SEVERING THE TIES
The next day seemed to Winn almost like preparing for a funeral.
"I wish you would go over to the gorge with me this afternoon," he said
to Mona that morning, "I must leave here to-morrow, and I want to bid
the spot good-by."
And she, busy among the sweet williams, pinks, and marigolds that were
her daily care, felt her heart sink.
And Winn, believing it his last day on the island, went his way, first
to the quarry that had been his everyday duty for almost three months.
Only four men were retained, and those were to be kept at work until he
returned, or until Jess ordered otherwise. To no one could he say his
departure was final. Then he wandered about among the wharves that had
so interested him the first day on the island, and spoke with the few
fishermen busy there. All knew him, and each had a pleasant word and
nod. He watched them at their work, salting the fish they had split and
were packing, one upon another, in a large tank, or spreading cured ones
on racks to dry, and packing up in bundles those that were dried. He
sniffed the pungent odor and looked out seaward, where the fishing
craft, with all sail set, were departing. Then he strolled inward to
where the little steamer made landing. She had left for that day and her
wharf was deserted. Winn thought that on her next trip he would be a
passenger leaving the island for good. Strange to say, as he passed on
he noticed with peculiar interest the sign, "Coffins and Caskets" on a
small shop just back of a house. Then he followed the sandy shore of the
inner harbor past an old, dismantled fishing smack, beached high and
dry, on the stern of which the name "Nancy Jane" was still legible, and
then on up to the tide mill. Here he paused again, looking into the dark
interior where only the sills remained, and below them a space through
which the tide ebbed. And he thought of the girl who had ended her life
there.
Somehow, all that morning these sad reminders of life and death on the
island seemed to thrust themselves before him. The mood they engendered
was with him when that afternoon he, with Mona for companion, started
for the gorge. And she was almost as silent as the old mill.
"I've been bidding good-by to the island all the morning," he said, when
they reached the top of Norse Hill, "and I hate to go away."
"But you are coming back, aren't you?" she asked, with a note of pain.
"Oh, yes," he said cheerfully, "I hope so, but I can't tell. You know
why I go, and my business here may be at its end. But if it is, I shall
visit the island next summer, if I live.
[Illustration: THE DEVIL'S OVEN.]
"Come, dear," he added, when the gorge was reached and he had assisted
her down, "let's leave the violin here and hunt for sea-shells. I want
some to carry away." And like two children they clambered over the rocks
the tide had left bare, picking up the starfish, chill to the touch,
sea-urchins, snail shells, sailors' money purses, tossed above the tide
level and dried black and hard, and watching the anemones and crabs left
prisoners in pools between the rocks. Overhead the gulls circled and far
to seaward the white sails of coasters and fishermen gleamed in the
sunlight, and beside Winn, following wherever he went, Mona, with her
appealing eyes. They talked of nothings, as usual, and he stole covert
looks at her face, noting how the sea winds played havoc with her
loosened hair.
Later they sought the cave where the ferns and flowers she had brought
the day before lay withered.
"I am going to leave all but one each of the starfish and shells we have
gathered," he said, "here in our little nook, and see if we will find
them when I come back."
"We shall," she replied, "for no one ever comes here but me, and I will
watch them."
It was a child's thought, but there are moments in our lives when to act
like children is a relief.
"I hope you will come here often," he added, "and feel this is our
playhouse, and when I think of you I shall always see you as you are now
and in this cave. And you must keep up your practice and I shall send
you some new music and write to you, and if you have a picture of
yourself, I should like it."
"I have only one, taken when I was a little girl," she answered, "but
you shall have it."
He could have had her heart, and soul even, had he asked it.
"Now play for me, dear," he said very gently, "some of the old songs you
play best."
And once again, as many times before, Winn visited the banks of "Bonnie
Doon" and the fields of heather over which the tartan-clad ranks marched
to the tune of "The Blue Bells of Scotland" and "The Campbells are
Coming." And he heard the pipes droning and saw "Bonnie Dundee" with
waving plume and the sweet lassie "Comin' thro' the Rye," and heard the
love plaint of "Robin Adair," "Auld Robin Grey," and the undying
heart-cry of sweet "Annie Laurie."
And into these was blended the low lullaby of the ocean.
When it was all ended and the twilight had come, without a word he held
out his hand, and slowly and in silence gently guided her footsteps out
of the gorge. Along the devious way among the ledges he led her, a
drooping flower, thirsting for one drop of the water of life, one word
of love, ay, one word of pity!
The purple shade of coming night had crept in from the wide ocean ere
they reached the old stone tower, and here he paused. Full well he knew
what every impulse of his own heart called upon him to utter, and yet
his lips were dumb. Full well he knew how the girl who stood beside him
felt, and the heartache that was her portion.
And still he was silent!
The chill night breeze from the sea swept over the hill. Suddenly the
girl shivered.
And then, as he looked out upon the darkening sea and heard the solemn
requiem sounding below the cliff, the voice of eternity and life and
death speaking there unsealed his lips.
The next moment Mona was clasped in his arms.
"God help me, little girl," he said, "I love you."
Later, the moon, smiling approval, rose out of the ocean, and when the
two, now one, turned to go, once more he gathered her close to his
heart.
"You will come back now, won't you?" she said.
And looking into the tear-wet eyes upraised to his, he kissed her once,
twice, thrice.
"Surely," he answered, "my heart is here now."