As he neared the dark line where the cottages stood out a stark row against the gray void of the sea, his fears increased. It seemed a year since he left that morning. Why had he not given Gail some little hint of how he felt, enough to ensure him welcome on his return? What wild fancies were whirling one after another through her brain! He needed to get some sleep. Would she be glad to see him? Would she insist upon his going to bed at once, or would she let him sit up and tell her all that he wanted to say? Would the old lady and Corinne let them have a chance to talk by themselves, or would they have to wait until morning when they could go out to the sand by the sea?
Perhaps if she insisted on his going to bed at once, she would come by and by and read to him and then sit by his side and let him speak. He could tell her how he loved her. It wasn't the way he would have chosen. He wanted to tell her as a man would tell it, not as an invalid. Perhaps he would only ask her to hold his hand tonight, and in the morning he would tell her. She would understand. She always had understood since first he had known her. She never had failed to look up with that answering smile and those eyes that knew his heart. And yet, he somehow had a feeling that things would be different. The old angel life was over. He had broken the golden cord that held them to that ideal life by his going away this morning, and it could never be quite the same again. But something better might come. It would have to be a test of whether she loved him or not. And now he knew that his soul was knit into hers and that if she said no, his life would be empty.
As they neared the crude little landing at the Point, he strained his eyes to make out the cottage that stood alone by the sea. Yes, there it was with its weather-beaten gables outlined against the sky, and the boom of the waves and the toss of the froth blurring its front. But there shone no light from the west wing where his room had been. A dull disappointment spread over him, and he told himself he was weak and childish to care, for of course they would not be expecting him at this late hour. They would think him wise enough to stay in a comfortable bed in a civilized place and not run away to a lonely little house at the end of nowhere on a windy night like this, and he an invalid.
He almost laughed out in his eagerness as he thought of the look that would be in their faces when they saw him. Would the girl be pleased? She would not be expecting him now, for it was long after the hour for the trains. She would think when he did not come at the regular train hour he could not come until morning. He could tell by her face when he saw her what his fate was to be. He would not have to wait until morning. He would know at once by the lighting of her eyes whether she was really glad or not. If she felt as he did that they belonged to each other, she would show it in her face. And how he would make up to her for having gone off in the morning without telling her what his errand was. He could see she was both hurt and troubled by it. But he would tell her, and if she would let him, he would never keep anything from her again.
He paid the boy and climbed out upon the wharf. The boy gave him a hearty thank-you for the liberal amount he had received and pulled long strokes out into the gray water again and was soon lost among the rushes and the night. The lonely crickets chirped among the dry grass, and the sea boomed a funeral chant, but the man went forward with confidence toward the house where his loved one was. He knew that his lips even were trembling and that there was no strength left in his limbs, but it was only a few steps now and he would be with her and be comforted.
Chapter 12
He stumbled up the steps and tapped softly at the door. He did not want to alarm them, but no one answered until he had rapped twice. Then he heard Corinne's heavy footsteps thudding disconnectedly downstairs. Ah! That was why he had seen no light. They had all gone upstairs to bed. They had not expected him, and they had taken Gail upstairs, too.
After due consideration and a third knocking at the door, the voice of Corinne boomed forth in courageous alarm.
"Who all's thar, an' what yoh wants dis time o' night?"
"It is I, Benedict, Corinne!" he answered joyously. He felt like swinging his hat up in the air and shouting.
Corinne hesitated again and carried on a slight altercation with someone apparently upstairs, then she slowly drew back the bar that went across the door every night and turned the key, opening the door a few inches and peering cautiously out into the night, revealing her uncovered head with its many small alert pigtails bristling at intervals like a dark halo.
"Well, I'm back tonight, Corinne, as I promised," he cried joyously to reassure her. "Are the folks all gone to bed?"
"Great day in de mawnin'!" cried Corinne. "Here's de sick-abed man got back, an' he ain't got de lady!"
"Aren't you going to let me come in, Corinne?" he laughed. "I'm cold and tired and hungry. I tried to get something to eat across the bay, but it wasn't as good as your cooking."
"Bress my soul, Mist' Ben'dic', whar yoh done ben? Ain't you found de lady? What yoh done wid dat child? She was clean beat out takin' care ob yoh. Yoh hadn't oughta come back an' lef' her. She ain't fit to do no wohk yet awhile. She needs res', she do. What yoh ben an' leave her do?"
"What do you mean, Corinne? I haven't seen any lady, not any lady that you know. I've been up to Washington and back today and I'm dead tired. I'm all in. Can't you open the door?"
"Great day in de mawnin', Mist' Clint'n, yoh don' mean to say you ain't seed miss Gail whar yoh done ben?" She reluctantly opened the door and let him enter, but her tone had a threatening note and she stood with arms akimbo in her ample flowered wrapper, surveying him with disapproval.
"Miss Gail?" he cried in alarm. "Why, where is she? No, I haven't seen her. Isn't she here? I left her down at the little wharf this morning. Didn't she come right back to the house? Haven't you seen her since? Haven't you done anything about it? Perhaps she is drowned."
He had come close to Corinne and seized her fat shoulder in a firm grip now, as if he would somehow shake the information from her without waiting for her words.
But Corinne shook her head sadly and decidedly.
"No, honey, dat chile ain't drownded. She come back to de house all right and 'tended like she et her dinnah, but yoh could see wid yoh eyes shet she wan't takin' no signature oh it. She jes' poke down t'ings, an' set an' look sad. I knowed it 'fore she comed in de house. She walk up an' down de san' an' she kep' puttin' her hankchuf to her eyes, an' she look all white round de mouf. Den she go sit down in de san' 'while, an' presen'ly she cum up an' et her dinnah, an' den she say she tired an' gotta go lay down. But she ain't lay down. I hear her walkin' round like she pickin' up thing, and movin' her feet like she sittin' at de desk, and presently she comes down the stair an' say she see some devertisements in de papah an' she gotta go get somepin' to do. She ain't scarcely got de words out 'fore long comes de grocery boy an' long she go totin' with him spite all we all kin say. My, Mis' Battin she just cry hahd, but it don't do no good. She gone. She say she don' no when she cum back."
"And you don't know where she is? She didn't leave any address?"
He reeled in his weakness and would have fallen, but Corinne suddenly looked at his face and reached out her strong arms to catch him.
"Bress my soul, yoh white as a sheet, honey man. Yoh pore chile. Yoh ain't got right well yet an' here I'se keepin' yoh standin' up talkin'. Yoh jes' take off dat obercoat an' lemme put yoh to bed. Yoh ain't fit fer gaddin' round de country. We can't let yoh git sick again. What Mis' Gail gwine say when she git back an fin' yoh sick-abed again? Here, yoh march in thar an' git inta bed while I go git yoh some hot milk. Yoh sho am white as a sheet."
Corinne tried to enforce her words, but Benedict would not be put to bed. He sank into a chair with his face in his hands and groaned. What a botch he had made of things, to be sure, going away like that in the morning and giving Gail a chance to slip away. It was like his dream come true. He had dreamed three times over that she was gone and he could not find her. But that was when he was weak and sick. He had forgotten the dream when he walked and talked wi
th her daily. But now it had come true and she was gone, and perhaps he would never find her anymore! And it was all his fault. He should have told her everything before he left. She had a right to know. He should have persuaded her to go with him as he had suggested. It was her right, too. She had saved him from the sea, and he was hers and she was his. Oh, what had he done to his life now?
Corinne brought him the hot milk and made him drink it. He handed her back the empty cup and lifted up his haggard face.
"Well now, what had we better do first?" he said, his voice husky with weariness and feeling.
"Do, honey man? Dey ain't nutin' yoh all kin do dis night. Dey ain't nobody on de islan'; dat fishman went out fishin' 'foh dark, down to de banks. He won't come in foh three, foh 'clock in de mawnin'. Der ain't no boat to be had. We can't do nuttin' cep' pray. Yoh all bettah climb into yoh bed an' begin. 'Pears like we's got a mighty lot o' it to do--that ar bressed lamb all 'lone out in de worl'."
"I will call to the boy who brought me. Perhaps he will hear and come back," said Benedict, springing up and rushing out into the night again in spite of Corinne's loud protests that there was too much wind for anyone to hear and the boy would be too far away.
Out into the night against the sound of the sea he sent his fine clear baritone: "Halloo! Halloo! Come back! Help! Come back! Help! Help! Help!"
But only the sea answered with a dull boom of hopeless negative, and the crickets chirped dreamily on without a break.
He turned at last and plodded heavily back to the house, too spent to hasten. He was trying to think of something to do. He must rest, of course, to be ready for action in the morning, but he must get the situation thoroughly in hand before he lay down. He would not take off his clothes. He would be ready in case anything happened, in case she came late as he had done and got someone to bring her over, in case--he couldn't think of any other case. His brain was almost too weary to act at all. He had been through a long, hard day, and this crushing climax was almost more than he could endure.
"Have you been to her room?" he asked dully as he entered the house again and found the old lady sitting sadly with white face and trembling hands.
"No," said the old lady. "She came down so suddenly and told us. She had only a small bundle with her, just a few things lest she might have to stay overnight. Why should we go to her room?"
The man was already half way up the stairs with Corinne behind him, large-eyed and heavily eager.
In a moment Corinne lumbered down excitedly, puffing like a porpoise, her eyes very large, bearing a letter for Mrs. Battin.
The woman's hand shook as she opened the envelope and took out the letter and the money. Her eyes dimmed with sudden tears. What did all this portend? Had something happened to the girl who had grown so dear to them all?
Corinne handed her her spectacles and stood at her side holding the candle near so that she could read. Corinne held her breath not to interrupt the reading, and the trembling old voice read aloud:
Dear Mrs. Battin:
My eyes are full of tears while I am trying to write this letter, for it is going to be a good-bye letter, and you have been very good to me, an utter stranger, who came to you with a heavy burden out of the sea.
I would like to stay with you awhile and try to make up to you for all that you have done for me and the one I brought with me, but perhaps someday I shall be able to come back and show you how grateful I am. I cannot say enough about the beautiful way you took us into your home and did everything for us as if we had been your own. There are no words to express my gratitude, and it looks very mean in me to run away this way, but the time has come for me to go, and it is better that I should do so without making any fuss. It would only be hard for us if I tried to say good-bye and you could not understand why I must go this way and I could not explain.
My heart is very tender over the way you put me into your dear granddaughter's place and let me use her things and gave me her clothes. I know how hard it must have been for you, and I have tried not to use many of them so that they will be fresh and pretty for you to look at just as she left them. But I realized how you felt when you gave them to me, and I have taken with me the few that I need now. Perhaps sometime God will send you again someone in need as I was, so I have left the rest of the things to be there for another girl to use when she comes. I could not feel right to take away with me more than a few that I shall need immediately before I can buy more.
I am going away, as I shall tell you when I leave, to find something to do to earn my living as I have had to do since my dear father and mother died. You need not worry about me. I am used to it and have never had any trouble in finding something to do. It will not be long before I shall find just the right place, and when I get things straightened out in my life and feel that I am in a position to do so, I will let you know where I am sometime. You have been very kind to me and I shall never forget.
I am leaving just a little to pay for some of the expense we have been to you. When I can, I shall try to do something more to show you how I appreciate all you have done for us. Will you please give ten dollars to Corinne and tell her I can never thank her enough for what she has done for me, and for the way she took care of Mr. Benedict when I was not able.
With a great deal of love, and praying that you may be very well and happy, I am your grateful young friend,
Gail Desmond
The candle was shaking in Corinne's hand, and tears were falling fast like rain down black cheeks and white wrinkled ones alike when the reading was done, and it was sometime before Mrs. Battin could speak.
"Then she meant to go!" she said sadly. "She was a dear child, and I have lost another daughter!" And she put her handkerchief to her eyes.
"You may 'pend 'pon it, Mis' Battin, honey," said Corinne putting the candle down hard on the little sewing table and standing with her arms akimbo, looking like an immense flowered bed quilt in tears. "You may 'pend 'pon it dat ar sick-abed man had sumpin' to do wid dis yere. Dey musta had some kind ob a scrap, an' fust he runned off and den she runned off. He comed back kase he's a man, but dat poh li'l chile, she can't come back kase she's a woman an' she's 'bliged to ac' like she didn't ca'h 'tall. Gals hes to be mighty 'tickeler what dy does. She jes' can't come back an' so he's got sense 'nouf to know dat hisse'f 'thout bein' told? Men's mostly mighty stupid, 'pears to me. Yoh reckum he do?"
Upstairs in the room that had been hers, Clinton Benedict sat down to read his letter. It was the first time he had seen his name in her handwriting, and his heart leaped at the thought that she had sent him a message. He tore the envelope open nervously.
Dear Friend:
The time has come for me to go away and find my place again in the world. I have read the paper, and I think I understand what sent you in such a hurry back to your friends with the glad look in your eyes. I would have liked to stay and hear you tell it all, but it is best that I should go at once while you are away. I know that you will not need me any longer, for you will be with your dear friends who have already been too long without you. I thank God that I was able to take their place a little while when they did not know where you were, and I shall pray always for great blessings on you and all you love.
I have not been able all these beautiful days while you were getting well to thank you for what you did for me, nor to say how glad I am that your splendid life was saved and not thrown away for my poor one. I have never asked you much about yourself, but I know somehow that you have some big place in the world, just as I knew that you were a great soul when you turned back to help me on the ship and let go your last chance of life as if you had plenty of others. I feel it has been a privilege to have been able to wait upon you when you were helpless, and I shall always be glad that I know there is such a man on the earth as you. I had thought there were no more since my father died. He never thought of himself.
You will please remember to take your medicine and not to overdo, for the sake of your nurse who has tried to he
lp you back to health and strength again. You have been like my child so long that it is hard to stop thinking for you, but I beg you will be careful until you are fully recovered.
And now, as we were suddenly brought together for a little while, so we have been swiftly separated and sent opposite ways. I will not say good-bye, but God be with you.
Gail Desmond
He was as one stunned. With the letter in his hand, he bowed his head upon it on the bureau. Every word seemed to have burned itself into his soul, but the only thought he could gather and understand at first was that she was gone, gone of her own will out of his life forever. She had not said she would come back. She had not hinted at ever hoping to see him again. She had written these words as final. The black death that had yawned in the sea seemed to be engulfing him again. For what purpose had she brought him from that death only to plunge him into it again? How was he to live without her?
Corinne, her face streaming with tears, went stealing ponderously up the stairs a creak at a time, imagining she was walking like a sylph. She peeked in at the door to see if the mere man was going to know what to do, but she stole away again in awe when she saw his grief, and her heart turned straight around in its allegiance.
" 'Pears like dat chile did a very cahless ac' runnin' off an' leabin' dat man-baby up dar 'fore he got rightly goin' on his feet agin. 'Pears like she mought 'a' waited an' not fit till he war able to bar it li'l bettah. He all broke up, he is. I reckum he gwine be sick ag'in an' she not here to boss him. Dat's jes' like a woman, runnin' off when she's mos' needed. Ef she doan' come back tomorra she'd oughta be spanked. Say, Mis' Battin, honey, yoh go upstairs an' try an' coax dat Mist' Clint' t' come down to bed. I'll get it all ready for him. You go, honey."
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