Monica looked out to sea. She was the first to realise what had happened.
“She has struck on the reef!” she said. “She does not drift. She has struck!”
“And in such a sea she will be dashed to pieces in a very short time,” said Randolph, as another signal flashed out from the doomed vessel.
Other lights were moving about the shore. It was plain that the whole population of the little hamlet had gathered at the water’s edge. Through the gusts of rain they could see indistinctly moving figures; they could catch as a faint murmur the loud, eager tones of their voices.
“Stay here, Monica,” said Randolph, “under the shelter of this rock. I must go and see what is being done. Wait here for me.”
She had held fast by his arm till now! but she loosed his clasp as she heard these words.
“You will come back?” she said, striving to speak calmly and steadily.
“Yes, as soon as I can. I must see what can be done. There seems to be a boat. I must go and see if it cannot be launched. The sea in the bay is not so very wild.”
Randolph was gone already. Beatrice and Monica were left standing in the lee of a projection of the cliff. They thought they were quite alone. They did not see a crouching figure not many paces away, squeezed into a dark fissure of the rock. The night was too obscure to see anything, save where the flashing lights illumined the gloom. Even the wild beast glitter of a pair of fierce eyes watching intently passed unseen and unheeded.
Monica looked out to sea with a strange fixed yearning in her dark eyes. She was looking towards the vessel, struck fast upon the very rock where she had once stood face to face with death. How well she remembered that moment and the strange calmness that possessed her! She never realised the peril she was in – it had seemed a small thing to her then whether she lived or died. She recalled her feelings so well – was she really the same Monica who had stood so calmly there whilst the waves leaped up as if to devour her? Where was her old, calm indifference now? – that strange courage prompted by the want of natural love for life?
A sense of revelation swept over Monica at that moment. She had never really feared, because she had never truly loved. It was not death even now that she dreaded for herself, or for her husband, but separation. Danger, even to death, shared with him, would be almost welcome: but to think of his facing danger alone – that was too terrible. She pressed her hands closely together. It seemed as if her very soul cried to Heaven to keep away this dire necessity. Why she suspected its existence she could not have explained, but the shadow that had hung upon her all day seemed wrapping itself about her like a cloud.
“Monica, how you tremble!” said Beatrice. “Are you cold? Are you afraid?”
She was trembling herself, but it was with excitement and impatience.
Monica did not answer, and Beatrice moved a little away. She was too restless to stand still.
Monica did not miss her. A storm was sweeping over her soul – one of those storms that only perhaps come once in a life-time, and that leave indelible traces behind them. It seemed to her as if all her life long she had been waiting for this hour – as if everything in her past life had been but leading up to it.
Had she not known from her earliest childhood that some day this beautiful, terrible, pitiless sea was to do her some deadly injury – to wreck her life and leave her desolate? Ay she had known it always – and now – had the hour come?
Not in articulate words did Monica ask this question. It came as a sort of voiceless cry from the depths of her heart. She did not think, she did not reason – she only stood quite still, her hands closely clasped, her white face turned towards the sea, with a mute, stricken look of pain that yet expressed but a tithe of the bitter pain at her heart.
But during those few minutes, that seemed a life-time to her, the battle had been fought out and the victory won. The old calmness had come back to her. She had not faced this hour all her life to be a coward now.
She was a Trevlyn – and when had a Trevlyn ever been known to shrink or falter before a call of duty?
Beatrice rushed back with the greatest excitement of manner.
“They have a boat, but nearly all the men are away – the strong men who could man it easily. There are a few strong lads, who are willing and eager to go, and two fishermen; but there are only six in all, and they don’t know if it is enough. Oh, dear! oh, dear! And those poor people in the ship! Must they all be drowned?”
“I think not,” answered Monica, quietly. “I think some means will be found to save them. Where is Randolph?”
Randolph was beside her next moment.
“Ah, if only I were a man,” Beatrice was saying, excitedly. “Ah! why are women so useless, so helpless? To think of them drowning within sight of land – and they say the sea does not run so very high. Oh, what will they do? They cannot let them drown! Randolph, can nothing be done?”
“Yes, something can be done,” he answered steadily and cheerfully. “The boat is being run down. It will not be difficult or dangerous to launch her in shelter of the cliff. There are six men to man it – all they want is a coxswain. Monica,” he added, turning to her, and taking both her hands in his strong clasp, “you have taught me to navigate the Bay of Trevlyn so well, that I am equal to take that task upon myself. There are lives to be saved – the danger to the rescuing party is small, they say so, and I believe they speak the truth. Will you let me go?”
She looked up to him with a mute entreaty in her eyes.
“There are lives to be saved, my Monica,” he said, with grave gentleness. “Are our brothers to go down within sight of land, without one effort on our part to save them? Have you not wept for such scenes before now? Have you no pity to-night? Monica, in that vessel on the rocks there are men, perhaps, whose wives are waiting at home for them, and praying for their safety. Will you let me go?”
She spoke at length with manifest effort, though her manner was quite calm.
“Is there no one else?”
“There is no one else.”
For perhaps ten seconds there was perfect silence between them.
“Then Randolph, I will let you go.”
He bent his head and kissed her.
“I knew my wife would bid me do my duty,” he said proudly; “and believe me, my life, the danger is not great, and already the wind seems abating. It is but a small vessel. In all probability one journey will suffice. We shall not be out of sight, save for the darkness; we shall be under the lee of the cliff for the best part of the way. The boat is sound, the men know their work. We shall soon be back in safety, please God, and then you will be glad that you let me go.”
She lifted her head and looked at him.
“Take me with you, Randolph.”
“My darling, I cannot. It would not be right. We must not load the boat needlessly, even were there no other reason. Your presence there would take away half my courage, and perhaps it might necessitate leaving behind some poor fellow who otherwise might be saved.”
Monica said no more. She knew that he spoke the truth.
Her white, still face with its stricken look, went to his heart. He knew how strangely nervous she was on wild, windy nights. He knew it would be hard for her to let him go, but she had shown herself his brave, true Monica, as he knew she would do, and now the kindest thing he could do was to shorten the parting, and return to her as quickly as his errand would allow him.
He held her a moment in his strong arms.
“Good-bye, my Monica, my own sweet wife. Keep up a brave heart. Kiss me once and let me go. Whatever happens, we are in God’s hands. Remember that always.”
She