from that hour to the day of his death his life should be devoted to the support of that bereaved father, who, having escaped the dangers of the night, had fallen smitten with paralysis at hearing the news of his boy’s death.
Although, week after week, search was made or the body of the unfortunate lad, all efforts for its recovery were vain, and to this day no trace of it has ever been discovered.
By Nancolas’s unwearied exertions, and by his strict sobriety, by the profits of the little chandler’s shop, old Tregillian passed for two years a comparatively calm life. As for his partner, he was an altered man. Beyond the one set purpose of his soul he had no other aim. Fortunately, some money left him by a distant relative enabled him to buy a small—a very small—life annuity for the old man whom his thoughtless folly had deprived of a son.
Two years had passed, when on a fine August morning in the twilight a fisherman (in returning from his night’s work) was passing the mouth of the bay; he was falling into that half-wakeful semi-conscious doze which invariably follows many hours’ watching, and was (so he afterwards said) in that state in which the sights and sounds that are taking place in our world of reality mingle themselves sometimes with our world of dreams. It appeared to him that the wind had freshened, for a cold air fanned his face; it seemed to him also, in his half-drowsy and unconscious state, that some one was beside him in the little skiff. Shaking himself and glancing around, so strong an impression had the feeling made on him, he was half surprised to find he was alone, and that the boat was being borne by the tide on a sea scarcely moved by a ripple.
The old man had filled his pipe, and was about to light it, when a strange sound fell upon his ear: it was at first very indistinct, and appeared to come from the little creek that was opposite.
The fisherman looked round, thinking it might proceed from some distant vessel; but the horizon was as clear as it had been two years before, when Nancolas had viewed it by the breaking light of morning.
The old man stood there with his unlighted pipe in his mouth, listening, when the same cold breeze that had stolen over his slumbering features again played on his face, and with it came the feeling he had experienced in his dream—that of there being with him an image without a form. Once more upon the air came the mysterious sound; this time he heard it more distinctly than he had heard it before, a faint cry dwelling upon the waters,—
“He’s not come yet!”
The sound seemed borne with and dependent on the breeze, for it came as gradually as it faded; the words, too—where had the old fisherman heard them before? He tried but failed to remember: surely they must have been a part of his dream!
Louder and more distinct they came once more upon the breeze,—
“He’s not come yet!”
No visionary remnant of an overwrought imagination—the tones of the fresh voice of a boy, uttered as clearly as the fisherman had ever heard them in his life—from whom, from whence, had they proceeded?
Not from the land, where not even the curling smoke was darkening the sky; not from any object on the sea, on which nothing was visible but his own solitary boat. All, all was still.
With a white face and trembling hands, and a feeling of indefinable dread, the old man pulled towards Falmouth; as he neared the shore, on looking round, he perceived a boat in which was a solitary figure rowing towards him. As he approached it he descried the form of Paul Nancolas.
He hailed him, and with trembling lips and a broken voice related to him what he had heard.
As he told Nancolas of the words the voice had uttered, the eyes of the other became as it were fixed, and he stared at the old man with a stony gaze.
“The last words uttered by my poor lost boy!”
The look was so full of hopeless misery, yet so resolute in its awful calmness, that, scarcely knowing why, the old fisherman begged of Paul for the love of Heaven to go no farther.
“He was his son—his only son! He saved me when I was a helpless wretch—he saved me from the bad, and when he called to me for help I lay slumbering like a drunken dog!”
At the first words uttered by Nancolas the old man stood panic-stricken and aghast; instinctively he fell upon his knees, and uttered a homely prayer. When he looked up Nancolas in his boat was making for the sea.
To the wondering fishermen, who with gaping eyes crowded round him, did the old man tell his tale; and by sunset the beach was almost lined with men and women, anxiously straining their eyes to catch the first glimpse of the boat of Nancolas.
They watched for him till dark, and then they brought torches and lanterns to sited a faint light upon the calm still bay; with eager hands they assisted to push off the boats, wherein some fishermen had volunteered to search for their missing friend; a faint cheer burst from their lips, and the boats departed out into the dark night on the calm sea.
Many still remember that night, and the cold, creeping shudder that stole over them when the fishermen returned bearing no news of their missing comrade. There are numbers who to this day tell of the panic that was spread in Falmouth when day by day, and week by week passed, and nothing was either seen or heard of the object of their search.
Years have passed, but the missing fisherman is still remembered; and children crowd the closer round the dim firelight as their grey-haired fathers tell the tale, that from that day to this no tidings have been gained of the fisherman or his boat.
The story is a strange one, I confess; but I solemnly declare I believe it for the most part true, and many who still live in Falmouth will stake their lives for its veracity.