THE DAWN OF DAY.
Flora's words, and the meaning glance that accompanied them, melted the
resolve I had made but a few ours before. There was no reason, indeed,
why I should keep silence at such a time. I believed that we were both
in the jaws of death, with not the faintest chance of escape. To lift
the cloud that was between us--to snatch what bliss was possible out of
our last moments--would be a sweet and pardonable thing. So, while the
spar bore us lightly amid the curling waves, I drew the girl more
tightly to my breast with one arm, and pressed kisses on her lips and
eyes, on the salty, dripping hair that clustered about her forehead.
"My darling, I love you!" I whispered passionately in her ear. "You must
let me speak; I can hide it no longer. I lost my heart weeks ago, but
honor held me silent."
What more I said I do not recall, but I know that I poured forth all my
burning, pent-up affection. When I had finished, Flora lifted her
tear-dimmed eyes to my face and smiled; she put a trembling arm about my
neck and kissed me.
"And I love you, Denzil," she said softly. "Oh, I am so glad that I can
tell you; it seems to take away the sting of death. I would have hidden
the truth from you; I would have kept my promise and married Griffith
Hawke. But now--now it is different. In death we belong to each other.
You made me love you, Denzil--you were so kind, so good, so brave!"
"If we could only live, and be happy together!" I replied hoarsely.
"Hush! God knows best," she whispered. "In life we must have been apart.
Kiss me again, Denzil, and hold me tight. The end will not be long!"
I kissed her passionately, and drew her as close to me as I could with
one arm, while with the other I took a firmer grip on the spar. I had my
heart's desire, but already it was turning to ashes. I could not
reconcile myself to so cruel a fate. As I looked into Flora's eyes,
shining with the light of love, I felt a bitter resentment, a dull,
aching stupor of despair.
We were both silent for a few moments, and then of a sudden a rising
wind scattered the gray fog. From the top of the swell we had a glimpse
of the low, rugged shore, less than half a mile distant. Monstrous waves
were rolling toward it, and the angry bellowing of the surf was like
continuous thunder.
"I am growing weaker," Flora whispered, "and I am so cold. Don't let me
slip, Denzil."
I assured her that I would not, but I doubted if I could keep my word.
I, too, was beginning to succumb to the effects of the long struggle
with the raging sea and the driving storm. I was almost exhausted, and
chilled in every limb. I feared that before long we must both be washed
from the spar.
But during the next minute it grew a little lighter, and I made a
discovery that caused me a strange agitation. Over on the shore, and
slightly to our right, a promontory of rock and bushes jutted out some
distance. It was to leeward of the wind, which was blowing us
perceptibly that way, while at the same time the waves swept us
landward. I knew that if we should drift under the promontory, where
doubtless the surf was less violent, there would be some faint hope of
escape. I said nothing to Flora, however, for I thought it best to let
her continue to believe the worst. She was much weaker now, and made no
effort to speak; but the look in her half-closed eyes was more eloquent
than words.
On and on we plunged, gaining speed every instant--now deep down between
walls of glassy water, now tossed high on the curling swell. At
intervals I sighted the shore--we were close upon it--and there was no
longer any doubt that we should strike to leeward of the promontory.
Faster and faster! The spar spun round and round dizzily. I gripped it
with all my strength, supporting Flora's half-insensible form with the
other arm.
For a minute we were held in a watery trough, and then a huge wave,
overtaking us from behind, lifted us high on its curling, hissing crest.
I had a brief, flashing vision of a murky strip of sand and bushes
washed by milky foam. It looked to be straight below me, and on the
instant I let go of the spar. I strained Flora to my breast, and made a
feeble attempt to swim. There was a roaring and singing in my ears, a
blur of shadows before my eyes, and the next thing I remembered was a
tremendous crash that I thought had shattered every bone in my body.
The instinct of life was so strong that I must have scrambled at once to
my feet. I had been flung into a hillock of wet sand and grass, and with
such force that the deep imprint of my body was visible. I looked about
me, dizzy and stunned, and immediately saw Flora lying huddled in a
thick clump of bushes a few feet to the left. I knew not if she was dead
or alive, but as I staggered toward her I discovered a great foaming
wave rolling up the beach. Rallying what strength I could, I
seized the girl and dragged her back as far and as quickly as I was
able. The wave broke with a crash, hurling its curled spray almost to
our feet. I dropped my burden, and reeled over in a deathly faint. When
I came to my senses--I could not have been unconscious more than a few
minutes--the chilly gray dawn had driven away the shadows of the night.
A bleak and disheartening prospect met my eyes in every direction.
Straight in front the sea rolled to the horizon, still tossing and
tumbling. Behind me, and to right and left, stretched a flat, dreary,
marshy coast, scarred with rocks, thickets and evergreens.
It was a familiar enough scene to me--I had often visited the shores of
Hudson Bay--and I gave it but a glance. Flora lay close beside me, her
head and shoulders pillowed on a clump of weeds, and at the first I
thought she was dead. But when I had risen to my knees with some pain
and difficulty--I was as weak as a cat--I found that she was breathing.
I set myself to restore her, and chafed her cold hands until the blood
began to circulate freely. Then I poured a few drops of brandy between
her lips--I fortunately had some in a small flask--and it was no sooner
swallowed than she opened her lovely eyes. I could see that she was
perfectly conscious, and that she knew me and remembered all; but when I
lifted her gently in my arms she made a weak effort to draw back, and
looked at me with a sort of horror.
"My darling, what is the matter?" I cried.
"Hush, Denzil, not that name," she replied faintly. "Oh, why were we
spared? You must forget all that I told you, even as I shall forget your
words. It was only a dream--a dream that is dead. We can be nothing to
each other."
I knew in my heart that she was right, but the sight of her beauty, the
memory of her confession, put me in a rebellious mood. I drank what was
left of the brandy, and rose dizzily to my feet.
"I will not give you up," I said in a dogged tone. "You love me, Flora,
and you are mine. Providence saved us for a purpose--to make us happy."
She shook her head sadly.
"Denzil, why will you make is so hard for me?" she replied. "I must keep
my promise--you know that. Be brave, be honorable. Forget what has
happened!"
The appeal shamed me, and I averted my eyes from her. In my wretchedness
I felt tempted to throw myself into the sea.
"Where are the rest?" she asked in a different voice.
"I fear they are all drowned," I answered gloomily. "Fate has been less
kind to us."
"Do you know where we are?" she continued.
"Not exactly," I said, looking about, "but we can't be a great distance
from Fort York--and from Griffith Hawke."
I was sorry for the cutting words as soon as they were spoken, and I
would have made a fitting apology. But just then I heard voices, and two
voyageurs, in the blue capotes of the Hudson Bay Company, came out of
the timber about twenty yards off. They saw us at once and ran toward us
with eager shouts.