WHERE HE WAS.
While the men were going over the house he was lying in the smuggler’s
room on the billiard table, which had been put there in the spring and
scarcely used at all, as the young men preferred the one in the third
story, which commanded a view of the sea. On this Tom had improvised a
comfortable bed, taking his own mattress and pillows and secretly
purloining sheets and blankets in his frequent tours through the house.
Here he had lain Paul after a hard struggle to get him there. On his
return from seeing Elithe home he had found Paul in a state of
semi-unconsciousness, from which he could not at first rouse him.
“Paul, Paul,” he said, dropping the Mr. in his anxiety as he shook him
by the arm, “come with me now; you are at home; safe,—free. Come.”
Paul only answered, “Yes, I know; the storm is terrible, and she is wet
through. I can feel how she trembles.”
He was still in the boat with Elithe in his arms. Tom understood it, and
said: “Miss Elithe is home. I took her there. Don’t you remember? And
you are home. Come.”
It was of no use. Paul did not offer to move, and the night was wearing
away. The storm had passed on, and there was a faint streak of daylight
in the east. Something must be done. What can I do to rouse him? Tom
thought. The answer came in a howl from Sherry, shut up in his kennel,
where Tom had put him when he left the house. The sagacity of an
intelligent dog is wonderful, and Sherry was one of the most intelligent
of his race. He had been uneasy ever since the boat glided under cover,
and had tried to get out. His ear was trained to catch sounds at a long
distance, and his instinct told him something unusual was going on in
which he must have a part. It did not seem possible that he could
recognize Paul’s voice so far away, but from the moment he spoke he
redoubled his efforts to be free, and finally gave the howl which
decided Tom. Going to the kennel, he let the dog out, but did not have
to tell him where to go. Sherry knew, and when Tom reached the boat
house the dog was there, licking Paul’s face and hands and talking to
him in the language of a dumb beast. Tom thought of Rip Van Winkle
asking for Schneider, as he threw the light of his dark lantern upon the
scene and saw the expression on Paul’s face. The dog had saved him.
“Yes, Sherry, old fellow,” he said, patting the animal, “you are glad to
see me, aren’t you? But, easy, boy, easy. Don’t lick my face off with
your long tongue. What is it, Tom? What am I to do? I think I’ve been in
a sort of trance from which Sherry wakened me. Good Sherry, who stood by
me through it all.”
“Come with me to the house,” Tom said, putting his arm around him and
almost carrying him up the slope, while Sherry ran sometimes in front
and sometimes behind them and jumping on Paul, whom he nearly threw
down.
Paul made no comment when introduced into the smuggler’s room from the
cellar. It seemed very natural to go there, and after Tom had exchanged
his wet clothing for dry ones and covered him in bed, he looked up and
said: “It’s the old days come back,—when we were boys and played I was
hiding here a prisoner, just as I am now.”
Tom did not reply. He was thinking what to do next. Paul decided it for
him.
“Put another blanket, or something, over me,” he said. “I’m very cold,
some like Harry Gill. How many did he have, when his teeth they
chattered still.”
There was no extra blanket there, but Tom put a big rug over him, and
gave him a swallow of brandy from the small flask he had in his pocket
for just such an emergency.
“I know you are temperance,” he said, “and so am I, but if there was
ever a time for brandy and lies it’s now. I’ve told a pile and expect to
go on telling. Confound that dog with his yelps. He’ll have the whole
house up if we don’t stop him,” he continued, as Sherry kept bounding
against the door with short, sharp barks for admittance.
“Let him in,” Paul said. “He does me good.”
Tom let him in, with the result of a scene similar to that at the jail
when he first saw Paul.
“Come up here and keep me warm,” Paul said to him, with a snap of his
fingers, which brought the dog on to the billiard table, where he lay
close to Paul, who gradually grew warmer and finally fell asleep.
How Tom managed to bring him anything to eat he hardly knew, but he did
manage it. Paul, however, could not eat, and only took a bit of bread to
please Tom, and then again fell asleep with Sherry beside him. He had
given a growl or two when he heard the tramp of strange footsteps
overhead as the officers went through the house, and Tom wanted to
throttle him, fearing danger. That was passed, and Mr. and Mrs. Ralston
found their son and his dog asleep when they went to him after being
told where he was. His mother’s tears upon his face awoke him, and he
started up, but fell back again upon his pillow weak as a child, bodily
and mentally. The strain upon him had been more than he could bear, and
for days he lay in a kind of lethargy, sleeping a great deal and
partially delirious when awake. He knew he was free, but did not fully
realize the situation or understand why he was in the Smuggler’s room
instead of his own, or why his father’s face wore so grave a look of
concern and his mother’s eyes were full of tears when she spoke to him.
He saw only these two and Tom for a few days, if we except Sherry, who
staid with him constantly and only went out for exercise and to bark and
growl at any suspicious people who came near the house. Sherry was
developing a new side to his character, and from being the best-natured
dog in the neighborhood, was getting a name for the most savage. His
favorite resting place when out of doors was near the entrance to the
basement, where he would sit watching everything which went on around
him, and when he heard a footstep at the front of the house, hurrying to
see who the intruders were, growling if he did not like their looks,
wagging his tail if he did and going back to his position near Paul’s
door.
It was necessary after a little that the servants in the house should
know of Paul’s presence there, and they were sworn to secrecy, which was
scarcely necessary, as not one of them would have betrayed their young
master. After this it was easier to care for him than before. The
Smuggler’s room was furnished with every appliance for comfort, and
every possible attention was paid to the invalid, whose mind remained
shaky and clouded, and who was always trying to remember what had
happened and how he came to be in his present quarters. Tom told him two
or three times, but the effort to remember tired him so that Paul always
shook his head, saying: “No good. It’s all a blur, except Sherry’s
licking my face. I remember how cold his tongue was. That’s all.”
“Perhaps Miss Elithe can help you,” Tom suggested, and Paul caught
eagerly at it.
“Yes, I want to see Elithe. I have a dim recollection of her. Send for
her.”
Mrs. Ralston, who had heard from Tom all the particulars of Paul’s
escape from prison, had freely forgiven Elithe for what she had been
obliged to say at the trial.
“I’ll go for her,” she said, feeling a great desire to see the girl who
had risked so much for Paul.
During the week which had elapsed since Paul’s escape there had been no
intercourse between the Ralston House and Miss Hansford’s cottage. Tom
knew he was suspected and watched, and, fearing to implicate Elithe in
the matter, he had thought best to keep aloof from her as long as
possible. And both she and her aunt were glad that he did so. They had
no doubt as to the place of Paul’s concealment, but did not care to know
certainly, as it was better to be ignorant of his whereabouts until the
talk had subsided in some degree. Still they were anxious to know
something definite, and were glad when Mrs. Ralston came to them one
evening just after dark. She was on foot and alone, not caring to
attract attention by driving in her carriage. Taking Elithe’s face
between her hands, she kissed it tenderly and said: “I want to thank you
for what you did for my boy. Tom tells me you were of great assistance
and very brave.”
“How is he?” Miss Hansford asked before Elithe could reply.
Mrs. Ralston told them everything which had occurred since Elithe left
Paul in the boat house,—of Paul’s mental condition and the hope they had
that Elithe might rouse him.
“He has a high fever, too,” she said.
“Have you had a doctor?” Miss Hansford asked.
“No, we dare not,” was Mrs. Ralston’s reply, and Miss Hansford
continued: “I wouldn’t, either. None of ’em know enough to go in when it
rains. I tried ’em when Elithe was sick and shipped them all. Good
nursing is what he wants, with maybe some herb tea. I wish I could see
him.”
“You may,” Mrs. Ralston said. “Come to lunch with Elithe to-morrow. That
will not excite suspicion. I have seen very few people, although many
have called. Most of the visitors have left the island, and I am glad of
that.”
Her invitation was accepted, and the next day both Miss Hansford and
Elithe were admitted to the Smuggler’s room. But Paul did not know
either of them. His fever and delirium had increased, and he was talking
continually, not of the present but of the past, when he was a boy with
Jack Percy, stealing Miss Hansford’s watermelon and playing he was a
prisoner in the Smuggler’s room, with an officer at the door trying to
get in. This was uppermost in his mind, and he begged that the officer
should be kept out, saying: “I don’t know what they think I did. I only
know I didn’t do it.”
The case was serious, and grew more and more so for three or four days,
during which Miss Hansford expended all her nursing powers and
knowledge, which were considerable, and Elithe staid by him constantly.
He was more quiet with her, although he did not know her, and frequently
called her Clarice, telling her he knew she would come, and once asking
her to kiss him.
“Not now. You are too sick for that. You might give her the fever,” his
mother interposed, while Elithe kept from his sight as far as possible.
He missed her at once and said: “If she can’t kiss me, she can hold my
hand. Where is she?”
Elithe returned to her post and held his hot hands and bathed his head
and answered to the name Clarice and felt her heart throb strangely at
the terms of endearment he gave her, asking her often if she loved him.
Her silence troubled him greatly, and he would look reproachfully at
her, repeating the question, until once, when they were alone and he was
very persistent, she leaned forwards and said in a whisper, while her
cheeks were scarlet: “Yes, Paul, I love you. Don’t ask me again, or talk
of me so much.”
“All right. I won’t,” he answered cheerfully, and soon fell into a sleep
which did him so much good that from that time onward he began to mend.
“Will he remember?” Elithe asked herself in an agony of fear and shame
as his brain began to clear and to realize where he was and why he was
there.
He did not remember, nor did he mention Clarice again for some time,
except to ask if she had been there.
“I thought she was here once. It must have been a dream,” he said to
Elithe,—adding after a moment, “I believe I knew you were here all the
time,—you and Sherry,” and he stroked the head of the dog, sitting on
his haunches beside him and looking at him with almost human
intelligence in his eyes.
He did not talk much now, except occasionally with his father of the
future, which was so dark and full of peril.
“They have stopped looking for me, you think?” he would say: “but what
of that? I can’t stay here forever. If I don’t give myself up again,
what am I to do?”
This question was hard to answer, and, as the days went by and Paul grew
stronger and realized his real position, he grew more and more restless
and unhappy,—with a desire to see Clarice and talk with her of what he
ought to do. Nearly every visitor had left Oak City except the Percys,
who had been kept there by the continued indisposition of Clarice. Paul
had heard that she was going on the morrow and he begged so hard to see
her that his father finally consented, and Elithe was asked to take a
note from him and explain.
Clarice had passed from nervous prostration into a kind of stony apathy
and indifference to everything around her. When she heard of Paul’s
escape she was glad, and gladder still when told that people believed he
had managed to reach the mainland and was probably a thousand miles
away. She hoped he would not be recaptured, as the disgrace for herself
would be less than if he were convicted and punished. Mrs. Percy did not
quite see the distinction, but Clarice did.
“If the man I was to have married should be hung, or sent to prison, I
could never hold up my head again. It’s bad enough that he should have
killed Jack and been tried for his life,” she said, losing sight of
Paul’s unhappy position, and thinking only of her own.
She did not know whether she believed the shooting accidental or not,
but, in either case, she blamed Paul for having brought this trouble
upon her,—ruined her life, she said,—feeling sometimes that she could
not forgive him if the law should set him free. To lose her position as
his wife was hard, but her brother’s blood was on his hands and she must
not marry him. How much this decision was influenced by a letter
received by her mother from Ralph Fenner, the Englishman, telling her
that his uncle, the old earl, was dead, and also the little boy next in
the succession, leaving only his invalid brother between him and the
title, it is hard to say. She had sent him cards to her wedding, and he
wrote on the assumption that she was married, and sent his
congratulations to her and Paul, inviting them, if they ever came to
England, to visit him at Elm Park, his late uncle’s country seat, where,
with his brother, he was living. The possibility which this letter
opened up did not occur to her at first, and she would not have admitted
that it occurred to her at all or made her think less kindly of Paul.
She was reading this letter a second time when Elithe’s card was brought
to her. Something told her that Elithe was bringing her news of Paul,
and she signified her willingness to see her. She could not forget that
Jack had loved the girl and her manner was more cordial than haughty as
she went forward to meet her.
“I have a message from Mr. Ralston,” Elithe began at once.
“Where is he?” Clarice asked, and Elithe replied by telling her
particulars of the escape and of the Smuggler’s room in the basement of
the Ralston House, where Paul was taken; of his delirious illness, when
he talked so much of Clarice, thinking she was with him; of the days of
convalescence, harder to bear than positive illness; of his despair as
he counted the weary years which must be spent in hiding and his
oft-repeated resolves to give himself up to justice.
“He goes around the house when no one is there,” she said, “and is often
in the look-out on the roof, where he can see the boats as they go out
and come in. He heard you were to leave to-morrow and wishes you to come
to him this evening. Here is his note.”
She passed it to Clarice, who read: “My Darling: Can you come to me
before you go and let me see your dear face again? You may never be my
wife, but the knowing that you love and trust me will make life more
endurable, whether spent in a foreign land or in a felon’s cell. I have
so much to say to you. Come, Clarice; if you ever loved me, come.”
Clarice’s lips quivered as she read the note, and her eyes were full of
tears. For a brief instant she hesitated and seemed to be thinking. Then
she said, “I cannot go.”
“You cannot!” Elithe repeated, and Clarice continued: “No, I cannot. Of
what use would it be when I can’t say I think him innocent.”
“You don’t think him guilty?” Elithe exclaimed, and Clarice replied, “I
think he killed Jack. _Your_ testimony proved that.”
“I know, I know,” Elithe answered her; “I had to tell what I saw. But it
was an accident. He did not mean to do it.”
“Why, then, does he not say so? Why persist in a falsehood when the
truth might save him?” Clarice asked in a tone of voice which roused
Elithe, and no lawyer defending his client was ever more eloquent than
she was in her defense of Paul and her entreaty for Clarice to see him.
“If you ever loved him, you must love him now more than ever, when he
needs it so much, and if he were free or in a foreign land you would
still marry him,” she said.
Clarice shook her head. “You must hold peculiar ideas,” she said, “if
you think I could marry one who killed my brother. I have thought it all
over,—again and again,—during these wretched days. Don’t imagine I have
not suffered, for I have. Think of the crushing blow which fell when I
was so happy and expected to be happier, and all through Paul. I have
loved him. I suppose I love him still, but can never be his wife. I am
sorry for him. I hope he will escape justice and would help him if I
could. I find myself weakening now as I talk to you, and dare not trust
myself to see him. You say he often sits in the look-out. Tell him to be
there to-morrow when the boat goes out. There will not be many on it,
and I will wave him a God bless you and good-bye.”
“Is that all?” Elithe asked, rising to go.
It seemed as if Clarice wavered a moment, her love for Paul tugging at
her heart and fighting with her pride, which conquered.
“That is all,” she said, “except good-bye to you, in whom I must always
be interested because Jack loved you.”
She held out her hand, which Elithe took mechanically and dropped
quickly. She did not like to be reminded of Jack’s love. It hurt her
almost as much as the message she was taking to Paul, who was waiting
anxiously for her.