Chapter XX

Much cruel disillusionment had been Jeff Sharp’s portion in the last few days. He had lost much, and he had gained nothing to take the place of that which he had lost. Many of his fondest precepts had been proven untrue. Many of his gods had shown feet of clay. Now, in this bitter hour of an October night, some of his own self-belief passed away, not to return.

He was so proud, this Sharp. He could never, since his childhood, admit defeat. He had built a strong house to shut himself in, during the black days following his return from Lee’s army—a house of estrangement, of scorn, most of all of stern, unconquerable pride—but now it was falling down about his head. Now he had learned that the mere desire to believe a thing did not make it true; that reality followed him even into his secret castle of dreams.

He had felt sure of himself; and with an iron will he had repressed all self-doubt. He had dreamed of never, never yielding; even though every comrade submitted to a new order, to the change that years might bring, he would still remain unconquered, still hold his head high. Confidently he had hoped of finding another order, somewhere, like the old one he loved—out of sight of the conqueror’s flag, away from his own people in whom he had begun to see signs of readjustment and submission—an order where things were as he wanted them to be, and where his dreams came true; but lately, in these last days of revelation, this hope was shown as baseless folly. There was no land short of the Kingdom of Heaven which fulfilled his ideals. Yet he had not staked everything on this. He had one high hope to fall back on; one strong tower that he thought would never fall.

He had believed with a fierce ardor that, no matter if everything he held dear was broken and destroyed, he could play a lone game clear to the end. No matter what he lost, he could not lose this: his ability to stand alone. He could live his life, if need be, with never a shoulder touching his or a smile reflecting happiness into his eyes. He had dreamed he could remain self-sufficient to the last.

Was this also only a dream? Would it go the way of all the rest? To-night he had found out that of all the tides of fortune, that which casts a man upon the desert isle of loneliness was the darkest and most chill. Would his strong heart break as he fought through its long, lightless waves? Could it bow his erect head? Could it break his proud spirit, a Southern heritage that had been given in all fullness to him? The soul of man is a timid, wistful thing that can not wing its way alone: this Jeff learned in his hour of supreme need.

He had never tasted real loneliness before; and he had never known how bitter it was. In this last night before the dawn of his destiny he knew only too well. For the first time in his life there was no friend to seek, no hand to touch. It is good to go into battle for a high cause with cheering comrades at his side; but the way was cheerless and dark when he must walk alone. The men to whom he had offered friendship had either refused it or had so fallen in his estimation that they were no longer acceptable as friends. In all this town of Sitka, the abode of noble gentlemen from beyond the seas, he knew of no one whom he could ask to stand beside him, as his second, in to-morrow’s hour of trial.

The Russians all wanted him to lose. They coveted his furs. Captain Skinner he had belittled, patronized, and lorded over throughout their acquaintance; he had felt scorn for him in his heart even if he had not showed it in his conduct, and he could not ask his help now he was in need. It was not that he feared Skinner’s refusal. The old Yankee would not only serve to the best of his ability, but probably start a few duels on his own account if the fight went against his young charge. Jeff was simply too proud even to let him know about the duel with these men he had exalted, much less to ask his assistance against them. He felt largely the same toward the men of the crew.

It came to him with a poignant sense of loss that there was still another whose help would be precious to him but whom he could not ask. This was a certain companion of these past stirring weeks, a steadfast comrade who had served not only as his second but as a staunch ally in a previous affair of honor on the Kolosh Ryeka trail. The help she could give him was moral only; yet he wanted it as he had wanted few things in his life. Perhaps that was the trouble with Jeff: he had never known, until this hour, what real longing was.

Everything would be quite different if he could talk over the affair with her; if he could walk out in the dawn to meet Baron Karl with her godspeed lingering in his ears and the memory of that strange light, seen now and again in her eyes, guiding him on. Yet now, when he needed her most, he could not have her. He had estranged her with vain, foolish words.

Yet he was too proud to go to her with an admission of his vanity and folly. Again his great pride had come between him and peace. The trait once had been his secret boast—he had taken a childish satisfaction in it—and he had regarded it as a birthright, an obligation owed to himself. Now he thought about it, he had always been conscious of great self-debts; he had owed himself this and that; he must take this stand or that one because such was his due or was seemly to one of his exalted place. Could it be that in his zeal to do his duty to himself he had forgotten duty to others? In flaunting the banner of his pride had his standard of service fallen in the dust? In building his high tower had he missed his shift in the common work crew who built for all humanity? In gathering to himself ramparts to sustain his station had he lost much that could not be regained?

Perhaps he should have given more thought to this. It might be that the time had come to forget himself and to remember some one else. His great pride had not humbled his enemies, but had only estranged his friends. It had not hurt those who had hurt him, but had cut to the quick those who had meant well by him, those who might have loved him and helped him. Perhaps the hour was at hand to put it by, and to seek some other faith.

As this thought gleamed, like a star, in the darkened universe of his mind, he changed his course and turned down toward the sea. He made straight toward the old quay where the _Ethan Allen_ was lying. It seemed to him that considering the cloudy night and the dim oil lights the path was amazingly plain to see and follow. It was almost light.

There was no hesitancy in his step now; only a trembling, boyish eagerness that once might have shamed him. He wondered how he had failed to miss this path until now. It was the plainest thing, lying waiting for him to take now he had passed through the iron gate. He had stumbled about in the fearful dark, like a lame child, and all the time the happy road was open. He could hardly keep from running.

He crossed the quay and walked up the plank to the deck of the American ship. Captain Skinner was taking his ease on the deck, smoking his clay pipe; but Jeff gave no sign of pausing to visit with him. He did, however, call to him as he walked past.

“Where’s Molly?”

“I don’t know. In her stateroom, I reckon. Where you been and where you going so much in a hurry?”

Except that he went aft in the direction of Molly’s stateroom, Jeff made not the least response. Followed by the skipper’s wondering stare he went down a short flight of steps, into a passage, and halted before a stateroom door.

“Who’s there?” a voice called at his knock. It was incredible to him that he had ever, by vanity and folly, let this voice be shut away from him when it was so real a need.

“Jeff,” he told her, simply and humbly, “I want to come in.”

He did not command entrance; he simply told the truth, that he wanted to come in to her. He had never wanted anything quite this way before. In the long pause after he spoke he thought he could hear her troubled breathing, so deep a spell of silence had been cast over the ship that floated on the dark sea, in this hushed, dark night. At first the girl seemed unable to answer him.

“Are you sure—Jeff—that you care about seeing me?”

For an instant he felt the throttling hand of his pride—lifted up again to hold him aloof and from the comfort of surrender—but he tore it away. He must concede some little pride to others. He had forgotten about this until now. Others also felt the need of such fortification against ingratitude and stinging words and cold contempt, such buffets as crush the velvet wings of that hungry, light-seeking moth which is the human soul. He could not deny her her moment of pretended aloofness.

“Molly, I’m sure,” he told her. “I’ve come to ask help.”

He knew that these words would open the door. He knew also that they atoned as far as he ever could atone for his slight to the girl a few days before; they revealed the fullness of his surrender. It took all his strength of will to utter them. Not many times had he asked help of any one, and there were men alive who could not have been made to believe he had done so. Yet the words were straight-forward, clear, and loud enough that the wondering girl behind the locked door could not fail to understand.

There is nothing so effective in dispelling clouds of suspicion and emnity as a request of this kind. Molly opened the door, wide as it would go. Jeff bowed his erect head and stepped through.

She looked at him breathlessly, and as his eyes met hers he saw that she was pale, drawn, and worn-looking as he had never expected her to be. Somehow he had never thought that her bright tints could fade or that pain could shadow her eyes and track over her face; so capable she seemed, so self-reliant that he had deemed her beyond the possible reach of pain. She had always ridden boldly above all disaster and untoward circumstance; but now he knew her as a childlike, stumbling, fragile human being, just as he himself was. This fact brought her nearer to him.

She was plainly startled by his coming; but now she had a look of disbelief, too, as if an impossible, glorious thing were coming true before her eyes. And indeed, the bowing of this proud man—the change since she last saw him—had to be numbered among the few miracles that her life had known.

“I was a cad on the bridge that day, Molly,” he told her simply. “I didn’t mean anything against you. I couldn’t bear to leave you without saying this—”

“Are you leaving—?” She seemed almost unable to shape the words.

“I’m leaving for good and all, like as not. I’m meeting Karl to-morrow, and since I probably won’t live to see you again—I want to be sure that you have forgiven everything.”