# The Castle by the Sea/Chapter 16

pp. 222–232.

### CHAPTER XVI
#### "IN A DEEP SEA LIKE DEATH"

TOOSEY and I ransacked the island without result. Whatever had become of Norroy he was no longer there; and we made our way back to the ladies puzzled, anxious, and even alarmed by the situation. We found them in some perturbation, having heard my shouts, and this was in no way allayed on receiving our news.
"But Sir Gilbert!" said Miss Harvey. "He must be— He can't be drowned!" she cried, white as her dress.
"Not a bit of it," said I, cheerily. "If he had met with an accident it would have been seen by those in the other boat."
I had been thinking things out, but I had not got very much beyond this conclusion, which also seemed insecure. It was Mr. Toosey who startled us all.
"Sir Gilbert has been kidnapped," he remarked breathlessly.
"Kidnapped!" Miss Harvey's repetition embodied the amazement of each.
"You see," said Toosey, warming to his subject and getting excited. "You have to eliminate all impossibilities, and what's left is the fact. Now, take it that Sir Gilbert went, as he did, to get the boat loose and launched. He succeeded, of course. If he had put out (which is unlikely, as he is no sailor) and had met with an accident, as Mr. Brabazon says, this would have been noticed by a boat which was only a short distance off. Now note; the people in the second boat must have seen the drifting boat. And yet they did not take it in tow, or give notice to any one left on the island. On the contrary they paid no heed to Mr. Brabazon's shouts. This proves that they purposely neglected the boat—also that they had previous cognizance of it. I take it that this is what happened, if we reconstruct the incident. Sir Gilbert looses the boat, is surprised by the occupants of the other boat, and knocked on the head. Then they put off with him, leaving our boat adrift."
He looked from one to another of us in a challenge, but we did not speak. For once Mr. Toosey's theories seemed to us feasible; only Miss Fuller broke out plaintively.
"But people don't do such things in the twentieth century."
Mr. Toosey, holding the floor triumphantly, turned to her.
"My dear lady," he said, "I should not like to put a limit to what human nature is capable of. The Barbary pirates—"
"Oh, don't let's talk about Barbary pirates when we 're in this dreadful uncertainty," broke in Miss Harvey. "What is to be done, Mr. Brabazon?"
"We are in a quandary ourselves," I said. "We have no means of getting ashore. Mr. Toosey's version is possible, and, guessing as much as I guess of the people we have had to deal with lately, even probable. The first thing to consider, then, is how to get off. We must signal to the mainland."
That was the pressing duty, and we drowned our other contingent cares in its active performance. First, we collected all the handkerchiefs of the party, and, fixing them together into a white flag, ran this up to the end of a pole, which we stuck in a conspicuous place on the side of the islet and towards Southington. But that was only the opening of our campaign; we could not be dependent on a mere flag. Of course it was always possible that some boat returning down the estuary might pass near us, but that chance was lessening every minute with the fall of the twilight. Our chief design was to build a bonfire; and in order to keep the girls from growing alarmed, I despatched them to search the isle for fuel. The island was grown with bushes, fringed with willows and tamarisk, and occupied by a few oaks and elms at intervals amid the undergrowth. The débris of past autumns and winters had accumulated underfoot, and it was not difficult to collect a large pile of dead wood and dead leaves. Then we kindled our pyre, and stood aside to watch it flare. Smoke and flame mounted to heaven in leaps, and we were all confident that the conflagration must be easily seen in Southington. Certainly this must have been so, but our mistake lay in imagining the villagers would interpret our fire for a signal of distress. As a matter of fact they did not, and, though we maintained our beacon for more than two hours, it aroused no curiosity and brought no relief. By that time the ladies had begun to despair.
Night long since had settled on us, yet not profound darkness. Night in midsummer seems to partake of a forgotten cousinship with the day. It is a luminous darkness that prevails, and encumbers the night as with a lucid mist. I could stand by the babbling shore and pierce the brooding veil upon the sea with the shafts my eyes, and feel none of the oppression of that blankness that falls with night in winter. And I could descry also the remote and twinkling lights of Southington over waters that were not black but rather ghostly. Distress had settled upon us also with the darkness. The girls made no complaint, but resigned themselves, as their sex will always resign in its primitive way to destiny. In my heart, and I think in Toosey's also, rebellion bubbled up still, determination was still unquenched.
"How far would you put it to the mainland?" I asked the artist.
"Three quarters of a mile or so," he replied.
"What about swimming?"
He shook his head. "I can't swim a stroke," he said sadly.
"I don't think I could stay it," I said. "But something must be done. I wonder."
I went on wondering while the fire flamed to heaven, and the three girls sat forlornly watching it and the unresponsive ocean. I examined my watch and found it close on eleven. We were destined to remain prisoners all night. I would give Fate twenty minutes longer.
We filled the interval, Toosey and I, in preparing a protection of branches for the ladies. With this rude screen behind them and the blazing fire in front, they would take no harm from the night airs or the damp. Then I beckoned Toosey away and told him.
"Keep them from worrying," I enjoined. "Let them rest if they can. I will do my best."
He looked doubtful; but the cast of the shore now seemed to me not so distant. I stripped myself to my underclothes, and with a farewell to him launched out into the water from the lower side of the island. I was aware from the outset that everything depended on the currents. The tide was drawing strongly under me and bore me slantwise down stream. I could see the lights of the shore moving with each stroke, and I labored, not to make a direct passage, but to take advantage of the tide. If I were fortunate I reckoned that I should come ashore somewhere between Southington and the Point. I swam for some time steadily, occasionally with the side stroke, and now and again on my back. The water was rather cold and I felt chilled. But if I was making way, as I hoped, I was not afraid now of failing to stay the distance. Underneath me was a swathing whirl of water. I swam easily ... too easily, it occurred to me with alarm. I glanced at the shore, and saw the lights had fallen behind. I was in the tow of a fierce current, and I realized with a thrill that I was going down midstream like a piece of wood. I was being carried out to the mouth of the estuary and the open sea.
From that moment of realization I abandoned any thought of the Southington shore and strove to work backwards. The currents with which I had started did not seem to have been so strong as that which now had me. I beat for the other shore desperately, fighting with nail and claw. The water was broken by the roughening wind and chopped in my face; it lapped against me as if moving outwards, but I thought that if I could get under the lee of the land I should at least be in a quieter sea.
I battled for half an hour with the tide, and at the end I could not say if I had succeeded. Darkness had now eclipsed everything; no lights were visible, and for all that I knew I might be wrestling in mid-channel. I strove now quite blindly, fighting every inch of the way with the tide, and instinctively throwing myself in opposition to it. If I could breast that demon, I knew it spelt safety; beyond and without, there was nothing but death.
The roar of the water was like monstrous droning bagpipes in my ears. I shut my eyes and clenched my teeth and battered against the waves. And soon I was aware that the chill was creeping upwards from my feet. Of a sudden the dying words of Socrates came into my mind—how oddly! "When the cold reaches my heart I shall die." The thought lashed me to a maddened effort. My failing arms went through the water mechanically and did not seem to belong to me. They were dull implements that moved without sensation and had no relation with living things. Yet there was some vague pain connected with them. I wondered if I had the power to stop, or whether these arms would not go beating on after I had sunk fathoms deep and tossed with tangle and shell. It appeared now an easy matter to go down and down, and not very objectionable. It only meant sinking a little lower, so that the salt water covered one's mouth not part of the time but all the time, and then the heavy press of slow, tangible, gurgling stuff about one's face and over one's head—sheets of light in the brain, such as flashed now through my eyes in the darkness, a dull and even murmur of water, around, in the ears, in the mind, everywhere, a burning in the throat, such as gripped me now, a gentle, gradual, nay, even comfortable, settlement into the element about me. I was one with the water, one with the waves, all darkness about me, save one gleam across the mind, like the light of Southington village. I felt a consciousness in my leg, and then it ceased, and I was numb again.
The light in my mind faded from brightness into twilight; it wavered about a figure which I could not determine, and then went out. I did not know if my arms were moving still, or my head were under water. There was no pain now, and no desire to go on. I was just at rest—at one with the water....
I was conscious of a blow which caused no pain, but merely stirred me, and I awoke with no physical senses about me, but merely to that lightning flash in the brain. Deep down in that central self which was I, I was aware of the words "I sleep but my heart waketh." I seemed to repeat them, but outside the central self was silence—silence, and now a growing pain in every part of me.
Something pressed my numb back; a sound floated into my ears... sounds, and one the indeterminate low voice of the sea that I had once heard, and.another ... what was that other?
It was a voice ... words ... My eyes fell open, and something brushed my face; something as it were rain from heaven dripped upon my forehead, which was burning. Something moved upon my breast, and it was a hand. I wondered if it was my hand. And then a face pressed close against my hot brow, and I heard the voice again ... words...
"My darling ... my darling ..."
I tried to lift my hand, but it did not belong to me. I opened my mouth, but I made no sound.
"Perdita!" I murmured in that central self where all things are registered when speech and hearing and sight and life are not.
The rain gushed from her eyes.... I saw I was lying on a shore among dark bushes, stars in heaven, and a woman's arms about me....
I do not know how long it was afterwards that I found Toosey supporting me with one arm while he held a flask to my lips with his other hand. I had come to life again; and the whole audible and visible world jumped up round about me as of yore.
It was not until a good deal later, not in fact until I was revolving the matter fully next day, that I was able to form a reasonable theory as to what had happened to me. It was clear that my frantic efforts to reach the shore had resulted in taking me nearer to it than I had known. At one time, indeed, as I guessed, I must have been only a hundred yards from the creek which leads up to Baring. But here I had got into the race which forms on the tail of the outgoing tide towards the island, and on that current I was thrown up on my point of departure.
I recovered slowly, but presently under Toosey's kindly administrations I was able to get into my clothes again. The dear man was much concerned about me, shook his head over my rashness, and said all was well on the island. My absence had not been discovered. I experienced a sudden odd sensation. Was it a mirage that I had seen? Was it merely in my dreams that Perdita had been weeping over me and holding me in her arms, and wringing her hands? Toosey's cheerfulness was salient, almost false in effect. I had some doubts about him. I rested at length upon the ground, too much exhausted to walk, or even to ask questions; and by and by I was aware that he had stolen away.
I heard the water lapping on the sea beach, and the breeze whispering in the trees; and when I opened my eyes next I saw a white form between the parted bushes and some one looking at me.
"Perdita!" I called, Perdita!"
She came a little nearer, so near that I put out a hand and weakly seized her skirt. She stooped, and I caught her about the neck.
"It was you, then!" I said. "It was you, my darling."
She descended upon me, lying there, and put her face to mine, and sobbed and kissed me. Her cold pale face rested on mine; she sobbed and pressed close to me, and called me her dearest and her love. Passion sprang from her in a fount and overflowed me. Through all the reserves and embankments of her maiden heart it broke in a clear full torrent upon me. She was mine, eternally and irrevocably mine!
We sat, talking but little, into the morning, content to live and breathe and be together. In the east the chill of the approaching dawn heralded a new day, and the waste of water emerged from its black shroud into a grayness. What roused me at last from my happy reverie was a shout, and then a second. Perdita rose swiftly and flew like a roe through the bushes; and I managed to get to my feet, stiff and sore and aching.
"Brabazon!" Toosey's voice conveyed to me. "A boat! A rescue!"
I made my way with difficulty to the other side of the isle and joined the excited party. Out of the loosening darkness a dim shape was advancing on the water. Toosey hailed it, and was answered back. It rushed on us like a monstrous bird, checked, swerved, and slid with its nose upon the sand. In five minutes we were all on board.
Hawes, the boatman, who had the tiller, now gave us his story. The empty tossing boat seen off the Point had spread dismay earlier in the night; but it was not known in what direction to look for us. Word travelled to Southington, where the fire furnished the necessary direction. In view of the discovery of the boat, this took on a new and grave importance. Hence the expedition which rescued us.
Now that our troubles were past, an exceeding cheerfulness prevailed. Miss Fuller had already begun to see the adventure in romantic perspective; Miss Harvey was practical and talkative. It seemed that she had fallen asleep in the comfort of the fire.
"Well, you can call it an experience," she declared. "But I don't think I'm asking for any more. What became of you, Miss Perdita. I woke up once and you were n't there."
"Oh, I—I felt restless, and wandered about the island," said Perdita faintly.
She was lying wrapped up near me, and I turned to her. "Did you hear a cry? Did my spirit call to yours, darling?" I whispered.
"It must," she said. "The stars showed me you lying white and cold on the strand." She shuddered. "I thought you were dead."
"There's one thing," remarked Miss Harvey in her most authoritative way. "This rescue is all right for us. But where is poor Sir Gilbert?"
Yes, we had come back to that problem. What had become of Sir Gilbert?