Chapter XVI: Gloria’s Rage

My drops of tears
I turn to sparks of fire.
SHAKESPEARE.

Terrified and enraged beyond anything that she had ever experienced in all the days of her life, offended and revolted beyond all hope of reconciliation, Gloria had fled from the presence of her guardian and sought the sanctity of her own room.

There she locked herself in, and sat down to recover her lost wits and breath.

She sat there, looking not like the glad little Glo’ whom we first knew, and whose pulse was music and whose breath was song—no, she sat there, with her elbow on her knee and her chin in her hand, and her eyes fixed on vacancy, shrunk to half their size, gleaming with twice their fire, and glowing like live coals from the white ashes of her pale and angry face—she sat there like some grim little Sphinx or Nemesis brooding revenge and plotting ruin.

“I hate him now. I can never bear to look upon his face again!”—so ran her thoughts. “To dare to kiss me on my lips! Why, my own beloved father seldom kissed me except upon my brow. And David Lindsay, my old playmate and my preserver, who loves me so unselfishly—David Lindsay, as he knelt beside my bed, on the morning after he had saved my life, only lifted a curl of my hair and pressed it to his face, and when he saw me wake and look at him, he laid the tress down reverently, as if it were something almost too sacred to be touched. And he is a poor, uncultivated man. And to think that this gentleman, this officer, this Colonel de Crespigney, should have so forgotten his honor! This guardian should have so betrayed his trust as to seize and hold me powerless and kiss me on my lips in spite of all my struggles and distress! Oh, the meanness of the act! the meanness of the act! No, I can never trust him again. I can never bear to see his face again. I will not spend another day in his house. But where, oh, where shall I fly? I have no place in the world to go to! Or, if I had, there is no place to which he would not follow me—not to compel my return, though as my guardian he could do that. But he would not; he would do even worse; he would so humble himself to me, would so plead with me, would look so heart-broken that he would be sure to prevail with me and coax me back. Oh, Heaven! oh, Heaven! if I cannot trust him, neither can I trust myself! I hate him, and I fear him, and yet I pity him and love him, too! And who knows but that in some moment of idiotic pity I may not consent to all he pleads for and contract this repulsive marriage? Then I should go mad and murder him, or kill myself. That is what I am afraid of. That gulf of black ruin! What shall I do? Oh, what shall I do? Where can I fly from him and from myself? Who will save me from myself and from him? Oh, WHAT shall I do?”

She leaned her head upon her hand and reflected intently for some minutes, but could think of no plan by which to escape.

Suddenly, without any volition of her own will, there flowed into her soul an inspiration. She started and raised her head as one listening to a suggestion. Her cheeks flushed and paled, and flushed again, and her eyes brightened as she arose and exclaimed:

“Yes, I will! I will do it! I will marry David Lindsay. I will put one pure, good, brave man between me and the Evil! I do not care though he is poor and rough. I know he is good and true, noble and honorable! No gentleman in the land is more so. I can trust David Lindsay—trust him utterly. He would never kiss me against my will—never wound or offend me in any way. Yes, I will marry my old playmate, David Lindsay, and we will keep house in earnest as we used to do in fun. And then I shall be free—free as air—for I know that by the terms of my father’s will, my guardian’s power over me and my estate ceases on the day of my marriage. I know it, for I have often heard Aunt Agrippina say how thoughtless it was in my father to make such a proviso in his will. ‘For suppose,’ she would say, ‘some fortune-hunter should marry the child, you have no power to prevent it, or to withhold her estates.’ That is the way I found it out. And I am glad it is so, for now I can marry David Lindsay, and enrich dear Dame Lindsay, and let them take me to one of my own fine houses and live with me in comfort. Or David might go to Harvard or Yale, and get the college training he has so long aspired to, and leave Dame Lindsay to take care of me. I will do it at once!”

It is wonderful how swiftly the mind acts under excitement. This whole plan swept through the mind of Gloria in a few minutes succeeding the first inspiration of the idea.

She did not now hesitate for an instant. She dressed herself quickly, and in the best and warmest suit she possessed. I said that she always dressed in the style of an old woman rather than that of a young girl. Now she put on a black velvet suit, a seal-skin sack and hat. The hat was the only girlish article she wore. Finally she drew on her brown kid gloves, took her muff and started for the door. But before she opened it she remembered that she would need more personal effects than she wore; so she laid down her muff, drew off her gloves, and went and found and packed a small Russian leather traveling-bag that had been her companion on her tour through Europe. This she hung upon her arm, then taking her muff, she left the room.

On reaching the landing at the foot of the stairs she found Lamia engaged in brightening the knobs of the parlor doors.

“Where is your master?” she inquired of the girl.

“In de liberary, a tearin’ up and down de room like Old Black Sam was into him—beggin’ yer pardon for sayin’ ob sich things, Miss Glo’. Does you want me to go and tell him you’d like to see him ’fore you goes out?”

“No, not at all,” replied the young lady.

“Well, where shall I say you is gone, if he ax me, Miss Glo’?”

“Tell him that I have gone to take a long walk, and he is not to wait dinner for me.”

“And when shall I say you’ll be back, Miss Glo’?”

“You needn’t tell him when, for I don’t know myself.”

“Well, so as you gets back ’fore sun-down, I s’pose marse will be satisfied,” said the unsuspicious girl, as she resumed her rubbing of the brass knob then under her hand.

Gloria then left the house to hasten on her mad errand.

She walked rapidly, like one still acting under a high pressure of excitement.

She reached the boat-house, which was no longer kept locked. She passed through it and went out upon the beach, for it was now low tide.

There she found a little boat that she had sometimes been in the habit of rowing, near the shore.

Now she got into it, put down her hand-bag and her muff, unhooked the boat-chain and threw it ashore, took the oar and pushed the boat off the sands, then seated herself and rowed for the little sandy island. The water was perfectly smooth, and her arms were braced by a strange, tense resolve. She sped swiftly over the intervening half mile, and in ten minutes reached her destination. She drew in her oar, and using it as a pole, struck it into the sands and pushed the boat up on the beach.

Then she picked up her hand-bag and muff and sprang ashore.

For a moment she stood still, looking all around for a chance sight of David Lindsay; for maddened as she was at this moment, there was “method” enough in that “madness” to make her unwilling to go on to the cottage and meet the placid, steady, conscientious Dame Lindsay.

She soon descried the young fisherman. He was standing on the shore at some distance, bending over an upturned boat, engaged in repairing it. His position prevented him from seeing, and the sound of his own hammer from hearing her approach, of which he remained quite unconscious even when she stood by his side.

She had nerved herself for the trial before her, yet now it seemed as if all the blood had forsaken her extremities and curdled about her heart, so pallid was her face.

She stood for a moment at his side while he continued to hammer industriously at his work, quite unconscious of her presence, until she spoke to him in a low tone.

“David Lindsay.”

He started, dropped his hammer, turned, took off his hat, and stood waiting her commands. He had not seen her since the morning after he had saved her life, and now he was too much amazed at her sudden appearance on the isle to find any word by which to welcome her. He could merely wait for her to make known the object of her visit.

For some moments she too continued silent. It seemed to her that it must take her life to utter the words which she had come resolved to speak, and with which this story opened:

“David Lindsay, will you marry me?”

It is not necessary to go over any part of that scene already related. It must be still fresh in the minds of our readers.

Well might the young fisherman be struck dumb with amazement and terror; well might his half palsied tongue refuse to utter any word but her own name, and that in a tone of unbounded consternation; for must not the lovely girl and wealthy heiress have lost her reason before making a proposal of marriage to any man, least of all to him—the poor, uncultivated young laborer? And when he had heard all that she had to say, well might he groan forth, in tones of deepest sorrow:

“Miss de la Vera, it is you who are mad!”

“‘Mad!’ ‘Mad!’” she echoed, her face reflecting the dismay so plainly revealed on his own countenance. “‘Mad!’ Oh, indeed, perhaps I am! But, oh, David Lindsay, if I am mad, so much the more need have I of your protection! If I am mad, oh, my old playmate, marry the poor mad girl to take care of her, to save her from herself, to save her from something worse than madness! to save her from sin! from crime! from murder! from suicide!” she exclaimed, her vehemence and wild excitement increasing with every word.

“Great Heavens, Miss de la Vera! What has happened to drive you to this extremity?” cried the young man, turning deadly pale, in dread of he knew not what. “Tell me all! Everything, freely! You know that my heart is yours—my life is at your feet, to do your will with! You know that I would do anything on earth you wish me to do, unless it would be to do you any wrong. Now you plead with me to do that which would make this world a paradise to me, unless it should make it a purgatory to you. Now tell me all. But first sit down. You are trembling so that you can scarcely stand,” he added, as he threw off his pea-jacket, folded it and laid it on the overturned boat, to make her a comfortable seat.

She sank down, mechanically, too absorbed in the subject of her thoughts to notice how he had exposed himself to the cold for her convenience.

That she might speak with the less embarrassment, he stood a little behind her. And then, with her eyes fixed upon the ground, she told him all! And she ended with these words—fearful words for her to speak and for her old playmate to hear:

“And, oh, David Lindsay! you know how I always loved my uncle! loved him with the holy, tender, caressing love of a child for its father! And I love him so still! And I do pity him infinitely, because he suffers, and has always suffered so much! But, oh, when he wants to marry me, I hate him, oh, I hate him with the hate of a demon! I could kill him at such times! I could! I sometimes dream that I have married him and murdered him, and am flying from justice! or that I am in a condemned cell, or on the scaffold, and I wake in a cold sweat of terror and horror. And it may come to this, David Lindsay! It may come to this unless you save me! I can trust you, my old playmate, I can trust you utterly! And to whom could I fly but to you? Who knows me so well as you? To whom am I so well known? Whom have I on earth but you, David Lindsay? Do not stand behind me! Come around here and let me see you,” she concluded, slightly turning her head.

“God forgive me if I do wrong! God forgive me if this great temptation blinds me to the right!” murmured the young man as he left his position behind her seat.

And then—not because she was a high-born heiress stooping to him, a poor fisherman—no, indeed, for there was nothing abject in David Lindsay’s nature; but because she was a young girl driven to humiliation as unprecedented as it was undeserved—he came and humbled himself before her, sank on his knees at her feet, took her hand, bowed his forehead upon it and said:

“See me here at your bidding. I am your own, your slave, to do your will in everything. Tell me what to do!”

“Oh, David Lindsay, rise and sit beside me,” she murmured, with the tears springing to her eyes.

He obeyed her and waited for her further words.

“Take me away from here at once, David Lindsay! Take me to Washington, where we can be married. Then to my own house of Gryphynshold! There I shall be safe! You know where that is?”

“In Virginia—yes.”

“Take me there, and from that place communicate with my guardian, who must then come to a settlement and yield up all authority over me, or my estate; for such were the terms of my father’s will.”

“The steamboat from Norfolk to Washington will stop at La Compte’s Landing this afternoon. If we cross about now we will be sure to meet it,” said the young man.

“Then go and get ready for your journey at once, David Lindsay. I will sit here and wait for you. But what will Granny Lindsay say to your sudden departure? And, oh, what will she do, here by herself? I never thought of that before,” said the girl, compunctiously.

“Do not distress yourself, lady. All things work together for your will to-day; for this morning my grandmother left home for the first time in many years, and for an absence of some days,” replied the young man.

“Granny Lindsay from home!” exclaimed Gloria, in surprise, not unmixed with a feeling of relief.

“Yes, she is gone to St. Inigoes to keep house for the brethren until they can procure another housekeeper in place of the one recently deceased. You know they will not take one under sixty years of age,” added David, gravely.

“Oh, I am so glad she will not be left alone here!” exclaimed Gloria.

“Come up to the house, then, will you not, and rest in granny’s room, while I go in my roost and make ready?”

Gloria silently arose and followed him.

When they entered the neat room, David placed a chair for his young guest, then put the brands of fire together on the hearth, kindled them to a blaze, and hung the tea-kettle over it.

“Why do you take that trouble?” she inquired.

“You must have a cup of tea before you go. It will not take any extra time, since the kettle will come to a boil while I am getting ready,” he replied, as he went up the ladder stairs that led through the trap-door to his own loft.

Gloria heard him walking to and fro, as he made his preparations for the unexpected journey. She, on her part, could not sit still. She felt as if she were in one of her nightmare dreams from which she could not wake. And again she felt as if she were going mad.

A sweet, homely household sound aroused her from this morbid mood. It was the singing of the tea-kettle over the fire. A happy thought came to her. She would play housewife for David Lindsay this once before leaving the cottage. She had spent days enough in the little place to know where all the stores were kept.

So she went first to the corner cupboard with the glass door, and opened it and found the little black tea-pot and the tin tea-cannister, and made the tea and set it to draw.

Then she drew out the little red-stained pine table, found the white cloth and the buck-handled knives and forks and the plated spoons in the drawer, and arranged them, then took the cups and saucers and plates from the corner cupboard, and finally she went out to the “safe” in the shed, to which in her childhood’s days she had so often followed Dame Lindsay, and found bread, butter, milk and cold meat, all of which she brought and put upon the table.

When her self-assumed task was completed, she sat down to wait, but felt too restless to sit long. Soon she arose and began to pace up and down the floor, when David Lindsay descended the ladder stairs, equipped for his journey, and carrying a large, black oil-skin bag in his hand.

“Ah! why did you weary yourself with this work, lady? I should soon have done it for you,” he said, as he glanced at the completed preparations for a meal.

“Well, I wanted to do it. It is not the first time I have set the table for you and me, is it, David Lindsay? Don’t you remember our little dinners, cooked with a driftwood fire on the beach? Don’t you remember the flat stone we used to have for a table, and the crash towel for a tablecloth?”

“Do I not?” he asked, as a warm smile irradiated his face. This was the first time she had seen him smile since her sudden appearance on the island.

“Come and sit down, then, and I will pour out the tea.”

They placed themselves at the table, upon which she had already set the tea-pot. They made some pretence of eating and drinking, and then Gloria inquired:

“Have we time to put everything in order before we go?”

“Oh, yes,” responded the young man, “quite time enough.”

And together they went to work and cleared away the table, and washed and replaced the dishes.

Next they took all the meat and bread and fish that was in the house and put it out in the shed, so that Priscilla and Nicholas, the cat and dog, might have something to eat during the week of Granny Lindsay’s absence.

Then David Lindsay covered up the fire, and locked up the house, all except the door by which they would go out.

“Ah! suppose Granny Lindsay should come back very soon?” said Gloria.

“She will not come back before I have time to write her a letter, inclosed in one to the priest, and telling them both all about our position,” said David Lindsay.

“That is all, then. I believe I have no other anxiety,” said Gloria, as they left the house together.

David Lindsay walked in advance, carrying his own large bag in one hand, and Gloria’s little one in the other.

Gloria followed, with her hands in her muff, and so they reached the sands where she had landed.

“We shall have to use your boat, lady dear, since mine lies bottom upward on the beach, waiting for repairs,” he said, as he placed the two bags in the skiff and handed his companion to a seat in the stern.

“It is uncle’s boat; but we can send it back by a man from La Compte’s Landing,” replied Gloria, as her escort took the oars and laid himself stoutly to them.

They first crossed the water to a landing on the main opposite the little island. David Lindsay pushed the boat up on the sands, and beckoned to an old negro man who was seen standing in the open door of his hut, and commissioned him or his wife to go across to the island every day to attend to the needs of Winny, the cow, and to the pig and the poultry; and gave them the use of all the milk and eggs until Dame Lindsay’s return.

Then he pushed off and rowed away from the place.

La Compte’s Landing lay two miles down the coast, and it took a half hour’s hard rowing to reach its wharf and boat-house on the sands. Above these the land, covered with a thicket of trees, rose abruptly for several hundred feet. From the midst of the trees on the summit might be seen the chimneys and peaked roof of La Compte’s Lodge, and, farther down, the steeple of St. Luke’s church.

“This is my place also, David Lindsay, and it will soon be our place. But I would not live here. It is too near the Promontory,” said Gloria, as they landed.

An old negro man stood by the flagstaff.

“Gwine to take de boat, sar?” he inquired of the young man.

“Yes,” answered the latter.

Whereupon the negro ran up the red flag. That was the signal for the steamboat to stop for passengers.

“Dey’s so few folks trabelin’ by water dis ’clement season ob de year dat it ’most don’t seem much use to ’ploy a flagman to come down yer twice a week to ’tend it. But dey do tell me, better come ten times for noffin dan to let one passenger be disappointed.”

“But couldn’t passengers hoist the flag for themselves?” inquired the young man.

“Dem as understood could; but it ain’t ebery stranger as comes down here to take de boat what knows dey is got to raise de flag. An’ ’less de flag is riz, de boat won’t stop, when it ain’t got nobody on board to land here. And now, young marse, de boat’ll be here in a foo minutes.”

“David, dear, come here, please,” said Gloria, walking off to a little distance.

He followed her and she placed in his hand a well-filled pocket-book.

“What is this for?” he inquired.

“For our expenses. I forgot to hand it to you before; forgot even that it would be needed; but you had better take it now, before we go on the boat.”

He flushed crimson to the very edge of his black hair, as he gave her back the pocket-book and said:

“No, lady, dear, I do not need it, indeed; I have saved something from years of labor, and I have plenty for our present needs.”

It was now Gloria’s time to blush.

“I beg your pardon, David Lindsay; I did not know, indeed I did not mean——”

But he interrupted her by lifting her gloved fingers to his lips, bowing over them, and leading her back to the wharf. Then he went to the old flagman, and, giving him some money, engaged his services to take back Colonel de Crespigney’s boat to the Promontory pier, and leave it there.

By this time the steamer was seen puffing its way towards the wharf.

In a few minutes it drew alongside and stopped.

A plank was thrown across to them and the two passengers went on board.

A few minutes more, and the steamer was blowing her way up the bay for the mouth of the Potomac River.

“You shall never repent this if my life can help it, lady, dear—though it is for you ’a leap in the dark,’” whispered David Lindsay to the grave-faced child that leaned upon his arm, as they stood alone together on the deck of the steamboat.

“No,” said Gloria, “it is not a leap in the dark—it is a spring into liberty and light.”