Much cruel disillusionment had been Jeff Sharp’s portion in the last few
days. He had lost much, and he had gained nothing to take the place of
that which he had lost. Many of his fondest precepts had been proven
untrue. Many of his gods had shown feet of clay. Now, in this bitter
hour of an October night, some of his own self-belief passed away, not
to return.
He was so proud, this Sharp. He could never, since his childhood, admit
defeat. He had built a strong house to shut himself in, during the black
days following his return from Lee’s army—a house of estrangement, of
scorn, most of all of stern, unconquerable pride—but now it was falling
down about his head. Now he had learned that the mere desire to believe
a thing did not make it true; that reality followed him even into his
secret castle of dreams.
He had felt sure of himself; and with an iron will he had repressed all
self-doubt. He had dreamed of never, never yielding; even though every
comrade submitted to a new order, to the change that years might bring,
he would still remain unconquered, still hold his head high. Confidently
he had hoped of finding another order, somewhere, like the old one he
loved—out of sight of the conqueror’s flag, away from his own people in
whom he had begun to see signs of readjustment and submission—an order
where things were as he wanted them to be, and where his dreams came
true; but lately, in these last days of revelation, this hope was shown
as baseless folly. There was no land short of the Kingdom of Heaven
which fulfilled his ideals. Yet he had not staked everything on this. He
had one high hope to fall back on; one strong tower that he thought
would never fall.
He had believed with a fierce ardor that, no matter if everything he
held dear was broken and destroyed, he could play a lone game clear to
the end. No matter what he lost, he could not lose this: his ability to
stand alone. He could live his life, if need be, with never a shoulder
touching his or a smile reflecting happiness into his eyes. He had
dreamed he could remain self-sufficient to the last.
Was this also only a dream? Would it go the way of all the rest?
To-night he had found out that of all the tides of fortune, that which
casts a man upon the desert isle of loneliness was the darkest and most
chill. Would his strong heart break as he fought through its long,
lightless waves? Could it bow his erect head? Could it break his proud
spirit, a Southern heritage that had been given in all fullness to him?
The soul of man is a timid, wistful thing that can not wing its way
alone: this Jeff learned in his hour of supreme need.
He had never tasted real loneliness before; and he had never known how
bitter it was. In this last night before the dawn of his destiny he knew
only too well. For the first time in his life there was no friend to
seek, no hand to touch. It is good to go into battle for a high cause
with cheering comrades at his side; but the way was cheerless and dark
when he must walk alone. The men to whom he had offered friendship had
either refused it or had so fallen in his estimation that they were no
longer acceptable as friends. In all this town of Sitka, the abode of
noble gentlemen from beyond the seas, he knew of no one whom he could
ask to stand beside him, as his second, in to-morrow’s hour of trial.
The Russians all wanted him to lose. They coveted his furs. Captain
Skinner he had belittled, patronized, and lorded over throughout their
acquaintance; he had felt scorn for him in his heart even if he had not
showed it in his conduct, and he could not ask his help now he was in
need. It was not that he feared Skinner’s refusal. The old Yankee would
not only serve to the best of his ability, but probably start a few
duels on his own account if the fight went against his young charge.
Jeff was simply too proud even to let him know about the duel with these
men he had exalted, much less to ask his assistance against them. He
felt largely the same toward the men of the crew.
It came to him with a poignant sense of loss that there was still
another whose help would be precious to him but whom he could not ask.
This was a certain companion of these past stirring weeks, a steadfast
comrade who had served not only as his second but as a staunch ally in a
previous affair of honor on the Kolosh Ryeka trail. The help she could
give him was moral only; yet he wanted it as he had wanted few things in
his life. Perhaps that was the trouble with Jeff: he had never known,
until this hour, what real longing was.
Everything would be quite different if he could talk over the affair
with her; if he could walk out in the dawn to meet Baron Karl with her
godspeed lingering in his ears and the memory of that strange light,
seen now and again in her eyes, guiding him on. Yet now, when he needed
her most, he could not have her. He had estranged her with vain, foolish
words.
Yet he was too proud to go to her with an admission of his vanity and
folly. Again his great pride had come between him and peace. The trait
once had been his secret boast—he had taken a childish satisfaction in
it—and he had regarded it as a birthright, an obligation owed to
himself. Now he thought about it, he had always been conscious of great
self-debts; he had owed himself this and that; he must take this stand
or that one because such was his due or was seemly to one of his exalted
place. Could it be that in his zeal to do his duty to himself he had
forgotten duty to others? In flaunting the banner of his pride had his
standard of service fallen in the dust? In building his high tower had
he missed his shift in the common work crew who built for all humanity?
In gathering to himself ramparts to sustain his station had he lost much
that could not be regained?
Perhaps he should have given more thought to this. It might be that the
time had come to forget himself and to remember some one else. His great
pride had not humbled his enemies, but had only estranged his friends.
It had not hurt those who had hurt him, but had cut to the quick those
who had meant well by him, those who might have loved him and helped
him. Perhaps the hour was at hand to put it by, and to seek some other
faith.
As this thought gleamed, like a star, in the darkened universe of his
mind, he changed his course and turned down toward the sea. He made
straight toward the old quay where the _Ethan Allen_ was lying. It
seemed to him that considering the cloudy night and the dim oil lights
the path was amazingly plain to see and follow. It was almost light.
There was no hesitancy in his step now; only a trembling, boyish
eagerness that once might have shamed him. He wondered how he had failed
to miss this path until now. It was the plainest thing, lying waiting
for him to take now he had passed through the iron gate. He had stumbled
about in the fearful dark, like a lame child, and all the time the happy
road was open. He could hardly keep from running.
He crossed the quay and walked up the plank to the deck of the American
ship. Captain Skinner was taking his ease on the deck, smoking his clay
pipe; but Jeff gave no sign of pausing to visit with him. He did,
however, call to him as he walked past.
“Where’s Molly?”
“I don’t know. In her stateroom, I reckon. Where you been and where you
going so much in a hurry?”
Except that he went aft in the direction of Molly’s stateroom, Jeff made
not the least response. Followed by the skipper’s wondering stare he
went down a short flight of steps, into a passage, and halted before a
stateroom door.
“Who’s there?” a voice called at his knock. It was incredible to him
that he had ever, by vanity and folly, let this voice be shut away from
him when it was so real a need.
“Jeff,” he told her, simply and humbly, “I want to come in.”
He did not command entrance; he simply told the truth, that he wanted to
come in to her. He had never wanted anything quite this way before. In
the long pause after he spoke he thought he could hear her troubled
breathing, so deep a spell of silence had been cast over the ship that
floated on the dark sea, in this hushed, dark night. At first the girl
seemed unable to answer him.
“Are you sure—Jeff—that you care about seeing me?”
For an instant he felt the throttling hand of his pride—lifted up again
to hold him aloof and from the comfort of surrender—but he tore it
away. He must concede some little pride to others. He had forgotten
about this until now. Others also felt the need of such fortification
against ingratitude and stinging words and cold contempt, such buffets
as crush the velvet wings of that hungry, light-seeking moth which is
the human soul. He could not deny her her moment of pretended aloofness.
“Molly, I’m sure,” he told her. “I’ve come to ask help.”
He knew that these words would open the door. He knew also that they
atoned as far as he ever could atone for his slight to the girl a few
days before; they revealed the fullness of his surrender. It took all
his strength of will to utter them. Not many times had he asked help of
any one, and there were men alive who could not have been made to
believe he had done so. Yet the words were straight-forward, clear, and
loud enough that the wondering girl behind the locked door could not
fail to understand.
There is nothing so effective in dispelling clouds of suspicion and
emnity as a request of this kind. Molly opened the door, wide as it
would go. Jeff bowed his erect head and stepped through.
She looked at him breathlessly, and as his eyes met hers he saw that she
was pale, drawn, and worn-looking as he had never expected her to be.
Somehow he had never thought that her bright tints could fade or that
pain could shadow her eyes and track over her face; so capable she
seemed, so self-reliant that he had deemed her beyond the possible reach
of pain. She had always ridden boldly above all disaster and untoward
circumstance; but now he knew her as a childlike, stumbling, fragile
human being, just as he himself was. This fact brought her nearer to
him.
She was plainly startled by his coming; but now she had a look of
disbelief, too, as if an impossible, glorious thing were coming true
before her eyes. And indeed, the bowing of this proud man—the change
since she last saw him—had to be numbered among the few miracles that
her life had known.
“I was a cad on the bridge that day, Molly,” he told her simply. “I
didn’t mean anything against you. I couldn’t bear to leave you without
saying this—”
“Are you leaving—?” She seemed almost unable to shape the words.
“I’m leaving for good and all, like as not. I’m meeting Karl to-morrow,
and since I probably won’t live to see you again—I want to be sure that
you have forgiven everything.”