At Sea
We sailed at noon. Molly and Anne were on the deck to see us off,—Letty, to plant a final sting. Anne camein after breakfast with her father and with Molly we went down to the boat. I do not know when I have been so sorry for any one as for Anne. What fatality ever impelled her to come into my life at just that moment? She came in so happily that immediately my heart fell, for I saw that our last interview in Littledale had left the way to the future open to her. Yet she had not been ten minutes with me before her woman’s intuitions had warned her. I saw the light manner change to a sudden meditation and always when I turned my head her eyes were on me in anxious interrogation. Poor child—I would have spared her the pain, but it was not to be. The moment we were left alone together on the dark and pungent wharf, she turned to me and said:
“David, you have seen her?”
“Yes.”
I took her arm and led her a little apart, to a nook where we were hidden from the crowd.
“Anne, for God’s sake, put me out of your life,” I said, taking her hand. “There is only misery and unhappiness if you don’t. This is honest, because I must be honest with you.”
“I can’t put you out of my life,” she said, shaking her head, “and if you are unhappy—all the more reason for me to stay in yours.”
“Anne, it is not fair to you, to what your life may be.”
“Let me be the judge of that, David,” she said soberly, her hand on my arm. “Have I the right to know this? Is it—the other—still quite hopeless?”
“Quite,” I said gloomily.
“David, my heart goes out to you. If I could only help. No, no—Wait a moment, I can’t go back yet.”
“All right now?”
“All right, David.”
And when we went back, there was Letty, her arm through Molly’s, as pretty and as enticing as could be, coquetting with Mr. Brinsmade. From her face one would never have had the slightest suspicion that there was the least flaw in the serene content of her day. I held myself on my guard, fearing her purpose, but at the last she caught me as, of course, she had intended. The whistle blew and with it the time to say good-by. Molly, little trump, held up with forced gayety and so did Anne, though I saw such suffering in her eyes that it was all I could do not to take her impulsively in my arms: for, no matter what I had protested for her sake, to know that she cared was a great consolation.
When it came Letty’s turn, quite as the most natural thing in the world (as, of course, to the others it was), she flung her arms about me and kissed me; there—before Ben. Then she went off, protesting it was bad luck to see a ship out of port, thoroughly pleased with having planted a last dart. And Ben and I, with that kiss between us, went up the gangway.
“I hope to God I never lay eyes on her again!” he said, with an oath.
If only that may be true!
We went to the promenade deck and stood over the stern, gazing back at the shores that began to recede. The waters rushed in between the wharf and us. I saw Molly and Anne in the crowd and raised my hat, swinging it slowly back and forth. And as I looked into that fading throng, my heart leaped a little at the thought that perhaps she, Bernoline, might be standing there, come down for a last look—a quite irrational thought—yet I did feel her there, in that human mass, unrecognizable, now nothing more than a spotted shadow against the pier. Then the pier ran back into the oblivion of the city and the city faded into the sky.
I do not remember since boyhood to have felt the utter empty loneliness of life as at that moment. But a few months before I had been self-sufficient, a curious traveler, emerging from one experience, eager for others, satisfied and interested with the contact of my kind. Now, for what had come into my life in one short week, for an hour in the twilight, for a look given and taken, a voice remembered, I felt at once rudely lifted out of the companionship of men, doomed to carry with me a solitude from which there could be no escape.
In this weakness of the spirit I even rebelled against the call which took me back; the inexorable call of duty and honor which, after all, is only our yielding to what others may think of us: at least, in this moment of rebellion, this is what I feel! For, now that life has grown so precious to me, even though I but cling to ashes of hope, I wonder how in the coming days of battle I shall stand the test? Yet now that I write with a clearer discipline, a new feeling of reverence comes to me as I think on the men of France who fought beside me, with memories and hopes in their hearts. What others have done, I can do. All our vaunted courage is sometimes no more than that.
*****
New York was but a haze in the distance as I stood by my brother’s side, with the dread feeling of the irrevocable in life closing down on me, wondering when—where—and how, again?
*****
As we stood there, a cabin boy hailed us: “Mr. Littledale? Special delivery for you, sir.”
We both turned hastily.
“Which Mr. Littledale?”
“David Littledale, sir.”
“That’s right. It’s for me.”
I took the letter and at the first glance, though I had never seen her handwriting, I knew it was from Bernoline.
“David?”
Ben’s hand closed over my wrist, and I looked up to see his eyes ablaze with jealousy and suspicion.
“David, show me that letter!”
I held it before him, and he gave it one wild look and turned away.
“Ben, old fellow, get hold of yourself!”
“I feel like jumping over and swimming for it,” he said miserably.
“To-morrow you’ll be thanking God from the bottom of your heart,” I said, linking my arm under his. “Do you remember once when you came between me and making a fool of myself, and how we fought and rolled on the ground? Well, my turn, now. It’s a queer world, and we’ve both got to grin and bear things. But it isn’t a question of love, Ben. It’s just been slavery, weak, unnatural, humiliating slavery. Better now than later!”
“Right! Sorry I made such an ass of myself. It’s over, and, David, that’s the last I’ll ever see of her.”
But I am not so sure of that.
*****
The letter was crumpled in my hand. To have given courage to Ben gave me a sort of courage, which I sadly needed. I did not at once open and read it. I was afraid. I was afraid of a hundred nameless imagined fears, but most of all of the sure reaction I knew must come in her woman’s heart, once the irresistible spell of our coming together had been broken. I went below, into the saloon, and laid her letter before me on the desk. Then, with a sudden inspiration, I found a sheet of paper and wrote:
Sailing down the HarborBernoline, dear:Your letter is here, before my eyes: and I am still afraid to open it. I shall not read it until I have written this. For I feel already what you will say. Bernoline, no matter what the obstacle which stands between us, it can alter nothing. While you live and I live, we are powerless to change what fate has laid upon us. As for me, just to know your love is to me so great a thing that if I had to choose again with open eyes, I would choose all I have suffered and all that may come to me, all the heart-burnings and all the daily, hourly longing, the cruelty of separation,—all just to have seen your eyes at parting. Be to each other what is right that we should be,—the rest is beyond our knowledge. I have strength for everything but one thing,—not to hear from you again.David.
Sailing down the Harbor
Bernoline, dear:
Your letter is here, before my eyes: and I am still afraid to open it. I shall not read it until I have written this. For I feel already what you will say. Bernoline, no matter what the obstacle which stands between us, it can alter nothing. While you live and I live, we are powerless to change what fate has laid upon us. As for me, just to know your love is to me so great a thing that if I had to choose again with open eyes, I would choose all I have suffered and all that may come to me, all the heart-burnings and all the daily, hourly longing, the cruelty of separation,—all just to have seen your eyes at parting. Be to each other what is right that we should be,—the rest is beyond our knowledge. I have strength for everything but one thing,—not to hear from you again.
David.
Then I took up her letter, and read:
MidnightMon seul ami:I have prayed on my knees for hours to see my way clear. For I no longer know myself. I, who thought myself so strong, have had so little strength. All that I have determined not to do, I have done. And yet, when you were at my side I could not do otherwise. When you are near me all my courage leaves me and I do not know what I do or say. And it is I who am so much older than you in experience and suffering who ought to protect you. But you,—is it not your whole life I am wrecking? Would it not be better to have you hate me than to do what I am doing? Is it not a great crime I am committing? For David, my dear David,—itcannotbe. There is no hope for us, now, or ever. What shall I do? To-night, my heart is torn—I cannot think. I have given my promise, and yet—Oh, David, I want to do what is best for you, and what seems cruel now may be the kindest later. I cannot decide. What shall I do? Have courage for us both. Be strong for me.B.
Midnight
Mon seul ami:
I have prayed on my knees for hours to see my way clear. For I no longer know myself. I, who thought myself so strong, have had so little strength. All that I have determined not to do, I have done. And yet, when you were at my side I could not do otherwise. When you are near me all my courage leaves me and I do not know what I do or say. And it is I who am so much older than you in experience and suffering who ought to protect you. But you,—is it not your whole life I am wrecking? Would it not be better to have you hate me than to do what I am doing? Is it not a great crime I am committing? For David, my dear David,—itcannotbe. There is no hope for us, now, or ever. What shall I do? To-night, my heart is torn—I cannot think. I have given my promise, and yet—Oh, David, I want to do what is best for you, and what seems cruel now may be the kindest later. I cannot decide. What shall I do? Have courage for us both. Be strong for me.
B.
I read this through once, with heavy heart,—then many times. To give her up was beyond my strength, though something within me admitted the truth of what she wrote. I took up my letter again, and added this postscript:
P. S.—I have read your letter, and I would not change a word of this. You leave the decision to me. I make it, and I take on my shoulders all that may come. I cannot do otherwise. I need your strength. I shall always need it. The fate that has sent us to each other is more mysterious than our little reason can fathom. Yet in it there must be some purpose. We can never harm each other. One thing is life; the other, worse than death. Write to me, dear little friend. Give me only what it is right for you to give me. I shall ask no more.David.
P. S.—I have read your letter, and I would not change a word of this. You leave the decision to me. I make it, and I take on my shoulders all that may come. I cannot do otherwise. I need your strength. I shall always need it. The fate that has sent us to each other is more mysterious than our little reason can fathom. Yet in it there must be some purpose. We can never harm each other. One thing is life; the other, worse than death. Write to me, dear little friend. Give me only what it is right for you to give me. I shall ask no more.
David.
I put the letter into the bag myself and watched the pilot go over the side of the ship. Then, I went down to my cabin and got out mypoilu’suniform. Another milestone passed.