CHAPTER IV.

THE ROCKS.

HONORA came into the back bedroom ten minutes later, to find her friend, attired in ulster and cap, gazing out of the window into a little back yard.

"Dreaming, Gwen?" she asked.

"Yes," Gwendoline said, turning, with something like tears in her eyes. "Doesn't it sometimes feel to you as if life itself were more than half a dream?"

"No," Honora answered. "It seems to me altogether a tremendous reality."

"I know it is so. But sometimes I feel as if we were just leaves tossed to and fro on irresistible waves of circumstances—straws carried away on a strong current."

"Is Lady Halcot's invitation an irresistible wave?" asked Honora drily. "Why not say no at once?"

"Say no! I am only too eager to go, only too frightened lest I should make a mistake, and undo possible good for my mother and father by some silly blunder. I can't guess what Lady Halcot wants or expects in me. If I get a self-conscious fit, it will take away all ease; and if I talk too much she will count me forward; and if I talk too little she will find me dull."

"And if she does, what then?"

"You don't know how much may depend upon this evening, Honor," said Gwendoline deprecatingly.

"You mean—"

Gwendoline's cheeks were burning again. "She ought to be kind to my mother. She ought to be willing to help. I would not say this to anybody except you, but mother was her adopted child for twenty years, and everybody thought she would be heiress to some of the property. I suppose she would have been, but for—but for—her marriage. Can it be right for Lady Halcot to cast her utterly off?"

"I suppose your mother took her choice, Gwen," said Honora gently and gravely.

"Yes, and it was not Lady Halcot's choice. But Lady Halcot allowed the engagement for a time, and then refused permission, and turned against my father. That is where the wrong lay. It was tyranny, Honor. Could mother have forsaken him? Could you have given him up in her place?"

Honora moved her head negatively. "Had Lady Halcot a reason?" she asked.

"She had not known before that my father's family were so poor, and she disliked some of his connections, I believe. It was nothing in himself. She ought to have inquired more fully before giving permission. Once given, she had no right to withdraw it,—for such a reason, at any rate."

"And she has held no intercourse with your mother since?"

"None; not a word or a message. She told mother that it would be so, that if the marriage took place she would never see her or speak to her again. Mother has not the faintest hope that she ever will. She says she never knew Lady Halcot change in her purpose, or forgive an offence. But sometimes I have thought that if I could see Lady Halcot, I might persuade her to feel differently."

"She might be willing to help, even if she would not be on former terms," said Honora. "This looks like a possible step in that direction."

"If it only were—if it might be!" said Gwendoline, in a low voice. "I have such a craving sometimes just to see a possible way out of our difficulties. I feel like the man who was shut up in a room, and saw the walls drawing slowly nearer and nearer, day by day, till at last they crushed him to death between them. That story always had a dreadful sort of fascination for me, and now I seem to see the walls closing and closing in. And we cannot escape; and I can do nothing. Lady Halcot could help so easily; it would be nothing to her. If I stood alone, I could fight my way, and I would scorn to wish for one farthing of her money. But the pressure is terrible now, and it gets worse and worse. Mother is wearing out under it; and father—Honor, I don't think he ever forgets that he is the cause of my mother being cut off from ease and luxury."

"And you are looking to yourself to bring about a reconciliation? Gwen, if I were you I would 'lift up mine eyes' higher."

Gwendoline was silent.

"The thing is not in your hands at all. It is in God's hands. The chasm may be bridged over any day, if He so will. And He may will to use you for the purpose. If not—"

"Ah!" sighed Gwendoline. "That 'if not' is my difficulty."

"Because you are bent upon having it your own way. But you cannot choose. It must be His doing; and it must be done, inch by inch, as He wills. Better be content to have it thus, Gwennie dear,—to rest quietly under the shadow of His hand, and to let Him order things for you as He sees best. The walls will not close in and crush you, if you are waiting on Him to know the way out, but they may be allowed to come a little nearer. And the way of escape may be other than this."

Honora spoke in an earnest manner, and she laid a hand lovingly on Gwendoline's arm. It was a true and close friendship between the two, and Honora had not only a warm affection for this fair young creature, but a strong desire to shelter and protect her. Practically she could do little, however. She was a portionless orphan herself, and had to make her own way in the world.

"I ought to be able to trust," said Gwendoline. "We have always been helped so far,—only when I look forward, and see things growing worse, I am afraid."

And Honora said softly, "'Be not afraid;' 'Let not your heart be troubled.' 'Trust in Him at all times.'"

She added, after a pause, "I suppose we are so changeable ourselves by nature, that we really cannot imagine what absolute changelessness means. Gwen, your Master will not love and care for you one whit less to-morrow than He did yesterday. Only be willing to have things brought about as He chooses, and then follow carefully each indication of His guidance. The quieter you can be in heart, the less likely you are to undo His will for you by rash action. He knows what is best."

"It does seem as if it would be so very much best for Lady Halcot to forgive mother," said Gwendoline sadly. "Not that I like the word 'forgive.' I cannot think my mother was wrong."

"It might or might not be best. You and I don't know. Now you are going to have your little run, and you will come back the better for it. I wish I could go too, but I must not leave my uncle and aunt. By-the-bye, I thought it best to speak plainly of your relationship to Lady Halcot, that I might warn them not to talk. I know you do not wish your affairs to be made the subject of Riversmouth gossip."

Gwendoline went off somewhat soberly, taking her course down the crooked principal street, through the cliff-opening, and over the beach.

The tide was at its full height, and, indeed, was already on the turn, and the breeze had somewhat increased in strength since the morning. Waves of considerable size rolled in, to break upon the shore in a succession of crashes, grinding the rounded pebbles. Three poor children, neatly dressed, a boy and two girls, were playing near the margin of the water, and two fishermen were loitering on the top of the cliff; otherwise, the shore appeared to be deserted. Gwendoline, fresh from city crowds, revelled in the sense of stillness, and delighted in the freedom of being thus practically alone.

Somewhat to the right of the cliff-opening, a long line of jagged rocks ran straight out into the sea. Gwendoline could not resist the temptation to climb along them. She did not find the task quite easy; for, though at low-water they lay high and dry, they were now a very focus for splashing waves. Albeit a Londoner, she had a sure foot and steady brain, and she feared no slips. A dash of fine salt spray now and then was exhilarating; but she managed to keep her feet dry. At the further extremity of the chain a huge square boulder rose well out of the water, and here Gwendoline found for herself a comfortable seat. One or two passers-by, noting her from the cliffs, counted her rather an adventurous young woman, and were relieved to see her reach a place of safety. A false step half-way might have entailed serious consequences.

Gwendoline gave herself up to enjoyment—not exactly to thinking. Trains of clear thought, definitely carried on, are not often induced by the presence of Nature in her fairest moods. The mind is at such a time rather receiving new impressions than working out old impressions. Gwendoline was content to sit with clasped hands, thinking definitely about nothing, but drinking in with her lips the sweet fresh air, and drinking in with her eyes the varying blue tints of sea and sky, and drinking in with her ears the grand bass chords and softer treble accompaniments of the musical symphony played upon the pebbles by breaking waves and splashing waters; while vague musings crept unbidden through her mind. And the sense of restful trust in a Father's love, which she had not quite felt while Honora was speaking, seemed now to fill her heart.

"For He made all this," murmured Gwendoline. "How easy for Him to do just what He wills!"

Gwendoline's dreamy happiness was suddenly broken in upon by a sharp shriek. The little children on the beach, observing the movements of the young lady, had apparently been fired thereby to follow her example. Two of them were perched timidly on a rock at the beginning of the range, and showed small inclination to proceed farther; but the third, a boy of about seven, had succeeded in reaching nearly half-way towards the end boulder. There his footing slipped, or his presence of mind failed; for, with the scream which disturbed Gwendoline, he fell over, still grasping a point of rock with both hands.

The children wailed piteously, and Gwendoline sprang up. "Hold tight—hold on—I'm coming!" she cried, though doubtful whether her voice would reach him through the ceaseless splashing of the water. And even as she spoke, a large white-crested billow swept past, and the boy was torn away.

The accident had been seen from the top of the cliff, and men were hurrying down the steps, but Gwendoline knew there was no time to be lost. She stood perfectly still, considering what to do. Would the child be flung on the beach? For a moment she thought so, and then gave up the hope—if hope it were, since such a manner of landing must have been perilous to life and limb. The tide had by this time thoroughly turned, and the flow of the stream was seaward. As the wave passed on, to boom upon the shingles, the child was left behind, and the next instant, in the strong return-rush of water, he was borne farther back, to give a moment's sport to the following wave. Then he disappeared, to rise again near the boulder on which Gwendoline stood.

She had not been idle. In that brief space of time, while her eyes were strained in watching, she had flung off gloves, boots, and ulster, and had even dropped the skirt of her dress. She knew well that her only hope of keeping afloat, if the attempt proved needful, would be to find herself as far as possible unencumbered. She could swim, having learnt as a child, but she was entirely out of practice.

Would the little figure come within reach? Gwendoline gave a glance at the shore, and saw help still distant. Then she knelt down at the edge of the boulder; but that would not do. She flung herself flat, and hung over, with outstretched arms, striving to grasp him, but in vain. The waves, tossing him to and fro, seemed to mock at her efforts.

Down again into the green water the little form was helplessly sinking, and another broad billow was rolling up. Gwendoline felt that one hope only remained. She sprang to her feet, took one steady look, and leaped boldly in, striking the right spot, and seizing the child. The two went down together, and rose again, just as the big wave came up to catch them in its grasp, rolling them over, bearing them on, then leaving them in its rear.

Beaten and breathless, Gwendoline found her unpractised swimming powers of small avail. She could just keep herself afloat, and that was all. Even that could not be for long. Her best efforts were directed towards holding the mouth of the unconscious child above the waves; but water dashed over her own face, blinding and choking her. Would help never come? Was this to be the end? Gwendoline thought of her mother, and dimly pictured the coming sorrow in her home. Then she remembered Lady Halcot, and even wondered what the old lady would think, not to see her at dinner that evening. A vision of her last unfinished painting rose next, surrounded by a halo of girlish aspirations, perhaps never to be fulfilled. Again she found herself in the grasp of a powerful wave, and she knew her strength was gone. All around grew dark, and she felt that she and the child were sinking together. Yet in the deadly struggle for breath there came sweetly the thought of One who had died on the cross for her; for Gwendoline knew and loved and trusted Him, and He never fails His own.

Then something grasped and drew her out of the water; and someone took from her the little body to which she had so resolutely clung; and somebody else wrapped a cloak round her, and laid her at the bottom of the boat. Gwendoline was conscious of so much; and she even opened her eyes, and saw the weather-beaten faces of three fishermen, and also a grave face of a different stamp, bending over her. But after that, she knew no more.