Another fortnight passed and still no sign from the great wide world beyond the seas. The days came and went with monotonous regularity. According to the notches on Grace's shell calendar, which she had made carefully with each rising and setting of the sun, they were now well on toward the end of September. Three long months had gone by since that terrible night when the hurricane drove the ill-fatedAtlantaon the reef.
Would a ship never come? This question Grace had asked herself almost hourly until gradually the belief came firmly rooted in her mind that they would never be rescued, that she was doomed to spend the rest of her life in this unknown, out of the way island, her grief-stricken parents believing that she had been drowned when theAtlantawent down. If any of the survivors reached land, as she supposed some of them did, the news would have been instantly cabled to America, and her namewould be listed among the missing. No doubt her father had long given her up for dead. It would never occur for him to come in search of her. Nor was there much chance of a passing vessel ever seeing the smoke from the signal-fire. As Armitage had said, they were probably hundreds of miles out of the shipping track. In all probability no human being had ever set foot on that islet before.
Yet she never quite lost courage. Each day she made her weary pilgrimage to the summit of Mount Hope and eagerly scanned the horizon. Only disappointment awaited her. There was never anything in sight to bring joy to her heart.
They kept the big signal-fire going just the same. Night and day it burned, sending its flaming message of distress over the vast waste of heaving waters. It was never permitted to die down. Fresh fuel was piled on until the flames leaped high in the air or the thick black smoke went curling up in a long, straight column to the sky. Either the smoke or the blaze must be seen miles away at sea. Any moment some ship might turn out of her course and come to investigate.
Otherwise they seldom discussed the chances of rescue. By mutual consent it seemed to be a tabooed topic. Armitage never failed in his self-appointed task; he kept the fire going with a plentiful supply of driftwood, but that was all. He never voluntarily mentioned the signal-fire or the prospects of getting away, and intuitively she knew that it was a subject that was distasteful to him. If he took the pains to keep up the fire, he did it for her sake. She understood that, and she was mutely grateful to him for it. In return, she was considerate for his feelings. She avoided speaking of her desire for a ship to arrive. Occupied with their daily tasks, they never broached the subject. When he went up the hill to attend to the fire he was always alone, and she tactfully selected a time when he was occupied about the encampment to make her daily climb to Mount Hope.
What if help did not come? Could they—he and she—go on forever living together like this? She was an intelligent girl. She knew that the present relations between herself and Armitage were artificial, and based wholly upon the conventions of organizedsociety. But they were unnatural relations, contrary to the laws of nature. In her heart she knew that she cared more for this strange, silent man than she dared to admit. Yes, he was the man of her day-dreams, the man she had waited for, the man she could love. She did not ask what he had been. She only knew him as he was. She loved him for what he was. He was poor, he was not what the world calls of gentle birth, yet he had qualities that in her eyes raised him above all men more favored by fortune. He was one of nature's noblemen. Some great secret sorrow had wrecked his life, but it had not taken from him his sweetness of character, his beauty of face and mind, his manly courage, his courtesy to a lonely, helpless woman. She loved the rich tones of his voice, the sad, wistful gaze in his fine eyes when they looked silently into hers. She knew of what he was thinking. She knew the dread that was on his heart—the dread of a misfortune a hundred times worse than any that had yet embittered his life. The dread that one day, sooner or later, the ship would come to carryaway from him forever the woman who had once more made life seem worth living.
One morning Grace was sitting sewing, deftly plying the fish-bone needle which Armitage had made for her. She was making a desperate effort to patch up, for the hundredth time, her old battered ball-dress, which now, reduced to shreds, scarcely covered her decently. Armitage, no better off as regards attire, was stretched out on the sands near her, watching her work. It was a domestic scene. Any stranger chancing to pass that way would have taken them for a young married couple, the man evidently a fisherman, the woman, his wife, doing the household mending. A short distance away was their cabin, and on the fire close by the iron saucepan in which a savory mess was cooking for their noonday meal. Nothing was lacking to make the picture of connubial felicity complete.
Some such thought occurred to Armitage, for suddenly he blurted out:
"Do you believe in marriage?"
She looked up in surprise.
"Do I believe in marriage?" she smiled. "What a singular question. Of course I do."
"What do you understand by marriage?" he persisted.
Grace thought for a moment and then readily replied:
"Marriage is a contract entered into by a man and woman by which they become husband and wife."
Nodding assent, he went on:
"That is to say, a contract entered into between themselves?"
"Not exactly," replied Grace hesitatingly. "Rather I should say an act before a magistrate or a religious ceremony by which the legal relationship is sanctioned by the law and church."
"Then, without such act or ceremony, you would not consider a marriage binding or right?"
"No," answered Grace emphatically.
He remained silent a moment, and then he said:
"But suppose a man and a woman loved each other and wished to enter into the married state, and yet were so placed that it was impossible fortheir union to have the sanction of either the law or church, what then?"
Grace laid down her work and, shaking her head, looked gravely at her interlocutor:
"It is difficult to answer such a question offhand," she said. "I think it would depend altogether on the circumstances and chiefly on the personal views of those directly concerned. Some people scoff at marriage. Among them are many of my own sex. They regard marriage merely as a time-honored, worn out convention which really means nothing. They get married, of course, not because they believe in it as an institution, but as a matter of form, because their mothers did it before them, because it is the thing to do. But not unreasonably, they argue, that nowadays when it is so easy to obtain a divorce on the most trivial pretext, there is not much left about marriage that is sacred and binding."
He listened attentively. When she ceased speaking, he asked quietly:
"And what is your view? Do you indorse these opinions?"
"No, I do not," she replied, meeting his steadygaze frankly. "I believe in marriage. I think it is the noblest gift that civilization has bequeathed to the human race. It marks the great divide between man and the brute. More than that, it protects the woman who is, naturally, the weaker, and, above all, it protects the offspring."
"You are right," he rejoined quickly, "yet isn't it curious that man seems happiest under monogamy, which is directly contrary to nature. Man is naturally polygamous."
"Ah, but that is only brute love. It rests on nothing tangible. Like a tiny flame, it is extinguished by the first adverse breath of wind. Man thinks he is polygamous. But that is only the beast in him—the beast with which his better and higher nature is ever at war. The superior man learns to control his appetites, the baser man indulges them, and therefore is nearer to the tailed ancestry from which he originally sprang. That is not love as I understand it."
He leaned quickly forward.
"How do you understand love?" he asked, in low, eager tones.
Grace smiled, and, poutingly, she protested:
"Why do you question me in this way?"
Slightly raising himself on one hand, he drew nearer to her and looked steadily up into her face until the boldness of his gaze embarrassed her. Her cheeks reddened, and she lowered her eyes.
"What do you know about love?" he demanded hoarsely.
"Every woman knows or thinks she knows," she replied, with affected carelessness.
He was silent for a moment, and then he went on:
"Suppose a woman—say a friend of yours—loved a man, with all the strength of her heart and soul. Suppose special conditions made her legal union with that man impossible. Would you forgive her if her great love tempted her to give herself to that man, or would you insist that she should suffer and make him suffer—alone?"
She listened with averted face. Well she knew the purport of these questions. But her face remained impassive, and her voice was calm as she replied gently:
"No woman may sit in judgment over anotherwoman. No woman can tell positively what she might do under all circumstances. The temptation might be such that even a saint would succumb. That reminds me. Do you know the story of the Abbess of Jouarre?"
"No," replied Armitage; "what is it? Tell it me."
He settled down more comfortably in the sand to listen. Grace smiled, and took up her sewing again.
"It's a story that made a deep impression on me," she said. "It was during the bloodiest days of the French Revolution. On the Place de la Concorde a hundred lives were being sacrificed on the guillotine daily to appease the savage fury of the populace. Among the aristocrats sentenced to death and who awaited in the Temple prison their turn to be summoned to the scaffold was a chevalier, scion of one of the proudest families of France and an Abbess, a woman of gentle birth, both of whom had been denounced to the Revolutionary tribunal. They had known and loved each other as children, and they met in prison for the first time since the Abbess had taken her vows. Closely associated within the dungeon's grim walls they soon discoveredthat time had not killed their youthful infatuation. In the shadow of death the Abbess was willing to admit that she had loved the chevalier all these years, that she had prayed for him and carried his image in her heart. He clasped her in his arms and, pleading his unconquerable passion, he urged her to forget her vows and give herself to him. Kindly, but firmly, she withdrew from his embrace and gravely recalled him to a sense of duty. She declared that being now the affianced bride of Heaven, it was forbidden for her to even think of earthly ties or joys. But the chevalier refused to listen to reason or to calm his ardor. He insisted that such love as theirs was sacred, and that her vows to the Church did not bind her, now that she was about to die. In another few hours they would both be dead. Her duty, during the short time she had yet to live, was to yield to the promptings of her heart rather than to heed the dictates of her conscience. Their union, he said, would be a marriage before God, and after their earthly death they would be united forever in Heaven. The Abbess listened. Her great love gradually gained the mastery over her moralscruples. Her opposition weakened. The chevalier took her again in his arms."
Grace ceased speaking. Armitage, his face betraying more and more interest, waited for her to continue.
"That is not all," he said interrogatively.
Grace shook her head.
"No, now comes the tragedy of it." Continuing, she went on: "The next day the prison doors were thrown open, and brutal jailers read out the lists of names of those prisoners who that morning must ride in the fatal death-cart. Among the first summoned was the chevalier. Tenderly he bade the Abbess farewell. Death he hailed with joy, for it marked the beginning of their coming felicity in another and better world. He disappeared, and the Abbess awaited her turn. Other names were called, but hers was not among them. The jailer stopped reading and turned to depart. The Abbess tremulously asked when her hour, too, would come. The jailer answered: 'You go free—by order of the Tribunal.'"
Again Grace was silent. Armitage seemed lost in thought. Presently he said:
"And the Abbess—what became of her?"
"She had to bear her cross for her great sin. Her punishment was worse than death. Not only had she broken her vows and offended Heaven, but she was separated forever from the man to whom she had given her love. Cursed by the Church, shunned by everybody, she wandered miserably from village to village, leading by the hand a little child."
Armitage was silent for a few minutes, and then he said:
"You were reminded of this story by some remark you had previously made: What was it?"
"I said in answer to your hypothesis as to what a woman would or would not do for a man she loved, that even a saint might succumb, given certain circumstances. The Abbess was a saint. Yet she sinned."
"I don't think I would call that a sin," objected Armitage. "The real sinner was the judge who pardoned her."
"Why not the chevalier who tempted her?" rejoined Grace.
He made no answer, but remained looking steadfastly at her. Then rising abruptly to his feet, he began to pace nervously up and down the sands. His face was pale, his eyes flashed, the muscles around his mouth twitched. He gave every sign of being under an intense emotional strain. There was something to be said, and he dare not say it. It was a novelty for him to find himself lacking in courage. At any other time he would have faced a tiger about to spring; he would have looked without flinching into the muzzle of a leveled rifle. But at that instant he quailed like a craven—he dared not tell this girl that he loved her and wanted her for his wife.
He disappeared and Grace did not see him again for the remainder of that day. All afternoon she waited, expecting each moment to see him reappear. Not wishing to be away in case he suddenly returned and wanted some supper, she omitted her customary visit to Mount Hope.
At first she did not mind his long absence. Busily preoccupied with her sewing and half a dozen other tasks about the camp, the time passed so quickly that she hardly noticed it. But when darkness commenced to fall and still he did not come, she began to feel uneasy. He had not told her that he expected to be gone so long. Something must have happened. Perhaps he had met with an accident and at that very moment was lying hurt, in need of assistance. She turned hot and cold by turns at this thought. Suppose he were killed! A sudden choking sensation in her throat, a quickened beating of her heart, told her that it would be a greater misfortunethan any that had yet befallen her. If she had never fully realized it before, Grace knew now that this man had come to be part of her own life.
Night fell, with its profound silence and its mysterious sounds. Nature slept. The chirping of crickets, the croaking of frogs, the mournful sighing of the wind in the trees, the sullen splash of the waves on the sandy beach, were the only audible sounds. It was the first time that Grace had been left so long alone since they set foot on the island. In the daytime, with the sun shining, the birds singing and everything plainly visible for miles around, she did not care. But the darkness, the solemn silence, the strange inexplicable noises she heard every now and again in the wood—all this frightened her. Everything around her assumed strange, unfamiliar shapes. At one time she thought she saw some object with gleaming eyes approaching the cabin. Her flesh began to creep. Terrified, she quickly retreated inside the cabin and, barricading the door with table and chairs, crouched down by the window, straining her ears to hear some sound of Armitage.
Suppose something had happened to him! Thenshe would be quite alone, entirely defenceless. The mere thought of such an eventuality caused the blood to freeze in her veins. How could she be alone on that desert island? She would go stark, staring mad. Ah, now she knew what his companionship had meant to her. If only he would come back, she would hardly be able to resist the temptation to throw her arms round his neck. He was more necessary to her every day. No one can live without human companionship. She must have some one to talk to. Besides, every hour it dawned upon her more strongly that she loved this strange, solitary man. Even at this moment of terror it was love as much as fear that racked her heart with anxiety and anguish.
Morning was just breaking in the east when all at once he reappeared.
"Where have you been?" she asked tremulously.
She averted her eyes so he should not see that she had been weeping.
"I don't know," he answered curtly.
He seemed worn and tired. His boots were muddy, his clothes had fresh rents and stains. Helooked as if he had been tramping through the woods all night.
"Will you eat something?" she asked.
"Don't bother," he replied. "I'll get something."
"It's no trouble," she said. Going quickly to their simple larder, she put before him some cold fish and plantain cakes.
He ate ravenously, in stubborn silence. When she spoke to him, he replied in low monosyllables. His eyes seemed to avoid her searching, inquiring gaze. Once she happened to turn quietly and she caught him staring at her in a strange way. His manner somewhat intimidated her. She wondered if she could possibly have done or said something to displease him.
It grew lighter every minute, but the day promised to be gloomy. The sun was invisible behind a bank of mist, and the entire sky was overcast. It looked like rain. There was a damp chill in the air. The weather seemed in harmony with Armitage's unaccountable behavior. Grace felt chilled herself. She had a presentiment that something was about to happen. Whether it would affect her or him shedid not know, but instinct told her that danger of some kind threatened.
Something troubled her companion, that was certain. What its nature was, she could not guess. She had never seen him so moody or acting so strangely. But, unwilling to put herself in the delicate position of asking for confidence he withheld, she desisted from any further questioning, and, leaving him alone, went to her cabin. She was exhausted from her long vigil and it was not many minutes after she threw herself down on the bed before she was fast asleep.
When she awoke he was gone. He had disappeared mysteriously, just as he had the first time, without leaving a word behind or a single indication to tell where he was going, or how long he would be away. Yet he had not entirely forgotten her. He had brought a fresh supply of spring water, and before the door of her cabin she found some freshly caught fish and a new supply of plantains.
Refreshed after her sleep, Grace went cheerfully about her usual morning tasks. She tidied her cabin, took her sea bath, and prepared the noondaymeal. So busy was she that Armitage's new absence remained unnoticed. In fact, she dismissed him from her mind. If she thought of him at all it was to wonder vaguely what ailed him, and speculate idly how long his mood would last. By the time the sun was directly overhead, her work was done. Armitage not having returned, she ate her meal alone.
It was no use waiting around any longer, so she started, after dinner, for Mount Hope. For two days she had not paid her regular visit to the signal-fire. She felt a sense of guilt, as if she had neglected the one thing which alone could save her.
It was a difficult, laborious climb up the hill, and she was compelled to rest several times on the way to the summit. She looked up as she went, trying to catch a glimpse of the smoke that was announcing to the whole universe that two human beings were in need of immediate relief. She could not see the smoke, owing to the projecting rocks which hid the summit from view. At the next turn she would come in sight of it. Up and up she went, out of breath.
Every now and then she halted and looked back.At this height, fully 500 feet above the sea, she commanded a superb view of the entire island. A few barren rocks connected by grassy and thickly wooded plateaus, it made but a speck on the surface of the wide ocean. Below, under the shelter of the tall cliffs, she saw their two cabins nestling under the trees. Thinking she might catch a glimpse of Armitage, she strained her eyes in every direction. But he was nowhere to be seen. There was not a sign of life anywhere. Not a human voice, not the bark of a dog. Even the birds were dumb. Perfect stillness reigned, as in the habitation of the dead.
Never so well as now had she realized their complete isolation. Her heart sank. Even if a vessel passed, how could she hope that an islet as small as this would be noticed? A sailing-master would not think for a minute that it harbored survivors of a shipwreck. Their only chance of attracting attention was the signal-fire.
"Thank God," she murmured, "that we had the means to light a fire. It has never been allowed to go out. Night and day it sends out its wireless message for aid!"
She resumed her climb and presently reached the summit. Only another turn in the road and she would come in sight of the huge bonfire, blazing and crackling as it sent its message of distress far out to sea. Impatient to see it, she hastened her steps, almost running, in her anxiety to get there. Round the bend she went until, breathless, she emerged on the broad plateau.
Suddenly she stopped and turned pale. Could she have mistaken the road? No, this was the place. But where was the signal-fire? The spot where it had burned night and day all these weeks was plainly visible. The grass and ground all around was charred and blackened by the flames, but of the fire itself nothing remained. Some giant strength had wreaked its fury upon it, scattered the glowing embers right and left, drowned it out with water. The signal-fire was extinguished!
Pale and trembling, Grace stood rooted to the ground, trying to understand. Who had done this? Why had he done it? Of course, only one person could have done it. Was this the explanation of Armitage's long absence the previous night? Whyhad he scattered and drowned out their signal-fire?
Her face flushed with anger. Her apprehension gave place to indignation. By what right had he presumed to take this step? If he were willing to sacrifice himself, what right had he to sacrifice her?
Turning on her steps, she hastened down the hill and soon reached their encampment. He was there to greet her, standing with folded arms, silent, as if he knew where she had been and was awaiting the first outburst of her reproaches and anger.
"The fire is out!" she cried, as she came within speaking distance.
"I know," he answered stolidly. His face was expressionless, not a muscle moved. An observer might have mistaken him for a figure cast in bronze.
"How did it go out?" demanded Grace, trying to control herself.
Still he made no answer.
"How did it go out?" she repeated. "Did you put it out?"
Armitage nodded. Then, with a defiant toss of his head, he said:
"Yes—I put it out."
Grace stared at him in utter astonishment, scarcely able to believe her ears. She was so overwrought with indignation that everything seemed to swim before her eyes. She felt weak and faint. Fearing that she would fall, she leaned against a tree for support.
"You put it out! You put it out!" she gasped. "Why—tell me why."
He shrugged his shoulders, and for a moment made no answer. Then, with eyes averted from hers, he said in a low tone:
"What's the use of letting it burn any longer? Nobody will see it if it burns till doomsday. It might burn on forever, till there was no more wood left on the island to feed it with, and still you'd be here eating your heart out waiting for help that would never come. It was labor thrown away."
Unable to control herself any longer, Grace burst out passionately, almost hysterically.
"So that is it? Because it was hard work, you sacrifice me! Because you prefer this idle, savage existence to the hard life you used to lead, you do not wish to get away. I must spend here my youth, the rest of my days because this sort of life pleases you. And you don't hesitate to destroy my only chance of relief because it suits you. How dare you! I thought you were a man. I was mistaken. A true man would not take advantage of a helpless woman's misfortune to further his own selfish interests.You are free to stay in this lonely spot if you choose, but I will not. I refuse to sacrifice myself. I will go away in spite of you. I don't know how, but I will find some way, and when I get back among my friends I shall tell them how a man treated a poor defenceless girl."
He made a step toward her, as if about to say something, when she retreated and exclaimed:
"Don't come near me!" she cried, almost hysterically. "I hate you. I won't let you address me again until that fire is lighted."
She sank down on the stump of a tree and, burying her face in her hands, gave way, womanlike, to a torrent of tears. When the hysterical spell had passed, he was still standing humbly before her, looking down at her, with a sad, set expression on his face.
"Won't you listen to me?" he said.
"I won't listen to anything until you have lighted the fire once more," was her stubborn reply.
Overhead the sun suddenly broke through the heavy gray clouds. The mists slowly lifted. Once more land and water were bathed in a flood of cheeringsunshine. Grace's moods were mercurial. All that morning she had been particularly depressed because of the weather. As Nature put on a fairer garb, her spirits rose. She now felt sorry she had spoken so harshly to him. At least, she might have given him a chance to explain.
"Won't you listen?" he asked again.
He spoke pleadingly, without anger, the rich tones of his voice trembling with suppressed emotion. Standing bareheaded, the sun falling full on his tanned face and neck, he looked strikingly handsome.
"Why did you extinguish the fire?" she demanded again in a low and more conciliatory tone.
Leaning over toward her, he said:
"Can't you guess the real reason?"
"Because of the trouble—you said as much."
He shook his head and there was a note of reproach in his voice as he replied:
"You don't think that is the reason. You ought to know that I should consider no task too irksome if it would add to your happiness."
He spoke so earnestly that Grace looked up at him in surprise. What did he mean? His eyesmet hers without flinching. He was silent. She saw he wanted to say something and hesitated. She knew not why, but there was something disturbing in this man's silent, persistent gaze.
"What is the real reason?" she murmured, at last.
"Can't you guess?" he demanded hoarsely.
"No," she replied, outwardly calm, but with misgivings within.
"Because I love you!" he cried passionately.
He sprang eagerly forward, as if about to take her in his arms. Grace, startled, fell back.
"You love me?" she repeated mechanically.
"Yes, I love you—I love you!" he repeated wildly. "Haven't you seen it, haven't you felt it all along?"
The color fled from her cheeks. Her lips trembled. The crucial moment which she had dreaded had arrived at last.
"If you love me," she said, with a forced smile, "you have a curious way of showing it. You know that all my hopes centered on that signal-fire, and yet wilfully, deliberately, you destroyed it. If you love me, why did you do that?"
"Because," he said in a hoarse whisper, "I wasafraid that some ship might see the blaze and come and take you away. I love you so much that I'd stop at nothing. You are the first woman I've ever loved. You don't know what that means to me. When a man of my age loves for the first time, the force of his passion frightens him. These last two days and nights I have purposely avoided you. I have tried to control and master myself. I have tried to forget you, to banish you from my thoughts. All last night I tramped through the woods, trying to persuade myself that it was an impossible dream, that such happiness could never befall such a poor devil as I. But I could not—I could not. In each tree I saw your dear face, in every sigh of the wind I heard the plaintive sounds of your sweet voice. Then, suddenly, I caught sight of the blaze on that hill. Instantly I felt it was my enemy. I knew that if a ship came I would lose you. I realized that it would mean the end of my happiness. Maddened by the thought, I was seized by a sudden fury. I ran all the way up to the top of the hill and trampled it out. Can't you understand that I don't want to lose you, that I don't want you to go?"
Grace listened, her face flushed. When he ceased speaking, she said gently:
"Any woman would feel pleased and honored at what you say. You have been very kind to me. I shall never forget what I owe you. I am deeply grateful. I shall always remember you." Hesitatingly she added: "It may be that you are right—that a ship will never come—what then? What do you want me to do?"
"To—to be my wife!" he replied quickly and eagerly.
Grace gasped. She was not without a sense of humor and the incongruity of the situation was at once apparent to her. Really he went too far. He was making her a serious proposal of marriage. This sailor, fireman, stoker, or whatever he might be, was actually asking the heiress to millions, one of the prizes of New York's matrimonial market—to be his wife! It was too absurd. Only the grave, pleading expression in Armitage's face deterred her from laughing outright. If any of her set in New York heard of it, they would chaff her without mercy.
"How handsome he is!" she murmured to herself as she looked at him. "What a pity we are not social equals!"
She was sorry for him, of course, but it would be kinder if she put him at once in his place and made him understand the hopelessness of his position.
"Do you hear?" he said hoarsely, his voice quivering from suppressed emotion. "I want you—I want you to be my wife!"
Grace drew herself up with the air of offended dignity of a queen hurt in her pride. Her gown was in tatters, her lovely hair hung loose over her snow-white shoulders. With her cheeks slightly flushed and her large dark eyes dilated and more lustrous from excitement, never had she appeared to him more beautiful or desirable. Like a trembling felon at the dock waiting to hear the judge pronounce his fate, Armitage waited for her answer.
"Your wife?" she replied not unkindly. "Do you know what I am, do you realize what position I hold in society? Don't you know that my father is one of America's kings of finance, that his fortune is twenty millions, and that our winter and summerhomes are among the show-places of Fifth Avenue and Newport? Don't you know that I spend $10,000 a year on my dress, that I have a dozen servants to run at my call, that my carriages, my horses, gowns and jewels furnish endless material for the society reporters of the yellow journals? Men have proposed to me—men of means, men of my own class. I refused them all because they hadn't money enough." With a scornful toss of her head, she added: "I despise a husband who looks to his wife for support."
Armitage had listened patiently until now, but her last words aroused him. Suddenly interrupting her, he broke in:
"You refused them not because they weren't rich enough, but because you didn't love them. You can't deceive me. I haven't watched and studied you all these weeks for nothing. You aren't as shallow and heartless as you pretend. You are too intelligent to find pleasure in Society's inane pastimes. You admitted to me yourself that something seemed lacking in your life. Shall I tell you what it is?"
He advanced closer and, looking fixedly at her, went on:
"I can read the secret in your beautiful eyes—the windows of your soul. Shall I tell you what your heart desires? You are love-hungry. Your whole being cries out for love. Not the infamous traffic in flesh and honor which receives the blessing of fashionable churches, but the pure, true, unselfish, ideal love that thrills a man and woman under God's free sky. What good are your father's millions here? What do I care about your houses, your gowns and your jewels? Here, stripped of everything but your own sweet lovable nature, you are only a woman—a woman I love and want to call mine own."
His voice held her spellbound. The tone of authority in his words weakened her will-power. His ardent eyes, looking tenderly into hers, fascinated her. She felt that the odds were fearfully against her. It required all her moral strength to resist his pleading, yet there was nothing here to which she could cling. At home, in New York, she could take refuge behind a hundred excuses. The polite conventionsof society would lend her support. But here alone on this lonely island with this man whom she knew in her heart she loved, this man who insisted on frank explanations, straightforward answers, the odds were fearfully against her. She felt herself weakening.
"Please don't," she murmured confusedly. "It's utterly impossible. Don't you see how impossible it is—even if I did care for you? In a short time a ship will come. We shall be taken off. We shall go back to New York. Each of us will resume the old life, and this adventure will be only a memory."
Armitage laughed cynically, and he made a gesture of impatience. His manner suddenly changed. He assumed the old tone of superiority which she had noticed when they first landed on the island.
"Don't deceive yourself," he said abruptly. "Some day things must be understood as they are, and it might just as well be now."
He stopped and looked at her strangely.
"What do you mean?" demanded Grace uneasily.
"I mean," he went on slowly, "that no ship willcome. We shall never go back. The rest of our days must be spent here together."
He spoke with such authority, such conviction, that Grace felt that he had good grounds for what he said. Her face paled and a feeling of faintness came over her.
"How do you know?" she demanded, with tears in her eyes.
"I've known it all along," he replied.
"But didn't you say that whaling-vessels made these waters their fishing-grounds?" she persisted.
"I lied," he answered frankly. "I was sorry for you, so I invented that fiction."
"Then, the signal-fire was useless!" she cried, almost hysterical.
He nodded.
"Yes—utterly useless. I kept it up only to please you. There isn't one chance in a thousand of it ever being seen. You had to be told the truth some time."
Grace stood listening to him, completely overwhelmed, as if in a trance. In these few brief moments he had destroyed every hope which she hadnourished for weeks. All her watching and waiting and praying had been in vain. She was doomed to spend the rest of her days on this lonely island—with him! Her head seemed in a whirl. She felt dizzy and faint. Then she tried to collect her thoughts to reason it out, to picture the future. Suppose it was true, suppose they had to stay there together forever. How would it affect her? What would their life be as the years went on? They would gradually change their habits. The culture and careful training of her youth would soon be forgotten. Removed from the refining influence of civilization, she and Armitage would slowly degenerate, they would revert to the semi-savage condition of their prehistoric forbears. In time, the last remnant of their clothes would go, they would be obliged to make clothes of animals skins or of plantain leaves. They would cease cooking their food, finding greater relish in devouring it raw. Their hair would grow long and matted, their hands would look like claws. They might even lose the power of speech and if, in years to come, a ship chanced to touch at the island, they would find two gibberinghuman-like creatures who had forgotten who they were and where they came from.
She gave a low moan of despair. Armitage approached her. She looked up at him appealingly:
"Is there no hope at all?"
He shook his head.
"No—none."
She covered her face with her hands. He could see that she was weeping.
"Don't cry," he said gently. "It's no use fretting. We can't fight fate." Tenderly he added: "Do you understand now why I said I loved you? Do you think I would have dared if I thought we should ever get away? I told you because I knew we must spend our lives in lonely solitude, and I knew we could not go on living as we have been. I want you for my wife. You cannot object. The obstacles you mentioned no longer exist."
Grace started to her feet. There was a note of defiance and alarm in her voice as she replied:
"If I must stay here and die here, I will. God's will be done. But I will live as I think is right, asI would live anywhere else. Being here alone with you makes no difference."
He folded his arms and looked at her boldly.
"It does make a difference," he said slowly and firmly. "We are here—a man and a woman—alone on a desert island amid the eternal silence of the mighty ocean. There are only two of us. We are all the world to each other. Our future days must be spent together in the closest intimacy. We cannot go on living as though we were strangers. It isn't natural. You ought to be able to see that. The objections you mentioned would keep us apart under ordinary conditions, but here the conditions are altogether different. You are no longer the courted heiress, the society favorite. You are a woman and I am a man. The artificial conventions to which you cling have no place on this island. Here we are living amid primitive conditions. Nature gave woman to man—she was intended to be his mate, his companion. I assert my rights as the male."
He spoke harshly, in a tone of command, as if he allowed her to have a say in the matter, but intended to have his way in the end, after all.
Grace found herself listening passively. She wondered why she did not burst out with indignation when he thus disposed of her as if she were his goods, his chattel. Yet, secretly, it pleased her to have him assume this tone of ownership. The men in society who had fawned upon her were tame, weak, despicable creatures, ready to lick her hand for a smile. This was a real man. He gave her orders. He told her what he wished her to do, and he said she must do it. As she listened to his rich, musical voice she thought to herself that, after all, he was right. Sooner or later it must come to that. The years would pass. They would get old together. Would it not be more natural, would not their lives be happier if they mated and had children to be the joy of their reclining years?
Armitage boldly took her hand. She did not resist. She had not the strength. This man had strangely paralyzed all her will-power.
He drew her fiercely to his breast and whispered ardently:
"I love you, Grace! I love you!"
His warm breath was upon her cheek. She felthis strong body pressed close against hers. A sudden feeling of vertigo came over her.
"I love you—I love you!" he repeated wildly, crushing her slender form in his powerful arms.
She made no attempt to resist, but remained passive in his caress, as if a prisoner who knew there was no hope of escape. Yet there was no indication of anger on her face. Why shouldn't she love this man? If their lives were to be spent together, she must be his helpmate, his companion. Besides, she knew she was lying to herself. She did love him—with all her soul. This was the man she had been waiting for, the man who would have the courage to overcome her resistance, to take her fiercely in his arms and cry "I love you—I want you!"
She closed her eyes, her head fell back. He leaned forward until his lips almost touched hers. Why did he hesitate? Why didn't he take the prize which was already his? He felt her warm body vibrating with the passion his ardor had awakened.
"I love you—I love you!" he cried. "Grace, tell me—will you be mine?"
Her eyes were closed. Her head, with its wealthof luxuriant hair all loose, fell back on his shoulder. Her face was upturned, her lips half parted. Trembling with emotion, he leaned forward. His mouth slowly approached hers for the kiss which was to seal their union, when suddenly he heard a shout.
"Ahoy there! Ahoy there!"
The sound of a human voice in that deserted spot was so utterly unexpected, so entirely unlooked for, that for a moment Armitage and Grace started back in alarm. Armitage thus rudely aroused out of his day-dreams, hurried forward to investigate.
"Ahoy there! Ahoy there!" came the shout again.
There was no mistake this time. Some one was calling, in English.
Presently they saw half a dozen sailors clambering over the rocks and running toward them. They were Americans.
Grace sank to her knees.
"Thank God!" she murmured. "Rescued at last!"
A boatswain and five sailors came up, looking with interest at Armitage and Grace.
"Who are you?" cried out the boatswain, as they approached.
Armitage went forward.
"We were wrecked on the Blue Star SteamshipAtlanta, which went down in a hurricane on those reefs about six weeks ago."
"Passengers?" asked the boatswain.
Armitage hesitated. Then, pointing to Grace, he said:
"This lady was a cabin passenger."
"And you?" demanded the man.
"Stoker," replied Armitage grimly.
The other sailors looked at each other and laughed.
"We landed to get water," explained the boatswain, "and chanced to stumble across human foot-prints. Knowing the island was deserted, we decided to follow up the tracks. And here we are. I guess you're glad to see us."
Armitage was silent.
"Thank God!" murmured Grace. "Where is your ship? What is it?"
"TheSaucy Polly, of Boston, Mass., and as finea whaler as you ever saw. We're anchored on the other side of the island. I guess that's why you didn't see us."
"An American ship—God be praised," murmured Grace, clasping her hands. "Will you take us home?"
"That we will, Miss. We couldn't leave you here."
Overcome with emotion, Grace suddenly burst into tears.
Fifth Avenue presented its customary animated and brilliant picture of refined cosmopolitan life. The sidewalks were crowded to the curb with stylishly dressed promenaders, the roadway blocked with smart automobiles and handsome equipages. The all New York of fashion and wealth was taking its afternoon sunning.
For the foreigner making a study of our national manners, the Avenue's five-o'clock parade any fine afternoon during the season presents a scene as typically American as he may expect to find. Here in this one narrow, splendid thoroughfare, stretching in a noble line, as the crow flies, from Twenty-third Street away up to the Nineties, is concentrated the fabulous, incalculable wealth of the United States. Here, side by side, dwell the Rockefellers, the Carnegies, the Vanderbilts, the Astors, the Goulds, the Harrimans, the Morgans, the Whitneys, and other giants of finance, whose fortunes aggregate thousands of millions of dollars! Lined on either sideof the street with the marble palaces of its multi-millionaires, its roadway jammed with carriages and automobiles kept in order by picturesque mounted police, its sidewalks thronged with pretty, stylish girls, and men and women famous in art, music, politics, science and literature—New York's most exclusive thoroughfare is perhaps the one place where the American plutocracy is on exhibition in all its aggressive opulence. The show street of New York, it is not laid with rails for electric cars like other thoroughfares of the metropolis. Wagons and trucks not having special business there are forbidden to traverse it. The poor man understands that it is the exclusive domain of the very rich, that he has no place there, and that if he appears on its sacred pavements he is apt to be looked upon as an audacious intruder.
Armitage rested from his work and looked around him, dazed by the bustle and noise. The gay, busy city was such a contrast with the quiet, peaceful life he had led for the past few months that the sudden change was startling. It had all the attraction of novelty. The afternoon parade was at its height,and he was interested watching the promenaders. Never had he seen so many pretty girls. There were styles of beauty to suit every taste—blondes and brunettes. Tall, graceful, aristocratic girls; short, plump, vivacious girls. Some had the grace of stately lilies, others the charm and fragrance of the full-blown rose. Each rivaled the other in chic of costume, all were merry and full of the exuberance of youth. They passed in twos and threes and as Armitage watched them, he wondered where his girl was—the one girl in the world! He knew that she was in New York, and he also knew where her home was on Fifth Avenue. Perhaps if he stayed there long enough, he would see her go by.
He had not heard from Grace since they landed in Boston. He reviewed in his mind all that had occurred since the wreck of theAtlanta, that ever-memorable night when, swimming for his life in the raging seas, he had felt her limp body lying heavily on his left arm. Then came their long sojourn together on Hope Island, a blissful dream rudely interrupted by the untimely arrival of theSaucy Polly. Then their return to America. Even on the voyagehome they were no longer the same to each other. In her new clothes, borrowed from the stewardess, she looked quite different. He thought he detected more reserve in her manner toward him. Then, when they arrived in Boston, her father was waiting for her, and they left at once for New York—on a special train. He couldn't follow. He had no money and refused to accept any from Mr. Harmon. He felt amply rewarded for all he had done when Grace smiled kindly at him as she shook hands and said good-by.
When they had gone he tried to find work. For some days he was unsuccessful. Times were hard. Instead of employing new men, old hands were everywhere being discharged by the hundreds. At first he thought of taking to his old occupation, the sea, but he thought better of it. He had had enough of seafaring to last him some time. Then, desperate, he tried to get anything. Men with nerve were needed in the iron construction work of a lofty sky-scraper. He didn't know much about the business, but he did not mind the danger, and he was soon high in the air, astride a swinging iron beam, rivetingbolts at a dizzy height and with such frail support that the people in the street below turned pale for fear he would fall. What did he care if a girder fell and he was dashed to pieces below? He laughed at danger, and performed feats that made his fellow workmen gasp. This earned him good pay, and soon he had saved enough to come to New York.
Why had he come to New York? Why had he given up good wages to come here without the certainty of finding work? Only one thing had attracted him here—the same reason that attracts the moth to the flame. He knew it was hopeless, but he could not resist the temptation of coming to the same city where she was, breathing the same air she breathed and secretly, at night, coming up to Fifth Avenue and standing for hours, watching her windows until he was ordered to move on by a suspicious policeman. Luckily he had found employment—the same kind of work that he had done successfully in Boston. A sky-scraper was being erected on the corner of Fifth Avenue and Forty-second Street, and he was sent to rivet the iron beams. That was how he came to be there that sunny afternoon.
Curiously, he eyed the fashionably dressed promenaders as they passed by, chatting and laughing in polite conversation. There was no hostility in his attitude as he watched them. That feeling had died away. These men and women with their fine clothes and polished manners appeared to him to-day in a different light. There was a time when he would have cursed them as they haughtily brushed past him, but now the old animosity had died away. The class hatred which he had nourished so long in his heart had undergone a change. These were her people, perhaps they were her friends. Wistfully, he looked after them, wishing he could summon up courage to boldly approach some one and ask how Grace was. Eagerly he scanned the brilliant throng, hoping each instant to catch sight of her in the crowd, but he watched in vain. The beloved figure he would have recognized a mile away did not appear.
Disappointed, he turned once more to his task. It was already half-past four. In thirty minutes more the whistle would blow. The men would quit work and he would trudge over to the cheaper EastSide, where he lived. He had picked up his sledge-hammer and was about to resume work when he happened to look up the Avenue. There she was at last, close at hand, coming toward him. Involuntarily, he stepped back, and the heavy hammer fell from his nerveless grasp.
Grace went by, dainty andchic, the cynosure of every eye on the Avenue. Men turned after her as she passed. Women stopped and pointed. But, unconscious of, or indifferent to, the admiration she excited, Miss Harmon continued on her way home.
Armitage gazed after her, as if petrified. His first impulse was to cry out, to run after her, to attract her attention. He stumbled forward and then stopped. What right had he to accost her? She might resent it as an unwarrantable impertinence. It would humiliate and embarrass her to be addressed amid that fashionable throng by a common workman. It was enough that he had seen her—from a distance. That was all the happiness he could reasonably expect. By the time he had reasoned with himself, Grace was out of sight.
That evening when Armitage reached his lodgingshe found awaiting him a letter bearing the Boston postmark. Opening it, he saw it contained another letter addressed to him and forwarded in care of the Boston office of the owners of theSaucy Polly. Tearing open the envelope, he read as follows:
"—Fifth Avenue.