FAREWELL.
“What did she say? Is she coming? Did she send me a note?” Paul asked
eagerly, knowing the answer before Elithe could give it.
He was in the Smuggler’s room, which, luxuriously as it had been fitted
up, was a prison still. All the world was a prison and would be as long
as he lived as he was living now.
“I can’t bear it much longer. I believe I’d rather die or work in the
convict’s garb, with the hope of being eventually free,” he had said
many a time, with a growing conviction that he should ultimately give
himself up in spite of his mother’s assertions that the real culprit
would in time be found, or he gotten out of the country to a foreign
land, where she and his father would join him, and, perhaps, Clarice.
She always pronounced that name hesitatingly, for she doubted the girl
who had shown so little sympathy for her lover. Did Paul doubt her, too?
Possibly, although he made every excuse for her, while the hunger in his
heart grew more and more intense to see her and hear her say she loved
him and would one day be his wife if he were ever free from the taint
upon his name. If he had killed Jack by accident, as so many believed,
he would never have thought of offering her his love a second time; but
he had _not_ killed Jack, and there was nothing but the disgrace of his
arrest and trial, and, perhaps, punishment, standing between them. Would
she overlook all that, as he would have done had she been in his place?
He hoped so, and waited anxiously the return of Elithe.
“Will she come?” he repeated, and, sitting down beside him, Elithe told
him the particulars of her interview with Clarice, while Paul listened
without a word or a sign that he heard or cared.
“Thank you, Elithe,” he said, when she finished, and, getting up, began
to walk the room rapidly.
She knew he wanted to be alone, and, bidding him good-bye, went out and
left him with his sorrow and disappointment.
The next morning was dark and gloomy, as November days are apt to be,
and there were very few passengers on the boat, and only the express and
hackmen were on the wharf when the Ralston carriage drew up with Mrs.
Percy and Clarice in it. This was Paul’s suggestion. He would have every
possible attention paid to Clarice and had asked that their carriage be
sent for her. Tom, who drove it, was civil,—nothing more,—for he
despised the selfish girl who had shown so little heart for Paul. He
bought their tickets and saw their baggage checked, and then, without a
word, was turning to leave, when Clarice took his hand and said, “Tom, I
know where he is. Elithe told me. I couldn’t see him, believing what I
do, but I am sorry,—oh, so sorry. Tell him so, and give him my love.”
Tom bowed and walked away, thinking it doubtful if he gave the message
to Paul.
“I want him to forget her,” he said; “want him to see the difference
between her and that other one who has stood by him so nobly. God bless
her!”
As he drove from the landing he looked back and saw Mrs. Percy and
Clarice standing in a part of the boat which could be seen distinctly
from the top of the Ralston House, where a white flag was floating.
Tying her handkerchief to her umbrella, Clarice returned the signal
which Paul had fastened to the railing, and then sat down on the floor
beside it, waiting for some sign that it was recognized. He had often
waved a good-bye to friends when they were leaving, and he remembered
that once, when he was a boy, and Clarice was going away and Jack was
staying a few days longer with him, they had dragged their sheets from
their beds and shaken them in the wind, while Clarice stood upon a chair
and kissed her hand to them. Now Jack was dead and he was accused of
killing him, and Clarice was going from him forever. He felt that this
was so. Clarice was lost. Her love for him was dead or dying, and from
that moment his own began to die. When the boat disappeared and he could
no longer see the two black figures, the sight of which had made Jack’s
death so real, he took down his white flag, and, covering his face with
his hands, said sadly: “It’s over between us. The bitterness of death is
passed. God pity me, and give me courage to do what I must do. I have
lost Clarice. I know it now, and perhaps it is better so. She could not
bear the disgrace.”
There was a step near him and a hand was laid upon his arm. It was
Elithe, who had been sent by Mrs. Ralston to tell him there were callers
in the drawing-room and he was to stay where he was. At sight of him she
forgot her errand and tried to comfort him as she would have comforted
her brother.
“Don’t feel so badly,” she said. “You will see her again and be happy.”
“Never,” he answered. “It is all over between us. I don’t know that I
blame her. She believes I killed her brother. How can she forgive that?”
He was silent a moment; then he continued: “I have made up my mind and
nothing can change it. I shall go back to prison and take my chance. I
do not believe it will be hanging. I’ve thought it all out, and I can
stand prison life better than this dodging and hiding from the world, as
I should have to do no matter where I might be. Neither Europe nor
Canada, supposing I could get there, would free me from myself. I shall
go back.”
Here he stopped, struck by something in Elithe’s face he could not
mistake and which awoke an answering chord in him. During the weeks of
his isolation in his father’s house he had seen Elithe nearly every day.
He had watched for her coming, and missed her when she went away. She
had read to him in the Smuggler’s room during his convalescence, and
once or twice she had sung to him, just as she had sung to Jack Percy in
the miners’ camp at Deep Gulch. He had no evil spirits to be exorcised
like Jack, but she had soothed and quieted him until he felt his
strength returning and knew he owed it largely to her. He had always
been interested in her since he first knew her, and, with the exception
of Clarice, had liked her better than any girl he had ever met. Now she
stood in a different relation to him. She had been with him in all his
trouble and had made it her own. She was necessary to him, and as he
looked at her it came to him with a pang that to give himself up to the
law was to give her up, too. There would be no more waiting for her
coming,—no more readings,—no more talks,—no more anything! His heart had
ached when he sent his farewell after Clarice, and it ached nearly as
hard now as he thought of losing Elithe. Taking her hands, he said: “God
only knows all you have been to me. No sister could have done more. Do
you think I can forget that night on the sea when you risked your life
for me, or what you have been to me since? One of the hardest things in
going to prison will be giving you up, but whether I go for life or for
a term of years I know you’ll stand by me. You’ll not forget me. You’ll
write to me. You’ll come to see me some time.”
“I shall never forget you, wherever you are, whether in prison or at the
ends of the earth, and if I can I’ll go to you if you need me,” Elithe
answered him.
She was greatly excited, and perhaps her words implied more than she
really meant, but they brought to Paul a second time a feeling, half of
joy, half of pain, as he began to realize what she might have been to
him had he never seen Clarice.
“Elithe,” he said, “Elithe,” in a tone of voice which sent the hot blood
in waves of crimson to her face. Then, remembering Clarice and the cell
and the convict’s dress, he dropped her hands and only added: “Go now
and leave me. I am better alone.”