CHAPTER III
An enterprise of such pith required, indeed, less talking than
consideration. The first thing they did in carrying it out was to
return to the railway station, where Baptista took from her luggage a
small trunk of immediate necessaries which she would in any case have
required after missing the boat. That same afternoon they travelled
up the line to Trufal.
Charles Stow (as his name was), despite his disdainful indifference
to things, was very careful of appearances, and made the journey
independently of her though in the same train. He told her where she
could get board and lodgings in the city; and with merely a distant
nod to her of a provisional kind, went off to his own quarters, and
to see about the licence.
On Sunday she saw him in the morning across the nave of the pro-
cathedral. In the afternoon they walked together in the fields,
where he told her that the licence would be ready next day, and would
be available the day after, when the ceremony could be performed as
early after eight o'clock as they should choose.
His courtship, thus renewed after an interval of two years, was as
impetuous, violent even, as it was short. The next day came and
passed, and the final arrangements were made. Their agreement was to
get the ceremony over as soon as they possibly could the next
morning, so as to go on to Pen-zephyr at once, and reach that place
in time for the boat's departure the same day. It was in obedience
to Baptista's earnest request that Stow consented thus to make the
whole journey to Lyonesse by land and water at one heat, and not
break it at Pen-zephyr; she seemed to be oppressed with a dread of
lingering anywhere, this great first act of disobedience to her
parents once accomplished, with the weight on her mind that her home
had to be convulsed by the disclosure of it. To face her
difficulties over the water immediately she had created them was,
however, a course more desired by Baptista than by her lover; though
for once he gave way.
The next morning was bright and warm as those which had preceded it.
By six o'clock it seemed nearly noon, as is often the case in that
part of England in the summer season. By nine they were husband and
wife. They packed up and departed by the earliest train after the
service; and on the way discussed at length what she should say on
meeting her parents, Charley dictating the turn of each phrase. In
her anxiety they had travelled so early that when they reached Pen-
zephyr they found there were nearly two hours on their hands before
the steamer's time of sailing.
Baptista was extremely reluctant to be seen promenading the streets
of the watering-place with her husband till, as above stated, the
household at Giant's Town should know the unexpected course of events
from her own lips; and it was just possible, if not likely, that some
Lyonessian might be prowling about there, or even have come across
the sea to look for her. To meet any one to whom she was known, and
to have to reply to awkward questions about the strange young man at
her side before her well-framed announcement had been delivered at
proper time and place, was a thing she could not contemplate with
equanimity. So, instead of looking at the shops and harbour, they
went along the coast a little way.
The heat of the morning was by this time intense. They clambered up
on some cliffs, and while sitting there, looking around at St.
Michael's Mount and other objects, Charles said to her that he
thought he would run down to the beach at their feet, and take just
one plunge into the sea.
Baptista did not much like the idea of being left alone; it was
gloomy, she said. But he assured her he would not be gone more than
a quarter of an hour at the outside, and she passively assented.
Down he went, disappeared, appeared again, and looked back. Then he
again proceeded, and vanished, till, as a small waxen object, she saw
him emerge from the nook that had screened him, cross the white
fringe of foam, and walk into the undulating mass of blue. Once in
the water he seemed less inclined to hurry than before; he remained a
long time; and, unable either to appreciate his skill or criticize
his want of it at that distance, she withdrew her eyes from the spot,
and gazed at the still outline of St. Michael's--now beautifully
toned in grey.
Her anxiety for the hour of departure, and to cope at once with the
approaching incidents that she would have to manipulate as best she
could, sent her into a reverie. It was now Tuesday; she would reach
home in the evening--a very late time they would say; but, as the
delay was a pure accident, they would deem her marriage to Mr.
Heddegan to-morrow still practicable. Then Charles would have to be
produced from the background. It was a terrible undertaking to think
of, and she almost regretted her temerity in wedding so hastily that
morning. The rage of her father would be so crushing; the reproaches
of her mother so bitter; and perhaps Charles would answer hotly, and
perhaps cause estrangement till death. There had obviously been no
alarm about her at St. Maria's, or somebody would have sailed across
to inquire for her. She had, in a letter written at the beginning of
the week, spoken of the hour at which she intended to leave her
country schoolhouse; and from this her friends had probably perceived
that by such timing she would run a risk of losing the Saturday boat.
She had missed it, and as a consequence sat here on the shore as Mrs.
Charles Stow.
This brought her to the present, and she turned from the outline of
St. Michael's Mount to look about for her husband's form. He was, as
far as she could discover, no longer in the sea. Then he was
dressing. By moving a few steps she could see where his clothes lay.
But Charles was not beside them.
Baptista looked back again at the water in bewilderment, as if her
senses were the victim of some sleight of hand. Not a speck or spot
resembling a man's head or face showed anywhere. By this time she
was alarmed, and her alarm intensified when she perceived a little
beyond the scene of her husband's bathing a small area of water, the
quality of whose surface differed from that of the surrounding
expanse as the coarse vegetation of some foul patch in a mead differs
from the fine green of the remainder. Elsewhere it looked flexuous,
here it looked vermiculated and lumpy, and her marine experiences
suggested to her in a moment that two currents met and caused a
turmoil at this place.
She descended as hastily as her trembling limbs would allow. The way
down was terribly long, and before reaching the heap of clothes it
occurred to her that, after all, it would be best to run first for
help. Hastening along in a lateral direction she proceeded inland
till she met a man, and soon afterwards two others. To them she
exclaimed, 'I think a gentleman who was bathing is in some danger. I
cannot see him as I could. Will you please run and help him, at
once, if you will be so kind?'
She did not think of turning to show them the exact spot, indicating
it vaguely by the direction of her hand, and still going on her way
with the idea of gaining more assistance. When she deemed, in her
faintness, that she had carried the alarm far enough, she faced about
and dragged herself back again. Before reaching the now dreaded spot
she met one of the men.
'We can see nothing at all, Miss,' he declared.
Having gained the beach, she found the tide in, and no sign of
Charley's clothes. The other men whom she had besought to come had
disappeared, it must have been in some other direction, for she had
not met them going away. They, finding nothing, had probably thought
her alarm a mere conjecture, and given up the quest.
Baptista sank down upon the stones near at hand. Where Charley had
undressed was now sea. There could not be the least doubt that he
was drowned, and his body sucked under by the current; while his
clothes, lying within high-water mark, had probably been carried away
by the rising tide.
She remained in a stupor for some minutes, till a strange sensation
succeeded the aforesaid perceptions, mystifying her intelligence, and
leaving her physically almost inert. With his personal
disappearance, the last three days of her life with him seemed to be
swallowed up, also his image, in her mind's eye, waned curiously,
receded far away, grew stranger and stranger, less and less real.
Their meeting and marriage had been so sudden, unpremeditated,
adventurous, that she could hardly believe that she had played her
part in such a reckless drama. Of all the few hours of her life with
Charles, the portion that most insisted in coming back to memory was
their fortuitous encounter on the previous Saturday, and those bitter
reprimands with which he had begun the attack, as it might be called,
which had piqued her to an unexpected consummation.
A sort of cruelty, an imperiousness, even in his warmth, had
characterized Charles Stow. As a lover he had ever been a bit of a
tyrant; and it might pretty truly have been said that he had stung
her into marriage with him at last. Still more alien from her life
did these reflections operate to make him; and then they would be
chased away by an interval of passionate weeping and mad regret.
Finally, there returned upon the confused mind of the young wife the
recollection that she was on her way homeward, and that the packet
would sail in three-quarters of an hour.
Except the parasol in her hand, all she possessed was at the station
awaiting her onward journey.
She looked in that direction; and, entering one of those
undemonstrative phases so common with her, walked quietly on.
At first she made straight for the railway; but suddenly turning she
went to a shop and wrote an anonymous line announcing his death by
drowning to the only person she had ever heard Charles mention as a
relative. Posting this stealthily, and with a fearful look around
her, she seemed to acquire a terror of the late events, pursuing her
way to the station as if followed by a spectre.
When she got to the office she asked for the luggage that she had
left there on the Saturday as well as the trunk left on the morning
just lapsed. All were put in the boat, and she herself followed.
Quickly as these things had been done, the whole proceeding,
nevertheless, had been almost automatic on Baptista's part, ere she
had come to any definite conclusion on her course.
Just before the bell rang she heard a conversation on the pier, which
removed the last shade of doubt from her mind, if any had existed,
that she was Charles Stow's widow. The sentences were but
fragmentary, but she could easily piece them out.
'A man drowned--swam out too far--was a stranger to the place--people
in boat--saw him go down--couldn't get there in time.'
The news was little more definite than this as yet; though it may as
well be stated once for all that the statement was true. Charley,
with the over-confidence of his nature, had ventured out too far for
his strength, and succumbed in the absence of assistance, his
lifeless body being at that moment suspended in the transparent mid-
depths of the bay. His clothes, however, had merely been gently
lifted by the rising tide, and floated into a nook hard by, where
they lay out of sight of the passers-by till a day or two after.
