Norah is left alone with her lover.
No, not her lover any longer;--her accuser.
He stands facing her, in a terrible silence.
Oh, if he would only speak! If only he would hurl at her words of
abuse, of condemnation. Anything would be more endurable than the
speechless accusation of that grey face and those burning eyes.
The unhappy girl, distracted with remorse and grief, sways and
totters, but no hand is extended to support her. Stapleton's arms
are folded on his breast, and he does not move an inch to help her as
she sinks to the ground and crouches at his feet, hiding her face in
her hands.
Then, at last, he breaks the silence. "You told me, only last night
you told me," he says, speaking very slowly and clearly, "that you
had been at sea for eight days, coming from America. Which is the
truth, that story--or this?"
She has raised her face from her covering hands and glanced upwards.
It seems as though the compelling gaze of those blazing eyes has
forced her against her will to meet them.
"Ah, don't look so terribly at me!" the girl moans. "How can you say
you love me, when you look like that?"
The appeal falls on deaf ears.
"Norah. Have you been _lying_ to me?"
She only answers with another moaning lament, spoken rather to
herself than to him, though he catches the words,
"Ah, this is the end, then. So soon!"
There is no sign of pity or relenting in the cold command that comes
sharply:
"Answer me!"
Norah, in her utter agony, finds the courage of despair. She
struggles to her feet and stands boldly facing her accuser, flinging
out her arms in a gesture that implies she has cast away all her
defences, as, she exclaims wildly:
"Yes--I _have_ lied to you. But I will tell you everything,
everything!"
"I think you had better," replies Stapleton, speaking in a very
solemn voice, though he is perhaps ever so little disarmed by this
belated profession of frankness. "Listen, Norah," he continues, "the
young surgeon and Merritt repeated to me some wild ravings of your
cousin when she was so overwrought last night. They, both of them,
put the whole thing down to the unhinged imagination of a nervous
highly-strung girl. And so did I when they told me of it. In fact,
till this very moment I assure you that I had completely forgotten
all about the matter--even in spite of what happened later."
"What do you mean?" says Norah, with a sudden feeling of cold fear
gripping her at the heart. "_What_ happened later?"
Stapleton's words fall on her ears with dreadful meaning. "Two hours
after you left us, the _Marathon_ blew up. She now lies--all that is
left of her--at the bottom of the North Sea."
"_Oh, my God, my God!_"
"Tell me," urges the other, disregarding her agonised cry, "speak the
truth now; was there anything in this story of your cousin's?"
Norah has a question which she must hear answered, however insistent
her accuser may be.
"Was--was anybody lost?" she stammers. There is no relief in the
crushing reply:
"Yes, over a hundred officers and men. The doctor and Merritt are
both gone. There is no one but myself that knows anything of--of
what your cousin raved about. Tell me--_was_ it mere raving?"
"Over a hundred lives!" moans the miserable girl, too much appalled
by the fearful news to give an answer to his question. It is not
fear that stops her now, nor any desire to hide the truth; the
terrible success of her plotting has put all such ideas out of her
mind. She is thinking of those men she has sent to their death.
"Oh," she wails, "if I could die now and bring them back!"
Stapleton is not turned aside from his purpose.
"Norah! answer my question," he insists; "speak!--ah, there is no
need!"
No need for words, indeed. The girls bowed head and her silence are
in themselves a confession.
"Have you no pity for me?" she presently makes her appeal.
"Did you have any pity for those men whose eyes are now closed for
ever?" comes the stern reply. "Ah, I gave my love to you quickly;
but I did not think that I was giving it to a--to a mur----"
"Ah, do not say it!" cries the girl, taking a step towards him and
thrusting forward her hand as though to close his lips against the
dreadful word--"I am not that--I am not, indeed!"
The impassioned protest brings to Stapleton a faint gleam of hope.
"What do you mean by that?" he cries. "Explain yourself, quickly."
It is possible that there may yet be some strange key to this
mystery, something which may even now enable him to retain his faith
in this girl to whom he has given his heart to break?
"Yes, I _will_ tell you," answers Norah. And you can believe me this
time--you must believe me. I did not set the bomb which blew up the
ship. I meant to do it--up to the very last moment I meant to see
how honest I am with you now! I am not even attempting to conceal
anything from you; you shall know the full extent of my wickedness,
to the very utmost. I did mean to destroy the ship. But--I repented
at the last and did all that I could to prevent the deed being done.
And I thought--I hoped--that I had succeeded. Oh, I know that I am
wicked, wicked! But I am not quite so bad as you think me! And now
I am punished. Those drowned and maimed sailors will always be
before my eyes as long as I live, and--and I shall never see you
again. Well, I suppose it will not be long before the law deals out
another punishment to me--I hope it will be soon, so that I may draw
down the curtain over these sorrows for ever. But will you not at
least have this much mercy on me to say you believe me when I tell
you that I tried to save the ship, and thought that I had saved it?"
"Yes, I do believe that," agrees Stapleton in a calm judicial manner.
And Norah somehow feels that there is less hope for her in this fair
and deliberate judge than if he were determined to listen to nothing
in her favour.
"But," he continues, "there was your _intention_! That, at any rate,
remains the same. You were saved from putting it into practice only
by a sudden impulse. What that impulse was of course I do not know.
Perhaps you were afraid--just too much of a coward to carry out what
you had been ready enough to plan. I have heard of such people
criminals at heart but too poor-spirited to become criminals in act."
"Oh, do you think _that_?" Norah cries protestingly. "This is the
cruellest thing you have said to me yet! But I have no right to
complain."
"No, Norah," answers the cold calm voice. "I take back those words.
I have no right to say them I might have known that it was not fear
that stayed your hand, whatever else it may have been. Let us say it
was your better nature asserting itself. But, all the same, you were
able to give your consent and aid to this evil plan in its beginning.
And--you would have married me and concealed all this!"
"I do not think so," replies the girl with deliberation equal to his
own. "No, I am sure I should not have done that. Our engagement has
not been a long one," she says this with a bitter smile--"but if it
had lasted a little longer I should soon have made a clean breast of
everything to you--yes, even if the ship had not been lost. I should
have told you everything; and our parting would have taken place only
a little later, that is all!"
"But why," the frenzied lover cannot help but ask--for he is still
the lover, even though he has become the judge also--"why then did
you not tell me all when first you saw me this afternoon? It would
have been more honest if you had confessed then, instead of allowing
me to continue being deceived in you and to find out the truth only
by chance!"
Norah hangs her head, and makes no reply.
"What reason had you for this?" he urges again.
Then she tells him--"It was because I wanted to have your love just
for a little time. I knew that I must lose it soon. And this was my
only chance. I took it--and I am glad I did so. I have been yours
for an hour, and you have loved and believed in me. Now it is over;
and, for the rest, I will not shrink from what the future may hold."
There is silence between the two for the space of nearly a minute.
The evening sky is darkening and a threatening bank of clouds is
beginning to overshadow the western heavens. A chilly breeze has
sprung up and sweeps across the heather with a mournful sound.
Stapleton turns to go. Love and faith have died within him and have
left him devoid of feeling.
"Well, it seems to me that there is nothing more to be said between
us," is his parting word; and then, in a kindlier tone, "you had
better go indoors; it is clouding over, and you will be getting wet
soon if you stay out here. I kept my boat waiting for me; it is a
good thing that I did so."
This is his good-bye--a sorry farewell to love! Not even one tender
word to pay a last tribute to his vanished dream of happiness.
Perhaps deep down in his mind lies some torturing thought that the
girl whom he must hand over to justice is the girl whom for a brief
while he has loved; but if such a thought exists, he gives it no
utterance.
Without another glance at Norah, he turns and walks slowly away
towards the landing-place. Norah stands like a pillar of
marble--yes, and white as marble is the girl's face; she follows him
with her eyes, and not till he is quite out of sight does she stir
from her motionless attitude. Then, with a little staggering forward
step she flings out her arms towards the vanished figure as if to
draw him back to her. Only for a moment; the sense of her
helplessness and hopelessness comes suddenly home to her, and letting
fall her hands despairingly she flings herself on the ground in an
agony of grief and shame.