CHAPTER XXI.

THE FATE OF THE SWIMMER.

Latimer was drifting on the tide, his long straight piece of timber, very unsteady in its progress, at one time going at an angle as if it would drive to the shore of Freston Tower, at another steering with a wide course towards the Priory. Its progress was slow only when it came among those long winding weeds, fine as the smallest ribbons, and ten or twenty feet long, which would occasionally twist themselves over the board.

This he felt to be his worst position, for whenever his plank was delayed, he found the greatest difficulty to keep his place upon it. The incessant spray, too, was such as to blind him, and scarcely permitted him to see the light of the tower on the Freston side, or upon that of Downham Reach. Still Latimer was thankful that he had found this friendly help in the hour of need.

He looked at the light glimmering from that happy spot in which he had spent the most enlightened moments of his life, he looked and longed for that friendly shore: nor did he forget to pray both for her whom he loved, and for her father, whose superstition, even at that moment, he conceived to be the cause of the catastrophe. He could not help thinking that if that watching had not been, he should not then have been a solitary sufferer upon the waves of the Orwell. Again, he thought it might have happened, even if De Freston had been on board the boat, and a thrill of joy ran through his cold frame at the thought that he was safe.

It was evident that his plank neared the Freston shore; for, as the lightning flashed, he beheld the castle, and the tower, and the trees, and even imagined that he distinguished the very stair in a line with the light of the tower. Just at that time, too, his limbs seemed to be released from the clinging sea-weed and his floating spar to rush into deep water. It darted forward as if released from confinement; its course seeming to be towards the shore. It was evidently in the deep channel, and Latimer thought it was the very channel which he knew swept up to the Freston shore. The light of the tower was now behind him, and again the weeds stopt his plank. It was then he thought of making his greatest effort.

'I am leaving the shore,' he said to himself; 'and my plank will soon be drawn down by the weight of the weeds, and I shall go with it. I must now try my strength, and with God's help, I may reach the land.'

He cast off his coat, he tore off his shoes, stript himself as much as he could, and with prayer heavenward, and his eyes upon the beacon, he cast himself upon the waters. In a moment, he felt those long winding weeds twisting themselves around his limbs. His presence of mind did not forsake him. He had often swam the waters of the Severn and had been well tutored against weeds. To struggle against them he knew to be vain. The old fisherman on his native waters, had often told him that the only way to escape them was to lay himself out as fleet as he could, and never to strike until they untwisted themselves, which they would be sure to do if he would not resist them. He did this directly, and though it delayed him, yet delay in this instance was avoiding danger. He struck out as fleetly as he could until he escaped these treacherous weeds, and to his great joy he came into deep water.

His eye now rested upon the beacon, his arms expanded, his chest breasted the waves, and hope, that sweet companion, hope in the mercy of God, did not forsake him. It was a hard struggle, however, to buffet the opposing waves, with both wind and tide against him. He had youth, health, strength, hope, and love in his favor; and all that a young man with a good heart could do, he did to reach the wished-for shore.

There is, however, a limit to human exertion, beyond which no man's strength can avail. He was ignorant of the distance he had to swim. A light looks sometimes nearer than it really is, and the poor smuggler's heart was greatly tried, as, with all his efforts, he did not seem to near the shore. Yet the light seemed to burn higher up in the sky; and as the lightning illumined the waters, he thought that the dark woods were nearer.

Did the classical scholar think of the Hellespont as he breasted the waves, or remember the fate of the far-famed Leander? The night was such as to create despondency, without referring to the classical allusion. But the Christian Latimer knew what Leander did not--that God was his help. He had not presumptuously braved the waves for a secret amour, and, much as he admired the true love of Leander, he felt himself in a very different position, though Freston Tower was then his aim, and he hoped that Ellen De Freston might be expecting his return.

Great were his repeated exertions, but he felt his strength beginning to fail him! He looked up at the light, and he thought it less distinct. He felt a strange dimness overshadow his brain, a nervous prostration of strength, and a weakness, which made him anxious only to exert himself the more.

The light from the tower suddenly disappeared. Oh! how his soul seemed to sink; and not only his soul, for a dimness, like a film, seemed to spread itself over his eyes, and his hands and his feet to sink lower, and to strike feebler beneath the waves.

Strange mists are beginning to fill those longing eyes, and sparkling, star-like lights to flit across his vision. 'And is it thy will, O Lord!' was the last exclamation from his fainting lips, as he lifted his head in the darkness, and his feet sank motionless downwards. That very motion in one moment convinced him of God's mercy; that it was His will he should be saved. He felt the ground; his feet touched the shore. With a bound of joy, such as angels may be supposed to feel at the returning steps of the repentant, he sprang forward--the tide had previously turned--the wave helped him--and the flash of the now friendly lightning showed him the stair of De Freston just before him!

One effort more--aloud cry of joy, and for help--he seized the step of the stair--vain his effort to ascend; too weak, too feeble, too exhausted, he fell, still grasping the lowest step of De Freston's landing-place. All consciousness was gone; instinctively he grasped the step, and every wave became less powerful, until it only washed against his feet.

Ellen De Freston had cautioned her maid to take the lamp out of the way of the window whilst she opened the casement looking down upon the waves. Hers was rather a dangerous position, in a lofty tower surrounded by trees, in the very midst of thunder and lightning. Many minds would quail before such terrors; but love is very strong, and when aided by education, and divested of all superstition, it in a power of dependence upon God stronger than a castle.

She felt that her father and her friend were absent; that they were returning from sacred duties, difficult to fulfil, and requiring the assistance of her loving aid. Who can watch so well as they who wish for our safety? And who can do this better than an affectionate child?

Ellen De Freston opened her casement, anxious to hear some sound of the plashing oars, or some voices upon the Orwell. She thought she heard, through the lull of the storm, a faint moan. She listened again--she did hear it.

'Hark, Maria! leave the lamp; come to the window. Hark! dost thou not hear a moan?'

'I do, my lady--I do! It is some poor wretch upon the shore!'

'Haste thee below, maiden. Come, let us haste! But hold! we must not take away the beacon.'

'Shall I run to the castle for help?'

'No, quickly descend, and ascend again with the torch that hangs upon the porch door. Quick! quick! Maria. Fly! I can still hear the moan of distress. We must be above our sex in the moment of danger.'

The torch was soon lit. Neither felt the coldness of the wind, nor the fury of the storm. Some poor sufferer must be cast upon the shore; and when is a woman's heart so deeply alive, and so warmly engaged, as when conveying help to the disconsolate. The man that cannot appreciate female philanthropy knows not what true pity is. It glows so vividly, it comes so blessedly, it shines so graciously, that the most warlike men have, in all ages, been subdued by it.

With rapid steps did Ellen De Freston and her maid hasten, by the burning torchlight, to the shore. Their first care was to hasten to the stair, by which they could descend to the level of the waves. They reached it.

Holding down the torch, they see a form below--they descend--the light shows them at once the features of Latimer, and their tender hearts are struck with horror. A wild shriek reaches the castle of De Freston, and arouses the inmates, who were awaiting their lord's return. The ancient dame of the castle, with servants and men, came running down the green sward towards the light which they saw burning by the stairs.

They soon perceive their young mistress leaning over the apparently lifeless body of a young man. They soon recognized the features, and lent their aid to remove him to the castle.

Glad, indeed, was Ellen of their help, and quickly did she follow them into that place of hospitality whence a sufferer never was excluded, or failed to receive the kindest attention.

But such a sufferer as then entered the walls, and under such circumstances, commanded all the interest of affection and pity.

He was quickly conveyed to a warm bed. Oh! what deep anxiety dwelt in the mind of the maiden, as her unconscious friend was placed at least out of further danger, and she received the assurance of her old nurse that he was alive. She dropped upon her knees, put up her prayers for help, and every returning minute confirmed the report of his revival. Exhaustion was so great that the sufferer had no voice; his eye only could speak his thankfulness, and this seemed eloquent to heaven. Yet it beamed too with gratitude upon that dear friend who had first relieved him from his cold, dark fate on the shore of the Orwell.

It was long indeed--for hours are long to the suspended hopes and fears of any--before the faintest whisper could narrate the miseries of that dismal light. In faint, very faint, whispers did the sufferer unfold to his kind attendants the catastrophe which had occurred.

Ellen knew her father's intention to keep watch in the chapel; but she thought of his anxieties, what they must be if any report should reach him of the fate of his crew and the loss of Latimer. Happy, very happy, was she in being the blessed instrument of his recovery, though even that might be a longer work than she expected. She was thankful that a whisper could be heard, that a consciousness of her care had come to the sufferer.

This, indeed, had come long before he could express it. When he could, it was exquisite pleasure so to do. Oh! how grateful do we all feel to the kind hands which minister to our wants in sickness! When are we more virtuous? When are we more thankful? When is our love more lively than when, unable to do anything for ourselves, we find a helping hand to lift up our weary head, and to place it upon our softened pillow? Religion comes never sweeter in her influences than when she approaches our sick bed, and tells us how grateful we ought to be to our God.

How sweet is the first sleep after struggling nature, restored from exhaustion, relieved from exertion, is lulled into repose, by the rest of tenderness. 'Blessed, indeed, are all they who provide any comfort for the sick and needy; they shall find relief when they are themselves in need of help.'

In prayer for Ellen, came Latimer's first repose; and the maid of the castle then gave orders for a boat to be prepared for the first sound of the Priory matin-bell.

De Freston was the first to hear that sound and to rise from his watch, to open the chapel-door, and, with a calm composure, to receive the congratulations of the brotherhood. Well did he know that he could afford no assistance to Latimer, if he were drowned in the Orwell; and well he knew that the monks could best administer to the wants of his men. He walked forth, therefore, from his devotions with no surprise; nor was he astonished to find his boat ready, the water baled out, all his men equipped in dry clothes, and quite anxious to pass over to Freston Tower.

He thanked the learned fraternity for their kindness, paid all the customary fees, and promised what he knew he could well perform for their attention to his people. He walked to the shore, thinking of his daughter; and before he could embark--though the tempest had passed away, yet the waters were greatly troubled--he beheld that daughter approaching from her Tower to convey tidings which every soul upon that beach was glad to hear.

'Alas! my child,' exclaimed De Freston, as his beauteous Ellen rushed to his arms, 'where is Latimer?'

'Safe, my dear father, in your own castle.'

'Then God be praised for his mercies!'

'Amen! amen! amen!' was the response from all; and soon were they all, beneath happier auspices, passing over those now less formidable waves, to the welcome precincts of Freston Tower.