AND A DREAM COMES TRUE
For nearly an hour Boyd Emerson sat alone on the deck of _The Grande
Dame_, a prey to conflicting emotions, the while he waited for Mildred
to appear. There was no one to dispute his presence now, for the
tourists who had followed Doctor Berry from the shore in hushed
excitement avoided him, and the sailors made no effort to carry out
their earlier instructions; hence he was allowed opportunity to adjust
himself to the sudden change. It was not so much the unexpected
downfall of Willis Marsh, and the new light thus thrown upon his own
enterprise that upset him, as a puzzling alteration in his own purposes
and inclinations. He had come out to the yacht defiantly, to make good
his threat, and to force an understanding with Mildred Wayland, but now
that he was here and his way made easy he began to question his own
desires. Now that he thought about it, that note, instead of filling
him with dismay, had rather left him relieved. It was as if he had been
freed of a burden, and this caused him a vague uneasiness. Was it
because he was tired by the struggle for this girl, for whom he had
labored so faithfully? After three years of unflagging devotion, was he
truly relieved to have her dismiss him? Or was it that here, in this
primal country, stripped of all conventions, he saw her and himself in
a new light? He did not know.
The late twilight was fading when Mildred came from her state-room. She
found Boyd pacing the deck, a cigar between his teeth.
"Where are those people?" she inquired.
"They went ashore. Marsh doesn't care to press a charge against the
Indian."
"I hear he is not badly hurt, after all."
"That is true. But it was a close shave."
Mildred shuddered. "It was horrible!"
"I never dreamed that Constantine would do such a thing, but he is more
Russian than Aleut, and both he and his sister are completely under the
spell of the priest. They are intensely religious, and their idea of
damnation is very vivid."
"Have you seen father?"
"We had a short talk."
"Did you make up?"
"No! But I think he is beginning to understand things better--at least,
as far as Marsh is concerned. The rest is only a matter of time."
"What a frightful situation! Why did you ever let father announce my
engagement to that man?"
Emerson gazed at her in astonishment. "I? Pardon me--how could I help
it?"
"You might have avoided quarrelling with him. I think you are very
inconsiderate of me."
Boyd regarded the coal of his cigar with a slight gleam of amusement in
his eyes as she ran on:
"Even that woman took occasion to humiliate me in the worst possible
way."
"It strikes me that she did you a very great service. I have no doubt
it was quite as distasteful to her as to you."
"Absurd! It was her chance for revenge, and she rejoiced in making me
ridiculous."
"Then it is the first ignoble thing I ever knew her to do," said Boyd,
slowly. "She has helped me in a hundred ways. Without her assistance, I
could never have won through. That cannery site would still be grown up
to moss and trees, and I would still be a disheartened dreamer."
"It's very nice of you, of course, to appreciate what she has done. But
she can't help you any more. You surely don't intend to keep up your
acquaintance with her now." He made no reply, and, taking his silence
for agreement, she went on: "The trip home will be terribly dull for
me, I'm afraid. I think--yes, I shall have father ask you to go back
with us."
"But I am right in the midst of the run. I can't leave the business."
"Oh, business! Do you care more for business than for me? I don't think
you realize how terribly hard for me all this has been--I'm still
frightened. I shall die of nervousness without some one to talk to."
"It's quite impossible! I--don't want to go back now."
"Indeed? And no doubt it was impossible for you to come out here last
night for the same reason."
"It was. The fish struck in, and I could not leave."
"It was that woman who kept you!" cried Mildred. "It is because of her
that you refuse to leave this country!"
"Please don't," he said, quietly. "I have never thought of her in that
way--"
"Then come away from this wretched place. I detest the whole
country--the fisheries, the people, everything. This isn't your proper
sphere. Why come away, now, at once, and begin something new, something
worth while?"
"Do you realize the hopes, the heartaches, the vital effort I have put
into this enterprise?" he questioned.
But she only said:
"I don't like it. It isn't a nice business. Let father take the plant
over. If you need money, I have plenty--"
"Wait!" he interrupted, sharply. "Sit down, I want to talk to you." He
drew the wrap closer about her shoulders and led her to a deck-chair.
The change in him was becoming more apparent. He knew now that he had
never felt the same since his first meeting with Mildred upon the
arrival of _The Grande Dame_. Even then she had repelled him by her
lack of sympathy. She had shown no understanding of his efforts, and
now she revealed as complete a failure to grasp his code of honor. It
never occurred to her that any loyalty of man to man could offset her
simple will. She did not see that his desertion of George would be
nothing short of treachery.
It seemed to him all at once that they had little in common. She was
wrapped completely in the web of her own desires; she would make her
prejudices a law for him. Above all, she could not respond to the
exultation of his success. She had no conception of the pride of
accomplishment that is the wine of every true man's life. He had waged
a bitter fight that had sapped his very soul, he had made and won the
struggle that a man makes once in a lifetime, and now, just when he had
proved himself strong and fair in the sight of his fellows, she asked
him to forego it all. Engrossed in her own egoism, she required of him
a greater sacrifice than any he had made. Now that he had shown his
strength, she wanted to load him down with golden fetters--to make him
a dependent. Was it because she feared another girl? She had tried to
help him, he knew--in her way--and the thought of it touched him. That
was like the Mildred he had always known--to act fearlessly, heedless
of what her father might do or say. Somehow he had never felt more
convinced of the sincerity of her love, but he found himself thinking
of it as of something of the past. After all, what she had done had
been little, considering her power. She had given carelessly, out of
her abundance, while Cherry--He saw it all now, and a sudden sense of
loyalty and devotion to the girl who had really shared his struggles
swept over him in a warm tide. It was most unlike his distant worship
of Mildred. She had been his dream, but the other was bone of his bone
and flesh of his flesh.
For a long time the two sat talking while these thoughts took gradual
form in the young man's mind, and although the deck was deserted, Miss
Wayland had no need now to curb her once headstrong wooer.
He could not put into words the change that was working in him; but she
saw it, and, grasping its meaning at last, she began to battle like a
mother for her child. His awakening had been slow, and hers was even
slower; but once she found her power over him waning, her sense of loss
grew and grew as he failed to answer to her half-spoken appeal.
Womanlike, she capitulated at last. What matter if he stayed here where
his hopes were centred? This life in the North had claimed him, and she
would wait until he came for her. But still he did not respond, and it
was not long until she had persuaded herself that his battle with the
wilderness had put red blood into his veins, and his conduct had been
no worse than that of other men. Finally she tried to voice these
thoughts, but she only led him to a stiff denial of the charges she
wished to forgive. As she saw him slipping further away from her, she
summoned all her arts to rekindle the flame which had burned so
steadily; and when these failed, she surrendered every prejudice. It
was his love she wanted. All else was secondary. At last she knew
herself. She could have cried at the sudden realization that he had not
kissed her since their parting in Chicago; and when she saw he had no
will to do so, the memory of his last embrace arose to torture her. She
was almost glad when a launch bringing her father came from the shore,
and the old man joined them.
The two men bore themselves with unbending formality, unable as yet to
forget their mutual wrongs. The interruption gave Boyd the opportunity
he had not been brave enough to make, and he bade them both good-bye,
for the tide was at its flood, and the hour of their departure was at
hand.
There was a meaningless exchange of words, and a handshake in the glare
from the cabin lights that showed Mildred's pallid lips and frightened
eyes. Then Emerson went over the side, and the darkness swallowed him
up.
The girl clutched at her father's arm, standing as if frozen while the
creak of rowlocks grew fainter and fainter and died away. Then she
turned.
"You see--he came!" she said.
The old man saw the agony that blanched her cheeks, and answered,
gently:
"Yes, daughter!" He struggled with himself, "And if you wish it, he may
come again."
"But he won't come again. That is what makes it so hard; he will never
come back."
She turned away, but not quickly enough to keep him from seeing that
her eyes were wet. Wayne Wayland beheld what he would have given half
his mighty fortune to prevent. He cried out angrily, but she
anticipated his thought.
"No, no, you must never injure him again, for he was right and we were
wrong. You see I--couldn't understand."
He left her staring into the night, and walked heavily below.
Emerson felt a great sense of relief and deliverance as he leaned
against his oars. His heart sang to the murmur of the waters overside;
for the first time in many months he felt young and free. How blind he
had been and how narrow had been his escape from a life that could lead
to but one result! The girl was sweet and good and wonderful in many
ways, but--three years had altered him more than he had realized. He
had begun to understand himself that very afternoon, when Cherry had
told him her own unhappy secret. The shock of her disclosure had roused
him from his dream, and once he began to see himself as he really was
the rest had come quickly. He had been doubtful even when he went out
to the yacht, but what happened there had destroyed the last trace of
uncertainty. He knew that for him there was but one woman in all the
world. It was no easy battle he had fought with himself. He had been
reared to respect the conventions, and he knew that Cherry's life had
not been all he could wish. But he fronted the issue squarely, and
tried to throttle his inbred prejudice. Although he had felt the truth
of Fraser's arguments and of Cherry's own words, he had still refused
to yield until his love for the girl swept over him in all its power;
then he made his choice.
The one thing he found most difficult to accept was her conduct with
Hilliard. Those other charges against the girl were vague and shadowy,
but this was concrete, and he was familiar with every miserable detail
of it. It took all his courage to face it, but he swore savagely that
if the conditions had been reversed, Cherry would not have faltered for
an instant. Moreover, what she had done had been done for love of him;
it was worse than vile to hesitate. Her past was her own, and all he
could rightfully claim was her future. He shut his teeth and laid his
course resolutely for her landing, striving to leave behind this one
hideous memory, centring his mind upon the girl herself and shutting
out her past. It was the bitterest fight he had ever waged; but when he
reached the shore and tied his skiff, he was exalted by the knowledge
that he had triumphed, that this painful episode was locked away with
all the others.
Now that he had conquered, he was filled with a consuming eagerness. As
he stole up through the shadows he heard her playing, and when he drew
nearer he recognized the notes of that song that had banished his own
black desolation on the night of their first meeting. He paused outside
the open window and saw by the shaded lamplight that she was playing
from memory, her fingers wandering over the keyboard without conscious
effort. Then she took up the words, with all the throbbing tenderness
that lives in a deep, contralto voice:
"Last night I was dreaming of thee, love--was dreaming;
I dreamed thou didst promise--"
Cherry paused as if entranced, for she thought she heard another voice
join with hers; then she bowed her head and sobbed in utter
wretchedness, knowing it for nothing more than her own fancy. Too many
times, as in other twilights past, she had heard that mellow voice
blend with hers, only to find that her ears had played her false and
she was alone with a memory that would never die.
Of all the days of her life this was the saddest, this hour the
loneliest, and the tears she had withheld so bravely as long as there
was work to do came now in unbidden profusion.
To face those people on the yacht had been an act of pure devotion to
Boyd, for her every instinct had rebelled against it; yet she had known
that some desperate stroke in his defence must be delivered instantly.
Otherwise the ruin of all his hopes would follow. She had hit upon the
device of using Constantine and Chakawana largely by chance, for not
until the previous day had she learned the truth. She had not dared to
hope for such unqualified success, nor had she foreseen the tragic
outcome. She had simply carried her plan through to its natural
conclusion. Now that her work was done, she gave way completely and
wept like a little girl. He was out there now with his love. They would
never waste a thought upon that other girl who had made their happiness
possible. The thought was almost more than she could bear. Never again
could she have Boyd to herself, never enjoy his careless friendship as
of old; even that was over, now that he knew the truth.
The first and only kiss he had ever given her burned fresh upon her
lips. She recalled that evening they had spent alone in this very room,
when he had seemed to waver and her hopes had risen at the dawning of a
new light in his eyes. At the memory she cried aloud, as if her heart
would break:
"Boyd! Boyd!"
He entered noiselessly and took her in his arms.
"Yes, dear!" he murmured. But she rose with a startled exclamation, and
wrenched herself from his embrace. The piano gave forth a discordant
crash. Shrinking back as from an apparition, she stared into his
flushed and smiling face; then breathed:
"You! Why are you--here!"
"Because I love you!"
She closed her eyes and swayed as if under the spell of wonderful
music; he saw the throbbing pulse at her throat. Then she flung out her
hands, crying, piteously:
"Go away, please, before I find it is only another dream."
She raised her lids to find him still standing there then felt him with
fluttering fingers.
"Our dreams have come true," he said, gently, and strove to imprison
her hand.
"No, no!" Her voice broke wildly. "You don't mean it. You--you haven't
come to stay."
"I have come to stay if you will let me, dear."
She broke from his grasp and moved quickly away.
"Why are you here? I left you out there with--her. I made your way
clear. Why have you come back? What more can I do? Dear God! What more
can I do?" She was panting as if desperately frightened.
"There is but one thing more you can do to make me happy. You can be my
wife."
"But I don't understand!" She shook her head hopelessly. "You are
jesting with me. You love Miss Wayland."
"No. Miss Wayland leaves to-night, and I shall never see her again."
"Then you won't marry her?"
"No."
A dull color rose to Cherry Malotte's cheeks; she swallowed as if her
throat were very dry, and said, slowly:
"Then she refused you in spite of everything, and you have come to me
because of what I told you this afternoon. You are doing this out of
pity--or is it because you are angry with her? No, no, Boyd! I won't
have it. I don't want your pity--I don't want what she cast off."
"It has taken me a long time to find myself, Cherry, for I have been
blinded by a vision," he answered. "I have been dreaming, and I never
saw clearly till to-day. I came away of my own free will; and I came
straight to you because it is you I love and shall always love."
The girl suddenly began to beat her hands together.
"You--forget what I--have been!" she cried, in a voice that tore her
lover's heartstrings. "You can't want to--marry me?"
"To-night," he said, simply, and held out his arms to her. "I love you
and I want you. That is all I know or care about."
He found her upon his breast, sobbing and shaking as if she had sought
shelter there from some great peril. He buried his face in the soft
masses of her hair, whispering fondly to her till her emotion spent
itself. She turned her face shyly up at length and pressed her lips to
his. Then, holding herself away from him, she said, with a
half-doubtful yet radiant look:
"It is not too late yet. I will give you one final chance to save
yourself."
He shook his head.
"Then I have done my duty!" She snuggled closer to him. "And you have
no regrets?"
"Only one. I am sorry that I can't give you more than my name. I may
have to go out into the world and begin all over if Mr. Wayland carries
out his threat. I may be the poorest of the poor."
"That will be my opportunity to show how well I love you. You can be no
poorer than I in this world's goods."
"You at least have your copper-mine."
"I have no mine," said the girl. "Not even the smallest interest in
one."
"But--I don't understand."
She dropped her eyes. "Mr. Hilliard is a hard man to deal with. I had
to give him all my share in the claims."
"I suppose you mean you sold out to him."
"No! When I found you could not raise the money, I gave him my share in
the mine. With that as a consideration, he made you the loan. You are
not angry, are you?"
"Angry!" Emerson's tone conveyed a supreme gladness. "You don't
know--how happy you have made me."
"Hark!" She laid a finger upon his lips. Through the breathless night
there came the faint rumble of a ship's chains.
"_The Grande Dame!_" he cried. "She sails at the flood tide."
They stood together in the open doorway of the little house and watched
the yacht's lights as they described a great curve through the
darkness, then slowly faded into nothingness down the bay. Cherry drew
herself closer to Boyd.
"What a wonderful Providence guides us, after all," she said. "That
girl had everything in the world, and I was poor--so poor--until this
hour. God grant she may some day be as rich as I!"
Out on _The Grande Dame_ the girl who had everything in the world
maintained a lonely vigil at the rail, straining with tragic eyes until
the sombre shadows that marked the shores of the land she feared had
shrunk to a faint, low-lying streak on the horizon. Then she turned and
went below, numbed by the knowledge that she was very poor and very
wretched, and had never understood.
THE END