Part 32 (2/2)
”Widening the narrow entrance into heaven set apart for rich men unless they leave their substance behind, as I am trying to do. The kind creatures cannot refuse it now; so trot away to your mistress, little Nanna, and tell no tales as you go.”
As the goat went tapping up the steps a stir within announced the dreaded demonstration. Warwick did not seem to hear it; he stood looking far across the trampled plain and ruined town toward the mountains s.h.i.+ning white against the deep Italian sky. A rapt, far-reaching look, as if he saw beyond the purple wall, and seeing forgot the present in some vision of the future.
”Come, Adam! I am waiting.”
His eye came back, the lost look pa.s.sed, and cheerily he answered--
”I am ready.”
A fortnight later in that dark hour before the dawn, with a murky sky above them, a hungry sea below them, the two stood together the last to leave a sinking s.h.i.+p.
”Room for one more, choose quick!” shouted a hoa.r.s.e voice from the boat tossing underneath, freighted to the water's edge with trembling lives.
”Go, Geoffrey, Sylvia is waiting.”
”Not without you, Adam.”
”But you are exhausted; I can bear a rough hour better than yourself, and morning will bring help.”
”It may not. Go, I am the lesser loss.”
”What folly! I will force you to it; steady there, he is coming.”
”Push off, I am _not_ coming.”
In times like that, few pause for pity or persuasion; the instinct of self-preservation rules supreme, and each is for himself, except those in whom love of another is stronger than love of life. Even while the friends generously contended the boat was swept away, and they were left alone in the deserted s.h.i.+p, swiftly making its last voyage downward.
Spent with a day of intense excitement, and sick with hope deferred, Moor leaned on Warwick, feeling that it was adding bitterness to death to die in sight of sh.o.r.e. But Warwick never knew despair; pa.s.sive submission was not in his power while anything remained to do or dare, and even then he did not cease to hope. It was certain death to linger there; other boats less heavily laden had put off before, and might drift across their track; wreckers waiting on the sh.o.r.e might hear and help; at least it were better to die bravely and not ”strike sail to a fear.” About his waist still hung a fragment of the rope which had lowered more than one baby to its mother's arms; before them the shattered taffrail rose and fell as the waves beat over it. Wrenching a spar away he lashed Moor to it, explaining his purpose as he worked.
There was only rope enough for one, and in the darkness Moor believed that Warwick had taken equal precautions for himself.
”Now Geoffrey your hand, and when the next wave ebbs let us follow it.
If we are parted and you see her first tell her I remembered, and give her this.”
In the black night with only Heaven to see them the men kissed tenderly as women, then hand in hand sprang out into the sea. Drenched and blinded they struggled up after the first plunge, and struck out for the sh.o.r.e, guided by the thunder of the surf they had listened to for twelve long hours, as it broke against the beach, and brought no help on its receding billows. Soon Warwick was the only one who struggled, for Moor's strength was gone, and he clung half conscious to the spar, tossing from wave to wave, a piteous plaything for the sea.
”I see a light!--they must take you in--hold fast, I'll save you for the little wife at home.”
Moor heard but two words, ”wife” and ”home;” strained his dim eyes to see the light, spent his last grain of strength to reach it, and in the act lost consciousness, whispering--”She will thank you,” as his head fell against Warwick's breast and lay there, heavy and still. Lifting himself above the spar, Adam lent the full power of his voice to the shout he sent ringing through the storm. He did not call in vain, a friendly wind took the cry to human ears, a relenting wave swept them within the reach of human aid, and the boat's crew, pausing involuntarily, saw a hand clutch the suspended oar, a face flash up from the black water, and heard a breathless voice issue the command--
”Take in this man! he saved you for your wives, save him for his.”
One resolute will can sway a panic-stricken mult.i.tude; it did so then.
The boat was rocking in the long swell of the sea; a moment and the coming wave would sweep them far apart. A woman sobbed, and as if moved by one impulse four st.u.r.dy arms clutched and drew Moor in. While loosening his friend Warwick had forgotten himself, and the spar was gone. He knew it, but the rest believed that they left the strong man a chance of life equal to their own in that overladen boat. Yet in the memories of all who caught that last glimpse of him there long remained the recollection of a dauntless face floating out into the night, a steady voice calling through the gale, ”A good voyage, comrades!” as he turned away to enter port before them.
Wide was the sea and pitiless the storm, but neither could dismay the unconquerable spirit of the man who fought against the elements as bravely as if they were adversaries of mortal mould, and might be vanquished in the end. But it was not to be; soon he felt it, accepted it, turned his face upward toward the sky, where one star shone, and when Death whispered ”Come!” answered as cheerily as to that other friend, ”I am ready.” Then with a parting thought for the man he had saved, the woman he had loved, the promise he had kept, a great and tender heart went down into the sea.
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