The Dial (Third Series)/Volume 75/On the Island
THERE are many islands on that broken coast, and one small one called Blaamandso, a place of barely a hundred souls. But the next one to it is far bigger; three or even four hundred people there might be, with some sort of official. And a church there is too, by reason of which they call it Kirkeoen. Since I was a child there's come a post office there, and the telegraph as well.
Among these island folk 'tis always reckoned a finer thing to be from the big island; even those from the mainland were not reckoned for much by folk from Kirkeoen, though they came from the biggest place of all. They are fisherfolk all, for miles round.
All the Atlantic washes the shores of Blaamandso, so far to sea it lies. And every face of it sheer cliff, unscalable on three sides; only the south, towards the sun at noon, is a track where God and man have made a passable way up over the rock; a stairway of two hundred steps. After every storm at sea a mass of timber, planks, and wreckage comes in from the sea, and of this driftwood the boat-builders make their craft. They carry the planks up those two hundred steps, build the boats there in among their huts, to wait till winter comes, and the northward cliffs are blue with the smooth-polished ice; then, with pulley and rope, they send the boats down over that glassy scarp and launch them so. I saw it done myself when I was a child; two men stood up on the cliff above, paying out the rope, while one sat in the boat, fending it off wherever it threatened to catch. 'Twas a work of courage and care, with now and then a quiet-voiced hail from above or below. But when the boat took water at last, the man on board would shout to his fellows: "Avast heaving now, she'll do." No more than that he said, though it seemed no little thing to have got her safely down.
The biggest hut on the island belongs to honest old Joachim, the boat-builder. There the Christmas dance was held, year after year; the place would hold four to six couples easily at a time. For the music, there was a fiddler, and beside him sat a man by name Didrik, whose office it was to make a sort of vocal harmony to the tune, and beat time heavily with both feet. The young men danced in their shirt-sleeves.
There was one young lad who went about playing host, as it were, while the others danced, and that was Joachim's youngest son, a boat-builder himself. He was looked up to by all for his skill and his clever head: Marcelius, one maiden would think to herself, and Marcelius, the next; his name was known even among the girls of Kirkeoen itself. But Marcelius thought all the while only of Frederikke, the schoolmaster's daughter, though she, to be sure, was a lady, and talked like the people in books, and so proud a creature altogether, he could never hope to win her. The schoolmaster's house was a big place too, and being no fisherman, but a man of position, he had curtains to his windows, and it was customary to knock at his door instead of walking straight in. But Marcelius held faithfully and blindly to his love. He had been to the schoolmaster's house the year before, and he came again this, going in the back way, by the kitchen.
"Godkvaeld," he would say. "I've a word for you, Frederikke."
"What's it you want with me?" says Frederikke, and goes outside with him, knowing well enough what it is.
"Only to ask if you couldn't—you know."
"Nay," says Frederikke, "that I can't. And you'd be better advised to think no more of me, Marcelius, nor put yourself in my way."
"Ay, I know the new schoolmaster man he's wanting you himself," answered Marcelius. "But it's all to be seen what'll come of your fine-lady ways."
And it was true enough, that the new schoolmaster was after Frederikke. He came from Kirkeoen, and had been to a seminary. His father was only a fisherman like the rest, but a rich man, better off than most. There was always a store of fish on his drying ground, and pork and butter in his larder. When the son came back from the seminary, he looked as fine a fellow as the priest's son himself, who was at the university; whiskers down his cheeks and a handkerchief in his pocket and a string of elastic hanging down from his hat, to look smart. The handkerchief in particular brought him no end of chaff; 'twas a wonderful saving lad, said folk, that Simon Rust, so careful he was to keep what common folk threw away.
"He's ordered a new boat from us," said Marcelius. "And Lord send it may serve him well."
"What makes you say that?" asked Frederikke.
"Seems I can’t help it," answered Marcelius. "A green strake he wants, no less; well and good, I'll paint it green. But he wants a name painted on besides, and that he’ll have to do himself."
"A name on it? Whatever for?"
"Ay, did you ever hear the like? And 'tis no pleasure craft neither, but a common four-oar boat. . . . You'd better think it over, Frederikke, if you couldn't make do with me after all."
"But I can't, I tell you. I've given my heart to him."
"Given your heart to him, have you?" says Marcelius. "Well, well . . ." And he walks away.
Nearing towards Christmas came Simon Rust across from Kirkeoen, to paint the name on his new boat. He stayed at the old schoolmaster's house, and Frederikke wore her Sunday dress every day, with silk ribbons at the neck. And when the name was painted on, 'twas not many could read the Latin letters, but what it said was Superfine. That was the boat's name. And 'twas not many knew what that grand word meant.
Then came a fine clear starlight evening, the night before Christmas Eve. Marcelius went to the schoolmaster's house and asked to speak with Simon Rust.
"The name's dry now," said Marcelius.
"Then we'll launch the boat to-morrow," said Simon Rust.
Said Marcelius again, "It is true you're to have Frederikke?"
"Don't reckon that's any business of yours," answered Master Simon.
"Maybe not, but all the same, if you'll tell me whether or no, you shall have the boat for nothing."
Simon Rust thought that over for a bit, giving good heed to money, as had always been his father's way. Then he called Frederikke, and said to her:
"Isn’t it true we're to have each other?"
And Frederikke answered yes, she had given him her heart.
And the stars were so bright, and Frederikke's eyes seemed overflowing with joy as she spoke.
On the way home, Marcelius repented bitterly that he had ever given Simon a boat for nothing. "But I'll see she's in a pretty state when he gets her," he said to himself, "I'll go down in her myself to fend off when she's launched."
He wandered on from house to house, entering none, just wandering on in the light of the stars and the aurora. Right out to the northern side of the island he went, where his tackle hung ready to take the new boat and lower her down to the sea. The Atlantic roared at the foot of the cliff. And he sat down.
Two small lights showed from a sailing vessel some way out at sea; farther off, two lights again, from a steamer, heavy and black, making to the eastward. And Marcelius thought to himself: may be as well to get on board a ship one day, and away from all. Frederikke was lost beyond hope; and a sorry business to be here on the island when she was gone. Well, well. . . . God in Heaven help and comfort her all her days. . . . And as for damaging Simon's boat, the Lord forgive him for that evil thought; never fear now, but he’d do his best to get her clear and safely down. Ay, that was the way. . . .
He got up and was turning to make for home, when there came a faint call, a cry, and he stopped to listen. Someone was coming towards him.
"Is it you, Frederikke?"
"Yes, I only came to say . . . you won't do anything . . . harm to yourself, Marcelius?"
"I was just walking a bit," said Marcelius.
But she took his arm, and said again:
"For there's no sense in taking it so to heart. And besides, I'm not quite sure myself yet.”
"Not sure?"
"Oh, what's it to be?" she exclaimed. "He was all different just now. I can't trust him as I can you. He tries to get out of it sometimes. Only to-day he said, better wait and see."
Marcelius answered nothing to all this, and they walked on a little. But Frederikke, kind and thoughtful for all her trouble of mind, broke out suddenly:
"Anyhow, you mustn't give him the boat for nothing."
"No, no," said Marcelius.
At the cross roads she gave him her hand, and said, "I must go back now, or he'll be angry. He may have seen the way I went."
And they said good-night and went their ways.
Next day was calm, and the sea smooth. Honest Joachim and his two sons had been up before daybreak, getting the boat over to the tackles at the north side of the island; all the men of the place had come to help, lest the fine new boat should be roughly handled on the way. And there she hung now, a slender beauty, decked out ready for the start.
The old schoolmaster had persuaded his smart young colleague to put off the crossing to Kirkeoen until afternoon, and it was just time. Matters between the newly betrothed seemed little bettered from the night before; they walked far apart along the path, and she that should have been his sweetheart seemed uneasy in her mind. When they came up, Joachim and his men were there. All bared their heads when the two schoolmasters and their companion appeared.
"All ready?" asked Simon.
"All ready," answered Joachim. "As far as we can see."
Then suddenly Frederikke cries anxiously:
"Oh, Marcelius, be careful going down to-day. Can't someone else go down in the boat instead?"
All turned to listen.
"He's well enough used to the work," says Joachim, who was the lad's father.
"It's an ugly thing of a boat with a name on," says Frederikke.
"You don't understand, my child," corrected her father gently. "It's a very fine name indeed."
Then says Simon Rust sharply: "I'll go down in her myself."
All tried to dissuade him, but Simon clambered up and took his place in the boat. Still they begged him not to go, but Simon answered proudly, with finality:
"No need for Frederikke to be anxious now."
"Well, make yourself properly fast," says Joachim, handing a length of line.
"Lower away," cried Simon impatiently.
The ropes were loosened, and the boat began to move. Simon found the end of his hat-guard and fastened it to a button.
A shout from Joachim, and Simon answers from below; he is over the edge now, and neither can see the other. Simon, on his dignity, answers the hails from above more and more briefly, as if making light of such a trifle; at last no answer comes at all. Marcelius, having nothing to do, stands a little way off.
"He must be midway by now," says Joachim. "A good lad enough, for sure." Then comes a hail from far below. A new sort of hail, that the men are all unused to hear: instead of "Avast heaving—she'll do," comes a cry, "Au, au," and a heavy jerking of the signal line. Those above take it to mean "Haul up a bit," and Joachim and his men start hauling. Then, sharp and piercing comes a scream from out of the depths, and a thumping of the boat against the rocky walls; as if the island itself were coughing all at once.
All turned pale; the ropes hung suddenly slack. Then a confusion of cries and questioning; "Lower a bit," says Joachim, and then again "Haul." But all know it is to little purpose now; the boat is empty; Simon has upset it and himself been dashed into the sea.
Then suddenly the church bells from Kirkeoen over the water—ringing Christmas in. A sorry Christmas it will be!
But Frederikke was thoughtful and kindly as ever; she went up to Marcelius, and said: "Heaven forgive me for the sin, but I'm glad it was not you—What are you standing about up here for? Why don't you go down to the south side and get out a boat to look for him?"
All saw that she was right, and there was a hurrying of men across to the other side. Only Joachim, the honest old boat-builder, stayed behind.
II
"And I can't stand here holding her up for ever," thought Joachim to himself. "Either I'll have to haul up again, and that's more than I can alone, or let her down to the water." He thought it over soundly for yet a while, then he let go.
But now a strange thing happened: the rope ran out for a bare half-minute, and then hung slack on his hands. He hauled in a fathom and let go again; the boat took water once more. The old man's face brightened, and he looked round eagerly for someone to whom he might tell the news. If the boat were only a couple of fathoms off the water, Simon Rust could hardly have been badly hurt by the fall. Only a question now whether he might be drowning down below.
"Hurry, lads," cried Joachim, hailing across to the other side. "There's a chance for him yet."
And while he still held the slack line, there came a tug; as it might be a hand grasping the side of the boat below. "Maybe it's only the wash of the water," thought Joachim. And he called down:
"Are you safe?"
But the Atlantic drew its heavy breath, and there came no answer from below.
Still he held the line. He might have made it fast meanwhile, and waited at his ease, but 'twas no time to be at ease, thought Joachim, when here was a learned man, knowing books and all manner of things, maybe called away that very hour. A powerful strange thing was life, beyond understanding.
A long quarter of an hour went by. When the wind carried that way, Joachim could hear the bells from Kirkeoen, and the sound came solemnly, mysteriously. Then he heard voices down by the water; the boat with the rescue party had come round. His own boys were rowing, and they, he knew, would bring her swiftly enough. He held his breath and listened.
"There he is," cries Marcelius.
"Is he there?" calls Joachim from above.
A little after, he can feel the line he holds being loosened from the boat; he leans out over the cliff-edge and calls:
"Is he alive?"
And Marecelius calls back: "Ay, you can haul in your end now."
"Praise and thanks to the Lord," murmured Joachim. And hauling in the line, he took a quid of tobacco, and set off to the south side to meet the others on the way. An altogether honest soul was Joachim. And as he went, he could not but reckon out in his own way what had happened in the matter of Simon Rust and his narrow escape from death. . . . Simon was a learned and a wily humbug, that was about the size of it; like as not he'd tipped the boat over on purpose, and jumped out himself, when there was only a couple of fathoms to water, and no harm. "It was a rascally trick," thought Joachim to himself.
At the waterside he came upon the schoolmaster and his daughter.
"He's safe," said Joachim.
"Safe," exclaimed Frederikke. "What do you mean?"
"He's safe."
The old schoolmaster said "Praise and thanks," as Joachim had done, and was heartily glad. But Frederikke was strangely quiet.
When the two boats came in, there sat Simon Rust at the oars, rowing with all his might; he was wet through, and feeling cold.
"Are you hurt?” cried Frederikke. "And where's your hat?"
"We couldn't find it," answered Marcelius.
"Then you might have lent him your cap at least," said Frederikke, very thoughtful now for Simon's comfort.
"He wouldn't have it," answered Marcelius.
"No, indeed, thank you,” said Simon himself. "I wouldn't have it." And he drew himself up haughtily, though he was shivering with cold.
The old schoolmaster fell to questioning his young colleague and fellow-teacher about the accident, and Simon gave his account. 'Twas a wonderful strange way of speaking, thought Joachim, with the two of them together. Simon Rust explained that swimming was part of the curriculum at the seminary, and this had proved his salvation. But he had suffered the agonies of Tantalus before the rescue party came in sight. He wished, he said, to recount the entire occurrence precisely as it had happened, so that no unauthorized version should subsequently get about.
"There's just one thing I'd like to know," he said, turning to Frederikke. "What did you feel like, Frederikke, when the boat upset and you thought I was lost?"
"What I felt like?" stammered Frederikke.
"And what were your first words?"
Frederikke pulled herself together quickly.
"It was I that got them to go down at once and look for you," she said.
"Good," said Simon.
Marcelius said nothing. He understood that she had given her heart to Simon Rust once more.
"We'd better go back quickly and get him some dry things," said the old schoolmaster. "Truly a miraculous escape from peril of death."
All helped to get the boats up on shore, and Marcelius made no difference between the two, but set chocks under Simon's boat as well as his own, to save warping. Then he let the others go on ahead, and walked home, miserable at heart.
That evening, Frederikke came on some errand to the house next door, but did not call in to see Marcelius. He went out on the step himself to wait for her coming out.
"Godkvaeld," he said, as she appeared. "Out walking this evening?"
"I'd an errand here," she said. "What did you think of that miracle to-day?"
"Why," said Marcelius, "I can tell you that at once. I don't call that any sort of miracle at all."
"Ho! And suppose you'd fallen out of the boat, would you have managed to get saved?"
"He didn't fall out. He jumped out when she was all but a couple of fathoms down, that's what father says."
"Jumped out? Well, that's more again than you'd have done."
Marcelius was silent.
"For you can't swim," Frederikke went on. "And you haven't learned all the things he has. You haven't learned to play the organ."
"Then I suppose you'll have each other now?" said Marcelius.
"I don't know," she answered. "But it looks that way."
Then said Marcelius bitterly: "Well, it's all one to me then; the two of you can have the boat for nothing, as I said."
Frederikke thought a moment, then she said:
"Why, yes, if it comes to anything between us, we can have the boat, as you said. But if he breaks it off with me, then it'll be you and me, and he'll have to pay us for the boat."
Marcelius showed no surprise at this decision; he only asked:
"And when shall I know what it's to be?"
"He's going home to-morrow," said Frederikke. "I suppose he'll speak about it then. But I can't very well ask him myself, can I?"
But Marcelius was to wait some months yet before he knew.
Simon Rust went home for Christmas, and nothing was settled with Frederikke before he left; then he asked several of the girls from Kirkeoen if they would have him, and everyone was willing enough, by reason of his father's wealth. But Simon would not bind himself to any, but kept himself free to choose. At last he went so far as to try the governess at the vicarage, but she was a lady, high up in the world, and would not hear of marrying Simon Rust.
All this came to Frederikke's ears, and she fretted more than was good for her over the news.
Twelfth Night was near, and there was to be the usual dance at Joachim's, with Marcelius to play the host as he always did. The fiddler was bidden, and Didrik whose business it was to beat time with his feet was likewise warned to be ready. The lads had chosen their girls to come, and Frederikke had promised Marcelius to be there.
Then one day came a four-oar boat to the island, with a message from Simon's father, bidding Frederikke to a dance over at Kirkeoen the same evening. Frederikke got ready at once, and put on the finest she had for the occasion.
Marcelius came down to the waterside. "Well," he said, "I suppose you'll be getting it settled this time?"
"Yes, it'll surely be settled this time," said Frederikke.
And all the way across she sat in the boat looking as if she had made up her mind for good.
Old Master Rust came down to meet her, and in the evening, when the dance had begun, she was greatly in demand among the lads that were bidden. But Simon, the son of the house, was the same as ever, jesting with each and all, and most wishful to leave things all unsettled still with Frederikke.
At intervals throughout the evening coffee and drinks were served round, and old Master Rust saw to it that there was enough and to spare. He himself sat in the little side room with a few of the older fishermen. Simon took a glass now and again himself just by way of showing he was not too proud, but for the rest, it was beneath his dignity to go dancing with fisher-girls, now that he was a pedagogue, entrusted with the care of youth.
At last, when all the others had gone, Frederikke was left alone with Simon—she was to stay the night. But even now he was no more affectionate towards her than before, and she would have been foolish indeed to take an occasional nudge for the sign of a lasting passion.
"I just came out for a breath of fresh air," said Frederikke.
"That's a thing to be careful about," said Simon. "Night air's not infrequently bad for the lungs."
"What's the barn door opened for, I wonder?" said Frederikke pointing across.
Simon could not say.
"Hadn't we better go and shut it?" she asked.
They went across to the barn, and the night was bright with stars and the northern lights.
Frederikke peeped into the barn and said:
"Have you plenty of fodder in now?"
And they stepped in to see.
"There's a heap of hay there, and another over there," said Simon.
"Where?"
Simon stepped down into the hay and showed her.
And Frederikke followed after.
III
Marcelius was bidden to wait a little while yet, with a vague half-promise that he might win her after all. And again he waited patiently in hope. But when Shrovetide came, and that was in March, Frederikke was no longer in doubt, and told Marcelius, no, there was no help for it now; 'twas Simon was to have her.
"Ay, well," said Marcelius.
And he said no word of the boat this time. She might have the boat for nothing now, 'twas all one to him. Also, he had had time to prepare for his fate, and all that spring Marcelius might be seen stolidly at his work as before. But he was far from well in mind, and kept much to himself.
Days were drawing out now, and sun and warmth clearing away the snow; there would soon be an end of sending boats down over the ice-covered cliff on the northern side. The boat-builders lounged about idle for a week or so, but when the spring storms were past, and the Atlantic calm again, they set to work at their season's fishing close in round the island. On one of these trips, Marcelius and his brother earned a pretty sum of money, salving a dismasted schooner that was drifting derelict.
There was no gainsaying the fact that Marcelius was more looked up to than ever by all on the island after this feat, and going down each day to look at the wreck, that lay moored close off the landing place, he might have been taken for the captain of the schooner himself. The Danish owners wrote and paid over the salvage; a big sum it was to the island folk, but they made it bigger still as the story was told, till at last it grew to a fabulous tale. Marcelius had made a fortune in salvage; Marcelius was about to set up in business as a trader under the style of Marcelius Joachimsen & Co. . . .
Marcelius went to Frederikke one day, and said:
"I suppose you've settled now for good that it's to be Simon?"
"Yes," she said, "it's settled now for good."
She took up her knitting and walked across home with him. On the way she said:
"If it had been like the old days now, I'd have asked you to row across to Simon and bring him back. But you’re a great man now, Marcelius."
"Why as to that," said Marcelius, "I'll show you I'm no more than I was."
And he went off faithfully and rowed across to fetch Simon.
After Simon had been and gone back again, Marcelius waited his chance to speak with Frederikke again, and asked, in his blindness:
"You're still set on it, I suppose, with him?"
"Yes," said Frederikke. "And there's good reason now to have it as soon as may be."
"Why, then, there's no more to be said."
"You know what it is," said Frederikke, "when you've given your heart. I've never cared for any one really, but him."
Marcelius made no answer to this, seeing it was only fanciful talking like people in books. He asked her in to have a cup of coffee, but she said no, 'twas not worth his while. Then as she was going, she remembered about the boat.
"You'll hardly care about being paid for the boat now, of course," she said, "now you're so rich. Simon told me to ask you."
"I don't care about the boat," he said. "Thank the Lord, I've enough of money and suchlike for now.—They will be asking in church for you I suppose. When's it to be?"
"In a fortnight."
"What about the sheep that are out?" he asked. "Have you thought about getting them in?"
"That can wait for a week or so yet," she answered. "It's early in the year, the snow's not gone yet."
"Ay, I was only asking," he said.
They had a kind of sheep of the coarse-fleeced Iceland strain. They were left to run wild on one of the small islets winter and summer alike, getting their food as they might. Once a year they were brought in for the shearing, in the spring, when the weather had grown warm enough.
A fortnight later the bans were read for Simon Rust and Frederikke in the church at Kirkeoen. At last it was really settled between the pair of them, and the neighbours had been waiting long to see it. The very same evening Frederikke was over at Joachim's house, light-hearted and merry now as could be.
"Good luck and a blessing," said the boat-builder's wife.
"I heard your name in church to-day."
"Sure you weren't mistaken?" said Frederikke jestingly.
"Luck and a blessing," said Marcelius in his turn. "Have you thought about the sheep yet?"
Frederikke laughed at that, and said:
"You're in a great hurry about the sheep this year. What's come over you I wonder? You were talking about it ages ago."
"I only asked," he said. "It came into my mind."
"Anyhow, I was going to tell you, you can get someone to go out with you to-morrow, if you like?"
"Someone to go with me?" he repeated quickly. "But you'll hardly care about going yourself now, I suppose?"
Frederikke had half resolved not to go this spring, for reasons, but at Marcelius' crafty question she flushed a little, and said:
"Oh, indeed? And why not, I should like to know?"
Frederikke was loath to admit she had grown less active these last few weeks; she would go out this year as she had done before, and help to bring in the sheep.
Then Marcelius went out, and did not return till she had left.
Marcelius walked down the few steps to where the boat-building was done; a longish hollow, with slipways for all kinds of boats, from a ketch to a ten-oar. He straightened up the place all round, and cleaned the floor. It was towards the end of May now, and light till eleven or later at night. Then he went to the landing place, his boat was there, resting steadily on the chocks, as if it were looking at him. It was midnight before he went home.
He did not undress, but sat on the side of the bed; his elder brother was already asleep. Marcelius went to the window, and looked out. "Herregud, Herregud," he murmured softly, and going back to the bed, lay down, but without undressing. All night he lay awake, then, as soon as he heard his mother lighting the fire below, he got up, called his brother, and went down. It was only four o'clock.
"You're early astir," said his mother.
"I was thinking of the sheep," he said. "If we're to get them all in for the shearing, we'll have to be starting out in good time."
All three got ready, the two lads and their mother, and went over to the schoolmaster's, waiting outside till Frederikke appeared. Frederikke had only the serving maid with her. They were five in all when they got to the boat.
The two brothers rowed steadily and easily, the women talking together the while. The sun came up, and the islet where the sheep were pastured lay there heavy and calm, as if afloat. The sheep had marked the approach of the boat from afar, and stood now staring in astonishment, forgetting to graze. The party in the boat made as little noise as possible, not to frighten the shy beasts more than need be.
But the sheep had forgotten the coming of just such a boat the year before, and stared as if they had never in their lives seen such a vision. They let the boat come in, and in their marvellous stupidity made no move; not till the keel grounded on the shore did one old shaggy wether fall to trembling. It cast a glance at its fellows, and then again at the boat. Suddenly—just as the boat was drawn up, and the five human beings stood still for a moment on the beach—the wether decided that this was a thing perilous beyond all perils it had known; turning suddenly it dashed off wildly across the island. And the others followed at once.
"They'll be none so easy to catch this year," said the women one to another.
The party moved up over the island. The first thing to do was to get hold of a lamb, then the mother would be more easily taken. They toiled all through the morning before they managed to capture a full-grown sheep. One flock made in a fright down towards the boat, and maddened with fear, dashed into the sea; Marcelius waded out and caught them, one by one.
"Now you're all wet," said Frederikke.
The women sat down to the shearing, while the two brothers stood ready with three fresh beasts in leash. Marcelius was close by Frederikke. And the spring sun shone warm and full upon them all.
"That's my second," said Frederikke. She stuffed the wool into a sack and rose to her feet.
"Come and see if we two can get hold of one by ourselves," said Marcelius. His voice quivered strangely as he spoke.
Frederikke moved to his side, and they walked off together, out of hearing of the others.
"They're over on the other side, I think," said Frederikke.
"Let's look over here first," answered Marcelius.
And they crossed over to the north on the shady side, but there were no sheep.
"They'll be out on the point there," said Marcelius, hurrying forward. But Frederikke was no longer light of foot as she had been, and fell behind a little. Marcelius took her hand and drew her on, talking in a loud, unnatural fashion:
"Come along and I'll show you. I'll show you."
"Don't shout like that, you'll frighten them all away," said Frederikke, thinking of the work in hand.
"I'll show you," he cried again. "And I'll teach you to play the organ."
"But—whatever's the matter?" she cried, looking at him keenly. His face was changed beyond all knowing.
Then she tried to draw back, but Marcelius held her firmly, dragging her till her shoes slithered over the rocks. And suddenly she realized that he was dragging her to her death; her courage failed her, and she grew helpless. Without word or cry she was dragged to the edge of the cliff and flung over.
So paralysed was she that she did not even grasp at him to save herself, Marcelius stood there safe and sound, though he had meant they should go together.
He looked round anxiously, to see if the others were following, but there was no one to be seen. He peered down over the cliff; the heavy wash of the water came up from below; the sea had taken her already. It was his turn now to follow: he pulled down his vest and made to throw himself over, but drew back again, and looked about for a path. And clambering down, he tried each foot-hold carefully, lest he should slip. Then at half way, he remembered that there was no need for such care—it mattered little if he fell and hurt himself now—but he moved down as cautiously as before.
The sea came right up to the face of the cliff. A few feet from the water Marcelius stopped. He took off his coat and vest; they might be of some use to another. Then clasping his hands, he prayed God receive his soul, for Jesus Christ's sake. Then he leaped.