MARK CONFESSES HIS LOVE
It was a day or two after the appearance of the fugitives from Powell's
force that Mark Grafton returned to the La Belle. He seemed tired and
careworn, but reported that his trip had been entirely successful.
When told of the disastrous defeat of Powell's force, he was astounded.
"Had I expected such a result," he exclaimed, "I would have gone with
him. Ran into an ambuscade, did he? I believe, if I had been with him, I
could have prevented that, for I am used to fighting just such fellows,
and am up to all their tricks."
"You seem to have a good opinion of yourself," remarked Grace, somewhat
sarcastically.
What she said, and the tone in which she said it, cut Mark to the heart.
"Your rebuke is just, Grace. No man should boast," he said, as he turned
away.
That night Mark lay thinking. That Grace had changed, he could plainly
see. It must be because he had refused to tell her his secret. "I must
go away, and never return," he sighed. "It is the only way. If I could
only stay near her, to see her every day, to be her slave, I would be
contented."
Then the thought of Big Tom came into his mind. He knew there was real
danger from that source. No one knew better than he what the guerrillas
of the State were fast becoming--bands of robbers that preyed on friend
and foe alike. He felt that Mr. Chittenden's being a Confederate would
not save him. To go away and leave Grace exposed to such a great danger
would be to him a torture.
Sleep did not visit him that night, and when morning came he was no
nearer a decision than he was the night before. He arose; white and
haggard. The lines in his face showed what he had suffered.
That night also seemed to have changed Grace. She came to him and,
holding out her hand, said: "Mark, I'm sorry I spoke as I did last
night. Forgive me." Then, looking at him, she cried: "Foolish boy! I
believe you took to heart what I said. Mark, did it hurt you so?"
"There is nothing to forgive, Grace," he replied, gently. "I passed a
restless night, but it was not what you said that caused it, but the
thought that I had already remained here too long; and yet it is hard to
go from those who are so kind to me."
"Why go at all?" asked Grace. "You belong here. Did we not bring you
back from the very brink of the grave? I have heard father say he wished
you would always remain. He has taken a great fancy to you."
A great light came into Mark's face. He took a step toward her, as if he
would clasp her in his arms. "Grace! Grace!" he cried, then stopped and
turned deadly pale.
"Mark, what is it? Are you sick?" asked Grace, anxiously.
"No; I did turn a little faint, but I am over it now. I will think over
what you said."
He did think it over, and came to the conclusion that he must go; for,
if he stayed, the time would come when he would have to confess his love
for Grace. He trembled when he realized how near he had come to telling
her. But it was not many hours before he was telling her.
A man came riding into the valley from the north. He was burning with
fever, and reeled from side to side in his saddle. He was lifted from
his horse, and carried into the house.
"I am afraid I am done for," he said, faintly, as he was gently placed
on a bed. "I was told I would find a crippled Confederate soldier here,
called Mark Grafton, who sometimes acts as the bearer of dispatches. Is
he here now?"
"He is," answered Mr. Chittenden.
"I must see him--see him before it is too late. I feel the hand of Death
upon me."
Mark was called, and the sick man, between gasps, told his story. He
said his name was Paul Dupont, and he was the bearer of important
dispatches to General Hindman. "I was sick at the time they asked me to
carry them, and tried to beg off, but they said the dispatches were so
important they could only be trusted to a brave and trusty man, and they
knew I was one. 'Carry them as far as Judge Chittenden's, on the La
Belle,' they said; 'then, if you are not able to go farther, deliver
them into the hands of a crippled Confederate soldier there, by the name
of Mark Grafton.' I can go no farther. The hand of Death is already on
me. You will find the dispatches sewed in the lining of my coat. Take
them and deliver them into the hands of General Hindman."
"To Hindman!" gasped Mark.
"Yes--don't fail!" whispered Dupont, as he sank back on his pillow,
exhausted. He closed his eyes; his breath came shorter and shorter, and
he soon passed away, without speaking again.
Mark stood as one confounded. A sacred trust had been committed to
him--one that took him where he never wished to go--into Arkansas. No
one except himself could realize the dangers that he would run.
When Mr. Chittenden heard of the dead man's request, he said: "Mark,
will you go? Those dispatches mean much; they may mean the redemption of
the State. But the danger--Mark, I hate to see you go."
Mark thought a moment, and then, drawing himself up to his full height,
his face set and determined, he answered: "I will go. It is a sacred
trust--it is for my country."
Mr. Chittenden and Mark searched the effects of the dead man, and found
the dispatches as stated. They also found he had about one hundred
dollars in Federal money and two thousand dollars in Confederate money
on his person. Among the papers found was a pass from General Hindman,
asking all good Confederates to aid the bearer all possible.
"No doubt Dupont was a trusty spy for General Hindman," said Mr.
Chittenden. "Mark, you are stepping into dangerous shoes; yet, if you
were my son, I should bid you go. As for the money, keep that; no doubt
it was given Dupont for expenses, and you are now in his place."
Mark's preparations were soon made, but the roll which he strapped
behind his saddle was much larger than he generally took. When he was
ready, he sought Grace, to say good-bye. She was not in the house, and
knew nothing of what had taken place.
He sought her in her favorite nook by the side of the La Belle, and
there he found her gazing pensively into the water. Mark thought there
was a look of sadness on her face. She looked up in surprise as he rode
up.
"Going away so soon?" she asked.
Dismounting, Mark hitched his horse, and, going up to her, said: "Yes,
Grace, I am going again, and on one of the most dangerous missions I
ever undertook. I have come to say good-bye. If I never see you again,
God bless you!"
The girl turned pale. "Why go, Mark, if it is so dangerous?"
"It is my duty."
"Mark, don't go!" Tears were gathering in her eyes.
He looked at her, his whole face eloquent with love. All the resolutions
he had made were forgotten.
"Grace, I must say what I have told myself a thousand times I would
never say. Grace, I love you--love you better than I do my own soul, and
because I so love you, it is better that I go away and never return."
"I don't understand," she murmured. "You said things the other day I
didn't understand, and you made me angry."
"Grace, you are fit to reign a queen in some palace. I am poor and
unknown. But it is not my poverty that has kept me from declaring my
love. It is because I am unworthy of you--because I have deceived you in
some things. Grace, I am not worthy to kiss the earth you tread on."
A death-like pallor came over the face of the girl. "Mark, for the love
of Heaven, tell me--tell me! Are you married, or have you committed some
heinous crime?"
"Married! Why, Grace, I never thought of love until I saw you. I knew
not what love was. Neither am I a criminal. Things are done in war that
would be criminal in times of peace."
"Then why do you say you are so unworthy? Mark, it's that terrible
secret you are keeping from me! Mark, tell me what it is?" She put her
hands on his shoulders, looking yearningly in his face.
Mark Grafton shook like a leaf. "Grace! Grace!" he cried, "don't tempt
me! You know not what you ask."
"Then you refuse to tell me?" She had taken her hands from his
shoulders; there was an angry flush on her cheeks.
"I can't, Grace! Oh, God! if I could!"
"Go!" she said. "For once, you have told the truth, when you said you
were not worthy of me. All the rest you have said are lies--lies. You
love me, you say, better than your own soul, and yet you refuse to tell
me what it is that would keep me from you. If you loved me, you would
trust me, confide in me. By your actions you have shown yourself
unworthy of the love of any true woman. I have loved you as a
sister--nothing more--but even that love is gone now. Go! I never want
to see you again," and she turned from him.
A moment Mark stood; then he said, gently: "Grace, good-bye. It is best
that you feel as you do, for I now know that it is only I who will
suffer. I love you, Grace, and always will, but it will be a pure, a
holy love. Nothing you can say or do can take from me the blessed
privilege of loving you. Grace, will you not say good-bye?" No answer.
Mark turned wearily, and mounted his horse. As the sound of the horse's
hoofs came to her, Grace started as if from a dream. She looked. He was
already riding away. She rushed toward him, with outstretched arms.
"Mark! Mark! Come back!" she cried. "It was I that lied. I love you! I
love you!"
He did not hear, or, if he heard, did not heed, for he rode on without
looking back. She watched until he had disappeared in the distance;
then, pressing her hands to her heart, sank down. The wind rustled
through the trees, and sent a shower of withered leaves down upon her.
"Like my hopes," she murmured, "withered and dying; yet, even in death,
they are beautiful!"
She noticed the imprint of Mark's foot where he had stood when he
declared his love. A leaf, all orange and gold, with a splash of red in
the center, had fallen and half concealed the imprint. She stooped and
picked it up.
"He said he was not worthy to kiss the earth on which I tread," she
whispered, and she pressed the leaf to her lips; then, with a shudder,
she threw it from her, for she noticed her lips had touched the splash
of red, which to her looked like blood.