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Page 23
After the funeral rites were over, the smooth current of existence by
the roadside and the harbour flowed on, apparently in complete oblivion
of the fragile blossom of a girl's life, that had appeared for a little
while on its surface, and then been swept away for ever.
[Illustration:]
THE HALTING STEP.
CHAPTER I.
On the Western coast of one of the islands in the Channel group is a
level reach of salt marshes, to which the sea rises only at the highest
spring tides, and which at other times extends as far as the eye can
see, a dreary waste of salt pools, low rocks, and stretches of sand,
yielding its meagre product of shell-fish, samphire, and sea-weed to the
patient toil of the fisher-folk that dwell in scattered huts along the
shore. One arm of the bay, at the time of which I am writing, extended
inland to the left, being nearly cut off from the sea by a rocky
headland, behind which it had spread itself, so as almost to present the
appearance of an isolated pond or lake, encircled by low black rocks,
within which the water rose and sank at regular intervals, as if under
the influence of some strange, unknown power. On the borders of the lake
stood a low, one-roomed cabin, such as the island fishermen in the
wilder districts inhabit; and in the plot of ground beside the cabin,
one September evening, in the mellow, westering light, a woman might
have been seen busying herself by tying up into bundles the sea-weed
that had been spread out to dry in the sun. She wore a shade bonnet with
a large projecting peak and an enveloping curtain round the neck, quite
concealing her face, as she bent over her work. Presently, although no
sound had been heard, she looked up, with that apparently intuitive
sense of what is happening at sea, which sea-folk seem to possess, and
perceived an orange-sailed fishing boat just rounding the headland and
making for the open sea. The face that appeared under the bonnet, as she
looked up, had the colourless and haggard look frequently seen among
fisher-women, and which is perhaps due to too much sea-air, added to
hard living. But one was prevented from noticing the rest of the face by
the expression of the two grey eyes, peering out from under the shade of
the bonnet-peak; they were eyes that seemed always expecting: they
seemed to have nothing to do with the pallid face, and the sea-weed, and
the hut: they belonged to a different life. As she looked out over the
sea, their glance was almost stern, as though demanding something which
the sea did not give. But she only remarked to herself, in the island
patois:--"I suppose the fish have gone over to the south-west again, and
he'll make a night of it. Mackerel is such an aggravating fish, one day
here, t'other there--you never know where you'll find them."
Presently, as it grew dark, she warmed up some herb-broth for her
supper, and when she had finished it, and had fastened up the dog and
the donkey, knowing that her husband would not return till the morning,
she put out the glimmering oil-lamp, and was just going to bed, when a
sound struck her ear. For two miles round the cabin not another
human-being lived, and it was the rarest thing for any one to come in
that direction after dark, as the rocks were slippery and dangerous, and
a solitary bit of open country had to be crossed between the cabin and
the nearest houses inland. Yet this sound was distinctly that of a human
footstep, which halted in its gait.
The woman started up and listened: there was silence for a minute: then
the limping step was heard again: again it ceased. The woman went to the
door and looked out. Over the sandy, wind-swept common to the left the
darkness brooded, the outlines of a broken bit of sea-wall, and of some
giant boulders, said to be remains of a dolmen, emerging dimly therefrom
like threatening phantoms; to the right moaned the long, grey sea, and
in front was the waste of salt marshes and rocks, with the windlass of a
ship once wrecked in the bay, projecting its huge outline among the
uncertain shadows. Not a living thing was visible. She stood for several
minutes peering out into the darkness and listening; no sound was to be
heard but the lapping of the waves, and the sigh of the wind through the
bent-grass on the common.
Suddenly Josef, the dog, started up in his corner, and barked. He was a
large mastiff, with a dangerous temper, who was chained up at night in
the rough lean-to that was built against the side of the cabin. He
barked again furiously, dragging at his chain with all his might, and
quivering in every nerve of his body. The woman lighted a torch at the
dying embers on the hearth, and unfastening the dog, waited to see what
would happen. He dashed forward furiously a few steps, then suddenly
stopped, sniffed the air, made one or two uncertain darts hither and
thither, and stood still, evidently puzzled. She called to him to
encourage him, but he dropped his tail and returned to his shed, where
he curled himself up in a comfortable corner, like a dog that was not
going to be troubled by womanish fancies. The woman went round the
cabin, and the pig-stye, and the patch of meagre gooseberry-bushes,
throwing the uncertain torch-light on every dark hole or corner; but no
one was to be seen. She was none the less convinced that someone had
approached the cottage, for the dog was not likely to have been deceived
as well as herself; so she kept the light burning, called Josef to lie
down at the foot of the bed, barred the door, and went to sleep.
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