ALONE.
The westerly gale held throughout the day, and was still at its
height when the men of the _Esmeralda_ turned into their bunks. They
had watched unceasingly during the afternoon for any sign of ships
upon the horizon or for token of life upon the neighbouring shore of
Finland. But the sea continued to run mountains high in the broad of
the Gulf, and there was a haze of mist and spray over the land which
served them well in those anxious moments of waiting. They argued that
the Baltic Fleet would not attempt to weather such a gale, but would
be already snug and sheltered at Helsingfors or at Revel. As for the
fishermen of the neighbouring isles, the circumstance of the day
accounted for them and for their ships. No little craft could live in
such a gale; no peasant would patrol the shores while the west wind
swept up the Gulf and the breakers thundered upon the outer reef.
To-morrow the wind would fall away and the calm would come. To-morrow
they would begin to live again.
The night fell dark and misty and threatening, so that there was no
need of any watch upon the decks of the little ship. Guarded by the
breakers without and the towering crags for sentinels within, the
haven befriended her beyond hope. No lights shone from the ports of
the _Esmeralda_ upon the swirling waters of the channel. Her men went
to and fro silently as though afraid to speak. They welcomed the hours
of truce, for therein they could sleep and rest. Marian alone kept a
vigil of the night. For her sleep had become a fitful friend. There
were terrors of her dreams which no waking argument could shake off.
She slept to imagine herself once more in the cell at Alexander; she
awoke to ask herself if she would ever come to England again. She
remembered that she was an outcast and had struck at the honour of the
man she loved in her fall.
Old John Hook and Reuben, the engineer, went ashore several times
during the night to see if there was any abatement of wind or sea; but
when at four o’clock they found the gale still blowing, it was evident
to them that the necessity for watchfulness existed no longer--at
least until the day dawned. They were sound asleep in their bunks when
Marian dressed herself in the darkness at four o’clock and left the
cabin wherein sleep had brought her so many terrible dreams. She had
no set purpose in quitting her bed other than the desire to breathe
the fresh air of morning. The gray beams of light shining behind banks
of sullen cloud were welcome to her after the darkness and confinement
of her little cabin. Silently she trod the steps of the companion, and
ran to the bow of the yacht to stand there and hear the water lapping
monotonously upon the face of the cliff. The nameless islands around
began slowly to shape themselves in a vista of spray and haze. Strange
birds went screaming from crag to crag; but of human life there was no
sight or sound.
It had been an impulse which brought her to the deck, but this was to
prove a morning of impulses. Ever present through the weary night of
waiting had been the desire to save the man she loved from the
consequences of her folly. Just as at Kronstadt, in the hour of her
necessity, a woman’s weakness had cast her upon his pity and devotion,
so now was she convinced that she must rely upon that pity and
devotion no longer. She told herself, but with the vaguest notions of
reasoning, that if Paul were alone, it would be easy for him to return
to his own country with some story that would convince Bonzo and old
Stefanovitch of his fidelity. And she must not deny him that
opportunity. He had given all; her gift should not be less.
“I will save him from himself,” she said again and again. “They shall
not find me upon his yacht. He will go back to Russia and forget. I
have been alone so many years; it is nothing that I am alone until the
end.”
She repeated the words while she stood at the bow of the _Esmeralda_
and watched the sea racing in the narrow of the channel. To save the
man who had lost all for her, to give him back country, friends,
honour--she cared not at what cost--that must be her purpose. All the
happiness of his love which had come into her life must wither and
die. If God willed, she would still have the love of the child. Her
unbroken courage suggested that she would find the way to England when
once she was alone. Half-formed schemes of a place of hiding in the
hut of a peasant, of flight in a fisherman’s ship, helped her
resolutions. She remembered that she had rowed a boat often upon the
river Dart, and that weeks of imprisonment had still left much of her
girlish strength. And so the great idea took finite shape and was
resolved upon.
Quickly, silently, with deft hands, she drew the yacht’s boat, then
lying at the stern of the ship, to the gangway, which had been left
down during the night. A feverish haste characterised all her
movements. She was afraid that they would come and rob her of success;
she feared that someone would awake to prevent her emprise. Her great
love for Paul surged up in her heart, yet did but quicken her steps. A
rebellious anger urged her on to a war against circumstance: a war she
must wage alone and without friends.
Stealthily the little gray-clad figure moved in the morning light.
Hither and thither, pitiful in the agony of a farewell she could not
speak, tears falling upon her cold hands, anger (she knew not why) in
her heart, the girl bent down to kiss the deck beneath which her lover
was sleeping.
“God bless you, Paul, my love! God bless you for your love of me!”
And so the voyage began, and the pilgrim was alone again, and the
curtain of the mist shut the yacht from her sight.
* * * * * *
They awoke the master of the _Esmeralda_ and told him of her flight.
He did not answer them, but stood long peering into the mists which
enveloped the island seas. When Reuben spoke to him at last he turned
quickly and fell senseless upon the deck of the silent ship.