Out of the Sea

It was about ten o'clock on a November morning in the little village
of Blea-on-the-Sands. The hamlet was made up of some thirty houses,
which clustered together on a low rising ground. The place was very
poor, but some old merchant of bygone days had built in a pious mood a
large church, which was now too great for the needs of the place; the
nave had been unroofed in a heavy gale, and there was no money to
repair it, so that it had fallen to decay, and the tower was joined to
the choir by roofless walls. This was a sore trial to the old priest,
Father Thomas, who had grown grey there; but he had no art in
gathering money, which he asked for in a shamefaced way; and the
vicarage was a poor one, hardly enough for the old man's needs. So the
church lay desolate.

The village stood on what must once have been an island; the little
river Reddy, which runs down to the sea, there forking into two
channels on the landward side; towards the sea the ground was bare,
full of sand-hills covered with a short grass. Towards the land was a
small wood of gnarled trees, the boughs of which were all brushed
smooth by the gales; looking landward there was the green flat, in
which the river ran, rising into low hills; hardly a house was visible
save one or two lonely farms; two or three church towers rose above
the hills at a long distance away. Indeed Blea was much cut off from
the world; there was a bridge over the stream on the west side, but
over the other channel was no bridge, so that to fare eastward it was
requisite to go in a boat. To seaward there were wide sands, when the
tide was out; when it was in, it came up nearly to the end of the
village street. The people were mostly fishermen, but there were a few
farmers and labourers; the boats of the fishermen lay to the east side
of the village, near the river channel which gave some draught of
water; and the channel was marked out by big black stakes and posts
that straggled out over the sands, like awkward leaning figures, to
the sea's brim.

Father Thomas lived in a small and ancient brick house near the
church, with a little garden attached. He was a kindly man, much worn
by age and weather, with a wise heart, and he loved the quiet life
with his small flock. This morning he had come out of his house to
look abroad, before he settled down to writing his sermon. He looked
out to sea, and saw with a shadow of sadness the black outline of a
wreck that had come ashore a week before, and over which the white
waves were now breaking. The wind blew steadily from the north-east,
and had a bitter poisonous chill in it, which it doubtless drew from
the fields of the upper ice. The day was dark and overhung, not with
cloud, but with a kind of dreary vapour that shut out the sun. Father
Thomas shuddered at the wind, and drew his patched cloak round him. As
he did so, he saw three figures come up to the vicarage gate. It was
not a common thing for him to have visitors in the morning, and he saw
with surprise that they were old Master John Grimston, the richest man
in the place, half farmer and half fisherman, a dark surly old man;
his wife, Bridget, a timid and frightened woman, who found life with
her harsh husband a difficult business, in spite of their wealth,
which, for a place like Blea, was great; and their son Henry, a silly
shambling man of forty, who was his father's butt. The three walked
silently and heavily, as though they came on a sad errand.