DRIVEN TO DESPERATION
O, shut me nightly in a charnel house,
O’er covered quite with dead men’s rattling bones,
With reeking shanks, and yellow, chapless skulls;
Or bid me go into a new-made grave
And hide me with a dead man in his shroud—
Things that to hear them told have made me tremble—
And I will do them without fear or doubt
To live unstained. SHAKESPEARE.
“I beg your pardon for this sudden intrusion, but—I am suffering
great—the greatest anxiety!” he began, casting his eyes around the room.
“My ward has been missing since yesterday. Have you seen—have you
heard——”
“She is safe, Colonel de Crespigney. She is quite safe. She is here,”
answered Dame Lindsay, leading the visitor around the headboard of the
bed, that had hitherto hidden the recumbent girl from his sight.
“Gloria, my darling!” he exclaimed, as soon as his eyes fell upon her.
“Heavens, what a fright you have given us! What insufferable tortures of
anxiety and suspense! And to find you here, and in bed, too! What does
all this mean?” he demanded, turning in more displeasure than gratitude
to the old dame.
“It means that the little lady, while trying to walk across the Rogue’s
Neck, was overtaken by the tide and swept off to sea, and was picked up
by my Davie, who happened to be out with his boat, and who brought her
here as to the nearest house,” replied Dame Lindsay.
“What is all this that she tells me, Gloria?” inquired the shocked
colonel.
“The truth, uncle! David Lindsay saved my life,” said the girl, with a
glow of gratitude and pride.
“A gallant deed, for which he shall be most liberally rewarded,” said
Colonel de Crespigney, as he sank into the chair that Dame Lindsay had
silently placed for him at the side of the bed.
Gloria darted a glance full of scorn and indignation at this speech. It
fell harmlessly on the colonel’s unobservant head, and he repeated: “A
gallant deed, truly, of the young fisherman, and he shall be
munificently paid! But, my dear girl, how could you have been so
imprudent as to cross the main alone? Did you not know there was great
danger?”
“I did not care. I was weary of myself and everybody else! And now I am
very glad I went, for David Lindsay saved my life,” said Gloria,
luxuriating over the words and the thought.
“I say it was a brave deed, for which he shall be munificently
rewarded,” repeated the colonel; “but still, my darling, I think that it
was a pity your life should be risked for the sake of having it saved,
even by David Lindsay,” he added, with a little sarcasm.
“I think not! The risk and pain are compensated by the memory left
behind—a sweetness that will last me all my days,” replied the girl, as
a strange tenderness of joy melted and irradiated her face.
The colonel’s brow grew dark. He did not speak for a few moments; when
he did it was to say:
“My dear Gloria, we owe a deep debt of gratitude to this good woman and
her son—or grandson, is he? But we must not trespass on their kind
hospitality. I am sure you must be sufficiently recovered to rise and
dress and return with me to the hall.”
“Oh, no, sir, indeed she is not. She has been so shaken by her shock.
Take an old ’oman’s word for it, sir, she had better bide here a day or
two,” said Dame Lindsay, speaking earnestly for her guest.
“Indeed, uncle, she is right. I need to stay here where I am,” added
Gloria.
“Will you have the kindness to withdraw for a few moments and leave me
alone with my ward? I have something to say to her in private,” said
Colonel de Crespigney, turning to the woman.
Dame Lindsay bent her head and went up into the little loft, and
improved her time there by making David’s bed.
“Gloria, my dearest, I could not speak freely to you in the presence of
your humble hostess——” began the colonel; but the willful girl
impatiently interrupted him.
“‘Humble hostess,’ uncle? Why should Dame Lindsay be called ‘humble,’
indeed? I call her my honored hostess, in my own thoughts.”
“Well, well, my little girl, call her what you will. I shall not differ
with you. But, my dear, I was about to say that it is not fitting or
proper that you should remain here any longer.”
“Why is it not fitting or proper, uncle?”
“Because this is the house of a young laboring man, and while you are
here you are his visitor.”
“But I am his grandmother’s guest,” persisted Gloria.
“No, my child, no; the house is his, not his grandmother’s. The position
is unfit, improper, indelicate. I wonder you do not see that it is so!”
“No, I do not see it. But if any one sees it, that is enough. I cannot
stay, of course. I will go home with you, uncle.”
“That is right, Gloria. That is right, my dearest girl. I thank you,
love, for your ready acquiescence in my views and compliance with my
wishes. As for this young Lindsay, who is such a favorite _protégé_ of
yours—and deservedly so, I must admit—he shall be well paid for the
service he has rendered you. I will send him a check for a thousand
dollars to-morrow.”
“Marcel!” exclaimed Gloria, lifting herself up and looking him straight
in the face, “if you do such a thing as that I will never forgive you as
long as I live in this world!”
“Gloria, what on earth do you mean? Have you gone crazy, child?”
“No, but I think you have!”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean just what I say, Colonel de Crespigney! If you were to offer
David Lindsay money for saving my life, I would never speak to you again
as long as I should live on this earth!”
“But, my dear, unreasonable child, why should I not do so?”
“‘Why?’ I wonder you, a gentleman and a soldier, you, a De Crespigney,
cannot see why?” said Gloria, harping a little upon his own words of a
few minutes past.
“I cannot see; but if you or any one can, I should like to be informed
of the reason,” said the colonel, in the same spirit.
“Then I will tell you. Suppose it had fallen to your lot to rescue Dame
Lindsay from drowning, and David Lindsay had offered you money, as much
as he could afford, in payment of your services, what would you have
thought? How would you have felt?”
“My dearest Gloria, the cases differ totally,” exclaimed the colonel,
with a flushed brow.
“They do not differ in one essential point, uncle, and you know it, and
feel it now, if you neither knew nor felt it before. I will yield to
your wishes and return home with you to-day. But you must not insult my
preserver by offering him any sort of reward for saving me. You may
thank him, for yourself and for me; but thank him as you would thank
General Stuart, or Doctor Battis, or any other gentleman of your
acquaintance, had either of them rendered me the same inestimable
service.”
“My dear, absurd child, I do thank him more than tongue can tell. I
think the most practical way of expressing my thanks would be to send
him a check for a round sum; but if you prefer that I should take off my
hat to him instead, why, I will do that.”
“Yes, do that. Take off your hat to him. And, now please to go to the
foot of the stairs there and call Granny Lindsay down. She will get cold
if she stays up in that fireless loft any longer,” said Gloria, who had
been anxious all this time on account of her old friend.
“Mrs. Lindsay, Miss de la Vera would like to see you,” said Colonel de
Crespigney, from the foot of the ladder.
“Ay, sir, I will come down,” answered the dame, and she immediately
descended.
“Granny Lindsay, my uncle has convinced me that I ought to return home
with him. I am very sorry to leave you, but I must go!” said Gloria,
gently.
“Ah, well, dearie, I am sorry, too—but of course ’ee must be guided by
’ee gardeen, little lady, and I hope ’ee’ll take no harm. ’Ee clothes
are all dry and ready for ’ee, and I’ll wrap ’ee up warm and nice for
’ee little journey,” said the dame.
“And now, uncle, you will please to withdraw! You see there is only this
one room and we must take turns.”
Colonel de Crespigney smiled good-humoredly enough as he left the house
to walk up and down in the crisp, cold winter air outside.
Dame Lindsay brought the girl’s clothes from the chair over which they
had been hanging near the fire.
“Granny Lindsay, where has David Lindsay gone?” inquired Gloria, as she
arose and began to dress herself.
“Down to the shore to look after his boat, I reckon, lovie; or maybe he
has crossed to the main to bring a load of brushwood.”
“He hurried away as soon as I awoke and you came in.”
“Yes, dearie, he did so to give you a chance to get up and dress, I
reckon.”
“Will he be back before I go?”
“I hope so, dearie.”
Gloria slowly dressed herself, and then requested that her uncle might
be called in.
Dame Lindsay, meanwhile, had placed coffee, hot rolls, and broiled ham
on the breakfast table, and now she went to the door and summoned
Colonel de Crespigney.
“I hope you will do us the pleasure to take a cup of coffee this
Christmas morning, sir,” said the dame, as she placed a chair at the
table for her last visitor.
“Thanks, no; I took coffee before I left home this morning,” answered
the colonel.
But Gloria sat down and drank a little cup with her hostess.
Then, not to keep her guardian waiting longer than necessary, she arose,
and put on her hat and sack to depart.
“Good-by, dear friend,” she said, offering her cheek to the old dame’s
kiss. “Good-by. I shall never forget your motherly kindness to me. And
please to say good-by for me to David Lindsay, and tell him that I shall
hold my life sweeter from this day forth, because he saved it.”
With this grateful and gracious message to her preserver, Gloria joined
her uncle and left the cottage.
Involuntarily her eyes roamed all over the islet, in search of her old
playmate; but in vain, for he was nowhere to be seen.
“Lean heavily on me, my child. You are pale and trembling,” said De
Crespigney, tenderly, as he drew her hand under his arm and slackened
his steps to accommodate them to her weary walk.
When they reached the shore, Gloria looked around again for some signs
of David Lindsay’s presence, but there was none to be seen, not even his
little boat; and this was a certain indication that the dame’s
conjectures pointed to the truth, and that the young fisherman had
crossed to the main.
With a sigh Gloria gave up the hope she had cherished of seeing and
thanking him in person before leaving the island.
Colonel de Crespigney’s boat was waiting, and Laban, who had seen them
coming, and joyfully recognized Gloria, was laying on the oars.
“Come, my dear,” said the colonel, as he handed his ward to her seat in
the stern; “come, make yourself comfortable. Double your sack over your
chest. It is a splendid day for late December, but the air is rather
keen on the water.”
“Oh, Miss Glo’! I’s so glad you’s safe!” cried Laban, grinning from ear
to ear. “’Deed we dem over to the house is been almos’ crazy ’bout yer
ebber since las’ night, when yer didn’t come home to dinner. And me and
Marse Colonel Discrepancy beatin’ de main woods all night long! All de
blessed, live-long Christmas Ebe night! And took Fiddle ’long of us and
made her smell some o’ yer close, and didn’t she take a round-about
ramble t’rough dem woods?”
“Did you hunt for me all last night, Marcel, dear?” inquired Gloria,
with more tenderness than she had shown him for many weeks.
“Yes, my child. Did you suppose, Gloria, that I could have rested one
moment, anywhere, from the hour that you were missed until you were
found? It was at dinner that, on your non-appearance, I inquired of your
maid why you did not come, and was told that you had been gone all day
to the main, and had not returned. I had no thought but that you had
lost yourself in the woods, and so I set out at once, with Laban here
and your little dog Fidelle, and lanterns. The tide was low when we
crossed the Neck. The little animal soon struck your trail, and
convinced me that I was right. You have been told how she kept us
wandering around in a circle all night. In the morning, as a forlorn
hope, we returned to the Promontory, took the boat and came to the
island to make inquiries.”
“Oh! Marcel, dear, I never realized before how much distress my
imprudence caused you,” said Gloria, penitently, as she now for the
first time observed the ravages that one night’s intense anxiety had
wrought in the man’s face.
“Yer better beliebe it den, Miss Glo’!” spoke up Laban. “Ef my head
hadn’t been gray long afore dis, last night’s doings would a turned it!
And dere’s ’Phia, gone to bed long of a sick headache, and ’Mia in de
high-strikes.”
While this conversation was going on they were rapidly passing over the
water between Sandy Isle and the Promontory.
With Laban’s last words, the boat grounded on the beach below the
sea-wall, and the boatman drew in his oars.
“Go on to the house as fast as you can, Laban, and relieve the anxiety
of your fellow-servants, so that they may be in a condition to attend
Miss Davero when we get home,” said Colonel de Crespigney, as he handed
his ward from the boat.
The man very gladly obeyed, and ran on before them so rapidly that he
was soon out of sight.
Colonel de Crespigney found himself alone with his ward for the first
time (with the exception of the few minutes they had talked together in
the little island cot, whose very walls had ears).
He drew her hand within his arm, and supporting her carefully, walked
slowly on through that boat-house built in the sea-wall, and then up
through the fields and ornamented grounds that lay between it and the
hall.
“Gloria, my beloved, can you really estimate all I have suffered during
your unexpected absence?” he inquired, as he pressed the hand that
rested on his arm.
“Yes, uncle, I think I can. I am very sorry. I was not worth so much
anxiety, uncle, dear.”
“Do not call me uncle! I cannot bear to hear you call me so!” he burst
forth with such energy that the girl shrank from him, and shuddered
through all her frame.
“Gloria! Do you not understand me? Will you never understand me? Child,
I can smother my feelings no longer! I have tried to keep silence, but I
cannot! Twenty-four hours of agony have overcome my last
power—self-control! Oh, my love, I love you! I love you!” he cried,
stopping suddenly and facing her.
“Uncle!—for Heaven’s sake, uncle!” she exclaimed, in deadly terror.
“Do not call me by that name unless you would drive me mad! I am not the
least kin to you! I thank the Lord I am not your uncle; for I must
be—your husband! There, it is spoken! I love you, Gloria, with a love
that has broken down every barrier of prudence, self-control,
expediency, everything! I love you with a love that is my fate, and must
be yours! For you must be my wife, Gloria!” he cried, clasping her hands
in his and gazing on her with eyes that seemed to burn into her soul.
One amazed and terrified look she cast upon him, and then, with a
half-suppressed cry, she broke away and fled!