Alcott, Louisa May - SSC 15 (32 page)

 
          
In
an instant both dog and man were trembling with excitement, for there was
something strangely familiar about the cloak, the bent head with its falling
hair, the slender hands folded one upon another. Like one inspired with sudden
life, Yorke plied his oars with such energy that a few vigorous strokes sent
the boat high upon the pebbly shore, and leaping up the bank, while Judas
followed baying with delight, he saw the figure start to its feet, and found
himself face to face with Cecil.

AT LAST

 
          
WHILE
Yorke slept, on the previous afternoon, Cecil met Alfred on the beach, talked
with him for half an hour, and when he left her, hastily, she stood waving her
hand till he was out of sight; then she looked about her, as if in search of
someone, and her face brightened as she saw Germain approaching.

 
          
“I
am glad you are come,” she said, “for I was just trying to find a man to take
this boat home, and here I find a gentleman. Alfred came in it, but delayed so
long that he had only time to run across the cliffs and catch the train. Will
you ferry me over to the Point, and add another favor to the many I already owe
you?”

 
          
“Nothing
would please me better, but instead of landing so soon, let me take you down
below the lighthouse, as I promised you I would. This will be my only
opportunity, for I go away tomorrow, and you know you said I should have one
more happy
day.”

 
          
“Did
Bazil tell you that?” asked Cecil, looking disturbed, as his words recalled
last night’s adventure.

 
          
“No,
but I am well aware that I trouble you—that you wish me gone, and I shall obey;
but give me this last pleasure, for I may never come again.”

 
          
The
smile he gave her was both melancholy and submissive; she longed to bid him
stay but dared not, yet remembering Bazil’s wish that she should bear with him
a little longer, she was glad to grant it, for she felt her power over this
man, and feared nothing for herself. A moment’s hesitation, then she went
toward the boat, saying, in her friendliest tone, “I trust you, and you shall
have your pleasure; but, believe me, if I wish you gone it is for your own
sake, not mine.”

 
          
“I
know it—I am grateful for your pity, and I will not disturb your confidence by
any violence. Indeed, I think I’m done with my old self, and grow quieter as
the end approaches.”

 
          
Cecil
doubted that, as she remembered the scene before the fountain, but Germain was
certainly his gentlest self now, and as they sailed across the bay before the
freshening wind she found the hour full of real rest and enjoyment despite her
care. Absorbed in animated conversation, and unconscious of the lapse of time,
they glided past the Point, the pleasant islands, the city with its cloud of
smoke, the lighthouse on its lonely rock, and were floating far down the
harbor, when the growling of distant thunder recalled them from the delights of
a musical discussion to the dangers of an impending storm. A bank of black
clouds was piled up in the west, the wind came in strong gusts, the waves
rolled in long swells, and sea and sky portended a summer squall.

 
          
“How
careless I have been,” exclaimed Germain, looking anxiously about
him.
“But I fancy we need fear nothing except a drenching,
for it will take some time to return in the teeth of this gale. Wrap your cloak
about you, and enjoy the fine sight, while I do my best to atone for my
forgetfulness.”

 
          
Cecil
had no fear, for Germain was a skillful boatman, and she loved to watch the
grand effects of light and shade as the thunderous clouds swept across the sky,
blotting out the blue and making the water somber with their shadows. An
occasional flash seemed to rend the dark wall, but no rain fell, and by
frequent tacking Germain was rapidly decreasing the distance between them and
home. Safely past the city they went, for Cecil would not land there lest Yorke
should be alarmed at her long absence, and as the storm still delayed, she
hoped to reach shelter before it broke.

 
          
“Once
past the islands and we are quite safe, for the little bay is quiet, and we can
land at any point if the rain begins. A few minutes more of this rough work,
and we can laugh at the gale. Bend your head, please, I must tack again else—”

 
          
The
rest of the sentence was lost in a crash of thunder like the report of cannon,
as a fierce gust swept down upon them, snapping the slender mast like a
bulrush, and carrying Germain overboard wrapped in the falling sail. With a cry
of horror Cecil sprang up, eager yet impotent to save either herself or him;
but in a moment he appeared, swimming strongly, cleared away the wreck of the
sail, righted the boat, and climbed in, dripping but unhurt.

 
          
“Only another of my narrow escapes.
I’m surely born to die
quietly in my bed, for nothing kills me,” he said coolly, as he brushed the wet
hair from his eyes and took breath.

 
          
“Thank
heaven! You are safe. Land anywhere, for now the sail is gone we must not think
of reaching home,” cried Cecil, looking about her for the nearest shore.

 
          
“We
will make for .the
lower island
; the storm will not
last long, and we can find shelter there.
Unfortunate that I
am, to make my last day one of danger and discomfort for you.”

 
          
“I
like it, and shall enjoy relating my adventures when we are at home. Let me
row, it is too violent exercise for you,” she said, as he drew out the oars and
took off his coat.

 
          
“It
will not hurt me—or if it does what matter? I would gladly give my life to see
you safe.”

 
          
“No,
no, you must not do it. Let the boat drift, or give me an oar; I am strong; I
fear nothing; let me help you, Germain.”

 
          
“Take
the rudder then and steer for the island; that will help me, and the sight of
you will give me strength for a short tussle with the elements.”

 
          
Cecil
changed her seat, and with her hand upon the helm, her steady eyes upon the
green spot before them, sat smiling at the storm, so fair and fearless that the
sight would have put power into any arm, courage into any heart. For a time it
seemed to inspire Germain, and he pulled stoutly against wind and tide; but
soon, to his dismay, he felt his strength deserting him, each stroke cost a
greater effort, each heartbeat was a pang of pain. Cecil watched the drops
gather on his forehead, heard his labored breathing, and saw him loosen the
ribbon at his throat, and more than once dash water over his face, alternately
deeply flushed and deadly pale. Again and again she implored him to desist, to
let her take his place, or trust to chance for help, rather than harm himself
by such dangerous exertion. But to all entreaties, suggestions, and commands,
he answered with a gentle but inflexible denial, an utter disregard of self,
and looks of silent love that Cecil never could forget.

 
          
The
rain fell now in torrents, the gale steadily increased, and the waves were
white with foam as they dashed high against the rocky shore of the island which
the little boat was struggling to reach. Nearer and nearer it crept, as Germain
urged it on with the strength of desperation, till, taking advantage of a
coming billow, they were carried up and left upon the sand, with a violence
that nearly threw them on their faces. Cecil sprang out at once; Germain leaned
over the broken oars panting heavily, as if conscious of nothing but the
suffering that racked him.

 
          
Her
voice roused him, but only to fresh exertion, for seizing her hand he staggered
up the bank, flung open the door of the hut, and dropped down at her feet as if
in truth he had given his life to save her. For a moment she was in despair;
she ran out into the storm, called, waved her handkerchief, and looked far and
near, hoping some passing boat might bring help. But nothing human was in
sight; the nearest point of land was inaccessible, for an ebbing wave had
washed the boat away, and she was utterly alone with the unconscious man upon
the barren island. She had a brave spirit, a quick wit, and these were her
supporters now, as, forgetting her own fears, she devoted herself to her
suffering comrade. Fortunately, her vinaigrette was in her
pocket,
and water plentiful; using these simple remedies with skill, the deathlike
swoon yielded at last, and Germain revived.

 
          
With
the return of consciousness he seemed to remember her situation before his own,
and exert himself to lighten its discomforts by feeble efforts to resume his
place as protector. As soon as he had breath enough to speak, he whispered,
with a reassuring glance, “Do not be afraid, I will take care of you. The pain
has gone for this time, and I shall be better soon.”

 
          
“Think
of yourself, not me. If I only had a fire to dry and warm you I should be quite
happy and content,” answered Cecil, looking round the gloomy place that darkened
momentarily.

 
          
With
the courtesy as native to him as his impetuosity, Germain tried to rise as he
took out a little case and pointed toward a corner of the hut.

 
          
“You
need fire more than I; here are matches, there is wood; help me a little and
you shall be ‘quite happy and content.’”

 
          
But
as he spoke the case dropped from his hand, and he fell back with a sharp pang
that warned him to submit.

 
          
“Lie
still and let me care for you; I like to do it, and the exercise will keep me
warm. Here is wood enough to last all night, and with light and heat we shall
be very comfortable till morning and help comes.”

 
          
With
the heartiness of a true woman when compassion stirs her, Cecil fell to work,
and soon the dark hut glowed with a cheery blaze, the wooden shutter was
closed, excluding wind and rain, the straw scattered here and there was
gathered into a bed for Germain, and with her cloak over him, he lay regarding
her with an expression that both touched and troubled her, so humble, grateful,
and tender was it. When all was done, she stepped to the door, thinking she
heard the sound of passing oars; nothing appeared, however, but as she listened
on the threshold Germains voice called her with an accent of the intensest
longing.

 
          
“Do
not leave me! Come back to me, my darling, and let nothing part us anymore.”

 
          
She
thought he was wandering, and gave no answer but a soothing “Hush, rest now,
poor Germain.”

 
          
“Never
that again; call
me Father, and let me die happy in my
daughters arms.”

 
          
“Father?”
echoed Cecil, as a thrill of wonder, joy, and blind belief shook her from head
to foot.

 
          
“Yes,
I may claim you at last, for I am dying. Let our heart speak; come to me, my
little Cecil, for as God lives I am your father.”

 
          
He
struggled up, spread wide his arms, and called her in a tone of tenderness that
would have carried conviction to the most careless listener.
Cecils
heart did speak; instinct was quicker than memory or reason. In an instant she
understood the attraction that led her to him, owned the tender tie that bound
them, and was gathered to her father’s bosom, untroubled by a doubt or fear.
For a time there were only broken exclamations, happy tears, and demonstrations
of delight, as father and daughter forgot everything but the reunion that gave
them back to one another. Soon Cecil calmed herself for his sake, made him lie
down again, and while she dried his hair and warmed his cold hands in her own,
she began to question eagerly.

 
          
“Why
was I never told of this before?” she sorrowfully said, regretting the long
years of ignorance that had deferred the happiness which made that hour so
bright, in spite of darkness and danger.

 
          
“My
life depended upon secrecy, and this knowledge would have been no joy, but a
shame and sorrow to you, my poor child.”

 
          
“Mamma
always told me that you died when I was a baby; did she believe it?”

 
          
“No,
she knew I was alive, but in one sense I did die to her, and all the world, for
a convict has no country, home, or friends/’

 
          
“A convict!”
And Cecil shrank involuntarily.

 
          
He
saw it, but clung to her, saying imploringly, “Hear me before you cast me off.
Try to pity and forgive me, for with all his sins your father loves you better
than his life.”