STARK RIDES AWAY
Within the space of ten short days Cecil Stark was
turned from supreme indifference concerning life or
death to the contrary emotion. Existence for him had become
endowed with a lively charm, and if Grace Malherb's heart
fluttered in secret, the sailor's also now beat less steadily, and
played him pranks at her approach. He found in the maiden all
that love asks, and more by much than ever he had seen in any
other woman. Here did beauty, spirit, force of soul, music of
voice and graciousness of mien all merge in one lovely girl; and
Stark very rightly and properly went down like a man before the
irresistible. Now greedily he counted the hours and prayed that
the snow might endure. He hated the red sun that daily crept
above Cater's Beam and sank where Prince Town lay, for it
touched the drifts and changed their character. The expanses of
white glittered and settled down, while from their bowels snow-water
eternally trickled until the rivers roared, and black, boiling
streams, all splashed with yellow spume, thundered from each
great hill. Now sunlit streaks and spots of stone, heath and bog
broke the huge whiteness of the mountains, and Stark's glimpse
of Paradise was nearly over. Each morning at the breakfast-hour
he waited in fear for Maurice Malherb to pronounce sentence of
departure; each day he breathed again to find a few hours were
still left to him.
Grace Malherb proved such a listener as sailors love. She had
not imbibed many of her father's prejudices, and was too full of
the delight of life on one side, its personal problems and puzzles
on the other, to concern herself with politics or abstract ideas
touching the welfare of nations. Cecil Stark did what Grace's
father was powerless to do, and wakened in her an active interest
concerning war. She listened attentively while he rose to the
occasion and, inspired by her advertance, painted with all an
earnest lad's enthusiasm the cause for which he fought. She
watched from under lowered lids, and while he fancied that her
heart must throb to the cannon's roar or the crash of falling spars,
she was either comparing his powerful face with the more delicate
and more classic features of her lover, or contrasting the fire of
the fighting man with the dreamy disposition of John Lee. But
John Lee would presently be a fighting man also.
Little basenesses crept into the soul of poor Grace under this
ordeal. By night she wept bitterly at herself and marvelled to
behold her own meanness. She found herself secretly thankful
that Cecil Stark knew nothing of her engagement; then, heartily
ashamed, she probed this instinct, and imagined that it must be
caused by the American's superiority of position and of rank. In
reality she erred and the truth was far different; but this the girl
had not as yet discovered. Her misery was extreme, and she
blamed herself bitterly when she reflected how much of her
thoughts the American prisoner already owned. Indeed, all other
concerns swept headlong into a remote, unimportant past. And
it was so with the man; for his first love now lighted life with
wild, unrestful glory. Of the maiden's heart, indeed, he knew
nothing, but, impelled to do so by a vague hope as to the future,
he had made a clean breast of his own affairs and dwelt egotistically
upon them. Not seldom Mr. Peter Norcot's former assertion
clouded those moments in which Stark had sense to pause
and reflect, yet the other's name was never mentioned by Grace,
and he began presently to hope that the wish was father to Peter's
thought and declaration. There seemed no evidence that Miss
Malherb's future was already determined.
The sailor's ambitions Grace admired with enthusiasm; his
splendid future, his prospective flocks and herds, lands and
homesteads beside the Champlain, attracted her less keenly. But
more topics than one made the girl's eyes sparkle as he spoke of
them.
"You are such a Diana that you'd love Vermont," Cecil once
said. "Our folks, however, hunt for business rather than sport.
We had moose, deer, bears, foxes and wolves once, and peltry
was the great business of the trappers and pioneers. Even yet
our furs fetch near two thousand pounds every year; but the
beasts are being killed faster than Nature can restore them.
They will soon vanish."
"We had wolves here, too. I think the last was killed in
Tudor times. 'Twas an obligation under the old local laws that
the folk should slay them. Now we have little but foxes; and a
good, red Moor fox is the best in England."
"I never hunted, though I can ride sailor-fashion. Now I
should like to see you in the saddle, Mistress Grace!"
"Of course you hunt in the English way, if you have respectable
hound-fearing foxes?" she asked, ignoring his desire concerning
herself.
"Yes; many amongst us stick stoutly to New England ways,
which, indeed, are the same as old England ways for that matter.
But in states of society such as ours, the conditions make for
change. We are deeply interested in education and enterprise;
we marry early; we advocate equality of rights, because that is
natural where all men have the same interests. But equality
of power we never pretend to. The idea is nonsensical; Nature
herself shows that. Men are unequal in power and capacity--so
are all other animals. We are, I think, both economical and
hospitable. We resent control of religion, and hold liberty
of thought in that matter vital. We have an elastic mind in
affairs of government, and don't attempt to bind posterity to our
forms in your English fashion. In England men are full of
opinions and empty of information. We let opinions go hang
and never tire of learning. We keep fluid; we respect human
life very much. Instead of a hundred and sixty capital crimes, as
there are in Great Britain, we have but nine sins in Vermont for
which a man is punished by death. We marry early----"
"You said that before."
"Did I? Well--it's interesting."
"So it is."
"But I bore you to distraction--I am sure that I must do so,
Miss Malherb."
"Very far from it, Mr. Stark. You interest one and all of us.
It is marvellous to me how you tell each amongst us the sort
of things most likely to attract him, or her. You have made
every man your friend; and every woman too."
She dimly guessed his meaning when he dwelt so much upon
himself, and told of his honoured family, and of his future as the
survivor of the race.
Throughout the severe weather it was impossible for John Lee
to see more than a passing glimpse of his lady. The hardship
of this specially touched Grace's heart, and not seldom, after
intimate chatter with the American, she purposely sought
disconsolate John that she might cheer his loneliness and longing.
But in the vital matter of the guest, young Lee suffered less than
would have been supposed. Jealousy was no part of his nature.
He rejoiced heartily that Grace should have company so interesting
during the tedious days after the storm. In common with
Beer, Woodman and the rest, John appreciated Cecil Stark, and
found his own sentiments echo the sailor's on many subjects.
The labourers often discussed their visitor, admired the frank,
friendly spirit in which he came amongst them at their work, and
regretted the fact that he must soon return to prison.
Once in a morning hour Grace played her piano to the guest,
and upon opening a music-book, the ghost of a sprig of white
heather, now turned brown, tumbled out of it. Mr. Peter Norcot
had presented this trophy, and placed it to mark a song of
Herrick's, with Purcell's accompaniment.
Now Stark noted the flower.
"You like it not, I see," he said, for memory suddenly clouded
the singer's eyes.
"Dead heath," she answered; "and for me I vow that it
never lived. A gentleman placed it there because the song
pleased him."
"I'd give the world to know who 'twas, Miss Malherb."
"You shall hear for nothing. There is no secret. The name
will not be new to you, I think; Mr. Peter Norcot."
Stark's face fell, and the recollection of many things crowded
down bleakly upon him.
"He's a good man--a great-hearted, generous spirit," he
declared.
Grace did not answer.
"I have been blind lately," he continued. "My wits went
wandering in the blizzard and have never returned. It has pleased
me to forget Mr. Norcot too long. What might have been, Miss
Malherb! He won parole for us out of his own pure goodness
and love of humanity. But meantime we had tried to escape
and failed. A mad world! And but for that Jonathan Miller
might still be living. The man's name must be blessed by every
American that hears it--Norcot's, I mean."
Still Grace made no reply.
"Such a gentleman must be above possibility of error in such
a vital thing as he confided to me," pursued Cecil gloomily.
"I ought to have faced the fact sooner and not let my fool
thoughts---- So you are going to marry him, Miss Malherb?"
"Never, Mr. Stark."
"He told me so--truly he believed it."
"He is wrong. He is a most worthy person, and he very
seldom makes a mistake. But he is wrong for once when he says
that, or thinks it--wildly, utterly, hopelessly wrong."
"You do not love him?"
"My father does. He desires that I should wed him."
"But surely----?"
"'Surely I could do no better,' you were going to say?"
"Indeed, no. Surely your father's first thought is your future
happiness?"
"My future--not my future happiness. You see, one's parents
have got over our young delusions about people being happy.
Fathers and mothers forget that love matters. They hold it as
we hold the fleeting wretchedness of a toothache. They don't
even pity us. Yet my father was a grand lover, for my mother
has told me so; but he has forgotten."
"You honour me to divulge these sacred things about yourself.
Poor Norcot--and yet--in a sense--in truth from my whole heart
and soul, I mean. But how is this to the point? To sum up, you
don't love him?"
"That is exactly what I strive day and night to make clear to
everybody."
"Would it be beyond the limits of courtesy to breathe a
question on so great a subject? Yet I seem to know the answer.
It must be so. It sinks like lead into me; you love somebody
else, Miss Malherb?"
"Heyday! And if I do, why should you be miserable, Mr. Stark?
I love my mother, sir, and my father, and--and all who
love me--excepting only Mr. Norcot. I love him too--the Bible
bids me love him; but I don't like Him. The Bible is too wise
to order the impossible. It does not tell us to like anybody."
"Listen, if I may--at least----"
"Do you hear the river in flood? It is like the sound of an
angry sea by night."
"I hear it well enough. The snows are melting, and my
happiness with them. Oh, if I dared--before I left you! If I
had a pinch of my country's courage!"
"You do not lack for that, else you would never have seen
Dartmoor."
"That was the chance of defeat. But real bravery---- There's
such a madness here raging in me--such a hurricane
that----"
"Oh, dearie me! Even such nonsense does Mr. Peter Norcot
talk!"
"And so you answer him. Yet your eyes are gentler than
your tongue. I'll speak--I care not. I'm only a sailor swept
here by chance. Fate--at least Providence, I mean--to be plain,
I love you! I love you so dearly that I'd--but not until I'm no
longer a prisoner. After the war--could you listen then? I--oh,
my heart and my life, say I may come back again after the war!"
The lightning progress of this business burnt poor Grace like
fire. She gasped as he spoke. Her senses reeled. She had not
strength to draw from him the hand that he had clasped and now
passionately kissed. He was down upon his knees beside her,
and she saw his great chest rise and fall, she felt his eyes pierce
to her heart and read the truth there. Now she understood her
mistake. This was love, and all the past only a ghostly phantom
and mockery of it. She longed to give herself up to him. She
felt that he offered her life, that his voice woke the soul that
had slept until now within her. Then she blushed at the baseness
of her thoughts and spoke with levity to hide the first mighty joy
and the first master-sorrow that her heart had ached over.
"Come back if it pleases you, Mr. Stark. But not to me.
Worthless thing that I am, another already claims my love."
He released her hand reverently, then rose.
"'Twas an insult to you not to know that without being told.
I did right to say that I was mad."
"You'll never speak of this," she whispered; "your own act
forced it from me. I am proud to think that you could love me;
but you will keep my secret?"
"Trust me for that. As you'll keep my confession, so I shall
cherish yours. God knows how I can go on living any more. Yet
I'll even curse the end of the war that sets me free now, for free
in truth I'll never be again."
"Then I shall feel sad to think I have a slave against my will.
I shall suffer to remember that."
"Remember me no more at all. Only remember that you have
lifted me up and made my existence good and precious. You
saved my life and led me into a paradise. Now I must depart
again. Twice conquered by England am I; and blessed in
being conquered."
"You are generous and I do greatly esteem you, sir," faltered
Grace. "You have brought happiness and interest and knowledge
into my ignorant days. More knowledge than you think for! I
thank you for all your goodness, and I mourn to know you are so
ill-paid. Had it not been--at least--I shall never forget you."
"May God bless and keep you and the man you love," he said
earnestly. "You have been light in darkness to me; I shall
always love and worship you. And he who has won you has my
admiration and respect for ever. A king of men must he be!"
Annabel Malherb entered at this moment, and she came the
bearer of stern news for Stark. Yesterday her intelligence had
sunk him into the depths of tribulation; to-day he welcomed it.
Henceforth his prison was not of stone and iron, but built in
memory. To breathe the same air with Grace Malherb would be
his sole remaining privilege now, since closer common interest
he could never claim.
Maurice Malherb sent a courteous inquiry as to whether his
guest's convenience would be suited by early departure on the
following morning.
"If so," said Annabel, "my husband proposes that you and he
should ride together after breakfast to--to Prince Town, dear
Mr. Stark."
The sailor declared that he was ready.
"And to thank you, madam, would be a vain, impossible task,"
he said. "Your daughter saved my life; you and your husband
nursed me back to health, bore with me in my weakness and ill
humours, sympathised with my sorrows, treated me with a
consideration and kindness beyond belief. I shall never while I
live forget your goodness, nor forget to be grateful for it."
Upon the following morning Cecil Stark departed, and it was
a secret joy to Grace amid all her secret grief, that he rode upon
'Cæsar.' She steeled herself to the farewell, for now she knew,
indeed, that she loved him; now she found her desire towards
him a live, gigantic and ponderable passion, not the gauzy and
delicate understanding that she had maintained with John Lee.
Love took her by the heart-strings, shook her, banished sleep,
killed appetite, wrote care within her young eyes and revealed it
upon her looking-glass at dawn. Her future life, from a vague
shadow, half shunned, half spied upon, as in the past, now came
close and stared at her. She found the time to come hideous
and wished that she might die to escape from it. She looked ill
when she bade the American prisoner "good-bye"; and he
observed it and felt it hard to keep his voice steady.
Then Grace watched him ride away with her father, and
behind them trotted John Lee. He passed where she stood at
a wall on the farm boundaries and touched his hat to her, for he
could be seen by all. But only Grace was within reach of his
voice.
"At last, my darling dear! At last I shall kiss your sweet lips
again! Such news--such brave news, my Gracie! I've found
the hiding-place of the amphora!"
He passed on, and the girl, returning to her chamber, locked
the door of it and wept as she had not wept since childhood.
"Three--three men," she sobbed to herself. "Three grown
men can all love this wretched thing. And I hate one; and
I--I--love one; and good John Lee, handsome, humble, kind,
faithful John Lee; I would rather die a thousand deaths than
break my troth to you!"