Marion Dearsley
might have been pardoned had she shown tremors as the flying mountains
towered over the vessel. Once a great black wall heaved up and doubled
the intensity of the murky midnight by a sinister shade; there came a
horrible silence, and then, with a loud bellow, the wall burst into ruin
and crashed down on the ship in a torrent which seemed made up of a
thousand conflicting streams. The skipper silently dashed aft, flung his
arms round Tom Lennard, and pinned him to the mast; Mr. Blair hung on,
though he was drifted aft with his feet off the deck until he hung like
a totally new description of flying signal; the ladies were drenched by
the deluge which rushed down below, and the steward, when he saw the
water swashing about over his cabin floor, exclaimed with discreet
bitterness on the folly of inviting ladies to witness such a spectacle
as a North Sea gale.
Tom observed: "The grandeur is--ah! fahscinating, but it's rather damp
grandeur. It's only grandeur fit for heroes. Give me all my grandeur
dry, if you please."
"Yes, sir," said the streaming skipper, "that was a near thing for you
and me when she shipped it. If I hadn't been on the right side of the
mast, both on us must have gone." Dawn rose slowly; the sky became
blotched with snaky tints of dull yellow and livid grey; the gale kept
on, and the schooner was hove-to to meet a sea of terrifying speed and
height. Two of the ladies were below, only craving to be left alone even
by the stewardess; but the hideous fascination of the storm drew Marion
Dearsley again and again, and she sheltered herself under the hatch, and
looked with awe at the mad turmoil which could be seen astern.
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