The ship bore steadily toward them, but night was coming on so rapidly
that her lines were obscured. They could not even tell whether it was
a sailing vessel or propelled by steam.
"There's one thing certain," said Adam, excitedly: "it was coming this
way, but very slowly. I suppose that is to be expected of a ship
sailing unknown waters. They have nothing to go by, though they know,
of course, just what part of the round globe they are on."
She answered almost apathetically, as if she found it difficult to
talk, "It seems as if good sailors would lay by at night, when they do
not know their course, and there is land in sight,--land that has
never been explored."
"It does seem strange she should come right on," he assented. "For
surely no ship has ever sailed these seas before. Perhaps--"
"Perhaps what?"
"Perhaps she has been clear around; perhaps this is the only bit of
land left above a world ocean."
Robin shivered a little, and Adam turned toward the beacon, that had
glowed in vain for a year. It had been built on a high, altar-shaped
rock, across the gorge, where it could be kept up without leaving the
park. Robin went with him, and they gathered a pile of timber that
insured the brilliancy of their signal until morning. Adam piled on
the logs till the blaze leaped far up in the darkness; then they went
back to the boulder and sat down to think and wait.
"See how the wind is rising," said Robin, breaking a silence of an
hour, during which even Lassie had been motionless.
"But it is toward land," answered Adam.
"But the same wind that brings us the ship may dash it to pieces on
this awful coast."
"True, but she is far enough out to make herself secure. Oh, Robin,
suppose she sails around us and goes on!"
"That is impossible," answered Robin. "The people on that ship are as
anxious to find us as we can be to see them, if they are civilized at
all. Noah and Mt. Ararat are not to be named in the same day with us."
Adam crossed the gorge and added fuel to the fire. For a time the wind
increased in velocity until a stiff gale was blowing, then, as the
small hours came on, it waned, and the beacon flared straight up once
more.
"I wonder where's she from?" said Adam.
"I wonder where she is now," answered Robin.
"I feel sure," he said, "when morning comes we shall see her riding
the waves out there; and think of it, Robin, we can go!"
Robin made no reply, and her very silence made Adam repeat, but as a
self-addressed question, "Go where? Yes," he went on quickly, "go
where, Robin. Suppose the ship is all right, and that she stops, and
the crew are not pirates, and are willing to take us aboard, where are
we to go? Is there any place on earth that can mean as much to us as
this island? Suppose Asia, or Africa, or Europe are still in
existence, we should not regain our friends and relatives, and life
would be harder with strange people, under a strange government, far
more so than we have found it here, even without so many of its
luxuries."
Robin shook her head sadly. "At first, Adam. We should learn their
language and their customs. New friends are speedily acquired, and as
for relatives,--well, in the scheme of life relatives don't count for
much. There always comes a time when they step out of our lives,
anyway."
"But as to happiness?"
Her face paled a little. "Have you been happy here?" she asked,
without raising her eyes to his, and then went on, not waiting for a
reply, "If you have been, it has been in the care of our little family
of dependents, who do not need you half so much as the great family of
human dependents. Rest assured if there is a continent over there
across the darkness, it is peopled with beings who need the devoted
and unselfish labors of such a man as you. You would find your work
easily enough,--the work you have been saved for, the work you must
do."
"But if there is no continent left?" he queried.
"In that case there must be islands; there were many mountains higher
than these, and they are peopled, no doubt. Shall we not go to these
other orphans, deserted by Mother Earth, our brothers and sisters,
through our common calamity?"
Both were silent, engrossed in their own thoughts. A return to the
world meant going back to the uncivilized rush of civilization. It
meant the eternal question of what shall we eat, and what shall we
drink, and where-withal shall we be clothed? It meant the old
competition, the stern old law of the survival of the brawniest. Above
all, to Robin, it meant separation from Adam, for once more in Rome,
the customs of Rome must be followed. To do Adam justice, this was a
contingency which did not enter his mind. As he had said before,
whatever had put them in this dream together would keep them there, so
that when he thought of relinquishing all the comfort and ease and
quiet of his present life, all the loving animals, the cosy little
house, the tiny fields, the blooming garden, it never occurred to him
that he must relinquish more than all these things, more than the
peace and harmony, that which, unconsciously, had come to be the very
guiding star of his life.
"I wonder if whoever is left cares for grand opera?" said Robin,
rather grimly.
"Why?" asked Adam in so startled a voice that she laughed
hysterically.
"It's the only thing I know well enough to make a living at it," she
said laconically. "I think the fire needs some more wood, Adam."
As he replenished it, her words burned themselves upon his brain, and
he realized in an instant that a return to the old world meant giving
up this supreme friend, all that he had left in the world, all there
was for him in any world. The thing was impossible. He turned to go
back to her, some kind of an impetuous avowal on his lips, but she had
left the boulder and walked down almost to the edge of a precipitous
cliff which they had called "Lover's Leap," in a spirit of badinage.
She stood there quietly, watching the gray dawn, and his heart
impelled him to go to her and take her in his arms. As his love
revealed itself to him in all its power, it seemed impossible that he
should know it now for the first time. Why, why, had he been so blind?
If the ship took them away--
He walked unsteadily down to her, resolved to say nothing. If she
wanted to go, her wish should be sufficient.
The dawn came slowly, but it came at last. As the darkness lifted, a
slight fog settled over the face of the waters. Instinctively they
recalled that other night when they had watched through the mist and
his hand closed over hers. The sun was well up before the east wind
dissipated it, and left only the dancing waves, brilliantly blue,
stretching away into the dawn. On all that broad expanse there was not
so much as a cockle-shell afloat.
Robin turned and looked to right and left in bewilderment, and then at
Adam.
His chest was heaving, and as his eyes searched her face he cried,
"Thank God," and gathered her up in his arms. She nestled there
without a word.
They crossed the gorge and scattered the brands of their watch-fire,
and walked on down to the cove. Suddenly Lassie came bounding toward
them uttering short, excited barks. They quickened their pace, and as
they came in sight of the beach discovered the object of her alarm.
Against a small promontory, lying on one side, was the ship they had
sighted the evening before. It was a hopeless wreck, and had borne to
them no living thing. Yet it had served its purpose. It had revealed
their love for each other, and told them that they had hoped against a
second deluge in vain.