Norah, meanwhile, is left alone with Stapleton.
She has given him no response to his cheery greetings, not even a
smile, and looks at him with a serious and mystified air.
The question which is on her lips finds utterance immediately Mrs.
Shaw and Netta have gone out of hearing; she puts it slowly and
earnestly:
"How did you come ashore?"
Stapleton laughs away her seriousness, or tries to; "I heard you were
here, and I came to see you," he answers readily.
"I don't mean that--you know I don't!" Her earnestness deepens into
an anxious craving for the truth, as the quivering voice betrays when
she adds the direct question.
"Why was your cruise cut short? And when did you get in?"
Stapleton is not the man to be cornered so easily as this, however,
and finds a way to evade the awkward interrogation with every
appearance of frankness:
"Now you are asking me to tell you naval secrets! What, do you
imagine I am going to trust you with the knowledge of the movements
of the fleet? It wouldn't be safe! But I can answer one part of
your question; we got in about six o'clock this morning. And, as I
told you, I came here to see you as soon as I could find out where
you were. You ought to say 'pleased to meet you,' or something like
that, you know."
"'Pleased to meet you, Mr. Stapleton,'" echoes Norah with mock
politeness.
"Yes, but are you really though?" urges Stapleton more earnestly.
"_Are_ you pleased to see me again? Are you glad that I came
straight here to see you? Tell me!"
"Why, of course I am," answers the girl, fencing off his impulsive
attack; "it cannot be anything but a pleasure to see one of those who
were so kind to us last night."
"You know perfectly well I don't mean anything like that!" This
impetuous lover is so very direct in his speech, it is difficult to
keep him at bay; Norah, with a trembling heart, finds all her
defences breaking down at once. "I told you last night that if I
lived I would search for you until I found you. I meant it. And I
have found you--sooner than I dared to hope. Now then, I must hear
you tell me, are you glad to see--me?"
A silence.
"Norah--are you?"
"Yes--I--am."
"Norah! My Norah!"
"Ah, no, no!"
"But it is ah, yes, yes! Look me in the face--can you tell me that
you do not care for me?"
She does as he bids her; raises her glorious dark eyes to his,
fearlessly, like the brave-hearted girl she is, and tells him the
truth she is too proud to conceal.
"Yes, I do care. Very much!"
"Surely it is all a dream! It is all too strange, too wonderful, too
exquisite to be true! There flashes across the girl's mind, as she
speaks her simple confession of love, a sort of instantaneous
vision--a mental picture of her life. She sees dark clouds forming,
rolling down upon her and growing ever more and more threatening;
gloomy black clouds, heavy with doom and horror; they close around
her and she is almost engulfed in them--when on a sudden, a dazzling
shaft of golden light pierces the thick darkness, rolling back the
evil clouds and scattering them into nothingness, leaving her bathed
in the gleaming glory.
The vision passes. Her lover has taken her by the hand and is gently
compelling her to follow him. His desire is to lead her away, out of
sight and hearing of all who may chance to break in upon them. This
supreme moment of their lives must not be interrupted; it is for
themselves alone.
The hillocky ground of the wild heather-clad island affords many a
safe retreat for lovers' confidences, even though it is a fairly well
frequented spot. Here is the sailors' hut, and here the recreation
ground, and further away some scattered cottages of the highland
natives; but there is room enough amongst the rough sedgy wastes
where the bog-cotton makes a snowy carpet and the curlew and plover
awake the solitudes with their plaintive cries, room enough for two
to escape from all the wide world and find a new glorious world in
which live none but just themselves alone.
So they walk, side by side, in silence at first: and the rough ground
beneath their feel becomes the golden floor of heaven.
And, presently, Alick Stapleton takes his beloved into his arms.
"Then you are my Norah, after all," he whispers to her; "my very own
Norah! Yet I never doubted it, from the first moment I saw you.
Even then as soon as my eyes rested on you, I knew that there could
never be any other woman in the world for me but you, and I
hoped--yes, I knew, that you would sometime or other come to feel
just the same way about me! And do you really and truly mean that
you can love me too? That you began to care for me at that very same
time? Wonderful!"
A premonition of impending misfortune strikes coldly upon her heart,
a dark foreboding such as chilled the passionate rapture of another
maiden long ago who, like her, feared a sudden ending to the glories
of love at first sight--
"_----Although I joy in thee,
I have no joy of this contract to-night;
It is too rash, too unadvised, too sudden,
Too like the lightning, which doth cease to be
Ere one can say 'It lightens.'_"
Stapleton feels no such foolish dread, and would laugh her fears away.
"Why, what is there to be afraid of?" he smilingly chides her. "As
long as we love each other there is nothing in the world that can
come between us!"
Norah sighs, answering him, "Ah, how many who have loved have said
the same thing--and believed it!"
"But _I_ believe it, and you must believe it, too," this forceful
lover insists--"Norah, my darling, do not let such sad thoughts come
upon you at such a moment as this!"
"No," she makes answer, almost fiercely, thrusting aside her dread
presentiment, "this hour of love and happiness at least may be
allowed me, and nothing shall snatch it away!"
She clings to her lover's arm, leaning upon him as though she would
seek shelter there and keep the world at bay, defying fate and all
the threats and dangers of the days to come.
"Why, that's my girl," smiles Stapleton. "But not this hour of
happiness only, Norah. Love and happiness shall be ours all through
our life. It will rest with ourselves to make it so. Every thought
of mine shall be for you. Do you know, I kept thinking about you all
the time after you left us last night? I could not put you out of my
mind--I did not want to!"
Not _quite_ the truth, Lieutenant-Commander Stapleton, first
lieutenant of the _Marathon_, not quite the whole truth and nothing
but the truth; for was there not that terrible time when all his
thoughts had been for the ship and her crew, suddenly overtaken by
that awful disaster!
Yet he must not let his mind dwell upon that horror for a single
moment, lest his brain should telegraph to Norah's the sad awfulness
of it; for both their minds are surely tuned alike at such a time as
this, and it would be very easy for her to receive impressions from
the waves of her lover's thoughts. At all costs, the knowledge of
the disaster must be kept from her, at least for the present.
So Stapleton dismisses the fearful memory; and a lighter recollection
takes its place in his mind. This is better fitted for her ears, and
he smiles as he tells her.
"Do you know, when my marine servant brought the hot water to my
cabin just before dinner, I said 'Thank you, darling,' to him."
"He _must_ have been surprised," laughs Norah.
"Oh, I don't know; it takes a good deal to surprise a marine!--But
tell me, did you think about me, too, just ever so little?"
"More than a little. I thought about you all the time. Oh, I am so
glad to know you are safe--all of you!"
"Hm! Why shouldn't we be safe?"--Stapleton thinks it rather a
curious remark, and hopes to goodness his face will not betray him
into making any unnecessary revelations.
Norah also realises how very inopportune are the words that have
slipped out unawares; and endeavours to explain away her real
anxieties.
"Oh, I don't know why! There are always dangers at sea, aren't
there? And especially now in war-time." The girl turns very white
as she voices these stirrings of her heart.
Stapleton feels he must dispel these fears at once. He knows what an
agony is endured by sweethearts and wives who let their imagination
brood upon the perils of the deep in time of war. His messmates have
spoken of such matters in his hearing how the dear women at home
endure torturing days and sleepless nights in utter helplessness,
thinking of those who go down to the sea in ships, and suffering
infinitely more than the objects of their anxiety and
compassion--who, indeed, are very often spending a thoroughly
comfortable time and would be vastly surprised to be told they were
the subjects of so much pity.
It will never do for Norah to start indulging in such worries; so
Stapleton turns the subject aside with a light-hearted jest.
"Well," says he, "anyhow, there are no more dangers at sea than there
are ashore. Why, the most dreadful things happen to those brave
people who have the courage to live on dry land. Think of the--the
'bus accidents, and the--the banana skins! Think of the flag days!
More people get killed in one day in London through bursting
blood-vessels in altercations with taxi-drivers than have been lost
in action at sea since the days of Nelson; there are statistics to
prove it! And, then, there was an uncle of mine who spent
twenty-nine years afloat, and directly he retired and took to the
beach, blessed if he didn't go and marry his cook! Oh yes, the land
is far more dangerous than the sea, every time!"
And so, betwixt love and laughter, the happy minutes pass. Norah
clings to her hour, the more because she knows full well it must end
soon. She must make full confession--that is imperative; and, when
she has confessed, there can be no more question of love between her
and this gallant, loyal young King's Officer. He will hate her--or,
what is worse, will pity her; but in no case can he consent to link
his life with hers; she has put herself beyond the pale by her rash
and wicked plotting.
But the confession shall not be made just yet. Of that Norah is
determined. So little has been her portion of joy in life till now,
so little will be hers when this brief hour is gone; now, while love
is within her grasp, it shall be hers to enjoy, come what may!
Yes, and there is another consideration that makes her keep silence:
the safety of Netta, who is very dear to her. Norah is quite
prepared to stand the punishment for her own guilt, but she will not
incriminate her cousin.
Wait till they have escaped Southwards, when Netta can hide herself
somewhere till the affair has blown over--Patrick doubtless, will be
quite able to take care of himself. Then, and not before, Norah says
to herself, she will write to Alick Stapleton, openly confessing her
own share in the plot--and then she, too, can shrink into obscurity
and pray that her life may not be a long one. But, for the present,
she bids defiance to black care.