The boat is slowly forging its course up-stream, its wheel in constant
revolution, churning the ochre-coloured water into foam. This, floating
behind, dances and simmers upon the surface, forming a wake-way of white
tinted with red. In Helen Armstrong's eyes it has the appearance of
blood-froth--such being the hue of her thoughts.
Contemplating it for a time, not pleasantly, and then, turning round,
she perceives that she is alone. The lovers have stepped inside a
state-room, or the ladies' cabin, or perhaps gone on to the general
saloon, to take part in the sports of the evening. She sees the lights
shimmering through the latticed windows, and can hear the hum of voices,
all merry. She has no desire to join in that merriment, though many may
be wishing her. Inside she would assuredly become the centre of an
admiring circle; be addressed in courtly speeches, with phrases of soft
flattery. She is aware of this, and keeps away from it. Strange woman!
In her present mood the speeches would but weary, the flattery fash her.
She prefers solitude; likes better the noise made by the ever-turning
wheel. In the tumult of the water there is consonance with that
agitating her own bosom.
Night is now down; darkness has descended upon forest and river, holding
both in its black embrace. Along with it a kindred feeling creeps over
her--a thought darker than night, more sombre than forest shadows. It
is that which oft prompts to annihilation; a memory of the past, which,
making the future unendurable, calls for life to come to an end. The
man to whom she has given her heart--its firstlings, as its fulness--a
heart from which there can be no second gleanings, and she knows it--he
has made light of the offering. A sacrifice grand, as complete; glowing
with all the interests of her life. The life, too, of one rarely
endowed; a woman of proud spirit, queenly and commanding, beyond air
beautiful.
She does not think thus of herself, as, leaning over the guard-rail,
with eyes mechanically bent upon the wheel, she watches it whipping the
water into spray. Her thoughts are not of lofty pride, but low
humiliation. Spurned by him at whose feet she has flung herself, so
fondly, so rashly--ay, recklessly--surrendering even that which woman
deems most dear, and holds back to the ultimate moment of rendition--the
word which speaks it!
To Charles Clancy she has spoken it. True, only in writing; but still
in terms unmistakeable, and with nothing reserved. And how has he
treated them? No response--not even denial! Only contemptuous silence,
worse than outspoken scorn!
No wonder her breast is filled with chagrin, and her brow burning with
shame!
Both may be ended in an instant. A step over the low rail--a plunge
into the red rolling river--a momentary struggle amidst its seething
waters--not to preserve life, but destroy it--this, and all will be
over! Sadness, jealousy, the pangs of disappointed love--these baleful
passions, and all others alike, can be soothed, and set at rest, by one
little effort--a leap into oblivion!
Her nerves are fast becoming strung to the taking it. The past seems
all dark, the future yet darker. For her, life has lost its
fascinations, while death is divested of its terrors.
Suicide in one so young, so fair, so incomparably lovely; one capable of
charming others, no longer to be charmed herself! A thing fearful to
reflect upon.
And yet is she contemplating it!
She stands close to the rail, wavering, irresolute. It is no lingering
love of life which causes her to hesitate. Nor yet fear of death, even
in the horrid form, she cannot fail to see before her, spring she but
over that slight railing.
The moon has arisen, and now courses across the blue canopy of sky, in
full effulgence, her beams falling bright upon the bosom of the river.
At intervals the boat, keeping the deeper channel, is forced close to
either bank. Then, as the surging eddies set the floating but
stationary logs in motion, the huge saurian asleep on them can be heard
giving a grunt of anger for the rude arousing, and pitching over into
the current with dull sullen plash.
She sees, and hears all this. It should shake her nerves, and cause
shivering throughout her frame.
It does neither. The despair of life has deadened the dread of death--
even of being devoured by an alligator!
Fortunately, at this moment, a gentle hand is laid on her shoulder, and
a soft voice sounds in her ear. They are the hand and voice of her
sister.
Jessie, coming out of her state-room, has glided silently up. She sees
Helen prepossessed, sad, and can somewhat divine the cause. But she
little suspects, how near things have been to a fatal climax, and dreams
not of the diversion her coming has caused.
"Sister!" she says, in soothing tone, her arms extended caressingly,
"why do you stay out here? The night is chilly; and they say the
atmosphere of this Red River country is full of miasma, with fevers and
ague to shake the comb out of one's hair! Come with me inside! There's
pleasant people in the saloon, and we're going to have a round game at
cards--_vingt-un_, or something of the sort. Come!"
Helen turns round trembling at the touch, as if she felt herself a
criminal, and it was the sheriff's hand laid upon her shoulder!
Jessie notices the strange, strong emotion. She could not fail to do
so. Attributing it to its remotest cause, long since confided to her,
she says:--
"Be a woman, Helen! Be true to yourself, as I know you will; and don't
think of him any more. There's a new world, a new life, opening to both
of us. Forget the sorrows of the old, as I shall. Pluck Charles Clancy
from your heart, and fling every memory, every thought of him, to the
winds! I say again, be a woman--be yourself! Bury the past, and think
only of the future--_of our father_!"
The last words act like a galvanic shock, at the same time soothing as
balm. For in the heart of Helen Armstrong they touch a tender chord--
that of filial affection.
And it vibrates true to the touch. Flinging her arms around Jessie's
neck, she cries:--
"Sister; you have saved me!"