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| Northern Lights and other psychic stories by E. D'Espérance. Author of Shadowland London George Redway 1899 |
Psychic Stories
The Light of Pentraginny
This story was told to me many years ago, when spending a school holiday on the south-west coast of England.
Captain Hanna, a naval officer, was then the captain of the coast-guard. One fine day his daughters and myself went with him out to sea to inspect some buoy. "Father tell us about the angel buoy at Pentraginny," said one of the girls, and turning to me, she added, "You must hear it; it's the strangest story you can imagine. Every one knows about it, and father was born near the place and knew all the people quite well - not Marah, because she was dead before he was born, but all the others in the village he knew."
That evening Captain Hanna told us the story. I do not know the dates, but it is thirty years since that summer evening, and the captain was then somewhere about sixty years old, so that places the time back nearly a century.
Pentraginny is one of a hundred small hamlets scattered on the rock-bound coast of Cornwall, inhabited solely by fishermen and their families. It contains only a score or two of houses, mostly low whitewashed cottages, with thatched roofs, and adjacent sheds for drying, salting, or smoking of fish. Each cottage possesses a patch of ground where the women cultivate potatoes. These patches are surrounded by fences which serve the double purpose of keeping out the pigs and forming a convenient drying place for the fishing nets, which are usually to be seen festooned around them.
Some of the more affluent of the families posses a cow or two, but with one or two exceptions they were at the time, though happily content, all alike dependent on the sea for their subsistence; these exceptions being the keeper of the little inn and Captain Daniels, the most important man in Pentraginny and the fortunate owner of some three or four staunch, well-fitted fishing smacks, as well as of the brig Martha, which latter he had inherited from his wife's father. David Daniels had served as man and boy on board the Martha, and finally, when he had taken his "captain's ticket," had married its owner's only daughter, whose namesake it was. Captain Daniels was, therefore, and important man, whose opinions carried more weight than those of any one else in Pentraginny, and to whom in fact the parish clergyman paid great deference.
The hamlet boasted an inn, where it was usual for the male population to meet of an evening to discuss the arrangements for the next season's harvest, namely, the pilchard fishing, and the prospects of the same, news of the signs preceding the coming of the small fish being eagerly sought for an comment upon. The fortunes of the Pentraginny men, as well as those of hundreds of other villages, turned upon the results of this particular fishery, so that it naturally was an absorbing topic of conversation, that and the family affairs of the community, for, as in many such small settlements, the inhabitants were all more of less distantly related one to another.
There existed a strictly conservative spirit amongst them, which caused a marriage of the young people with " foreigners" - that is to say, persons from another district - to be looked upon with distinct disfavour. When, therefore, Naomi, the daughter of old Simeon, the elder brother of " Captain Daniels," married a young Welshman who built a cottage and settled down near the old people, he was regarded as an intruder, against whom, as well as against any possible encroachments on their rights on his part, they were prepared to act on the defensive.
However, the necessity for this social boycotting was soon removed, for within a year of the marriage the brave young Welshman lost his life in trying to save that of others from a vessel that was driven on to, and impaled upon, the sunken rocks which guard the little bay.
Withing a few hours of the catastrophe, Naomi died in giving birth to the babe whom with her latest breath she called " Marah," the child of bitterness and sorrow.
The child thus orphaned at its birth was a tacit reproach to the rough fisher-folk for their treatment of her parents, and thy seemed to regard it as their duty to make amends by kindness to her for their want of it to the young couple, who were buried in one grave immediately after the baptism of their little daughter.
"She should have been named 'Angela,' not 'Martha,'" the parson had been heard to remark once when the infant had grown into a small maiden of five or six summers, for she was not like other children: so pale, so fair, so sweet; her large innocent eyes seemed to look out into the world with a quaint serious gravity that sat oddly on the baby face.
No! She was not like the other children; the serious, wistful baby face had not the look of the ruddy, apple-cheeked bairns of the fisher-folk. She looked " like a spirit from another world." the people would say, and the hearts of her grandparents would seem to stand still with fear, when they should sometimes see their darling at the open doorway surrounded by a halo of golden sunshine. There was so little of earth in the child's delicate face and slender figure, that it seemed to them she would suddenly spread some unsuspected wings, rise up into the sunshine, and disappear from their sight.
The loss of their children had affected the old couple sorely, and on the child Marah, they lavished all the love of their bereaved hearts, old Simeon asking nothing better than to follow her baby footsteps whither they led him, never checking their course unless to avoid a danger, patiently waiting when the child sat in her favourite haunt on a boulder of rock looking seaward, looking out towards the distant horizon with a rapt earnest gaze as though studying some great mystery.
"What do you see, my babe?" old Simeon would sometimes say, in a tremor of a vague, undefined fear, when he would see an unconscious smile play over the child's features, and notice the eagerness of her eyes.
"They are speaking to me from the water. Listen! Can you not hear them?" she had replied once; and afterwards, when he noticed her eager listening attitude, the old man would fearfully gather the child in his arms and totter homewards, feeling as though some mysterious power was a dragging the little one from him, and the only safety for him and for her was far away from the alluring voice of the waves.
Next to sitting dreaming by the sea, she loved best to sit at the old man's side in the porch, and listen while he talked of Naomi and her brave young husband, of the terrible day of the storm, shen he risked his life and lost it, and how she, Naomi, could not live without him, so had gone with him to heaven, leaving little Marah to comfort the old people for their loss.
"So they left us for ever," the old man would conclude; "our two blessed children. They are happy in another world, where there are no more storms, nor death, nor parting. Perhaps we may meet them again - God knows. His way are wonderful ways, and an old man cannot understand them. The parson says we will meet again sometime, but it's a long time to wait, and who knows but in that beautiful place where God lives, they'll be so happy together, praising and singing and playing on their golden harps, they'll never have time to think of us; and we'll be getting older and older, they'll not know us again when we go to them."
The old man's head would drop regretfully on his breast, and a tear would steal down his furrowed cheek, as his fingers lingered on the soft fair hair of the child, who would listen with a far-away look in the blue eyes to the old man's words.
"She doesn't forget, grandfer; she comes so often when you and grandmother are sleeping, and she says grandmother are sleeping, and she says to me, 'Be good and kind to him, Marah; and be a loving child to her.' And I know she means you and grandmother, for she goes to your beside and looks down at you, and smiles. Then she comes back to me, and puts her cheek on mine, and puts he arm around me, but you and grandmother never know, for you sleep so soundly. Sometimes a man comes with her, and she says it is Nathaniel, my father, and he kisses me; then they go away. So, you see, they don't forget us; you need not be afraid."
The heart of the old man misgave him sorely when the child would try to comfort him by such strange words. It was not natural nor childlike, and though it was sweet to think that their lost Naomi watched over her little one in the darkness of the night, it filled the old people with a vague terror to hear the child speak of her dreams as though they were so real and palpable to her.
So the time passed, and when at length the dreamy gentle child had grown into a dreamy gentle maiden of fifteen years, old Simeon and Ruth laid down the burden of life, and were taken to rest beside their children in the churchyard.
Marah became the inmate of the queer little brown house on the hill, and the adopted daughter of Captain and Mistress Daniels. Their family had hitherto consisted of one girl, Gennifer; but, as the neighbours were wont to remark, Gennifer was the prettiest girl for miles around. Strong, lithe, supple of limb, she could climb the rocks or row a boat as skilfully as any of the youths who admired and secretly adored the bright, merry, hoydenish lass.
Gennifer professed an unbounded contempt for he slender proportions and timid nature of the younger girl, but a genuine affection existed between them nevertheless. It was often said that Marah was like an angel in the house, and both Gennifer and her parents were always ready to endorse that option.
The Scar is a low ridge of outlying rocks, running parallel with the shore, nearly closing the entrance to the little bay. These sunken rocks act as a break water on which the great waves, rolling in from the Atlantic, break their force, leaving the snug little harbour within undisturbed by their fury. Here in the worst weather the fleet of fishing smacks ride safely at their anchors, or lie moored to the jetty running out from the shore.
In the old wrecking days, many a fair barque met her fate on the needle-like rocks of the Scar, lured thereto by the wreckers' fires. Even now in storms, the experienced seaman running for shelter avoids the Scar with horror, although the smooth water within presents a haven of peace and safety - if he could only reach it; but the risk of making the narrow channel between the sunken rocks is too great, unless, indeed, the barque is guided by the hand of one familiar with them, and knows every point, every shallow, every opening between them, as do fisher-folk of the village.
At low water the submerged rocks are barely covered; indeed some of the higher points always show themselves as the waves recede, but during flood and spring tides there is nothing to show the treachery lurking under the surface. For small craft there is little or no danger at such times, there being sufficient water at flood tide to carry the largest fishing smack safely over the vessel ever came into the bay by design, except the brig Martha whose commander knew every tooth of the Scar as well as he knew every tooth in his head.
Ship had been know to drive on those rocks, when by stress of weather they had been induced to seek shelter in the nearest harbour; but of late years no casualties had happened - not since the time when young Nathaniel had lost his life in trying to save those of the shipwrecked crew.
Since then a lighthouse had been built, some three miles to the west of the village, and its bright revolving light flashed a constant warning to all passing vessels of the danger to be avoided. So the Scar, instead of being an enemy to be feared, was a friend to be thankful for, guarding as it did the little bay from the fury of storm and sea.
At low water there is but one opening where a vessel may safely pass, and this is so well know that no one had ever deemed it necessary to mark the spot by a light. Certainly a buoy was there, on which a little red flag fluttered its signal to the home-returning fishers, but on dark nights this was not much of a guide.
Sometimes, indeed, when any anxiety was felt for an absent smack, the question was raised as to whether there ought not to be a light placed near it; but sailors and fishers are proverbially a careless race, and the question was never answered by the placing of a light there.
When the fleet was known to be in the offing, and likely to be making for home at dark, the young people would sometimes row out the Scar and burn packets of Bengal fire, as a signal and welcome to the returning boats. This practice was regarded by the old sailors in the light of an amusement and waste of money, rather than as a necessary precaution. In fact, the more sober-minded set their faces against such pyrotechnic displays, as they were generally the forerunners of other extravagances in the same direction, frequently finishing up by the gathering together of all the young people to dance and otherwise enjoy themselves at the village inn, till the stroke of midnight and closing time brought the festivities to an end.
It had been a rough, boisterous day, following a succession of several more or less stormy ones. From early morning the wind had veered round from all quarters, but in the afternoon it had blown steadily from the south-west, and as evening approached it settled earnestly to its work of lashing the sea into a perfect fury. The western sky at sunset was aflame with fiery clouds, brilliant and beautiful to look upon, but to the fisher-folk gazing seaward fraught with ominous meaning.
"A nasty sundown!" they remarked to each other as they made their boats more secure at their moorings, and took in and stowed away the flapping sails, or any loose cordage lying about.
"It'll be a wild night, an' them is outside 'll have plenty ter do."
Fortunately all the fishers were safely at home; none of them were exposed to the increasing storm, so they could converse comfortably as they blew the clouds of tobacco smoke from them, and speculated on the probable duration of the gale that gathered in violence as the sun sank lower.
"Dost remember the storm when young Nat was drowned? 'Twas just such another. Aa mind how the sun set in a flame like as ter night."
"Ay! Aa mind et well; 'twas a sad time for the old folk ter lose 'em both in the same day. Sad, too, for the little maid. Seems ter me, neighbour, 'at the maid Marah's never been like other maids, allus for herself' like, as ef her dedn't belong ter same folk."
"'Twas the shock ter Naomi as ded et; the maid es a bet fey."
" Fey! Nay, Aa wouldn't call her 'few'; her es allus too quiet an' still-like for thet, but her seems ter hev a unnerstannin' o' things 'at's sort o' things 'at's sort o' onnatteral. When her was a little maid 'twas more noticeable 'an 'tis now."
Just then a brilliant flash shot out over the stormy sea, and the speakers gazed with pride and interest at the warning gleam sent forth from the noble lighthouse a few miles to the west of them. The existence of the beacon gave them a sens of security they had not known in their younger days. There had been exciting episodes in the lives of these old weather-beaten fishers before the erection of the lighthouse, and these, with the shipwrecks on the Scar, formed the theme of many a long story told in the village inn. The younger generation knew them all by heart, and, it may be, privately questioned the veracity of the story-tellers, for nothing so interesting ever happened nowadays.
All knew of the disaster which had orphaned the delicate fragile Marah, but that was so long ago - sixteen years - and, it may be, the hearts of the village youth would not have been sad had a spice of some similar adventures been sprinkled in their own lives.
On this day of the storm, most of the young people were away in the neighbouring village celebrating a wedding. Gennifer Daniels had been bridesmaid-in-chief, and prime promoter of the fun and amusement among the many guests. Her father, accompanied by her adopted sister, Marah, had joined the guests later in the day. Captain Daniels had tried to excuse himself, but Gennifer would not hear of it. Harah, shy and timid, wished to remain at home, but Mrs. Daniels, declaring herself better than she had felt for many a day, insisted on the girl donning the pretty white gown, and betaking herself to the wedding party. As evening closed in, the fun began in earnest. Gennifer was in her element, the life and soul of the party, but Captain Daniels, in spite of his pleasure in the society of young people and his pride in his daughter, had appeared restless and ill at ease all the afternoon, and Marah noticed that he took an early opportunity to slip away from the company.
He had wandered to a bit rising ground near to the house of merry-making, and stood gazing seaward, not that he could see the ocean, but he scanned the western sky with an anxious look. The red glow had not yet quite faded, and the moon was rising, though for the most part obscured by heavy broken clouds.
"It'll be a nasty night or I'm much mistaken," he said to himself. " Pity the brig did not get in before the change came! I've a mind to take a run down an' see how it looks outside." He buttoned his jacket over his broad chest, and pulled his soft felt hat more firmly on his head, as he turned with the intention of making his way down to the sea, when a white-clad, slender figure came to his side.
"Where are you going, father?" asked Marah, and she held his arm tightly to steady herself against a violent gust of wind.
"No ways in particular, my maid. I thought I'd like to see how it looks outside, but go thy ways, and dance wi' rest of 'em!"
"I don't want to dance, father, I'd rather go home; we've been away from mother so long. I feel I must go, and they'll never miss me up yonder."
"You're a queer maid to run away from fun an' dancin', but if you're set on it, I'll see you a bit on the way. Tie the shawl well over you and hold on to me, or the wind will carry you away."
With quick steps they made their way homewards, the gathering darkness and the violent gusts of wind making it no easy matter, though the moon gleamed out fitfully from between the heavy clouds that scudded over her surface.
When they reached a point from which the sea was visible, Captain Daniels stopped, and gazed earnestly out over the white-crested waves, while Marah sheltered herself behind his broad shoulders.
"Did'st ought, Marah?" he asked, as the moon was once more darkened and they resumed their way.
"No, father; did you think you saw something?"
"Nay! I'm not sure, but I'm uneasy for the brig; she ought to have been here by now."
"Captain Evans knows the coast, father; and he is careful."
"Yes, for sure!"
They had gone but a few steps further when they were met by a man from Pentraginny.
"Is't Cap'n Daniels?" he inquired, peering through the darkness. "Aa thought aa'd come an' warn you 'at the brig's outside, an' looks as if her was makin' for ter come in wi' tide."
"It wasn't mistaken then," said the captain, "when I thought I saw something."
The three hurried on as quickly as the wind permitted, exchanging a word now and again to express a wish that the brig was safely within the Scar, or that the moon might prove a friend, and remain unobscured during the coming in.
"I wish Evans would lie off till daylight," said Captain Daniels uneasily. "It's not like him to attempt to run in with a sea like this."
But there could be no doubt as to Captain Evans' intention; the brig was heading for the harbour, the tide was near the flood, and the wind, though blowing a hurricane, was a fair one. Captain Evan knew every point of the Scar as he knew his own fingers; yet the attempt seemed to the watchers on shore to be little short of madness.
Captain Daniels watched with the rest, without responding to the frequent remarks of the fishermen, who stood in groups on the sands, watching the swiftly approaching vessel. In less the half-an-hour the tide would be at the full, and it was evident that Captain Evans had timed it so that the vessel should tide over the Scar at the flood.
Marah walked by the captain's side, and though he was silent, she knew by the intermittent clouds of smoke from the frequently replenished pipe, that he was nervously anxious. But she did not know all that was troubling him, nor of the neglect to renew the insurance of the ship and her cargo. It was this thought which held the captain tongue-tied as he watched, with beating heart and straining eyes, the rapidly nearing vessel.
The fishers watched eagerly. In spite of the gale the brig seemed to make no account of the difficulties, but rode steadily on, guided by a masterly hand; and notwithstanding his anxiety, Captain Daniels felt a thrill of pride in seeing his bonny Martha behaving so well.
The moon disappeared behind a heavy bank of cloud, from which there was no hope of her emerging for some time, and the darkness became intense.
"Red fire!" Who was it suggested it? Yes! that was a good idea.
In an incredibly short time the Bengal lights were at hand, and three or four men, including the captain, had jumped into a boat and were pushing off, when Marah with a spring placed herself at his side, with -
"Let me come too, father!"
Captain Daniels grumbled, but there was no time to lose, and the men bent to their oars. Arrived at the Scar they laboured to keep the boat "mid channel" whilst Captain Daniels, with Marah's help, lit and held aloft the blazing torches that shed a brilliant glow over the faces of the men in the boat.
Over and over again the fire flamed out, and in the intervals of darkness the men strained their eyes to see what progress the brig had made, but dazzled by the red glare they could discern nothing. Lying in the trough of the sea, struggling to keep the little boat " end on," they could not always see the lights of the vessel for the waves which rose up on every side, till one larger than the rest lifted the little boat on its crest; then they saw the brig, but it was a sight that struck terror to the hearts of the men, and almost paralysed their arms, so great was their consternation to see that the brig had altered her course, and was making straight for the most dangerous points of the Scar.
No words were needed to express their horror. No cries, no voice, could reach the fated vessel; the wind blew back the sound; they could only watch and wait for the awful moment; they could do nothing.
After the first terrified cry from the rowers, they had not uttered a word. They mechanically kept the boat in position, and Captain Daniels lit another torch and held it above their heads.
In the brilliant glare they saw what they ha not noticed earlier, that the girl Marah had fainted and lay as if dead, her eyes closed, and her hair drenched with the waves that from time to time broke over them.
They said nothing - a girl's fainting fit was not of much account in the face of this impeding disaster.
The moments seemed like hours, as they waited for the sound of the grinding of the Martha's keel on the sound of the grinding of the Martha's keel on the Needles. Again the Bengal torches were lighted, but did not help them to see the vessel; they were only blinded by the glare.
Captain Daniels scarcely looked up; he seemed paralysed.
A few minutes and the moon shone out clear and bright, and by her light the vessel could again be plainly seen. Again she had altered her course, and was this time steering straight down upon the boat.
"Hurrah!" The shout burst involuntarily from the men, and Captain Daniels, half dazed, looked up. The relief was so great that he hardly dared believe his eyes. Yes, thank God! they had seen the danger, and were trying to avoid it.
Would they succeed? It was hard to say - a few seconds would decide.
Packet after packet of the red-fire powder was lighted and burned without intermission.
Once their ears caught a sound of grinding and scraping, and they groaned as they saw the vessel stagger for a moment, as though she had received a blow. Then a wave passed under her bows, and on it she rode into safety.
The danger passed, Captain Daniels, trembling with anger and indignation, hastened on board to demand an explanation of the foolhardy business, and to give Evans "a piece of his mind."
He was met on the deck by a young seaman.
"Where is Evans?"
"Captain Evans is ill, sir."
"And who are you?"
"I am noel Merrick. The captain is my uncle. I shipped with him in Queenstown as first mate. We have had an accident, but, except the injury to my uncle and the loss of our anchors, no great damage is done."
"No great damage! Do you know how near you came to destruction? What did you mean by taking such a risk? You a stranger! Where is Evans?"
The young man's coolness infuriated the old captain.
"He is down below, sir - dying, I think. As to the risk, I did not consider it so great. I know this coast well, and the captain had described this harbour so often that I should not have hesitated to attempt it in daylight."
"Why on earth did you not wait till daylight?"
"We had no choice, sir, in this gale. Our anchors went some hours ago. I thought we might as well make a try for safety, as be driven on shore like a log."
Captain Daniels was perforce content, though he made a mental note to inquire more fully into the matter at the fist opportunity.
Later, in the kitchen of the little brown house, in the presence of the parson, and several of Captain Daniels' particular cronies, Noel Merrick was subjected to a severe cross-examination.
"We have had," he said, "nothing bu storms since leaving Queenstown. Two days ago the wind chopped round and blew a gale from the north-east, and we were driven out of our course. A heavy sea was running and the Martha mad bad weather of it and rolled fearfully. The jolly-boat was displaced from the chocks on the main hatch, and was thrown against the bulwarks; the captain, who could not get out of the way in time, was jambed in between. Several of his ribs seemed broken. He could not speak, and was in great pain. I got him below and did what I could to make him more comfortable, and then I went on deck and took charge.
"Yesterday we sighted the Lizard. The gale did not abate, but the wind chopped and changed, then settled down to the southwest and blew a strong gale. We had lost both anchors. The sea was very heavy, and the brig laboured fearfully. The captain thought we had better try to lie off till daylight, but he was very bad, and I thought he should die before morning unless he got help.
"I sighted the Scar before sundown, and tried to make it before dark. The wind was fair, and the brig answered her helm splendidly. I felt sure I could bring her in with the flood tide. all went well, till suddenly I saw a red light flare up straight ahead.
"I got a mortal fright, as I naturally thought it a warning signal. I altered the vessel's course a point or two, but I felt desperately anxious; I had been so sure of the position of the channel, and the red lights put me out of my reckoning. i would have given everything to be able to put back, but it was too late, the wind and tide drove us on.
"I stood at the helm, but I felt utterly helpless. I could only say over and over again to myself, 'God help us.' Then a strange thing happened, which I suppose no one will believe. I heard a voice in my ear, saying clearly and distinctly, 'Make for the red five - steer for the light.'
"I could not see where the voice came from. It was dark. But as I glanced over my shoulder, my hand which held the wheel was grasped and I let go. For a second it flew round , and when I caught it again, a small hand laid itself on mine, and I felt compelled to obey its pressure, and put the elm hard to starboard.
"'Steer for the light,' said the voice again, and then I saw the speaker had the white-clad form of a woman. I obeyed her words and the pressure of her hand, but I thought I had lost my senses. I could think of nothing for a moment, but then I collected myself and steered for the light.
"The white woman stood beside me, keeping her hand on mine, and together we watched how the vessel struggled like a living thing to obey the helm, and shivered as she strove against the force of the wind and waves. She did obey splendidly, but I heard and felt how she grated her keel on the sunken rocks, and I thought all was lost. In that moment the moon broke through the clouds and the light fell on the white figure. I saw it was like a girl with long light hair, and great eyes that were fixed on the red light; a slender, delicate-looking creature; but still, if I had not known it was impossible, I should have taken her for a mortal woman.
"She never looked at me, nor did she speak again, but stood still with her hand on mine, impelling it to keep the vessel heading direct for the flaring red fire. Then, a minute late, I heard the sound of 'Hurrah,' and saw the boat from whence the sound and the light had proceeded. In the same instant the had lifted form mine, and the figure was gone.
"These are the reasons why the brig's course was altered, and is all I can tell you. Who she was, or where she came from, only God knows, but it was she, not I, who brought the brig into safety."
The explanation was a strange one, and Noel Merrick was subjected to many a cross examination, but he had only one reply to give. "I can tell you nothing more, it was just as I have said."
But there came a time, and that shortly, when Noel Merrick did have more to tell, though what he said raised the gravest doubts in Captain Daniels' mind as to the wisdom of a promise he had made, to put the young sailor in command of the brig. He had been urged thereto by Gennifer, who had expressed her decided conviction that Noel Merrick was the cleverest sailor, as well as the handsomest and best man, she had ever seen, nobody but her father excepted. Captain Daniels, after a few days' acquaintance with the young man, was disposed to see him with his daughter's eyes, and to congratulate himself on having found so efficient a substitute for the invalided Evans. The awakening came a few days later, when he and the young sailor were returning in the moonlit dusk from a visit to the Martha. As they neared the house a slender white figure came through the doorway into the moonlight to meet them.
"There she is again!" exclaimed the sailor, stopping short.
"She? Who?"
"It was she!" pointing to the approaching girls, "that girl, or angel, or whatever she is, that brought in the brig."
"She! Why, that's Marah."
Marah had been ill. Could and exposure, and perhaps excitement on the night of the vessel's incoming, had been too much for her delicate frame, and on her recovery from the long, deep fainting fit, she had been obliged to keep her room, so that she had not met the young sailor who was the object of Gennifer's enthusiastic admiration; nor, when she did see him, could she understand the look of wonder, akin to awe, with which he regarded her.
Both girls were puzzled to understand why the father should wish to draw back from his given word; " I could believe in the angel steering the brig," said Captain Daniels confidentially to his wife, as they sat by the fireside discussing matters; "there's more wonderful things than that in the Bible; but when it comes to him answering that the angel was the maid Marah, it's too much; there's no sense nor reason in it, for we know as how it ain't true. I'm sore puzzled in my mind what to do."
But if the captain had a difficulty in making up his mind as to the wisdom of trusting his ship in the young man's hands, his daughter decided without hesitation a much more momentous question; for, before the brig was ready for sea again, Gennifer annouced her intention fo trusting herself and her future, for better or worse, to him.
She overruled all objections, and had her own way, as she had done all her life, and when pretty Gennifer made up her mind to anything, there was nothing more to be said.
One more voyage, however, Capitain Daniels held out for, and then, if all went well, he would not oppose the young people. So Noel Merrick sailed away with the brig, and Gennifer waited at home for him, glad and joyful in the new happiness that had come into her life.
There was so much to do, so much to prepare, that the time passed quickly. There were letters to receive and read - beautiful letters that made the girl's heart beat, and brought the bright colour to her cheek. There were letters to write too, that brought a softer beam to the bright dark eyes. In her happiness she did not notice at first the pathetic little droop that was sometimes to be seen on Marah's face, nor the wistfulness that had come into her eyes. It was only when the neighbours remarked that the girl was failing, that she saw her step had lost its lightness, and that her eyes and lips wore and expression they had not known before.
The change and come about slowly. She was not ill, she said, and refused to be treated as an invalid; nevertheless, it was plain to all that she was fading away. She had no pain; she never complained, nor did they see how the weakness increased. It was only when they compared this week with the last, or the present month with the previous one, that they saw the change was both great and rapid.
She strove to hide her weakness, and took as eager an interest in the preparations for the wedding as did the bride herself. She watched Gennifer's blushing cheeks and love-it eyes, when she opened and read the closely written pages of her lover's letters, but no one was the lips quiver, or the hunger in her own eyes, as she listed to the passages the girl would read aloud to her.
The year was nearing its close, and it was plain to the fisher-fold that Marah's life was going with it, but the girl seemed unconscious of her illness.
The Martha had started on her homeward voyage. There could be no more letters from Noel Merrick. The new year would bring him with it, and Gennifer had a little bird in her heart that sang and fluttered joyously as she went about her daily tasks and counted the days that brought her lover nearer.
The weeks passed, the time for his return drew nearer - nearer - arrived - and passed, leaving Gennifer bewildered. What could it mean? she asked her father, who answered, "It is nothing, he will come soon." But the days grew into weeks, the weeks resolved themselves into months, but brought no news of the ship nor her lover. Each morning the girl said to herself, "He will come to-day." Each evening she murmured with trembling lips, "He will come tomorrow," but the day passed, and the morrow came, but Noel did not come with it. The girl's pretty colour faded, and her eyes grew like Marah's in their longing and wistfulness. In all her young life trouble had never come so near her. Her gladsome heart had never know a sorrow of bereavement. She seemed unable to understand that so terrible a grief could befall her; she thought that she must awake and find it all a miserable dream.
Marah watched her with pitying looks which Gennifer could not bear. "Do not look at me as if you were sorry for me," she would say passionately. "It is as if you had already decided he could never return. He will come soon; I will not be pitied."
But he did not come, nor did there come any news of him. But once a homeward-bound steamer reported the picking up of fragments of wreck, and on one they found the painted name Martha. Then the conviction was forced upon the old people and fisher-folk that the brig had gone, and that they had heard the last of Noel Merrick and his men. But Gennifer would not submit; she was not one to bear her sorrw with patience; she resented the cross with all her strong young nature, and fought wildly against the decree of bereavement. She refused to wear a black gown, which would be a sign of her acceptance of the fact tat her lover was lost to her.
She was too proud to show despair, though in her heart there was no hope. She held her head high and defiantly before others; only Marah knew of the sleepless nights, and restless tossings on the couch, from which the girl would rise with miserable eyes and aching head.
And all this time Marah was slipping quietly out of life. Little by little she had relinquished her daily tasks into Gennifer's hands - chiefly, it seemed, because she saw the girl needed fuller occupation for her fingers during the weary hours - but, once relinquished, she was not able to take them up again.
As long as her feet would carry her, she would walk along the sands to her boulder of rock, where as a child her baby feet had taken her, and sitting there would dreamily gaze out over the sea as she had done then.
It was there that Gennifer sought her one day, and throwing herself on the sand, hid fer face against Marah's knee, and burst into a passion of tears and convulsive sobs that shook her with their violence.
They were the fist tears the girls had shed during the miserable months of waiting, and Marah did not try to stem their flow; she only carressed the drooping head, while her eyes softened with an infinite pity for the girl's grief.
"O Marah! I cannot bear it; my heart will break. I could never have believe this would be the end. If I could only die,"
she moaned, but Marah's hand only lingered caressingly on her hair; she did not speak.
By-an-by the sobs and moans died away, and the girl lay still, exhausted by the storm. Then she remembered that the evening air was chill, and Marah must come home. She rose to her feet saying, "Come, let us go," when the sight of the younger girl's face startled her. A bright, eager, wondering expression was spread over the pale delicate features, and the wide-open blue eyes shone with a glad light. Over the parted lips a smile, half incredulous, wholly delighted, played. She rose eagerly to her feet, and stretching out her arms seemed as though about to throw herself into the approaching waves.
"What is it? Marah, what is it?" cried Gennifer; but she did not hear.
"Noel! Noel!" The name broke from the parted lips as though forced from them by surprise and wondering joy.
Gennifer threw her arms around her, as the girl, with a look of joy and happiness, fell pale and inert at her feet.
"O Marah, what did you see? It was not his ghost? He is not dead? Do not tell me that? Oh, what shall I do! She is dying!" Gennifer's cries brought speedy help, and the fainting girl was carried to her home. In a little while, she opened her eyes and gazed with the same glad smile at Gennifer's anxious, tear-swollen face.
"You were right, Gennifer; he is not dead, for I have seen him."
"Tell me, dear! What did you think you saw out there on the sands? You frightened me so, I was afraid you were dying."
Marah patted her hand softly, still smiling. "I see many things away over the sea - strange, beautiful things sometimes, but this was different. It seemed to me that an island rose up out of the sea, and came towards me. It was as if all else was dark, and all the light lay on the island and round about. The sea grew more blue, and more still; the skies more clear and bright; the sunshine, stronger and warmer, glittered on the waters and on the white sands. There were many strange and warmer, glittered on the water and on the white sands. There were people too - men and women - with brown skins, and wearing but little clothing. They laughed and talked to each other. There were other people there, wearing different clothing; they were white men - I counted nine of them. They could not talk to the dark people, but made sighs, and the others laughed, and laughed so loud that I heard them plainly. There was some one else in what I think was a garden, or perhaps only among some flowering shrubs. He heard them too and came out, and as he came from among the leaves I saw it was Noel. I could hardly believe it; I had not thought of him though the other white men had seemed a little familiar. Then he laughed a little at something he saw - which had made the others laugh - and then I knew I was not mistaken, and I cried out 'Noel! Noel!' He heard me, I think, for he started and looked round. But then the island, the people, the green trees, the sparkling blue calm waters vanished, and all was dark. I felt myself falling, and heard your voice in my ears, and then - when I awakened I was here."
"If it were only true, instead of just a dream, O Marah, how happy I should be."
"Dear, it is true! I know it is true. You may believe me, Gennifer. I do not know where the brig is; I do not know where the brig is; I do not know where that island is; but I know that wherever it may be, Noel is alive and is on it, and all the others with him. You need not weep for him again, Gennifer; he will come back to you." And Gennifer believed.
After this girl failed rapidly. She could no longer wander down to the sea, and soon she could not rise from her couch, but lay where she could watch the sunlit waves throrgh the open dorrway, with a look of wistful longing in the soft blue eyes.
"He will come, Gennifer; I know he will come, but I begin to fear I shall be gone. You will be very happy, Gennifer; you will be good to him because you love him." And Gennifer could only weep, but they were not despairing tears such as she had shed down on the seashore, but soft pitying tears for the fair young life that began in sorrow, and was, she felt - though no word had said it - closing in disappointment, and she wondered a little what she had done to merit the happiness she felt sure would be hers; while Marah, the pure, the gentle, was sinking into her grave unblessed by that which had filled her own life with promise.
The grass had not yet grown over Marah's resting=place in the churchyard overlooking the sea, when he came. The story he told was read by the world. O how the Martha had foundered away in the southern seas. Of how the men and he spent many days in a small boat, trying to reach land, and how at last they succeeded. Of how they reached an island whose inhabitants received them kindly, and with shown they stayed many weeks, till a passing vessel carried them off to a frequented port, where they found a ship to bring them home. They had come by the same vessel which carried they letters, so that they were themselves the bearers of the news.
It was no uncommon story, but when they told Noel of Marah's vision, which had had brought so much comfort and strength to Gennifer's breaking heart, he said, "It was no dream. It was all as she said. I heard a glad voice crying 'Noel! Noel' and I knew it was the voice of the angel who had said, 'Steer for the light,' and the angel, I knew, was Marah."
In after years when the fishers of Pentraginny placed lights on the buoys which now mark the entrance to their little harbour, the called on " Martha" and the other "The Angel," and round the buoy, in great white letters - which in daylight may be read by sailors on the sea outside - they painted the words "Steer for the light!"
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Captain Hanna, a naval officer, was then the captain of the coast-guard. One fine day his daughters and myself went with him out to sea to inspect some buoy. "Father tell us about the angel buoy at Pentraginny," said one of the girls, and turning to me, she added, "You must hear it; it's the strangest story you can imagine. Every one knows about it, and father was born near the place and knew all the people quite well - not Marah, because she was dead before he was born, but all the others in the village he knew."
That evening Captain Hanna told us the story. I do not know the dates, but it is thirty years since that summer evening, and the captain was then somewhere about sixty years old, so that places the time back nearly a century.
Pentraginny is one of a hundred small hamlets scattered on the rock-bound coast of Cornwall, inhabited solely by fishermen and their families. It contains only a score or two of houses, mostly low whitewashed cottages, with thatched roofs, and adjacent sheds for drying, salting, or smoking of fish. Each cottage possesses a patch of ground where the women cultivate potatoes. These patches are surrounded by fences which serve the double purpose of keeping out the pigs and forming a convenient drying place for the fishing nets, which are usually to be seen festooned around them.
Some of the more affluent of the families posses a cow or two, but with one or two exceptions they were at the time, though happily content, all alike dependent on the sea for their subsistence; these exceptions being the keeper of the little inn and Captain Daniels, the most important man in Pentraginny and the fortunate owner of some three or four staunch, well-fitted fishing smacks, as well as of the brig Martha, which latter he had inherited from his wife's father. David Daniels had served as man and boy on board the Martha, and finally, when he had taken his "captain's ticket," had married its owner's only daughter, whose namesake it was. Captain Daniels was, therefore, and important man, whose opinions carried more weight than those of any one else in Pentraginny, and to whom in fact the parish clergyman paid great deference.
The hamlet boasted an inn, where it was usual for the male population to meet of an evening to discuss the arrangements for the next season's harvest, namely, the pilchard fishing, and the prospects of the same, news of the signs preceding the coming of the small fish being eagerly sought for an comment upon. The fortunes of the Pentraginny men, as well as those of hundreds of other villages, turned upon the results of this particular fishery, so that it naturally was an absorbing topic of conversation, that and the family affairs of the community, for, as in many such small settlements, the inhabitants were all more of less distantly related one to another.
There existed a strictly conservative spirit amongst them, which caused a marriage of the young people with " foreigners" - that is to say, persons from another district - to be looked upon with distinct disfavour. When, therefore, Naomi, the daughter of old Simeon, the elder brother of " Captain Daniels," married a young Welshman who built a cottage and settled down near the old people, he was regarded as an intruder, against whom, as well as against any possible encroachments on their rights on his part, they were prepared to act on the defensive.
However, the necessity for this social boycotting was soon removed, for within a year of the marriage the brave young Welshman lost his life in trying to save that of others from a vessel that was driven on to, and impaled upon, the sunken rocks which guard the little bay.
Withing a few hours of the catastrophe, Naomi died in giving birth to the babe whom with her latest breath she called " Marah," the child of bitterness and sorrow.
The child thus orphaned at its birth was a tacit reproach to the rough fisher-folk for their treatment of her parents, and thy seemed to regard it as their duty to make amends by kindness to her for their want of it to the young couple, who were buried in one grave immediately after the baptism of their little daughter.
"She should have been named 'Angela,' not 'Martha,'" the parson had been heard to remark once when the infant had grown into a small maiden of five or six summers, for she was not like other children: so pale, so fair, so sweet; her large innocent eyes seemed to look out into the world with a quaint serious gravity that sat oddly on the baby face.
No! She was not like the other children; the serious, wistful baby face had not the look of the ruddy, apple-cheeked bairns of the fisher-folk. She looked " like a spirit from another world." the people would say, and the hearts of her grandparents would seem to stand still with fear, when they should sometimes see their darling at the open doorway surrounded by a halo of golden sunshine. There was so little of earth in the child's delicate face and slender figure, that it seemed to them she would suddenly spread some unsuspected wings, rise up into the sunshine, and disappear from their sight.
The loss of their children had affected the old couple sorely, and on the child Marah, they lavished all the love of their bereaved hearts, old Simeon asking nothing better than to follow her baby footsteps whither they led him, never checking their course unless to avoid a danger, patiently waiting when the child sat in her favourite haunt on a boulder of rock looking seaward, looking out towards the distant horizon with a rapt earnest gaze as though studying some great mystery.
"What do you see, my babe?" old Simeon would sometimes say, in a tremor of a vague, undefined fear, when he would see an unconscious smile play over the child's features, and notice the eagerness of her eyes.
"They are speaking to me from the water. Listen! Can you not hear them?" she had replied once; and afterwards, when he noticed her eager listening attitude, the old man would fearfully gather the child in his arms and totter homewards, feeling as though some mysterious power was a dragging the little one from him, and the only safety for him and for her was far away from the alluring voice of the waves.
Next to sitting dreaming by the sea, she loved best to sit at the old man's side in the porch, and listen while he talked of Naomi and her brave young husband, of the terrible day of the storm, shen he risked his life and lost it, and how she, Naomi, could not live without him, so had gone with him to heaven, leaving little Marah to comfort the old people for their loss.
"So they left us for ever," the old man would conclude; "our two blessed children. They are happy in another world, where there are no more storms, nor death, nor parting. Perhaps we may meet them again - God knows. His way are wonderful ways, and an old man cannot understand them. The parson says we will meet again sometime, but it's a long time to wait, and who knows but in that beautiful place where God lives, they'll be so happy together, praising and singing and playing on their golden harps, they'll never have time to think of us; and we'll be getting older and older, they'll not know us again when we go to them."
The old man's head would drop regretfully on his breast, and a tear would steal down his furrowed cheek, as his fingers lingered on the soft fair hair of the child, who would listen with a far-away look in the blue eyes to the old man's words.
"She doesn't forget, grandfer; she comes so often when you and grandmother are sleeping, and she says grandmother are sleeping, and she says to me, 'Be good and kind to him, Marah; and be a loving child to her.' And I know she means you and grandmother, for she goes to your beside and looks down at you, and smiles. Then she comes back to me, and puts her cheek on mine, and puts he arm around me, but you and grandmother never know, for you sleep so soundly. Sometimes a man comes with her, and she says it is Nathaniel, my father, and he kisses me; then they go away. So, you see, they don't forget us; you need not be afraid."
The heart of the old man misgave him sorely when the child would try to comfort him by such strange words. It was not natural nor childlike, and though it was sweet to think that their lost Naomi watched over her little one in the darkness of the night, it filled the old people with a vague terror to hear the child speak of her dreams as though they were so real and palpable to her.
So the time passed, and when at length the dreamy gentle child had grown into a dreamy gentle maiden of fifteen years, old Simeon and Ruth laid down the burden of life, and were taken to rest beside their children in the churchyard.
Marah became the inmate of the queer little brown house on the hill, and the adopted daughter of Captain and Mistress Daniels. Their family had hitherto consisted of one girl, Gennifer; but, as the neighbours were wont to remark, Gennifer was the prettiest girl for miles around. Strong, lithe, supple of limb, she could climb the rocks or row a boat as skilfully as any of the youths who admired and secretly adored the bright, merry, hoydenish lass.
Gennifer professed an unbounded contempt for he slender proportions and timid nature of the younger girl, but a genuine affection existed between them nevertheless. It was often said that Marah was like an angel in the house, and both Gennifer and her parents were always ready to endorse that option.
The Scar is a low ridge of outlying rocks, running parallel with the shore, nearly closing the entrance to the little bay. These sunken rocks act as a break water on which the great waves, rolling in from the Atlantic, break their force, leaving the snug little harbour within undisturbed by their fury. Here in the worst weather the fleet of fishing smacks ride safely at their anchors, or lie moored to the jetty running out from the shore.
In the old wrecking days, many a fair barque met her fate on the needle-like rocks of the Scar, lured thereto by the wreckers' fires. Even now in storms, the experienced seaman running for shelter avoids the Scar with horror, although the smooth water within presents a haven of peace and safety - if he could only reach it; but the risk of making the narrow channel between the sunken rocks is too great, unless, indeed, the barque is guided by the hand of one familiar with them, and knows every point, every shallow, every opening between them, as do fisher-folk of the village.
At low water the submerged rocks are barely covered; indeed some of the higher points always show themselves as the waves recede, but during flood and spring tides there is nothing to show the treachery lurking under the surface. For small craft there is little or no danger at such times, there being sufficient water at flood tide to carry the largest fishing smack safely over the vessel ever came into the bay by design, except the brig Martha whose commander knew every tooth of the Scar as well as he knew every tooth in his head.
Ship had been know to drive on those rocks, when by stress of weather they had been induced to seek shelter in the nearest harbour; but of late years no casualties had happened - not since the time when young Nathaniel had lost his life in trying to save those of the shipwrecked crew.
Since then a lighthouse had been built, some three miles to the west of the village, and its bright revolving light flashed a constant warning to all passing vessels of the danger to be avoided. So the Scar, instead of being an enemy to be feared, was a friend to be thankful for, guarding as it did the little bay from the fury of storm and sea.
At low water there is but one opening where a vessel may safely pass, and this is so well know that no one had ever deemed it necessary to mark the spot by a light. Certainly a buoy was there, on which a little red flag fluttered its signal to the home-returning fishers, but on dark nights this was not much of a guide.
Sometimes, indeed, when any anxiety was felt for an absent smack, the question was raised as to whether there ought not to be a light placed near it; but sailors and fishers are proverbially a careless race, and the question was never answered by the placing of a light there.
When the fleet was known to be in the offing, and likely to be making for home at dark, the young people would sometimes row out the Scar and burn packets of Bengal fire, as a signal and welcome to the returning boats. This practice was regarded by the old sailors in the light of an amusement and waste of money, rather than as a necessary precaution. In fact, the more sober-minded set their faces against such pyrotechnic displays, as they were generally the forerunners of other extravagances in the same direction, frequently finishing up by the gathering together of all the young people to dance and otherwise enjoy themselves at the village inn, till the stroke of midnight and closing time brought the festivities to an end.
It had been a rough, boisterous day, following a succession of several more or less stormy ones. From early morning the wind had veered round from all quarters, but in the afternoon it had blown steadily from the south-west, and as evening approached it settled earnestly to its work of lashing the sea into a perfect fury. The western sky at sunset was aflame with fiery clouds, brilliant and beautiful to look upon, but to the fisher-folk gazing seaward fraught with ominous meaning.
"A nasty sundown!" they remarked to each other as they made their boats more secure at their moorings, and took in and stowed away the flapping sails, or any loose cordage lying about.
"It'll be a wild night, an' them is outside 'll have plenty ter do."
Fortunately all the fishers were safely at home; none of them were exposed to the increasing storm, so they could converse comfortably as they blew the clouds of tobacco smoke from them, and speculated on the probable duration of the gale that gathered in violence as the sun sank lower.
"Dost remember the storm when young Nat was drowned? 'Twas just such another. Aa mind how the sun set in a flame like as ter night."
"Ay! Aa mind et well; 'twas a sad time for the old folk ter lose 'em both in the same day. Sad, too, for the little maid. Seems ter me, neighbour, 'at the maid Marah's never been like other maids, allus for herself' like, as ef her dedn't belong ter same folk."
"'Twas the shock ter Naomi as ded et; the maid es a bet fey."
" Fey! Nay, Aa wouldn't call her 'few'; her es allus too quiet an' still-like for thet, but her seems ter hev a unnerstannin' o' things 'at's sort o' things 'at's sort o' onnatteral. When her was a little maid 'twas more noticeable 'an 'tis now."
Just then a brilliant flash shot out over the stormy sea, and the speakers gazed with pride and interest at the warning gleam sent forth from the noble lighthouse a few miles to the west of them. The existence of the beacon gave them a sens of security they had not known in their younger days. There had been exciting episodes in the lives of these old weather-beaten fishers before the erection of the lighthouse, and these, with the shipwrecks on the Scar, formed the theme of many a long story told in the village inn. The younger generation knew them all by heart, and, it may be, privately questioned the veracity of the story-tellers, for nothing so interesting ever happened nowadays.
All knew of the disaster which had orphaned the delicate fragile Marah, but that was so long ago - sixteen years - and, it may be, the hearts of the village youth would not have been sad had a spice of some similar adventures been sprinkled in their own lives.
On this day of the storm, most of the young people were away in the neighbouring village celebrating a wedding. Gennifer Daniels had been bridesmaid-in-chief, and prime promoter of the fun and amusement among the many guests. Her father, accompanied by her adopted sister, Marah, had joined the guests later in the day. Captain Daniels had tried to excuse himself, but Gennifer would not hear of it. Harah, shy and timid, wished to remain at home, but Mrs. Daniels, declaring herself better than she had felt for many a day, insisted on the girl donning the pretty white gown, and betaking herself to the wedding party. As evening closed in, the fun began in earnest. Gennifer was in her element, the life and soul of the party, but Captain Daniels, in spite of his pleasure in the society of young people and his pride in his daughter, had appeared restless and ill at ease all the afternoon, and Marah noticed that he took an early opportunity to slip away from the company.
He had wandered to a bit rising ground near to the house of merry-making, and stood gazing seaward, not that he could see the ocean, but he scanned the western sky with an anxious look. The red glow had not yet quite faded, and the moon was rising, though for the most part obscured by heavy broken clouds.
"It'll be a nasty night or I'm much mistaken," he said to himself. " Pity the brig did not get in before the change came! I've a mind to take a run down an' see how it looks outside." He buttoned his jacket over his broad chest, and pulled his soft felt hat more firmly on his head, as he turned with the intention of making his way down to the sea, when a white-clad, slender figure came to his side.
"Where are you going, father?" asked Marah, and she held his arm tightly to steady herself against a violent gust of wind.
"No ways in particular, my maid. I thought I'd like to see how it looks outside, but go thy ways, and dance wi' rest of 'em!"
"I don't want to dance, father, I'd rather go home; we've been away from mother so long. I feel I must go, and they'll never miss me up yonder."
"You're a queer maid to run away from fun an' dancin', but if you're set on it, I'll see you a bit on the way. Tie the shawl well over you and hold on to me, or the wind will carry you away."
With quick steps they made their way homewards, the gathering darkness and the violent gusts of wind making it no easy matter, though the moon gleamed out fitfully from between the heavy clouds that scudded over her surface.
When they reached a point from which the sea was visible, Captain Daniels stopped, and gazed earnestly out over the white-crested waves, while Marah sheltered herself behind his broad shoulders.
"Did'st ought, Marah?" he asked, as the moon was once more darkened and they resumed their way.
"No, father; did you think you saw something?"
"Nay! I'm not sure, but I'm uneasy for the brig; she ought to have been here by now."
"Captain Evans knows the coast, father; and he is careful."
"Yes, for sure!"
They had gone but a few steps further when they were met by a man from Pentraginny.
"Is't Cap'n Daniels?" he inquired, peering through the darkness. "Aa thought aa'd come an' warn you 'at the brig's outside, an' looks as if her was makin' for ter come in wi' tide."
"It wasn't mistaken then," said the captain, "when I thought I saw something."
The three hurried on as quickly as the wind permitted, exchanging a word now and again to express a wish that the brig was safely within the Scar, or that the moon might prove a friend, and remain unobscured during the coming in.
"I wish Evans would lie off till daylight," said Captain Daniels uneasily. "It's not like him to attempt to run in with a sea like this."
But there could be no doubt as to Captain Evans' intention; the brig was heading for the harbour, the tide was near the flood, and the wind, though blowing a hurricane, was a fair one. Captain Evan knew every point of the Scar as he knew his own fingers; yet the attempt seemed to the watchers on shore to be little short of madness.
Captain Daniels watched with the rest, without responding to the frequent remarks of the fishermen, who stood in groups on the sands, watching the swiftly approaching vessel. In less the half-an-hour the tide would be at the full, and it was evident that Captain Evans had timed it so that the vessel should tide over the Scar at the flood.
Marah walked by the captain's side, and though he was silent, she knew by the intermittent clouds of smoke from the frequently replenished pipe, that he was nervously anxious. But she did not know all that was troubling him, nor of the neglect to renew the insurance of the ship and her cargo. It was this thought which held the captain tongue-tied as he watched, with beating heart and straining eyes, the rapidly nearing vessel.
The fishers watched eagerly. In spite of the gale the brig seemed to make no account of the difficulties, but rode steadily on, guided by a masterly hand; and notwithstanding his anxiety, Captain Daniels felt a thrill of pride in seeing his bonny Martha behaving so well.
The moon disappeared behind a heavy bank of cloud, from which there was no hope of her emerging for some time, and the darkness became intense.
"Red fire!" Who was it suggested it? Yes! that was a good idea.
In an incredibly short time the Bengal lights were at hand, and three or four men, including the captain, had jumped into a boat and were pushing off, when Marah with a spring placed herself at his side, with -
"Let me come too, father!"
Captain Daniels grumbled, but there was no time to lose, and the men bent to their oars. Arrived at the Scar they laboured to keep the boat "mid channel" whilst Captain Daniels, with Marah's help, lit and held aloft the blazing torches that shed a brilliant glow over the faces of the men in the boat.
Over and over again the fire flamed out, and in the intervals of darkness the men strained their eyes to see what progress the brig had made, but dazzled by the red glare they could discern nothing. Lying in the trough of the sea, struggling to keep the little boat " end on," they could not always see the lights of the vessel for the waves which rose up on every side, till one larger than the rest lifted the little boat on its crest; then they saw the brig, but it was a sight that struck terror to the hearts of the men, and almost paralysed their arms, so great was their consternation to see that the brig had altered her course, and was making straight for the most dangerous points of the Scar.
No words were needed to express their horror. No cries, no voice, could reach the fated vessel; the wind blew back the sound; they could only watch and wait for the awful moment; they could do nothing.
After the first terrified cry from the rowers, they had not uttered a word. They mechanically kept the boat in position, and Captain Daniels lit another torch and held it above their heads.
In the brilliant glare they saw what they ha not noticed earlier, that the girl Marah had fainted and lay as if dead, her eyes closed, and her hair drenched with the waves that from time to time broke over them.
They said nothing - a girl's fainting fit was not of much account in the face of this impeding disaster.
The moments seemed like hours, as they waited for the sound of the grinding of the Martha's keel on the sound of the grinding of the Martha's keel on the Needles. Again the Bengal torches were lighted, but did not help them to see the vessel; they were only blinded by the glare.
Captain Daniels scarcely looked up; he seemed paralysed.
A few minutes and the moon shone out clear and bright, and by her light the vessel could again be plainly seen. Again she had altered her course, and was this time steering straight down upon the boat.
"Hurrah!" The shout burst involuntarily from the men, and Captain Daniels, half dazed, looked up. The relief was so great that he hardly dared believe his eyes. Yes, thank God! they had seen the danger, and were trying to avoid it.
Would they succeed? It was hard to say - a few seconds would decide.
Packet after packet of the red-fire powder was lighted and burned without intermission.
Once their ears caught a sound of grinding and scraping, and they groaned as they saw the vessel stagger for a moment, as though she had received a blow. Then a wave passed under her bows, and on it she rode into safety.
The danger passed, Captain Daniels, trembling with anger and indignation, hastened on board to demand an explanation of the foolhardy business, and to give Evans "a piece of his mind."
He was met on the deck by a young seaman.
"Where is Evans?"
"Captain Evans is ill, sir."
"And who are you?"
"I am noel Merrick. The captain is my uncle. I shipped with him in Queenstown as first mate. We have had an accident, but, except the injury to my uncle and the loss of our anchors, no great damage is done."
"No great damage! Do you know how near you came to destruction? What did you mean by taking such a risk? You a stranger! Where is Evans?"
The young man's coolness infuriated the old captain.
"He is down below, sir - dying, I think. As to the risk, I did not consider it so great. I know this coast well, and the captain had described this harbour so often that I should not have hesitated to attempt it in daylight."
"Why on earth did you not wait till daylight?"
"We had no choice, sir, in this gale. Our anchors went some hours ago. I thought we might as well make a try for safety, as be driven on shore like a log."
Captain Daniels was perforce content, though he made a mental note to inquire more fully into the matter at the fist opportunity.
Later, in the kitchen of the little brown house, in the presence of the parson, and several of Captain Daniels' particular cronies, Noel Merrick was subjected to a severe cross-examination.
"We have had," he said, "nothing bu storms since leaving Queenstown. Two days ago the wind chopped round and blew a gale from the north-east, and we were driven out of our course. A heavy sea was running and the Martha mad bad weather of it and rolled fearfully. The jolly-boat was displaced from the chocks on the main hatch, and was thrown against the bulwarks; the captain, who could not get out of the way in time, was jambed in between. Several of his ribs seemed broken. He could not speak, and was in great pain. I got him below and did what I could to make him more comfortable, and then I went on deck and took charge.
"Yesterday we sighted the Lizard. The gale did not abate, but the wind chopped and changed, then settled down to the southwest and blew a strong gale. We had lost both anchors. The sea was very heavy, and the brig laboured fearfully. The captain thought we had better try to lie off till daylight, but he was very bad, and I thought he should die before morning unless he got help.
"I sighted the Scar before sundown, and tried to make it before dark. The wind was fair, and the brig answered her helm splendidly. I felt sure I could bring her in with the flood tide. all went well, till suddenly I saw a red light flare up straight ahead.
"I got a mortal fright, as I naturally thought it a warning signal. I altered the vessel's course a point or two, but I felt desperately anxious; I had been so sure of the position of the channel, and the red lights put me out of my reckoning. i would have given everything to be able to put back, but it was too late, the wind and tide drove us on.
"I stood at the helm, but I felt utterly helpless. I could only say over and over again to myself, 'God help us.' Then a strange thing happened, which I suppose no one will believe. I heard a voice in my ear, saying clearly and distinctly, 'Make for the red five - steer for the light.'
"I could not see where the voice came from. It was dark. But as I glanced over my shoulder, my hand which held the wheel was grasped and I let go. For a second it flew round , and when I caught it again, a small hand laid itself on mine, and I felt compelled to obey its pressure, and put the elm hard to starboard.
"'Steer for the light,' said the voice again, and then I saw the speaker had the white-clad form of a woman. I obeyed her words and the pressure of her hand, but I thought I had lost my senses. I could think of nothing for a moment, but then I collected myself and steered for the light.
"The white woman stood beside me, keeping her hand on mine, and together we watched how the vessel struggled like a living thing to obey the helm, and shivered as she strove against the force of the wind and waves. She did obey splendidly, but I heard and felt how she grated her keel on the sunken rocks, and I thought all was lost. In that moment the moon broke through the clouds and the light fell on the white figure. I saw it was like a girl with long light hair, and great eyes that were fixed on the red light; a slender, delicate-looking creature; but still, if I had not known it was impossible, I should have taken her for a mortal woman.
"She never looked at me, nor did she speak again, but stood still with her hand on mine, impelling it to keep the vessel heading direct for the flaring red fire. Then, a minute late, I heard the sound of 'Hurrah,' and saw the boat from whence the sound and the light had proceeded. In the same instant the had lifted form mine, and the figure was gone.
"These are the reasons why the brig's course was altered, and is all I can tell you. Who she was, or where she came from, only God knows, but it was she, not I, who brought the brig into safety."
The explanation was a strange one, and Noel Merrick was subjected to many a cross examination, but he had only one reply to give. "I can tell you nothing more, it was just as I have said."
But there came a time, and that shortly, when Noel Merrick did have more to tell, though what he said raised the gravest doubts in Captain Daniels' mind as to the wisdom of a promise he had made, to put the young sailor in command of the brig. He had been urged thereto by Gennifer, who had expressed her decided conviction that Noel Merrick was the cleverest sailor, as well as the handsomest and best man, she had ever seen, nobody but her father excepted. Captain Daniels, after a few days' acquaintance with the young man, was disposed to see him with his daughter's eyes, and to congratulate himself on having found so efficient a substitute for the invalided Evans. The awakening came a few days later, when he and the young sailor were returning in the moonlit dusk from a visit to the Martha. As they neared the house a slender white figure came through the doorway into the moonlight to meet them.
"There she is again!" exclaimed the sailor, stopping short.
"She? Who?"
"It was she!" pointing to the approaching girls, "that girl, or angel, or whatever she is, that brought in the brig."
"She! Why, that's Marah."
Marah had been ill. Could and exposure, and perhaps excitement on the night of the vessel's incoming, had been too much for her delicate frame, and on her recovery from the long, deep fainting fit, she had been obliged to keep her room, so that she had not met the young sailor who was the object of Gennifer's enthusiastic admiration; nor, when she did see him, could she understand the look of wonder, akin to awe, with which he regarded her.
Both girls were puzzled to understand why the father should wish to draw back from his given word; " I could believe in the angel steering the brig," said Captain Daniels confidentially to his wife, as they sat by the fireside discussing matters; "there's more wonderful things than that in the Bible; but when it comes to him answering that the angel was the maid Marah, it's too much; there's no sense nor reason in it, for we know as how it ain't true. I'm sore puzzled in my mind what to do."
But if the captain had a difficulty in making up his mind as to the wisdom of trusting his ship in the young man's hands, his daughter decided without hesitation a much more momentous question; for, before the brig was ready for sea again, Gennifer annouced her intention fo trusting herself and her future, for better or worse, to him.
She overruled all objections, and had her own way, as she had done all her life, and when pretty Gennifer made up her mind to anything, there was nothing more to be said.
One more voyage, however, Capitain Daniels held out for, and then, if all went well, he would not oppose the young people. So Noel Merrick sailed away with the brig, and Gennifer waited at home for him, glad and joyful in the new happiness that had come into her life.
There was so much to do, so much to prepare, that the time passed quickly. There were letters to receive and read - beautiful letters that made the girl's heart beat, and brought the bright colour to her cheek. There were letters to write too, that brought a softer beam to the bright dark eyes. In her happiness she did not notice at first the pathetic little droop that was sometimes to be seen on Marah's face, nor the wistfulness that had come into her eyes. It was only when the neighbours remarked that the girl was failing, that she saw her step had lost its lightness, and that her eyes and lips wore and expression they had not known before.
The change and come about slowly. She was not ill, she said, and refused to be treated as an invalid; nevertheless, it was plain to all that she was fading away. She had no pain; she never complained, nor did they see how the weakness increased. It was only when they compared this week with the last, or the present month with the previous one, that they saw the change was both great and rapid.
She strove to hide her weakness, and took as eager an interest in the preparations for the wedding as did the bride herself. She watched Gennifer's blushing cheeks and love-it eyes, when she opened and read the closely written pages of her lover's letters, but no one was the lips quiver, or the hunger in her own eyes, as she listed to the passages the girl would read aloud to her.
The year was nearing its close, and it was plain to the fisher-fold that Marah's life was going with it, but the girl seemed unconscious of her illness.
The Martha had started on her homeward voyage. There could be no more letters from Noel Merrick. The new year would bring him with it, and Gennifer had a little bird in her heart that sang and fluttered joyously as she went about her daily tasks and counted the days that brought her lover nearer.
The weeks passed, the time for his return drew nearer - nearer - arrived - and passed, leaving Gennifer bewildered. What could it mean? she asked her father, who answered, "It is nothing, he will come soon." But the days grew into weeks, the weeks resolved themselves into months, but brought no news of the ship nor her lover. Each morning the girl said to herself, "He will come to-day." Each evening she murmured with trembling lips, "He will come tomorrow," but the day passed, and the morrow came, but Noel did not come with it. The girl's pretty colour faded, and her eyes grew like Marah's in their longing and wistfulness. In all her young life trouble had never come so near her. Her gladsome heart had never know a sorrow of bereavement. She seemed unable to understand that so terrible a grief could befall her; she thought that she must awake and find it all a miserable dream.
Marah watched her with pitying looks which Gennifer could not bear. "Do not look at me as if you were sorry for me," she would say passionately. "It is as if you had already decided he could never return. He will come soon; I will not be pitied."
But he did not come, nor did there come any news of him. But once a homeward-bound steamer reported the picking up of fragments of wreck, and on one they found the painted name Martha. Then the conviction was forced upon the old people and fisher-folk that the brig had gone, and that they had heard the last of Noel Merrick and his men. But Gennifer would not submit; she was not one to bear her sorrw with patience; she resented the cross with all her strong young nature, and fought wildly against the decree of bereavement. She refused to wear a black gown, which would be a sign of her acceptance of the fact tat her lover was lost to her.
She was too proud to show despair, though in her heart there was no hope. She held her head high and defiantly before others; only Marah knew of the sleepless nights, and restless tossings on the couch, from which the girl would rise with miserable eyes and aching head.
And all this time Marah was slipping quietly out of life. Little by little she had relinquished her daily tasks into Gennifer's hands - chiefly, it seemed, because she saw the girl needed fuller occupation for her fingers during the weary hours - but, once relinquished, she was not able to take them up again.
As long as her feet would carry her, she would walk along the sands to her boulder of rock, where as a child her baby feet had taken her, and sitting there would dreamily gaze out over the sea as she had done then.
It was there that Gennifer sought her one day, and throwing herself on the sand, hid fer face against Marah's knee, and burst into a passion of tears and convulsive sobs that shook her with their violence.
They were the fist tears the girls had shed during the miserable months of waiting, and Marah did not try to stem their flow; she only carressed the drooping head, while her eyes softened with an infinite pity for the girl's grief.
"O Marah! I cannot bear it; my heart will break. I could never have believe this would be the end. If I could only die,"
she moaned, but Marah's hand only lingered caressingly on her hair; she did not speak.
By-an-by the sobs and moans died away, and the girl lay still, exhausted by the storm. Then she remembered that the evening air was chill, and Marah must come home. She rose to her feet saying, "Come, let us go," when the sight of the younger girl's face startled her. A bright, eager, wondering expression was spread over the pale delicate features, and the wide-open blue eyes shone with a glad light. Over the parted lips a smile, half incredulous, wholly delighted, played. She rose eagerly to her feet, and stretching out her arms seemed as though about to throw herself into the approaching waves.
"What is it? Marah, what is it?" cried Gennifer; but she did not hear.
"Noel! Noel!" The name broke from the parted lips as though forced from them by surprise and wondering joy.
Gennifer threw her arms around her, as the girl, with a look of joy and happiness, fell pale and inert at her feet.
"O Marah, what did you see? It was not his ghost? He is not dead? Do not tell me that? Oh, what shall I do! She is dying!" Gennifer's cries brought speedy help, and the fainting girl was carried to her home. In a little while, she opened her eyes and gazed with the same glad smile at Gennifer's anxious, tear-swollen face.
"You were right, Gennifer; he is not dead, for I have seen him."
"Tell me, dear! What did you think you saw out there on the sands? You frightened me so, I was afraid you were dying."
Marah patted her hand softly, still smiling. "I see many things away over the sea - strange, beautiful things sometimes, but this was different. It seemed to me that an island rose up out of the sea, and came towards me. It was as if all else was dark, and all the light lay on the island and round about. The sea grew more blue, and more still; the skies more clear and bright; the sunshine, stronger and warmer, glittered on the waters and on the white sands. There were many strange and warmer, glittered on the water and on the white sands. There were people too - men and women - with brown skins, and wearing but little clothing. They laughed and talked to each other. There were other people there, wearing different clothing; they were white men - I counted nine of them. They could not talk to the dark people, but made sighs, and the others laughed, and laughed so loud that I heard them plainly. There was some one else in what I think was a garden, or perhaps only among some flowering shrubs. He heard them too and came out, and as he came from among the leaves I saw it was Noel. I could hardly believe it; I had not thought of him though the other white men had seemed a little familiar. Then he laughed a little at something he saw - which had made the others laugh - and then I knew I was not mistaken, and I cried out 'Noel! Noel!' He heard me, I think, for he started and looked round. But then the island, the people, the green trees, the sparkling blue calm waters vanished, and all was dark. I felt myself falling, and heard your voice in my ears, and then - when I awakened I was here."
"If it were only true, instead of just a dream, O Marah, how happy I should be."
"Dear, it is true! I know it is true. You may believe me, Gennifer. I do not know where the brig is; I do not know where the brig is; I do not know where that island is; but I know that wherever it may be, Noel is alive and is on it, and all the others with him. You need not weep for him again, Gennifer; he will come back to you." And Gennifer believed.
After this girl failed rapidly. She could no longer wander down to the sea, and soon she could not rise from her couch, but lay where she could watch the sunlit waves throrgh the open dorrway, with a look of wistful longing in the soft blue eyes.
"He will come, Gennifer; I know he will come, but I begin to fear I shall be gone. You will be very happy, Gennifer; you will be good to him because you love him." And Gennifer could only weep, but they were not despairing tears such as she had shed down on the seashore, but soft pitying tears for the fair young life that began in sorrow, and was, she felt - though no word had said it - closing in disappointment, and she wondered a little what she had done to merit the happiness she felt sure would be hers; while Marah, the pure, the gentle, was sinking into her grave unblessed by that which had filled her own life with promise.
The grass had not yet grown over Marah's resting=place in the churchyard overlooking the sea, when he came. The story he told was read by the world. O how the Martha had foundered away in the southern seas. Of how the men and he spent many days in a small boat, trying to reach land, and how at last they succeeded. Of how they reached an island whose inhabitants received them kindly, and with shown they stayed many weeks, till a passing vessel carried them off to a frequented port, where they found a ship to bring them home. They had come by the same vessel which carried they letters, so that they were themselves the bearers of the news.
It was no uncommon story, but when they told Noel of Marah's vision, which had had brought so much comfort and strength to Gennifer's breaking heart, he said, "It was no dream. It was all as she said. I heard a glad voice crying 'Noel! Noel' and I knew it was the voice of the angel who had said, 'Steer for the light,' and the angel, I knew, was Marah."
In after years when the fishers of Pentraginny placed lights on the buoys which now mark the entrance to their little harbour, the called on " Martha" and the other "The Angel," and round the buoy, in great white letters - which in daylight may be read by sailors on the sea outside - they painted the words "Steer for the light!"
THE END
Printed by Ballantyne, Hanson & CO.
Edinburgh & London
Boston Public Libray
9 9999 05677 021 5
***
Read other stories here.
Pages - Titles
9 - Introductory
24 - Northern Lights
96 - The warning spirit
108 - Hans Hauptmann’s warning
120 - Pepi
139 - The mill stream
168 - Harald Arnhult
188 - Together
198 - Strange excursions
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