Agatha Webb

  XXV

  IN EXTREMITY

  Sweetwater's one thought as he sank was, "Now Mr. Sutherland need fearme no longer."

  But the instinct of life is strong in every heart, and when he foundhimself breathing the air again he threw out his arms wildly and graspeda spar.

  It was life to him, hope, reconnection with his kind. He clutched,clung, and, feeling himself floating, uttered a shout of mingled joy andappeal that unhappily was smothered in the noise of the waters and thenow rapidly rising wind.

  Whence had come this spar in his desperate need? He never knew, butsomewhere in his remote consciousness an impression remained of a shockto the waves following his own plunge into the water, which might meanthat this spar had been thrown out after him, perhaps by the alreadyrepentant hands of the wretches who had tossed him to his death. Howeverit came, or from whatever source, it had at least given him anopportunity to measure his doom and realise the agonies of hope when italternates with despair.

  The darkness was impenetrable. It was no longer that of heaven, but ofthe nether world, or so it seemed to this dazed soul, plunged suddenlyfrom dreams of exile into the valley of the shadow of death. And such adeath! As he realised its horrors, as he felt the chill of night and theoncoming storm strike its piercing fangs into his marrow, and knew thathis existence and the hope of ever again seeing the dear old face at thefireside rested upon the strength of his will and the tenacity of hislife-clutch, he felt his heart fail, and the breath that was his lifecease in a gurgle of terror. But he clung on, and, though no comfortcame, still clung, while vague memories of long-ago shipwrecks, andstories told in his youth of men, women, and children tossing for hourson a drifting plank, flashed through his benumbed brain, and lent theirhorror to his own sensations of apprehension and despair.

  He wanted to live. Now that the dread spectre had risen out of the waterand had its clutch on his hair, he realised that the world held much forhim, and that even in exile he might work and love and enjoy God'sheaven and earth, the green fields and the blue sky. Not such skies aswere above him now. No, this was not sky that overarched him, but ahorrible vault in which the clouds, rushing in torn masses, had theaspect of demons stooping to contend for him with those other demonsthat with long arms and irresistible grip were dragging at him frombelow. He was alone on a whirling spar in the midst of a midnight ocean,but horror and a pitiless imagination made this conflict more than thatof the elements, and his position an isolation beyond that of manremoved from his fellows. He was almost mad. Yet he clung.

  Suddenly a better frame of mind prevailed. The sky was no lighter, saveas the lightning came to relieve the overwhelming darkness by a stillmore overwhelming glare, nor were the waves less importunate or his holdon the spar more secure; but the horror seemed to have lifted, and thepractical nature of the man reasserted itself. Other men had gonethrough worse dangers than these and survived to tell the tale, as hemight survive to tell his. The will was all--will and an indomitablecourage; and he had will and he had courage, or why had he left his hometo dare a hard and threatening future purely from a sentiment ofgratitude? Could he hold on long enough, daylight would come; and if, ashe now thought possible, he had been thrown into the sea within twentyhours after leaving Sutherlandtown, then he must be not far from CapeCod, and in the direct line of travel from New York to Boston. Rescuewould come, and if the storm which was breaking over his head more andmore furiously made it difficult for him to retain his hold, itcertainly would not wreck his spar or drench him more than he wasalready drenched, while every blast would drive him shoreward. Theclinging was all, and filial love would make him do that, even in thesemi-unconsciousness which now and then swept over him. Only, would itnot be better for Mr. Sutherland if he should fail and drop away intothe yawning chasms of the unknown world beneath? There were moments whenhe thought so, and then his clutch perceptibly weakened; but only oncedid he come near losing his hold altogether. And that was when hethought he heard a laugh. A laugh, here in the midst of ocean! in themidst of storm! a laugh! Were demons a reality, then? Yes; but the demonhe had heard was of his own imagination; it had a face of Medusasweetness and the laugh--Only Amabel's rang out so thrillingly false,and with such diabolic triumph. Amabel, who might be laughing in herdreams at this very moment of his supreme misery, and who assuredlywould laugh if conscious of his suffering and aware of the doom to whichhis self-sacrifice had brought him. Amabel! the thought of her made thenight more dark, the waters more threatening, the future less promising.Yet he would hold on if only to spite her who hated him and whom hehated almost as much as he loved Mr. Sutherland.

  It was his last conscious thought for hours. When morning broke he wasbut a nerveless figure, with sense enough to cling, and that was all.