get."
He
extended his hand. "No fear! I haven't
forgotten a single one of you in the world. Some
gave me more than money--but I am a
beggar now
--and you women always had to get me out of my
scrapes."
He swaggered up to the parlour window, and in
the dim light filtering through the blind, looked at
the coin lying in his palm. It was a half-sovereign.
He slipped it into his pocket. She stood a little on
one side, with her head drooping, as if wounded;
with her arms
hangingpassive by her side, as if
dead.
"You can't buy me in," he said, "and you can't
buy yourself out."
He set his hat
firmly with a little tap, and next
moment she felt herself lifted up in the powerful
embrace of his arms. Her feet lost the ground;
her head hung back; he showered kisses on her face
with a silent and over-mastering
ardour, as if in
haste to get at her very soul. He kissed her pale
cheeks, her hard
forehead, her heavy eyelids, her
faded lips; and the measured blows and sighs of
the rising tide accompanied the enfolding power
of his arms, the
overwhelming might of his caresses.
It was as if the sea, breaking down the wall pro-
tecting all the homes of the town, had sent a wave
over her head. It passed on; she staggered back-
wards, with her shoulders against the wall, ex-
hausted, as if she had been stranded there after a
storm and a shipwreck.
She opened her eyes after
awhile; and listening
to the firm,
leisurelyfootsteps going away with
their
conquest, began to gather her skirts, staring
all the time before her. Suddenly she darted
through the open gate into the dark and deserted
street.
"Stop!" she shouted. "Don't go!"
And listening with an
attentive poise of the head,
she could not tell whether it was the beat of the
swell or his fateful tread that seemed to fall cruelly
upon her heart. Presently every sound grew
fainter, as though she were slowly turning into
stone. A fear of this awful silence came to her--
worse than the fear of death. She called upon her
ebbing strength for the final appeal:
"Harry!"
Not even the dying echo of a
footstep. Noth-
ing. The thundering of the surf, the voice of the
restless sea itself, seemed stopped. There was not
a sound--no
whisper of life, as though she were
alone and lost in that stony country of which she
had heard, where madmen go looking for gold and
spurn the find.
Captain Hagberd, inside his dark house, had
kept on the alert. A window ran up; and in the
silence of the stony country a voice spoke above her
head, high up in the black air--the voice of mad-
ness, lies and despair--the voice of inextinguish-
able hope. "Is he gone yet--that information
fellow? Do you hear him about, my dear?"
She burst into tears. "No! no! no! I don't
hear him any more," she sobbed.
He began to
chuckle up there triumphantly.
"You frightened him away. Good girl. Now we
shall be all right. Don't you be
impatient, my dear.
One day more."
In the other house old Carvil, wallowing regally
in his arm-chair, with a globe lamp burning by his
side on the table, yelled for her, in a fiendish voice:
"Bessie! Bessie! you Bessie!"
She heard him at last, and, as if
overcome by
fate, began to
tottersilently back toward her stuffy
little inferno of a
cottage. It had no lofty portal,
no
terrificinscription of forfeited hopes--she did
not understand
wherein she had sinned.
Captain Hagberd had gradually worked himself
into a state of noisy happiness up there.
"Go in! Keep quiet!" she turned upon him
tearfully, from the
doorstep below.
He rebelled against her authority in his great
joy at having got rid at last of that "something
wrong." It was as if all the
hopefulmadness of the
world had broken out to bring
terror upon her
heart, with the voice of that old man shouting of
his trust in an
everlasting to-morrow.
End