Chapter XIV: Driven to Desperation

O, shut me nightly in a charnel house,
O’er covered quite with dead men’s rattling bones,
With reeking shanks, and yellow, chapless skulls;
Or bid me go into a new-made grave
And hide me with a dead man in his shroud—
Things that to hear them told have made me tremble—
And I will do them without fear or doubt
To live unstained. SHAKESPEARE.

“I beg your pardon for this sudden intrusion, but—I am suffering great—the greatest anxiety!” he began, casting his eyes around the room. “My ward has been missing since yesterday. Have you seen—have you heard——”

“She is safe, Colonel de Crespigney. She is quite safe. She is here,” answered Dame Lindsay, leading the visitor around the headboard of the bed, that had hitherto hidden the recumbent girl from his sight.

“Gloria, my darling!” he exclaimed, as soon as his eyes fell upon her. “Heavens, what a fright you have given us! What insufferable tortures of anxiety and suspense! And to find you here, and in bed, too! What does all this mean?” he demanded, turning in more displeasure than gratitude to the old dame.

“It means that the little lady, while trying to walk across the Rogue’s Neck, was overtaken by the tide and swept off to sea, and was picked up by my Davie, who happened to be out with his boat, and who brought her here as to the nearest house,” replied Dame Lindsay.

“What is all this that she tells me, Gloria?” inquired the shocked colonel.

“The truth, uncle! David Lindsay saved my life,” said the girl, with a glow of gratitude and pride.

“A gallant deed, for which he shall be most liberally rewarded,” said Colonel de Crespigney, as he sank into the chair that Dame Lindsay had silently placed for him at the side of the bed.

Gloria darted a glance full of scorn and indignation at this speech. It fell harmlessly on the colonel’s unobservant head, and he repeated: “A gallant deed, truly, of the young fisherman, and he shall be munificently paid! But, my dear girl, how could you have been so imprudent as to cross the main alone? Did you not know there was great danger?”

“I did not care. I was weary of myself and everybody else! And now I am very glad I went, for David Lindsay saved my life,” said Gloria, luxuriating over the words and the thought.

“I say it was a brave deed, for which he shall be munificently rewarded,” repeated the colonel; “but still, my darling, I think that it was a pity your life should be risked for the sake of having it saved, even by David Lindsay,” he added, with a little sarcasm.

“I think not! The risk and pain are compensated by the memory left behind—a sweetness that will last me all my days,” replied the girl, as a strange tenderness of joy melted and irradiated her face.

The colonel’s brow grew dark. He did not speak for a few moments; when he did it was to say:

“My dear Gloria, we owe a deep debt of gratitude to this good woman and her son—or grandson, is he? But we must not trespass on their kind hospitality. I am sure you must be sufficiently recovered to rise and dress and return with me to the hall.”

“Oh, no, sir, indeed she is not. She has been so shaken by her shock. Take an old ’oman’s word for it, sir, she had better bide here a day or two,” said Dame Lindsay, speaking earnestly for her guest.

“Indeed, uncle, she is right. I need to stay here where I am,” added Gloria.

“Will you have the kindness to withdraw for a few moments and leave me alone with my ward? I have something to say to her in private,” said Colonel de Crespigney, turning to the woman.

Dame Lindsay bent her head and went up into the little loft, and improved her time there by making David’s bed.

“Gloria, my dearest, I could not speak freely to you in the presence of your humble hostess——” began the colonel; but the willful girl impatiently interrupted him.

“‘Humble hostess,’ uncle? Why should Dame Lindsay be called ‘humble,’ indeed? I call her my honored hostess, in my own thoughts.”

“Well, well, my little girl, call her what you will. I shall not differ with you. But, my dear, I was about to say that it is not fitting or proper that you should remain here any longer.”

“Why is it not fitting or proper, uncle?”

“Because this is the house of a young laboring man, and while you are here you are his visitor.”

“But I am his grandmother’s guest,” persisted Gloria.

“No, my child, no; the house is his, not his grandmother’s. The position is unfit, improper, indelicate. I wonder you do not see that it is so!”

“No, I do not see it. But if any one sees it, that is enough. I cannot stay, of course. I will go home with you, uncle.”

“That is right, Gloria. That is right, my dearest girl. I thank you, love, for your ready acquiescence in my views and compliance with my wishes. As for this young Lindsay, who is such a favorite _protégé_ of yours—and deservedly so, I must admit—he shall be well paid for the service he has rendered you. I will send him a check for a thousand dollars to-morrow.”

“Marcel!” exclaimed Gloria, lifting herself up and looking him straight in the face, “if you do such a thing as that I will never forgive you as long as I live in this world!”

“Gloria, what on earth do you mean? Have you gone crazy, child?”

“No, but I think you have!”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean just what I say, Colonel de Crespigney! If you were to offer David Lindsay money for saving my life, I would never speak to you again as long as I should live on this earth!”

“But, my dear, unreasonable child, why should I not do so?”

“‘Why?’ I wonder you, a gentleman and a soldier, you, a De Crespigney, cannot see why?” said Gloria, harping a little upon his own words of a few minutes past.

“I cannot see; but if you or any one can, I should like to be informed of the reason,” said the colonel, in the same spirit.

“Then I will tell you. Suppose it had fallen to your lot to rescue Dame Lindsay from drowning, and David Lindsay had offered you money, as much as he could afford, in payment of your services, what would you have thought? How would you have felt?”

“My dearest Gloria, the cases differ totally,” exclaimed the colonel, with a flushed brow.

“They do not differ in one essential point, uncle, and you know it, and feel it now, if you neither knew nor felt it before. I will yield to your wishes and return home with you to-day. But you must not insult my preserver by offering him any sort of reward for saving me. You may thank him, for yourself and for me; but thank him as you would thank General Stuart, or Doctor Battis, or any other gentleman of your acquaintance, had either of them rendered me the same inestimable service.”

“My dear, absurd child, I do thank him more than tongue can tell. I think the most practical way of expressing my thanks would be to send him a check for a round sum; but if you prefer that I should take off my hat to him instead, why, I will do that.”

“Yes, do that. Take off your hat to him. And, now please to go to the foot of the stairs there and call Granny Lindsay down. She will get cold if she stays up in that fireless loft any longer,” said Gloria, who had been anxious all this time on account of her old friend.

“Mrs. Lindsay, Miss de la Vera would like to see you,” said Colonel de Crespigney, from the foot of the ladder.

“Ay, sir, I will come down,” answered the dame, and she immediately descended.

“Granny Lindsay, my uncle has convinced me that I ought to return home with him. I am very sorry to leave you, but I must go!” said Gloria, gently.

“Ah, well, dearie, I am sorry, too—but of course ’ee must be guided by ’ee gardeen, little lady, and I hope ’ee’ll take no harm. ’Ee clothes are all dry and ready for ’ee, and I’ll wrap ’ee up warm and nice for ’ee little journey,” said the dame.

“And now, uncle, you will please to withdraw! You see there is only this one room and we must take turns.”

Colonel de Crespigney smiled good-humoredly enough as he left the house to walk up and down in the crisp, cold winter air outside.

Dame Lindsay brought the girl’s clothes from the chair over which they had been hanging near the fire.

“Granny Lindsay, where has David Lindsay gone?” inquired Gloria, as she arose and began to dress herself.

“Down to the shore to look after his boat, I reckon, lovie; or maybe he has crossed to the main to bring a load of brushwood.”

“He hurried away as soon as I awoke and you came in.”

“Yes, dearie, he did so to give you a chance to get up and dress, I reckon.”

“Will he be back before I go?”

“I hope so, dearie.”

Gloria slowly dressed herself, and then requested that her uncle might be called in.

Dame Lindsay, meanwhile, had placed coffee, hot rolls, and broiled ham on the breakfast table, and now she went to the door and summoned Colonel de Crespigney.

“I hope you will do us the pleasure to take a cup of coffee this Christmas morning, sir,” said the dame, as she placed a chair at the table for her last visitor.

“Thanks, no; I took coffee before I left home this morning,” answered the colonel.

But Gloria sat down and drank a little cup with her hostess.

Then, not to keep her guardian waiting longer than necessary, she arose, and put on her hat and sack to depart.

“Good-by, dear friend,” she said, offering her cheek to the old dame’s kiss. “Good-by. I shall never forget your motherly kindness to me. And please to say good-by for me to David Lindsay, and tell him that I shall hold my life sweeter from this day forth, because he saved it.”

With this grateful and gracious message to her preserver, Gloria joined her uncle and left the cottage.

Involuntarily her eyes roamed all over the islet, in search of her old playmate; but in vain, for he was nowhere to be seen.

“Lean heavily on me, my child. You are pale and trembling,” said De Crespigney, tenderly, as he drew her hand under his arm and slackened his steps to accommodate them to her weary walk.

When they reached the shore, Gloria looked around again for some signs of David Lindsay’s presence, but there was none to be seen, not even his little boat; and this was a certain indication that the dame’s conjectures pointed to the truth, and that the young fisherman had crossed to the main.

With a sigh Gloria gave up the hope she had cherished of seeing and thanking him in person before leaving the island.

Colonel de Crespigney’s boat was waiting, and Laban, who had seen them coming, and joyfully recognized Gloria, was laying on the oars.

“Come, my dear,” said the colonel, as he handed his ward to her seat in the stern; “come, make yourself comfortable. Double your sack over your chest. It is a splendid day for late December, but the air is rather keen on the water.”

“Oh, Miss Glo’! I’s so glad you’s safe!” cried Laban, grinning from ear to ear. “’Deed we dem over to the house is been almos’ crazy ’bout yer ebber since las’ night, when yer didn’t come home to dinner. And me and Marse Colonel Discrepancy beatin’ de main woods all night long! All de blessed, live-long Christmas Ebe night! And took Fiddle ’long of us and made her smell some o’ yer close, and didn’t she take a round-about ramble t’rough dem woods?”

“Did you hunt for me all last night, Marcel, dear?” inquired Gloria, with more tenderness than she had shown him for many weeks.

“Yes, my child. Did you suppose, Gloria, that I could have rested one moment, anywhere, from the hour that you were missed until you were found? It was at dinner that, on your non-appearance, I inquired of your maid why you did not come, and was told that you had been gone all day to the main, and had not returned. I had no thought but that you had lost yourself in the woods, and so I set out at once, with Laban here and your little dog Fidelle, and lanterns. The tide was low when we crossed the Neck. The little animal soon struck your trail, and convinced me that I was right. You have been told how she kept us wandering around in a circle all night. In the morning, as a forlorn hope, we returned to the Promontory, took the boat and came to the island to make inquiries.”

“Oh! Marcel, dear, I never realized before how much distress my imprudence caused you,” said Gloria, penitently, as she now for the first time observed the ravages that one night’s intense anxiety had wrought in the man’s face.

“Yer better beliebe it den, Miss Glo’!” spoke up Laban. “Ef my head hadn’t been gray long afore dis, last night’s doings would a turned it! And dere’s ’Phia, gone to bed long of a sick headache, and ’Mia in de high-strikes.”

While this conversation was going on they were rapidly passing over the water between Sandy Isle and the Promontory.

With Laban’s last words, the boat grounded on the beach below the sea-wall, and the boatman drew in his oars.

“Go on to the house as fast as you can, Laban, and relieve the anxiety of your fellow-servants, so that they may be in a condition to attend Miss Davero when we get home,” said Colonel de Crespigney, as he handed his ward from the boat.

The man very gladly obeyed, and ran on before them so rapidly that he was soon out of sight.

Colonel de Crespigney found himself alone with his ward for the first time (with the exception of the few minutes they had talked together in the little island cot, whose very walls had ears).

He drew her hand within his arm, and supporting her carefully, walked slowly on through that boat-house built in the sea-wall, and then up through the fields and ornamented grounds that lay between it and the hall.

“Gloria, my beloved, can you really estimate all I have suffered during your unexpected absence?” he inquired, as he pressed the hand that rested on his arm.

“Yes, uncle, I think I can. I am very sorry. I was not worth so much anxiety, uncle, dear.”

“Do not call me uncle! I cannot bear to hear you call me so!” he burst forth with such energy that the girl shrank from him, and shuddered through all her frame.

“Gloria! Do you not understand me? Will you never understand me? Child, I can smother my feelings no longer! I have tried to keep silence, but I cannot! Twenty-four hours of agony have overcome my last power—self-control! Oh, my love, I love you! I love you!” he cried, stopping suddenly and facing her.

“Uncle!—for Heaven’s sake, uncle!” she exclaimed, in deadly terror.

“Do not call me by that name unless you would drive me mad! I am not the least kin to you! I thank the Lord I am not your uncle; for I must be—your husband! There, it is spoken! I love you, Gloria, with a love that has broken down every barrier of prudence, self-control, expediency, everything! I love you with a love that is my fate, and must be yours! For you must be my wife, Gloria!” he cried, clasping her hands in his and gazing on her with eyes that seemed to burn into her soul.

One amazed and terrified look she cast upon him, and then, with a half-suppressed cry, she broke away and fled!