glance the impossibility of refixing them in their original position.
"no boat in sight! impossible to scale the cliffs! too far to swim with her to ormsby! what is to be our fate?" he muttered.
idris had often looked death in the face, but never in circumstances so hard as these. was he to die holding this fair maiden in his arms, helplessly witnessing her death-gasps? and the voice of the sea, swelling ever higher and higher, seemed to give an answering cry of "yes, yes!"
the breeze blowing full upon her face had a reviving effect upon her. slowly she opened her eyes, and a look of innocent wonder came over her face when she met idris' earnest gaze bent upon her.
"you fell from the ladder, you remember," he said, answering the question in her eyes. "are you hurt? have you broken any bones?"
"i—i think not," was the reply.
"shall i help you to stand?"
she assented. but no sooner was she raised to her feet than throbs of pain began to shoot through her left ankle, and she leaned for support against the cliff, resting her right foot only upon the sand.
"my ankle pains me. i don't think i can walk."
while thus speaking she chanced to look upward at the ladder hanging far above her head, and then, [pg 136]lowering her eyes to the flowing sea, she suddenly took in the full peril of their position.
"the tide! the tide!" she murmured, clasping her hands. "we are lost."
"we certainly mustn't remain here. and if you cannot walk i must carry you."
idris' cheerful and brisk air did not deceive her. glancing from left to right she saw the futility of his proposal as well as he saw it himself.
the contour of the shore formed a semicircular bay many miles in length, and its sands were lined by a wall of lofty perpendicular cliffs without a single gap to break their continuity. idris and his companion were standing somewhere near the centre of this curve. the tide, extending in a straight line across the bay, had now closed in upon the extreme points of the arc-like sweep, and was still advancing, covering the sand and reducing at each moment the extent of their standing room. before idris could have carried her half-a-mile the sea would be breaking many feet deep upon the base of the cliffs.
"you cannot save me," said mademoiselle rivière, a sudden calmness coming over her. "it is impossible. you must leave me and try to save yourself."
the gentle maiden, whom a harsh word melts to tears, will often face death with fortitude, the great crisis evoking all the latent heroism of her nature. so it was now, and idris, looking into the depth of mademoiselle rivière's steadfast eyes, caught a glimpse of how those christian women may have looked who faced martyrdom in the pagan days of old. strange that a maiden, seemingly so good and brave, should have excited the aversion of beatrice!
"if you die, i die with you," said idris. "but i have no intention of letting either you or myself die. there is a way of escape open to us."
[pg 137]
for, with a sudden thrill of joy, he remembered that, at a point a few hundred yards to the north of their present position, he had passed a great pile of rocks, fallen crags detached from the sides of the overhanging precipice. the spot was invisible from where he now stood, being hidden behind a projecting buttress of the cliff, but he judged that the summit of this rocky mass was certainly above high-water mark. there he and mademoiselle rivière must remain till the ebb of the tide, unless they should be so fortunate as to attract the notice of some passing boat.
making known his intention, idris added, "pardon me; this is no time for ceremony."
he lifted her in his arms, and she, with a sudden and natural revulsion in favour of life, submitted to his will, placing her arms around his neck to steady her person.
the humming sea, as if bent on securing its victims, came foaming with threatening rapidity over the bare stretch of sand, throwing forward long streamlets, that, like eager creatures in a race, seemed striving with each other to be first at the foot of the cliff.
though lorelie rivière was but a light weight idris' progress was necessarily slow. at each step his foot sank deeper into the rapidly-moistening sand, and ere long the water itself was swirling round his ankles, and flinging its sparkling spray against the base of the precipice. and yet in all his life he had never experienced the pure joy that filled him at that moment. the woman whom he most loved was reclining within his arms, and clasped so closely to him, that he could feel her breast swelling against his own, and her hair touching his cheek. there was a subtle charm in the situation: what wonder, then, that he desired to prolong it, and that he moved at a slower pace as he drew near the pile of fallen crags?
the desired haven was gained at last, and mademoiselle[pg 138] rivière, partly by her own efforts and partly with the help of idris, clambered up the face of the slippery and weed-grown rocks, the top of which formed an irregular, hummocky platform, a few yards in extent.
"saved!" she murmured, sinking down and scarcely able to repress a tendency to cry. "but will not the tide cover this ledge?"
"no. see here!" replied idris, plucking a weed beside her. "samphire! it never grows below salt water. we are quite safe."
mademoiselle rivière clasped her hands: her lips moved, and idris knew that she was breathing a silent prayer.
"you have saved my life," she said, looking up at him with gratitude shining from her eyes. "how can i thank you?"
though he had seen mademoiselle rivière but once, and then for a moment only: though this was his first time of conversing with her, idris intuitively felt that she was the one woman in the world for him: and that though happiness might be possible apart from her, such happiness would be but the shadow of that derivable from her undivided love.
fortune was certainly favouring him. he would have given half his wealth to any one who could have brought about such a situation as the present, and lo! the event had happened naturally, of itself, and without any premeditation on his part. it was wonderful! many hours might pass ere he and mademoiselle rivière could quit the spot where they now were. he determined to make good use of this golden opportunity. he would exert all his powers to gain a place, if not in her affection, at least in her friendship, so that her feeling on parting from him should contain something of regret.
"how can i thank you?" she repeated.
[pg 139]
"by not thanking me. how did the accident happen?"
"my hat was the cause of it all. i was standing on the edge of the cliff when the wind carried it off to the sands below. not wishing to return home bare-headed, i clambered down 'the stairs of david' after it. the ladder gave way, and i fell. a sudden stop, and i remember no more."
"it was well the ground at the foot of the cliff was soft sand," said idris.
"it was well, as you say," replied mademoiselle rivière with a shiver. "i shall never forget the sensation of falling through the air."
"does your ankle still pain you?" idris asked, observing that she shrank from placing her left foot on the ground.
"a little," she smiled.
"you are sure it is not dislocated—broken?"
"o no; it is merely a sprain. how long shall we have to remain here?" she added.
this was a question that idris himself had been considering. it appeared that mademoiselle rivière, on setting out for her walk, had not told any one of the direction she had intended to take: idris had been similarly negligent. hence it was very unlikely that men from ormsby would come cruising along the shore in boats to search for them. to scale the precipice was out of the question. to shout for aid would be of little avail, for as the cliff above them was lofty, and the highroad ran a considerable distance from its edge, there was little probability that their voices would be heard. their position rendered it impossible to make any signals that would be visible at ormsby, that town being situated just behind the cliff that formed one extremity of the bay.
"i fear," said idris, after considering all these things,[pg 140] "that our captivity is dependent upon the good graces of the tide."
"and the tide will be several hours in turning," said mademoiselle rivière. "well, i suppose i must play the philosopher, and accept the situation. it is certainly better to be here than under the waves."
if her beauty charmed idris, her manner, pleasant and without affectation, charmed him still more.
so interested had he been in her companionship that he had hitherto failed to notice that the face of the overhanging cliff was pierced by a deep cavern, the mouth of which was on a level with the top of their rocky platform.
"what is this?" he said, stepping forward to take a closer view. "a cave, as i live. a coast-guard's place for watching smugglers, i suppose."
"that must be the 'hermit's cave,'" said mademoiselle rivière, turning her eyes upon it, "so named from an ancient recluse who is said to have made it his home. i am told that the chair in which he sat is still to be seen, cut out of the solid rock."
"excellent! you must occupy that seat, mademoiselle. it will be more pleasant there than sitting out here upon this slippery windy rock."
she rose, glad of the proposed change, for the wind was playing confusion with her hair. observing her wince, as her left foot touched the ground, idris said, with a smile:—
"you had better let me carry you."
lorelie coloured, neither assenting nor opposing. since idris had carried her once it would be prudery to resist now, and so, knowing that she must either accept his aid or else crawl to the spot upon her hands and knees, she entrusted herself to his arms, and in this way gained the entrance of the cave, which was of [pg 141]considerable extent, and strewn with logs, planks, and odd pieces of timber.
"where does all this wood come from?" she asked.
"wreckage-timber, probably; doubtless placed here by the coast-guard to be used as firing in cold weather. see! here is the hermit's seat you spoke of," said idris, indicating a piece of rock jutting from the wall of the cave near its entrance. it had been hollowed out by art into the rude resemblance of an armchair, and within this recess idris placed his companion.
"i hope you dined well before setting out," he said, "for our grotto offers nothing in the shape of commissariat."
"i am somewhat thirsty," replied lorelie, as she turned her eyes upon a tiny spring of water, which, issuing from a fissure in the wall of the cave, flowed silently down into a depression hollowed out in the floor, just beside the hermit's seat; then, overflowing from the basin into a groove of its own making, the water became lost in an orifice a few feet distant.
"here is a remedy for thirst," said idris. "the daily drink of our hermit. 'the waters of siloah that go softly,' was perhaps his name for it. the eremite's crockeryware having perished, how do you propose to drink?"
"with nature's cup," smiled lorelie, curving her hands into the shape of a bowl.
mindful of her ankle she slid cautiously upon her knees and bent, a charming picture, over the pool.
"how clear and still," she murmured. "its surface is like a mirror."
"then do not gaze too long upon it, lest you meet the fate of narcissus."
"narcissus?" she repeated, looking up at him with inquiring eyes.
[pg 142]
"he died from the reflection of his own loveliness."
idris regretted his words almost in the very moment of their utterance, for he could tell by the sudden clouding of her face that she was averse to the language of gallantry. clearly she was not a woman to be won by empty compliment, and he resolved to steer clear of such a quicksand. he was glad to observe that when she had resumed her seat the pleasant smile was again on her lip.
attentive to every variation in her countenance he began to discern two moods in lorelie rivière: the one vivacious and sprightly, and this seemed to be her original disposition: the other, pensive and sad, the result, so he judged, of some secret sorrow.
he longed to know more of this fair lady, slighted by beatrice; the lady who had once lived at nantes in the very house that fronted the scene of the murder of duchesne, that murder for which his father had been condemned: the lady who was erecting in st. oswald's churchyard a marble cross inscribed with an epitaph that seemed almost applicable to his father's case: the lady whose playing upon the organ had wrought so weird an effect upon his mind.
all these things contributed to invest lorelie rivière with a charming air of mystery, but idris recognized that the time was not yet ripe to press for confidences.
dragging a few logs forward he disposed them so as to form a seat for himself near the entrance of the cavern, remarking as he did so:—
"we must not forget to look out for passing boats."
the afternoon sun was filling the air with a dusky golden glow. the waves dancing and sparkling below the mouth of the cave flashed emerald and sapphire hues upon its roof, irradiating the place with an ever-changing light.
to idris the situation was a charming tableau, a living[pg 143] idyll, and one that was rendered all the more pleasant by contrast with their recent perilous position. mademoiselle rivière trembled as she reflected on what might have happened but for the chance passing of this stranger. strange that until this moment it had not occurred to her to ask his name!
"you know my name," she said, "but i have yet to learn yours."
"my name is breakspear," he replied, withholding his true patronymic; and feeling as he spoke a sense of shame of having to deceive her even in so small a matter; "idris breakspear."
"idris!" she said, with a sudden start, as if the name had touched some chord in her memory. "idris! it is a somewhat uncommon name."
"we will say, then, that its rarity is a point in its favour," smiled idris, who had observed her start, and wondered at the cause.
"have we not met before, mr. breakspear?"
"i saw you two days ago in the ravengar chantry," he replied. he did not say, as he might truthfully have said, that during these two days he had been thinking of little else but that brief meeting. "miss ravengar and i," he continued, "had been listening to your recital on the organ. i must congratulate you on your skill as a musician, mademoiselle rivière. may i ask the name of the last chant you played? was it taken from some oratorio, or was it your own improvisation?"
"the last chant?" repeated lorelie, with a pensive air. "let me think? what was it? did it run like this?"
and in a sweet silvery tone she trilled off a bar which idris immediately recognized as a part of the refrain that had been played by her.
"that is the 'ravengar funeral march,'" explained lorelie. "its origin goes far back into the depths of the[pg 144] dark ages, tradition affirming that it is the composition of an ancient scald, and was first chanted at the burial of the old norse chieftain who founded the ravengar family. it has been the custom to play it at the funeral of every ravengar, though he would be a bold person who should say that the tune has not undergone variations in its descent to our times. the unknown minstrel with whom it originated was a genius, a medi?val mozart. could you not fancy that you heard the tread of numerous feet in procession, the clang of shield and spear, the groans of warriors, the plaintive weeping of women?"
"it certainly was a weird requiem; it moved me as no other piece of music ever has."
and then, absorbed in a new idea, idris forgot for the moment the presence of even lorelie rivière.
"what are these ravengars to me," he thought, "or am i to them, that their funeral chant should produce in me such clairvoyant sensations?"
this question was succeeded by another. how had mademoiselle rivière become familiar with this requiem? as if in answer to his thoughts lorelie remarked:—
"i heard viscount walden play it once in venice: he gave it as a specimen of the weird and uncanny in music. it so took my fancy that i did not rest till i had obtained a copy of it."
it was somewhat disquieting to learn that she had met lord walden abroad, and that she was on terms of sufficient friendship to beg from him a copy of music. had this friendship changed into something deeper? was he to regard lord walden in the light of a rival? had mademoiselle rivière come to ormsby in order to be near the viscount? in saving her from being overwhelmed by the tide idris had doubtless gained a high place in her favour, but then gratitude is not love, and ravenhall and a coronet were powerful attractions.
[pg 145]
"do you often play at st. oswald's church?" he asked, after an interval of silence.
"yes. i find a charm in its 'dim religious light.'"
"and the quietude of the place," said idris, "is also favourable to the study of medi?val historians—paulus diaconus, for example."
"ah! mr. breakspear," she said, "so it was you who carried off my book from the organ-loft. i guessed as much when i went back, and found it gone. you must not forget to return it, for i value it highly. now, confess, that you have wondered why i, a woman, should take to poring over that old lombard historian?"
"curiosity is not confined to the sex with whom it is supposed to have originated," smiled idris, "and i am willing to admit, mademoiselle, that i have been puzzled. the book does not belong to the style of literature usually patronized by ladies."
"merci! i regard that last remark as a compliment. well, i will explain the mystery, if you will promise to keep the matter a secret." and upon idris giving his assurance, she continued: "i am trying to write a poetical play, a tragedy relating to the times of the italo-lombard kings, and as i do not wish to commit anachronisms, it behoves me to study the historical authorities in the original."
"i understand," answered idris, his opinion of lorelie rising higher than ever: besides being a musician and a latin scholar, she was also a poetess! "and what are you going to call your play?"
"'the fatal skull,'" she replied. "you look surprised, mr. breakspear. is there already a play of that name?"
"i have never heard of it."
"because one must not borrow another author's title, is it not so?"
[pg 146]
"the fatal skull!" idris could not but think it a curious coincidence that lorelie's drama should bear such a title, when he himself at this time was much interested in a skull, to wit, that of orm the viking.
"why so weird a title, mademoiselle?"
"because it is appropriate to the leading incident in the piece: for the play turns on the famous historic banquet at which the lombard queen rosamond was forced by her husband to drink from her father's skull. so now you understand, mr. breakspear," she went on, "that wherever the words 'fatal skull,' or the initials 'f. s.,' occur in the margin of my book, they mean that there is something in the passage thus marked capable of being worked into my drama."
"and when do you intend to publish it?"
"not yet: perhaps never. i write, not for fame, but for my own pleasure."
"do not say that, mademoiselle. if one has noble thoughts the world will be the better for hearing them. i hope, therefore, to see the day when your work will be published: nay, more, i hope to see it acted."
"it is kind of you to say so," she murmured. the light of pleasure in her eyes, and the colour mantling her cheek, so enhanced her beauty that it was with difficulty the impulsive idris could repress the temptation of telling her of his love. but, even as he watched, the look of pleasure faded from her face, and there succeeded the melancholy air that he had previously noticed, an air that said almost as plainly as words, "i am forgetting myself: it is not for me to be glad."
yet the smile returned to her lip when idris ventured upon a suggestion.
"i see neither boat nor vessel within hail," he remarked, glancing over the sea. "we have several hours yet before us. now in the christmas tales, you know, when[pg 147] the stage-coach passengers are snowed up at the country-inn, or the sea-voyagers wrecked on the lonely isle, they always beguile the time by story-telling. it's the orthodox thing to do. suppose we imitate them."
"a good idea! and," added lorelie archly, "it becomes the mover of the proposition to take the initiative."
"caught in the net i was preparing for another!" smiled idris. "i was hoping to hear you recite some portions of your play. but that will come later. well, mademoiselle, what shall my story be?"
"you said a while ago that you have led a somewhat adventurous life, and that you once took part in a battle. i call for some of your adventures."
"you flatter my vanity. a man's self is an insidious theme. the apologia pro mea vita is rarely to be trusted, the author being naturally prone to magnify his virtues, and minimize his faults. always receive the autobiography cum grano salis."
"very well," replied lorelie, with a smile irresistible in its witchery. "begin your story, and i will supply the granum salis as you proceed."
vain was it for idris to protest. she was not to be deterred from her purpose of hearing something of his personal history; and, accordingly, after due reflection, he proceeded to relate some of his experiences in the gr?co-turkish war of '97, in which he had taken a part, in common with some other englishmen of adventurous spirit.
idris was master of a certain natural eloquence, an eloquence very effective in the case of an imaginative maiden. at any rate lorelie seemed to take a deep interest in his words. never before had he seen so attentive a listener. her face, like water lit by the changing rays of the sun, reflected all the varying expressions on his own [pg 148]countenance, as he passed from grave to gay, from scene to scene.
a significant incident occurred during the telling of these reminiscences.
he was relating that on one occasion he had been entrusted by a greek commander with the task of conveying a secret dispatch to a village beyond the enemy's lines. the ordinary route to this place ran through a mountain-pass, which at that time was carefully guarded by bashi-bazouks. idris, therefore, determined to scale the face of an almost perpendicular cliff, and passing, as it were, above the heads of the watchers, come out in their rear. when he was three-fourths of the way up the cliff his heart almost leaped into his mouth as he caught a glimpse of a bashi-bazouk, dagger in hand, waiting for him at the top. the shades of twilight were falling: to descend was impossible: to go upward was to meet certain death: yet upward he continued to pull himself, little by little, hoping that by some good fortune he might be able to outwit the armed watcher. in graphic language he painted his sensations as none could, save those only who have been in a position.
at this point lorelie's interest became intense, even painful. so vivid was her realization of the scene that she seemed at that very moment to see idris before her, clinging feebly to the edge of the cliff in the dusky gloom, with the savage enemy above him dealing the death-stroke. she leaned forward in her seat with parted lips: then, quite unconsciously, and all-forgetful of her sprained ankle, she half rose with her arm extended as if to ward off the coming blow.
"o, but you are here," she murmured, realizing her mistake. "how absurd of me!" and, with a heightened colour, she sank back in confusion.
"yes, i am here," replied idris, his heart leaping with[pg 149] delight at this proof of her interest in his welfare. "near the summit of the cliff was a narrow shelf of rock: on this ledge i lay down and waited, with my revolver pointing to the night sky. i knew that my gentleman would peep over again presently to mark my progress. he did. what the kites left of him you'll find at the foot of the cliff."
if pleasure at the death of a fellow-mortal be an anti-christian feeling, it must be confessed that lorelie rivière had little of the christian in her at that moment.
now that he had once entered upon his personal history, she would not let him quit it, betraying such interest that idris almost wondered whether she had a secret motive in wishing to hear his biography.
the most romantic part of his career, however, namely, that relating to the runic ring and the quest for his father, he carefully reserved, giving instead an account of his travels through europe, and recalling many a curious legend from "out-of-the-way" places.
long ere lorelie was sated with these reminiscences the first stars of night glimmered in the blue air above: and, that nothing might be wanting to complete a romantic situation, the moon, rising in all her glory from the depth of ocean, silvered with its radiance the entrance of the cave. the light passed within bringing into relief the statuesque pose of lorelie's figure. it gleamed on her wealth of raven hair, and hallowed her face with new and mystic beauty, as, with her cheek pillowed on her hands, she sat attentive to idris, drinking in his words as the fabled oriental bird is said to drink the moonbeams.
so lovely and interested a listener might well have turned the head of the frostiest hermit. what wonder, then, that the one thought in idris' mind at this moment was:—"o that this might last forever!"
