_UNDER THREE FLAGS_
—A Story of Mystery
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UNDER THREE FLAGS
A Story of Mystery
BY
B. L. TAYLOR AND A. T. THOITS.
[Illustration]
CHICAGO AND NEW YORK:
RAND, McNALLY & COMPANY.
MDCCCXCVI.
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_A PRIZE STORY_
In THE CHICAGO RECORD’S series of “Stories of Mystery.”
_UNDER THREE FLAGS_
BY
B. L. TAYLOR AND A. T. THOITS.
(This story—out of 816 competing—was awarded the THIRD PRIZE in THE
CHICAGO RECORD’S “$30,000 to Authors” competition.)
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Copyright, 1896, by B. L. Taylor and A. T. Thoits.
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UNDER THREE FLAGS.
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CHAPTER I.
“OVER THE HILLS AND FAR AWAY.”
“No; I am not tired of life. Who could be on such a day? I am weary
simply of this way of living. I want to get away—away from this stagnant
hole. It is the same dull story over and over again, day after day,
world without end, amen!”
“Would you be a bit more contented in any other spot?”
“I think so. I cannot believe that mankind in general is so selfish, so
hypocritical, and, worst crime of all, so hopelessly stupid as it is
here. The world is 25,000 miles in circumference. Why spend all one’s
days in this split in the mountains?”
“But, tell me, what is your ambition, then? Have you one?”
“You would smile pityingly if I told it you.”
“No; I’ll be as serious as—as you.”
“Then incline thine ear. I would I were the ruler of a savage tribe, in
the heart of far-away New Zealand, shut in by towering mountains from
the outer world.”
“But why spend all one’s days in a valley?”
“Oh, well, if you’re going in for a valley, why not have a good one?”
She throws herself down beside him on the grass and clasps her arms
about his neck. “You foolish boy; you don’t know what you want.”
“Don’t I?” He draws the glowing face to his and kisses it.
The two are idling in a grassy nook on the slope of one of Vermont’s
green hills, sheltered by a clump of spruce from observation and the
slanting rays of the sun.
There is an infinite calm in the late spring air, and the golden
afternoon drifts by on lazy pinions. Away in the west, across the vale,
the main spur of the Green Mountain range awaits the last pencilings of
the low-descending sun. Southward Wild River sings its way through
buttercup and daisy flecked meadows; to the north the smoke from the
chimneys of Raymond blurs the lines of as fair a landscape as earth can
boast.
Derrick Ames pulls his hat over his eyes, stretches himself on the
greensward and gazes long and lovingly at his companion. The fair face,
browned by many rambles among the hills; the rippling hair, tumbled in
confusion about mischievous and laughter-laden brown eyes; the rounded
arms; the slim, girlish figure, about which even the coarse dress donned
for mountain climbing falls in graceful lines; the dainty feet and the
perfectly turned ankles, make a picture for an artist.
She picked up the book which lies open upon the grass and glances over
its pages, dreamily.
The sun goes down in a golden haze, and still the lovers tarry in their
sylvan trysting-place.
“It is getting late and damp; we had better be moving,” he says,
finally.
They arise and take their way across the pasture, their arms clasped
about each other’s waist. Derrick is talking in low, earnest tones, with
an infrequent interruption by his companion.
“It’s no use,” he exclaims, impatiently, in reply to a protest on her
part. “Twice I have spoken to your father, with the same result. I have
been refused and insulted. He is selfish, overbearing—”
She places one hand upon his lips. “But will you not make a third
trial—for my sake,” she pleads.
“For your sake I would do anything,” he answers, pressing the soft hand
to his lips. “There is no time like the present. Will you wait for me
here?” She nods. “Where will I find your father?”
“At the bank. I think he said he would be there all the evening.”
“I will return shortly, for I know what the answer will be.”
She watches the erect form of her lover as he strides down the road
leading into the village.
The shadows deepen in the valley. The opalescent light that hangs over
the range fades into the darkening gray. The moon rises in full, round
splendor and transforms the river into a silver torrent.
The clanging of the Raymond town clock, as it hammers out the hour of 8,
rouses the girl. “Derrick should be here soon,” she murmurs. Then she
clutches her heart with an exclamation of pain and terror.
It is a swift, sharp spasm, that passes away as quickly as it came, and
which leaves the girl for several minutes afterward somewhat dazed.
Footsteps echo in the road.
“The result?” eagerly, anxiously queries the girl as Derrick reaches her
side.
He must have walked swiftly. He is breathing hard and his face is pale
as the moonlight. Or is it the reflection of that light?
“Come away from here, for God’s sake!” he exclaims in a harsh, unnatural
voice, half-dragging her into the road. “I beg your pardon; I did not
mean to be rough,” he adds, as the astonished eyes of the girl look into
his. “Will you come for a walk, dear?” And as she follows, mechanically,
wonderingly, he walks swiftly away from the village.
“I am all out of breath,” she protests, after a few moments of the
fierce pace he has set. And they stop to rest at a spring beside the
road.
“You have quarreled with father,” asserts the girl, half questioningly;
but Derrick remains silent.
He stops suddenly, and, holding her in his arms, smooths back the dark
ringlets from her moist brow. “Helen, darling, do not press me for an
answer to-night. Let us be happy in the present. God knows it may not be
for long.” He presses a passionate kiss upon the girl’s unresisting and
unresponsive lips, and then lifts to the moonlight a face as troubled as
the tossing river behind the dusky willows. As he releases her he
extends his arm toward the ball of silver that is wheeling up the
heavens. “See!” he cries. “The moon is up and it is a glorious night.
Shall we follow that pathway of silver over the hills and far away?”
A loving look is her willing assent.
The witchery that the moon is said to exert o’er mortals must be more
than a poet’s myth. A strange peace has come upon the girl. Her senses
are exalted. She seems to be walking on air. Nor does she now break upon
the silence of her companion, whose agitation has been replaced by a
singular calm.
What a stillness, yet what a busy world claims the woods they are
crossing to-night! The crawling of a beetle through the dead leaves is
distinctly heard, and a thousand small noises that the day never hears
fill the forest with a strange music.
A short distance farther and the wanderers emerge into the open and
pause to marvel at the picture spread before them.
It is a wondrous night. Bathed in a radiance that tips with silver every
dew-laden spear of grass, the pasture slopes down to a highway, and the
brawling of the brook beside it comes to their ears as a strain of
music.
Silently the lovers take their way through this fairyland, clamber over
the wall into the road, and continue on.
“I am cold,” complains the girl, with a little shiver. Derrick wraps his
light overcoat about her shoulders.
* * * * *
The striking of a town clock causes them both to start.
“Where are we?” asks the girl, looking about her in bewilderment. The
moon passes behind a cloud. The spell is over.
“Why, this is Ashfield, isn’t it? There is the station, and the church
and the—Derrick! Derrick, where have we been wandering? Five miles from
home and midnight! What will Louise and father say? We must go home at
once.”
“Home,” he repeats, bitterly, pointing to the north. “There is no home
yonder for me. Listen, Helen!” He draws her to him fiercely. “If we part
now it must be forever. I shall never go back. I cannot go back! Will
you not come away with me—somewhere—anywhere? Hark!”
The whistle of the Montreal express sounds from the north.
The girl seems not to hear him. The long whistle of the express again
echoes through the night.
“Helen, darling!” There is a world of yearning and entreaty in his
voice.
She throws her arms about him and kisses him. “Yes, Derrick; I will go
with you—to the end of the world.”
The station agent regards the pair suspiciously. In the dim light of the
kerosene lamps of the waiting-room their features are only partially
discernible.
“Sorry,” he says, “but this train don’t stop except for through
passengers to New York.”
“But we are going to New York,” almost shouts Derrick. “Quick, man!” The
train has swept around the curve above the village and is thundering
down the stretch.
“Wall, I guess I kin accommerdate ye,” drawls the station master. He
seizes his lantern and swings it about his head and No. 51 draws up
panting in the station.
“Elopement, I guess,” confides the station agent to the conductor, as
Derrick and the girl clamber aboard the train.
The latter growls something about being twenty minutes late out of St.
Albans, swings his lantern and No. 51 rumbles away in the mist and
moonlight.
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