The Northern Iron Part 36

The boat was already in the water and Una sat in the stern. Maurice, ankle deep in water, held her bow. Maurice laughed aloud. He began to understand his aunt's plan.

"Come, Captain Twinely, we will go for a walk along the cliffs."

Her hand was on his arm. She held him. He looked at the boat. A swift doubt shot through his mind. Something in the way Maurice laughed aroused his suspicion. He took a step forward. The Comtesse clung tightly to his arm. Maurice gave a vigorous shove and leapt forward over the bow. The boat shot out and floated clear of the land.

"Isn't he a disagreeable boy?" said the Comtesse. "You wouldn't have refused to do what I asked you, would you, Captain Twinely?"

Her eyes sought his, but he was watching the boat uneasily. Maurice had the oars out, and was pulling round the Black Rock.

"He's not going to the Skerries," he said, "he's going in the other direction."

"What does it matter where he goes? Besides, you know what stupid things boats are. They always turn away from the place they want to go to. It's what they call tacking. Maurice must be tacking now. Let him manage his horrid boat himself. We needn't trouble ourselves about him. We will go for a walk on the tops of the cliffs."

"I thought you did not like walking on the cliffs, you never would walk there with me before."

"Please don't be cross with me. May I not change my mind?"

She stroked his hand and looked up into his face with eyes which actually had tears in them. "I shall be so miserable if you are cross.

I shall feel that I have spoiled your day. I wish now that I had gone in the little boat. I wish I had been upset and drowned. Then perhaps you would have been sorry for me."

She was crying in earnest now. Captain Twinely yielded, yielded to her tears, to the fascination of her presence, to the pa.s.sion of his love for her. Very tenderly and gently he led her up the steep path to the top of the cliffs. Holding her hands in his he walked silently beside her. He was a bad man, revengeful, cruel, cowardly, but he really loved the woman beside him. His was no heroic, spiritual love, but it was the best, the strongest, of which his nature was capable. He could never for her sake have lived purely and n.o.bly, or learned self-denial, but, cowardly as he was, he would have died for her.

Suddenly she stood still, s.n.a.t.c.hed her hand from his grasp, and stepped away from him.

"Now," she cried, "at last! at last! There, Captain Twinely, there is the boat with the sail spread, shooting out to sea. Look at her; look carefully; look well. How many people are there in her? Can you see? I can see very well. There are three, and who is the third?"

The tears were gone out of her eyes now. They blazed with triumph and satisfaction. She laughed aloud, exultingly, bitterly.

"Who is the third? Can you see? He is Neal Ward, the man you've chased, the man you've been seeking day and night. There"--she pointed further eastwards--"there is the American brig which will bear him away from you. Do you understand?"

Captain Twinely followed her gaze and her pointing finger. He began to understand.

"And I did it. I fooled you. I blinded your eyes while my niece fed him in his hiding-place. I encouraged you to seek everywhere, and kept you back from the place where he was. I--I made pretence of tolerating your hateful presence. I made you think that I cared for you, loved you, you, you--I would rather love a toad."

"You have deceived me, then, all the time, played with me."

"Yes," she laughed wildly, "deceived you, played with you, fooled you, cheated you, and hated you--yes, hated, hated the very sight of you, the abominable sound of your voice, the sickening touch of your hand."

"And I loved you," he said, simply. "I loved you so well that I think I would have done anything for you. There was no need for you to fool me.

I would have let the man go if you had asked me. I would have let him go, though I hate him, and I could not have asked leave even to kiss your hand for my reward. I would have been content just to have pleased you. Why did you cheat me?"

The Comtesse had no pity for him. The memory of the words he had spoken to her, of his foolish face, of his amorous ways, of the touchings of his hands which she had endured, thronged on her. Her lips curled back over her teeth. Her eyes were hard like shining steel.

"I hate you," she hissed at him. "I have always hated you since the night when you seized me and dragged me into the meeting-house. I would have revenged myself for that even if there had been no prisoner to save from you."

"I did not do that," said Captain Twinely, "and I did not know who you were at the time. Be just to me even if you hate me. G.o.d knows that I would have died to save you from the smallest hurt."

He fell on the ground before her.

"Oh," he cried, "have some pity for me. I love you with all my soul. Let me serve you, let me wait on you. Let me see you sometimes and hear your voice. Have you no pity for me? I do not ask for love, or friendship, or the meanest gift. Only do not hate me. I have led an evil life, I know it, but for your sake, for your sake, if you will pity me, I will do anything. I will be anything you bid me. But do not hate me. For the love of G.o.d, by the mercy of Christ the Saviour, do not cast me utterly away from you. Do not hate me."

He crawled forward, and clutched the bottom of her skirt with his hand.

With a swift movement she s.n.a.t.c.hed it from his grasp.

"I do hate you," she cried, "and I shall always hate you. From this out I shall always hope and pray and strive to get to heaven when I die, not for the love of the saints or because I think that I shall be happy there, but just because I shall be safe from the sight of you, for you will surely be in h.e.l.l."

She turned and walked down the path they had ascended together. She left him grovelling on the ground, his face s...o...b..red with tears and grimy with the clay his hands rubbed over it.

CHAPTER XIX

The boat sped seawards. The wind had freshened since the morning, and worked round after the sun, as the wind does in settled weather. It blew now from the south-east, and the boat reached out with a free sheet. Una sat in the stern and held the tiller. Her eyes glistened with excitement and delight. At her feet, on the floor boards of the boat, sat Neal, dripping after his swim out of the cave. The sun shone warm on him, and he had Una close to him. He was safe at last, freed from the terrible anxiety and fears. He had life before him--a glad, good thing, yet there was more sorrow than joy in his face. In an hour, or less than an hour, he must say farewell to Una. He felt that he would gladly have gone back to the gloom of the cave for the sake of a brief visit from her every day. He would have accepted the life of a hunted animal rather than part, for years perhaps, from Una. He was sure that he had never known the fulness of his love for her until this hour of parting. His eyes never left her face. Now and then, when she could spare attention from her steering, she answered his glances. In her face there was no sorrow at all, only merry delight and the antic.i.p.ation of more joy. "I have brought you a suit of my clothes, and some change of linen," said Maurice. "I have them in a bundle here, done up in a great sheet. Hullo!

there are two bundles. I didn't notice that you had brought a second one, Brown-Eye. You'll not leave me a rag to my back if you give Neal two suits."

"It's all right, Maurice," said Una, "the second bundle has my clothes in it."

"Your clothes, Brown-Eyes! Why have you brought clothes?"

"I'm going with Neal, of course."

Neal sat upright suddenly and stared at her with a new expression in his eyes. He was the prey of sheer astonishment, then of a rapture which set his heart beating tumultuously.

"You are going with Neal! Nonsense, Brown-Eyes. How can you?"

"I've money to pay my pa.s.sage," she said, "and if I hadn't I'd go just the same. I shall climb up into the brig, and I won't be turned out of her."

"You can't," said Maurice.

"Oh, but I can, and I will. Do you think you and father are the only two in the family that have wills of your own. You'll take me, Neal, won't you? We'll be married as soon as ever we get to America. I'm like the girl in the song--

"'I'll dye my petticoat, I'll dye it red, And through the world I'll beg my bread,'

but I won't leave you now, Neal."

She began to sing merrily, exultingly--

"Though father and brother and a' should go mad, Just whistle and I'll come to you, my lad."

"Well," said Maurice, "if you go I may as well take my pa.s.sage, too. I daren't go home and face my lord with the news that you've run off from him. But steady, Brown-Eyes, watch what you're doing. We're close on the brig now. We'll neither go to America nor back home if you upset us now."

He took in the sprit of the sail as Una rounded the boat under the brig's stern. A rope was flung to them and made fast. Another rope, a stouter one, was lowered to Neal. Una seized it and climbed up. Willing hands caught her, lifted her over the bulwarks, and set her on the deck.

"Am I to ferry you across, too, young lady?" asked Captain Getty.

"Yes," said Una, "I am going with you."

Neal leaned across the thwarts of the boat to Maurice.