Part 24 (1/2)
As Rose spoke, he obeyed her like a dumb animal; love for her was stronger even than the instinct of self-preservation, and for her sake he fought against the treacherous lethargy which was swiftly overpowering him. The sail was lowered, the boat brought round, and with little help from the ill-pulled oars, it drifted rapidly out to sea with the ebbing tide.
As she caught her breath after this dangerous manuvre was accomplished, Rose asked, in a quiet tone, she vainly tried to render natural: ”How much hasheesh did you take?”
”All that Meredith threw me. Too much; but I was possessed to do it, so I hid the roll and tried it,” he answered, peering at her with a weird laugh.
”Let us talk; our safety lies in keeping awake, and I dare not let you sleep,” continued Rose, das.h.i.+ng water on her own hot forehead with a sort of desperation.
”Say you love me; that would wake me from my lost sleep, I think. I have hoped and feared, waited and suffered so long. Be pitiful, and answer, Rose.”
”I do; but I should not own it now.”
So low was the soft reply, he scarcely heard it, but he felt it, and made a strong effort to break from the hateful spell that bound him. Leaning forward, he tried to read her face in a ray of moonlight breaking through the clouds: he saw a new and tender warmth in it, for all the pride was gone, and no fear marred the eloquence of those soft, Southern eyes.
”Kiss me, Rose, then I shall believe it. I feel lost in a dream, and you, so changed, so kind, may be only a fair phantom. Kiss me, love, and make it real.”
As if swayed by a power more potent than her will, Rose bent to meet his lips. But the ardent pressure seemed to startle her from a momentary oblivion of everything but love. She covered up her face, and sank down, as if overwhelmed with shame, sobbing through pa.s.sionate tears: ”Oh, what am I doing? I am mad, for I, too, have taken hasheesh.”
What he answered she never heard, for a rattling peal of thunder drowned his voice, and then the storm broke loose. Rain fell in torrents, the wind blew fiercely, sky and sea were black as ink, and the boat tossed from wave to wave almost at their mercy. Giving herself up for lost, Rose crept to her lover's side and clung there, conscious only that they would bide together through the perils their own folly brought them. Done's excitement was quite gone now; he sat like a statue, s.h.i.+elding the frail creature whom he loved, with a smile on his face, which looked awfully emotionless when the lightning gave her glimpses of its white immobility. Drenched, exhausted, and half senseless with danger, fear and exposure, Rose saw at last a welcome glimmer through the gloom, and roused herself to cry for help.
”Mark, wake and help me! Shout, for G.o.d's sake-shout and call them, for we are lost if we drift by!” she cried, lifting his head from his breast, and forcing him to see the brilliant beacons streaming far across the troubled water.
He understood her, and springing up, uttered shout after shout, like one demented. Fortunately, the storm had lulled a little; the lighthouse-keeper heard and answered. Rose seized the helm, Done the oars, and with one frantic effort, guided the boat into quieter waters, where it was met by the keeper, who towed it to the rocky nook which served as harbor.
The moment a strong, steady face met her eyes, and a gruff, cheery voice hailed her, Rose gave way, and was carried up to the house, looking more like a beautiful drowned Ophelia than a living woman.
”Here, Sally, see to the poor thing; she's had a rough time on't. I'll take care of her sweetheart-and a nice job I'll have, I reckon, for if he ain't mad or drunk, he's had a stroke of lightenin, and looks as if he wouldn't get his hearin' in a hurry,” said the old man, as he housed his unexpected guests, and stood staring at Done, who looked about him like one dazed. ”You jest turn in yonder and sleep it off, mate. We'll see to the lady, and right up your boat in the morning,” the old man added.
”Be kind to Rose. I frightened her. I'll not forget you. Yes, let me sleep and get over this cursed folly as soon as possible,” muttered this strange visitor.
Done threw himself down on the rough couch and tried to sleep, but every nerve was overstrained, every pulse beating like a trip-hammer, and everything about him was intensified and exaggerated with awful power. The thunder-shower seemed a wild hurricane, the quaint room a wilderness peopled with tormenting phantoms, and all the events of his life pa.s.sed before him in an endless procession, which nearly maddened him. The old man looked weird and gigantic, his own voice sounded shrill and discordant, and the ceaseless murmur of Rose's incoherent wanderings haunted him like parts of a grotesque but dreadful dream.
All night he lay motionless, with staring eyes, feverish lips, and a mind on the rack, for the delicate machinery which had been tampered with, revenged the wrong by torturing the foolish experimenter. All night Rose wept and sung, talked and cried for help in a piteous state of nervous excitement, for with her the trance came first, and the after-agitation was increased by the events of the evening. She slept at last, lulled by the old woman's motherly care, and Done was spared one tormenting fear, for he dreaded the consequences of this folly on her, more than upon himself.
As day dawned he rose, haggard and faint, and staggered out. At the door he met the keeper, who stopped him to report that the boat was in order, and a fair day coming. Seeing doubt and perplexity in the old man's eye, Done told him the truth, and added that he was going to the beach for a plunge, hoping by that simple tonic to restore his unstrung nerves.
He came back feeling like himself again, except a dull headache, and a heavy sense of remorse weighing on his spirits, for he distinctly recollected all the events of the night. The old woman made him eat and drink, and in an hour he felt ready for the homeward trip.
Rose slept late, and when she woke, soon recovered herself, for her dose had been a small one. When she had breakfasted and made a hasty toilet, she professed herself anxious to return at once. She dreaded, yet longed to see Done, and when the time came, armed herself with pride, feeling all a woman's shame at what had pa.s.sed, and resolving to feign forgetfulness of the incidents of the previous night. Pale and cold as a statue she met him, but the moment he began to say, humbly, ”Forgive me, Rose,” she silenced him with an imperious gesture and the command: ”Don't speak of it; I only remember that it was very horrible, and wish to forget it all as soon as possible.”
”All, Rose?” he asked, significantly.
”Yes, all. No one would care to recall the follies of a hasheesh dream,” she answered, turning hastily to hide the scarlet flush that would rise, and the eyes that would fall before his own.
”I never can forget, but I will be silent if you bid me.”
”I do. Let us go. What will they think at the island? Mr. Done, give me your promise to tell no one, now or ever, that I tried that dangerous experiment. I will guard your secret also.” She spoke eagerly, and looked up imploringly.
”I promise,” and he gave her his hand, holding her own with a wistful glance, till she drew it away, and begged him to take her home.
Leaving hearty thanks and a generous token of their grat.i.tude, they sailed away with a fair wind, finding in the freshness of the morning a speedy cure for tired bodies and excited minds. They said little, but it was impossible for Rose to preserve her coldness. The memory of the past night broke down her pride, and Done's tender glances touched her heart. She half hid her face behind her hand, and tried to compose herself for the scene to come, for, as she approached the island, she saw Belle and her party waiting for them on the sh.o.r.e.
”Oh, Mr. Done, screen me from their eyes and questions as much as you can! I'm so worn out and nervous, I shall betray myself. You will help me?” and she turned to him with a confiding look, strangely at variance with her usual calm self-possession.
”I'll s.h.i.+eld you with my life, if you will tell me why you took the hasheesh,” he said, bent on knowing his fate.
”I hoped it would make me soft and lovable, like other women. I'm tired of being a lonely statue,” she faltered, as if the truth was wrung from her by a power stronger than her will.
”And I took it to gain courage to tell my love. Rose, we have been near death together; let us share life together, and neither of us be any more lonely or afraid.”
He stretched his hand to her with his heart in his face, and she gave him hers with a look of tender submission, as he said, ardently: ”Heaven bless hasheesh, if its dreams end like this!”
Love and Self-Love
Editor's Note:Alcott wrote her thrillers from many different perspectives, including those of the bet bitter shame, Sir, and the memory of it will rise up before him when he comes to lie where I am lying now.”
”And you have kept the girl safe in the shelter of your honest home all these years? Heaven will remember that, and in the great record of good deeds will set the name of Adam Lyndsay far below that of poor Jean Burns,” I said, pressing the thin hand that had succored the orphan in her need.
But Jean took no honor to herself for that charity, and answered simply to my words of commendation.
”Sir, her mother was my foster-child; and when she left that stern old man for love of Walter Home, I went, too, for love of her. Ah, dear heart! she had sore need of me in the weary wanderings which ended only when she lay down by her dead husband's side and left her bairn to me. Then I came here to cherish her among kind souls where I was born; and here she has grown up, an innocent young thing, safe from the wicked world, the comfort of my life, and the one thing I grieve at leaving when the time that is drawing very near shall come.”
”Would not an appeal to Mr. Lyndsay reach him now, think you? Might not Effie go to him herself? Surely, the sight of such a winsome creature would touch his heart, however hard.”
But Jean rose up in her bed, crying, almost fiercely- ”No, Sir! no! My child shall never go to beg a shelter in that hard man's house. I know too well the cold looks, the cruel words, that would sting her high spirit and try her heart, as they did her mother's. No, Sir-rather than that, she shall go with Lady Gower.”
”Lady Gower? What has she to do with Effie, Jean?” I asked, with increasing interest.
”She will take Effie as her maid, Sir. A hard life for my child! but what can I do?” And Jean's keen glance seemed trying to read mine.
”A waiting-maid? Heaven forbid!” I e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed, as a vision of that haughty lady and her three wild sons swept through my mind.
I rose, paced the room in silence for a little time, then took a sudden resolution, and, turning to the bed, exclaimed- ”Jean, I will adopt Effie. I am old enough to be her father; and she shall never feel the want of one, if you will give her to my care.”
To my surprise, Jean's eager face wore a look of disappointment as she listened, and with a sigh replied- ”That's a kind thought, Sir, and a generous one; but it cannot be as you wish. You may be twice her age, but still too young for that. How could Effie look into that face of yours, so bonnie, Sir, for all it is so grave, and, seeing never a wrinkle on the forehead, nor a white hair among the black, how could she call you father? No, it will not do, though so kindly meant. Your friends would laugh at you, Sir, and idle tongues might speak ill of my bairn.”
”Then what can I do, Jean?” I asked, regretfully.
”Make her your wife, Sir.”
I turned sharply and stared at the woman, as her abrupt reply reached my ear. Though trembling for the consequences of her boldly spoken wish, Jean did not shrink from my astonished gaze; and when I saw the wistfulness of that wan face, the smile died on my lips, checked by the tender courage which had prompted the utterance of her dying hope.
”My good Jean, you forget that Effie is a child, and I a moody, solitary man, with no gifts to win a wife or make home happy.”
”Effie is sixteen, Sir-a fair, good la.s.sie for her years; and you-ah, Sir, you may call yourself unfit for wife and home, but the poorest, saddest creature in this place knows that the man whose hand is always open, whose heart is always pitiful, is not the one to live alone, but to win and to deserve a happy home and a true wife. Oh, Sir, forgive me, if I have been too bold; but my time is short, and I love my child so well, I cannot leave the desire of my heart unspoken, for it is my last.”
As the words fell brokenly from her lips, and tears streamed down her pallid cheek, a great pity took possession of me, the old longing to find some solace for my solitary life returned again, and peace seemed to smile on me from little Effie's eyes.