Chapter 33

WE UNDERSTAND EACH OTHER

"You think my conclusions must be correct?" I could not refrain from asking.

"Yes; even without seeing the letter, but," and she glanced up quickly, "the ring--Philip's ring--we found?"

"I forgot to mention that. Its presence here alone is convincing. It was sent to Charles Henley by his agent, who claimed to have removed it from the finger of the dead man."

"Then every doubt is removed; the one killed was my hus--husband."

There was a long, painful silence, during which I stared out into the dark, mechanically guiding the boat, although every thought centered on her motionless figure. What should I say? how was I to approach her now? Before there had always been a frank spirit of comradeship between us; no reserve, no hesitancy in the exchange of confidences. But with this assurance of Philip Henley's death, everything was changed. I longed to go to her and pour out my sympathy, but some instinct held me back, held me wordless. I knew not what to say, or how any effort on my part would be received. Instantly there had been a barrier erected between us which she alone could lower. Those were long minutes I sat there, speechless, gazing straight ahead, my brain inert, my hand hard on the tiller. Suddenly, with a swift thrill which sent my blood leaping, I felt the soft touch of her fingers.

"Are you afraid to speak to me?" she asked, pleadingly. "Surely I have said nothing to anger you."

"No, it is not that," I returned in confusion, not knowing how to express the cause of my hesitancy. "I am sorry, and--and I sympathize with you, but I hardly know how to explain."

She was looking at me through the darkness; I was able to distinguish the white outline of her uplifted face.

"I am sorry--yes," very slowly, "but perhaps not as you suppose. It is hard to think of him as dead--killed so suddenly, without opportunity to think, or make any preparation. He--he was my husband under the law. That was all; he was no more. I do not believe I ever loved him--my marriage was but the adventure of a romantic girl; but if I once did, his subsequent abuse of me, his life of dissipation, obliterated long since every recollection of that love. He is to me scarcely more than a name, an unhappy memory. I told you that frankly when I believed him still alive. We were friends then, you and I, and I cannot conceive why his death should sever our friendship."

"Nor has it," I interposed instantly. "It was not indifference which silenced me. Rather it was the very strength of my feeling toward you. I was fearful of saying too much, of being too precipitate."

"You imagine I would fail to value your friendship at such a time?"

"Don't," I burst forth impetuously; "you talk of friendship when all my hope centers about another term. Surely you understand. I am a man sorely tempted, and dare not yield to temptation."

She drew her hand away from my clasp, yet the very movement seemed to express regret.

"You speak strangely."

"No, I do not; the words have been wrung from me. I am in no way ashamed, although I realize this is neither the time nor the place. Remember you have been under my protection ever since that night we met first on the streets; you are alone here with me now, but still under my protection. I cannot take advantage of your helpless condition, your utter loneliness. If I did I should never again be worthy of the name gentleman."

"I regret you should say this."

"No more than I do; the words have been wrung from me."

"And we are to be friends no longer? Is that your meaning?"

"You must answer that question," I replied gravely, "for it is beyond my power to decide."

Her head was again uplifted, and I knew she was endeavoring to see my face through the gloom. There was silence, the only sounds the slash of the boat through the water, and the slight flapping of the canvas.

"I am a woman," she said at last, "and we like to pretend to misunderstand, but I am not going to yield to that inclination. I do understand, and will answer frankly. We can never be friends as we were before."

My heart sank, and I felt a choke in my voice difficult to overcome.

"I was afraid it would be so."

"Yes," and both her hands were upon mine, "in our position we cannot afford to play at cross purposes. You have been loyal to me, even when every inducement was offered elsewhere. There was a moment when I almost doubted, but it was only for a moment. Then I seemed to sense your plan, your purpose, and from that time on I have trusted you more completely than ever before. This is confessing a great deal, for it is my nature to be reticent--I have always been hard to become acquainted with."

"I have not found you so; I feel as though I had known you always."

"That comes from the peculiarity of our first meeting, the unconventional manner in which we were brought together. I was not my natural self that night, nor have I ever been able since to feel toward you as I have in my relations with other men. Indeed I have been so frank spoken, so careless of social forms, as to make you question in your own mind my real womanhood."

"No; never that!" I protested.

"Oh, but you have," and she laughed softly, a faint trace of bitterness in the sound. "You need not deny, for I have read the truth in your face, yet without resentment. Why should you not, indeed? No man would wish his sister to take the chances I have with an absolute stranger. My only excuse is the seeming necessity, and the confidence I felt in my own strength of character. I permitted myself to come South with you, knowing your purpose to be an illegal one; I placed myself in a false position. In doing this I was actuated by two purposes; one was to save this property which had been willed to my husband by his father. Do you guess the other?"

"No," I said, impressed by the earnestness with which she was speaking. "You will tell me?"

"I mean to; the time has come when I should. It was that I might save you from a crime. You had been kind to me, sympathetic; I--I liked you very much, and I knew you did not understand; that you were being misled. I could not determine then where the fraud was, but I knew there was fraud, and that you would eventually become its victim."

"You cared that much for me?"

"Yes," she confessed frankly, "I did. I would never have told you so under ordinary conditions. But I can now, here, where we are--alone together in this boat." She paused, as though endeavoring to choose the proper words. "We both realize the changed relations between us."

I drew a quick, startled breath.

"That--that I love you!" the exclamation left my lips before I was aware.

"Yes," she said calmly. "I could not help that. At first I never deemed such a result of our friendship possible. I was Philip Henley's wife, and I gave this possible danger scarcely a thought. Indeed it did not seem a danger. While it is true he was husband in name only, yet I was wife forever. That is my religion. Now the conditions are all changed, instantly changed by his death."

"You believe then he is dead?"

"I am as sure of it as though I had seen his body. I feel it to be true." There was an instant of hesitation, while I waited breathlessly. "Do you understand now why because of the fact we can no longer remain friends?"

"Yes," I burst forth, "because you know how I have grown to feel toward you; you--you resent--"

"Have I said so?"

"No, not in words; that was not necessary, but I understand."

"Do you, indeed?"

I stared toward her, puzzled, bewildered, yet conscious that the hot blood was surging through my veins.

"You cannot mean the other?" I questioned, the swift words tripping over themselves in sudden eagerness. "That--that you love me?"

"And why not? Am I so different from other women?"

I held the tiller still with one hand, but the other arm was free, and I reached out, and drew her toward me. There was no resistance, no effort to break away. I could see her face uplifted, the wide-open eyes.

"Different! Yes; so vastly different, that I misunderstood everything. But now I know, and--and sweetheart, I love you, I love you."

It could not have been long, not to exceed a moment or two, when a sudden leaping of the boat brought us back to a realization of our position. As soon as I had regained control of the craft, I reached out again and touched her hand.

"This is all so strange, so unexpected, I can scarcely comprehend what has occurred."

"Strange, yes, in the way it has happened," she coincided. "But we cannot afford to dwell upon that now. We are in peril. Do you really know where we are? for what you are steering?"

"It is largely a guess; there is nothing to give me guidance, except as I unscrew the face of this compass and feel the needle."

"Then we may still be within view from the deck of the _Sea Gull_ at daybreak?"

"Yes; that will depend entirely upon luck."

She turned away, and sat quiet, staring forward intently into the black void.

"What time is it now?"

"Nearly three."

"In two hours it will be dawn."

"Yes."

I thought I could see her clasp her hands together; then suddenly lean forward.

"Why, look there!" she exclaimed quickly. "See! to the right. Merciful Heavens! it is a ship!"