Part 60 (1/2)

”What does this mean?” he cried, turning pale with anger.

”It means that he has spoken the truth, and that I shall imitate him. He is my martyr, and my love. When others cast shame on you, then it is time for me to show my heart. James Seaton, I love you for your madness and your devotion to her whom you had only seen at a distance. Ah! that was love! John Hazel, I love you for all that has pa.s.sed between us. What can any other man be to me?--or woman to you? But, most of all, I love you, Robert Penfold--my hero and my martyr. When I am told to your face that you are a felon, then to your face I say you are my idol, my hero, and my martyr. Love! the word is too tame, too common. I wors.h.i.+p you, I adore you! How beautiful you are when you are angry! How n.o.ble you are now you forgive me! for you do forgive me, Robert; you must, you shall. No; you will not send your Helen away from you for her one fault so soon repented! Show me you forgive me; show me you love me still, almost as much as I love you. He is crying. Oh, my darling, my darling, my darling!” And she was round his neck in a moment, with tears and tender kisses, the first she had ever given him.

Ask yourself whether they were returned.

A groan, or rather, we might say, a snort of fury, interrupted the most blissful moment either of these young creatures had ever known. It came from General Rolleston, now white with wrath and horror.

”You villain!” he cried.

Helen threw herself upon him, and put her hand before his mouth.

”Not a word more, or I shall forget I am your daughter. No one is to blame but I. I love him. I made him love me. He has been trying hard not to love me so much. But I am a woman; and could not deny myself the glory and the joy of being loved better than woman was ever loved before. And so I am; I am. Kill me, if you like; insult me, if you will. But not a word against him, or I give him my hand, and we live and die together on this island. Oh, papa! he has often saved that life you value so; and I have saved his. He is all the world to me. Have pity on your child. Have pity on him who carries my heart in his bosom!”

She flung herself on her knees, and strained him tight, and implored him, with head thrown back, and little clutching hands, and eloquent eyes.

Ah! it is hard to resist the voice and look and clinging of a man's own flesh and blood. Children are so strong--upon their knees. Their dear faces, bright copies of our own, are just the height of our hearts then.

The old man was staggered, was almost melted. ”Give me a moment to think,” said he, in a broken voice. ”This blow takes my breath away.”

Helen rose, and laid her head upon her father's shoulder, and still pleaded for her love by her soft touch and her tears that now flowed freely.

He turned to Penfold with all the dignity of age and station. ”Mr.

Penfold,” said he, with grave politeness, ”after what my daughter has said, I must treat you as a man of honor, or I must insult her. Well, then, I expect you to show me you are what she thinks you, and are not what a court of justice has proclaimed you. Sir, this young lady is engaged with her own free will to a gentleman who is universally esteemed, and has never been accused _to his face_ of any unworthy act.

Relying on her plighted word, the Wardlaws have fitted out a steamer and searched the Pacific, and found her. Can you, as a man of honor, advise her to stay here and compromise her own honor in every way? Ought she to break faith with her betrothed on account of vague accusations made behind his back?”

”It was only in self-defense I accused Mr. Arthur Wardlaw,” said Robert Penfold.

General Rolleston resumed:

”You said just now there are accusations which soil a man. If you were in my place, would you let your daughter marry a man of honor, who had unfortunately been found guilty of a felony?”

Robert groaned and hesitated, but he said, ”No.”

”Then what is to be done? She must either keep her plighted word, or else break it. For whom? For a gentleman she esteems and loves, but cannot marry. A leper may be a saint; but I would rather bury my child than marry her to a leper. A convict may be a saint; but I'll kill her with my own hand sooner than she shall marry a convict. And in your heart and conscience you cannot blame me. Were you a father, you would do the same.

What then remains for her and me but to keep faith? and what can you do better than leave her, and carry away her everlasting esteem and her father's grat.i.tude? It is no use being good by halves, or bad by halves.

You must either be a selfish villain, and urge her to abandon all shame, and live here on this island with you forever, or you must be a brave and honest man, and bow to a parting that is inevitable. Consider, sir; your eloquence and her pity have betrayed this young lady into a confession that separates you. Her enforced residence here with you has been innocent. It would be innocent no longer, now she has been so mad as to own she loves you. And I tell you frankly, if, after that confession, you insist on going on board the steamer with her, I must take you; humanity requires it; but, if I do, I shall hand you over to the law as a convict escaped before his time. Perhaps I ought to do so as it is; but that is not certain; I don't know to what country this island belongs. I may have no right to capture you in strange dominions; but an English s.h.i.+p is England--and if you set foot on the _Springbok_ you are lost. Now, then, you are a man of honor; you love my child truly, and not selfishly--you have behaved n.o.bly until to-day; go one step farther on the right road; call worldly honor and the G.o.d whose vows you have taken, sir, to your aid, and do your duty.”

”Oh, man, man!” cried Robert Penfold, ”you ask more of me than flesh and blood can bear. What shall I say? What shall I do?”

Helen replied, calmly: ”Take my hand, and let us die together, since we cannot live together with honor.”

General Rolleston groaned. ”For this, then, I have traversed one ocean, and searched another, and found my child. I am nothing to her--nothing.

Oh, who would be a father!”

He sat down oppressed with shame and grief, and bowed his stately head in manly but pathetic silence.

”Oh, papa, papa!” cried Helen, ”forgive your ungrateful child!” And she kneeled and sobbed, with her forehead on his knees.