Part 47 (2/2)
”Think of you?” he repeated. ”Why, the same as I have always done--that you are an upright, honest woman. Neither blame nor dishonour attaches to you. When he left you so cruelly, you bore your sorrow bravely, thinking, no doubt, that some day he might return and make you happy.
Was not that so?”
She nodded an affirmative. Her gaze was fixed thoughtfully on the canvas which stood on an easel behind him; her slim, white hands were crossed in front of her.
”Since we parted,” she said, in a strained, broken voice, as if speaking to herself, ”he has been uppermost in my thoughts. Often when I have been alone, indulging in dreamy musings, I have looked up and seemed to see him standing contemplating me. Then all the regret has fled from my heart, and paradise has stolen in. He has spoken to me, smiled at me, as he did in those pleasant days when first we knew each other. Yet next moment the vision would fade before my eyes, and I have found myself deceived by a mere chimera, tricked by an idle fancy. But now he is dead: gone from me never to return--never.”
And she again gave way to tears, sobbing bitterly.
”Come, come, Dolly,” said the artist, again pa.s.sing his hand lightly over her hair, endeavouring to soothe her; ”don't be downhearted. Yours is a cruel and heavy sorrow, I know; but try to bear up against it, try to think that perhaps, as you suggested, he is not dead. Even if you have lost your lover, you have in me a true and trusted friend.”
”Yes, I know,” she sobbed brokenly. ”You are my only friend. It is extremely kind of you to talk like this; yet you cannot know the extent of my love for him.”
”I quite realise how much you cared for him,” he said slowly, in a pained voice. ”If he had married you, his life would have been peaceful and happy. Fate, however, decreed different, and, that being the case, you must try to forget him.”
”Forget him! Never!” she cried. Then recovering herself, she added: ”Excuse what I say; I hardly know what I've been telling you.”
”Whatever has pa.s.sed between us will always be kept secret,” he a.s.sured her.
”Ah! I feel sure you will tell no one; you are always loyal to a woman.”
”Now, promise to think less about him,” he urged, looking down into her grief-stricken face.
”I cannot,” she replied firmly. ”Somehow, I don't believe that he is dead. I shall endeavour to clear up the mystery and ascertain the truth.”
”And I will render you what a.s.sistance I can. Count upon my help,” he said enthusiastically. ”We'll get at the real facts somehow or other.”
”You are very kind,” she answered, drying her tears, and putting on her veil before the mirror. ”I have a terrible headache, and am fit for nothing to-day, so I'll go home.”
To this proposal the artist offered no objection. Her inconsolable grief pained him, and he wanted to be alone to think; so, grasping her hand warmly, he again urged her to bear up under her burden, and watched her walk slowly out, with bowed head and uneven steps.
CHAPTER THIRTY.
THE ENGLISHMAN OF THE BOULEVARD HAUSSMANN.
A calm, boundless waste of sunlit sea. Three men, haggard, blear-eyed, and staring, sat in dejected att.i.tudes in a small, open boat. The blazing noonday sun beat down mercilessly upon their uncovered heads, reflecting from the water's unruffled surface, blinding them by its intense glare.
There was not the faintest breath of wind, not a speck upon the clearly-defined horizon--nothing but the wide, brilliant expanse of the Pacific. Long ago all hope of rescue had been abandoned. One of the ragged, unkempt trio was lashed tightly to the thwarts for, having slaked his thirst with sea water, he had developed insanity, and his companions had bound him fast where he sat, wide-eyed and dishevelled, giving vent at frequent intervals to the drivel of an idiot, plentifully punctuated with horrible imprecations.
The two others, thin-faced, careworn, and anxious, sat silent, motionless, in blank, unutterable despair. Ever and anon their aching, bloodshot eyes wandered wearily around in search of a pa.s.sing sail, but never once had a mast been sighted, for they were out of the track of the s.h.i.+ps. In dress each bore a resemblance to the other, inasmuch as numbers were painted conspicuously on their backs, while the wrists of the one who had become demented were still in bracelets of rusted steel, although the connecting link had been broken. They were three bearded, dirty, repulsive-looking criminals, who, having been so far successful as to escape from New Caledonia, had discovered, to their dismay and horror, that their bold dash for liberty had been in vain--that they had escaped their taskmasters only to be ultimately overcome by thirst and starvation.
The heat was awful. The blazing sun parched their mouths, and set their brains aflame with fever. Though now and then they sucked the horn hilts of their knives in an endeavour to alleviate the all-consuming thirst, yet their throats were too dry to utter scarcely a syllable.
Rowing was useless, conversation was useless, hope was useless.
Abandoned to despair, they were patiently awaiting the moment when body and soul would part. They suffered most because they still remained sane.
Six days ago Hugh Trethowen and two fellow-prisoners had been told off from the labour gang to convey stones from the seash.o.r.e to a spot several miles distant, where a road was being made through the forest.
Unaccompanied by the warder, they had made several journeys with the ox-cart, when, on returning to the beach, they observed, to their surprise and satisfaction, that a boat had been run ash.o.r.e from a s.h.i.+p lying on the opposite side of the headland, and that the crew had left it, evidently proceeding inland in search of provisions.
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