Black Bartlemy's Treasure Part 53

"Martin," says she, "should you not truss your bird first, Martin?"

"'Twill do as it is."

"Very well, Martin. But why are you so short with me?"

"I am surly by nature!" quoth I.

"Aye, true!" she nodded, "But why are you angry with me this time?"

"I ha' forgot."

"You were merry enough this noon and laughed gaily, and once you fell a-whistling--"

"The more fool I!"

"Why then, methinks I do like your folly--sometimes!" says she softly.

"But now see this river, Martin, 'tis called the Serpent Water in the map, and indeed it winds and twists like any snake. But where should so much water come from, think you? Let us go look!"

"Nay, not I--here's the bird to tend--"

"Why then," says she, stamping her foot at me in sudden anger, "stay where you are until you find your temper! And may your bird burn to a cinder!" And away she goes forthwith and I staring after her like any fool until she was out of sight. So there sat I beside the fire and giving all due heed to my cooking; but in a while I fell to deep reflection and became so lost in my thoughts that, roused by a smell of burning, I started up to find my bird woefully singed.

This put me in fine rage so that I was minded to cast the carca.s.s into the fire and have done with it; and my anger grew as the time pa.s.sed and my companion came not. The sun sank rapidly, and the bird I judged well-nigh done; wherefore I began to shout and halloo, bidding her to supper. But the shadows deepening and getting no answer to my outcries, I started up, clean forgetting my cookery, and hasted off in search of my companion, calling her name now and then as I went.

Following the stream I found it to narrow suddenly (and it running very furious and deep) perceiving which I began to fear lest some mischance had befallen my wilful lady. Presently as I hurried on, casting my eyes here and there in search of her, I heard, above the rush of the water, a strange and intermittent roaring, the which I could make nothing of, until, at last, forcing my way through the underbrush I saw before me a column of water that spouted up into the air from a fissure at the base of the hill, and this waterspout was about the bigness of a fair-sized tree and gushed up some twenty feet or so, now sinking to half this height, only to rise again. Scarce pausing to behold this wonder I would have hasted on (and roaring louder than the water) when I beheld her seated close by upon a rock and watching me, chin in hand.

"Why must you shout so loud?" says she reprovingly.

"I feared you lost!" says I, like any fool.

"Would it matter so much? And you so angry with me and no reason?"

"Howbeit, supper is ready!"

"I am not hungry, I thank you, sir."

"But I am!"

"Then go eat!"

"Not alone!" says I; and then very humbly, "Prithee, comrade, come to supper, indeed you should be hungry!"

"And indeed, Martin," says she, rising and giving me her hand, "I do think I am vastly hungry after all." So back we went together and, reaching the fire, found the accursed bird burned black as any coal, whereupon I stood mighty downcast and abashed the while she laughed and laughed until she needs must lean against a tree; and I, seeing her thus merry at my expense, presently laughed also. Hereupon she falls on her knees, and taking the thing from the fire sets it upon a great leaf for dish, and turns it this way and that.

"Good lack, Martin!" says she, "'Tis burned as black e'en as I wished!

This cometh of your usurpation of my duties, sir! And yet methinks 'tis not utterly spoiled!" And drawing her knife she sc.r.a.pes and trims it, cutting away the burned parts until there little enough remained, but that mighty delectable judging by the smell of it.

So down we sat to supper forthwith and mighty amicable, nay indeed methought her kinder than ordinary and our friends.h.i.+p only the stronger, which did comfort me mightily.

But our supper done we spake little, for night was come upon us very still and dark save for a glitter of stars, by whose unearthly light all things took on strange shapes, and our solitude seemed but the more profound and awesome.

Above us a purple sky be-gemmed by a myriad stars, a countless host whose distant splendour throbbed upon the night; round about us a gloom of woods and thickets that hemmed us in like a dark and sombre tide, whence stole a sweet air fraught with spicy odours; and over all a deep and brooding quietude. But little by little upon this silence crept sounds near and far, leafy rustlings, a stirring in the undergrowth, the whimper of some animal, the croak of a bird, and the faint, never-ceasing murmur of the surge.

And I, gazing thus upon this measureless immensity, felt myself humbled thereby, and with this came a knowledge of the futility of my life hitherto. And now (as often she had done, ere this) my companion voiced the thought I had no words for.

"Martin," says she, softly, "what pitiful things are we, lost thus in G.o.d's infinity."

"And doth it affright you, Damaris?"

"No, Martin, for G.o.d is all-merciful. Yet I needs must think how vain our little strivings, our hopes and fears, how small our joys and sorrows!"

"Aye, truly, truly!" quoth I.

"But," says she, leaning towards me in the firelight and with her gaze uplifted to the starry heavens, "He who made the heavens is a merciful G.o.d, 'who hath made great lights ... the moon and the stars to govern the night.' So, Martin, 'let us give thanks unto the Lord for He is good, for His mercy endureth forever; and in this knowledge methinks we may surely rest secure."

After this we fell silent again, I for one being very full of troublesome thought and perplexity, and the sum of it this, viz., whether a woman, cast alone on a desolate island with a man such as I, had need to fear him? To the which question answer found I none.

Wherefore I got me another speculation, to wit: Whether a man and woman thus solitary must needs go a-falling in love with one another?

Finding no answer to this either, I turned, half-minded to put the question to my companion, and found her fast asleep.

She lay deep-slumbering in the light of the fire, her face half-hid 'neath a tress of s.h.i.+ning hair; and I viewing her, chin in fist, saw in her only the last of her hated race and knew in that moment that never might there be aught of true love, that pure pa.s.sion, high and enn.o.bling, the which may lift man above his baser self--never might this be 'twixt her blood and mine. And knowing this I knew also great doubt and fear of myself. And in my fear I lifted my gaze to the stars, those "great lights" set there by the hand of G.o.d; and spake thus within myself:

"Lord G.o.d," quoth I, "Since love is not nor ever shall be 'twixt this my companion and me, do Thou protect her from the devil within me, do Thou aid me to keep the oath I sware in Thy name."

But now (and my prayer scarce uttered) the Devil sprang and was upon me, and I, forgetting all my oaths and resolutions, yielded me joyously to his will; stirring in her slumbers my lady sighed, turned and, throwing her arm out it chanced that her hand came upon my knee and rested there, and I, s.h.i.+vering at her touch, seized this hand and caught it to my lips and began to kiss these helpless fingers and the round, soft arm above. I felt her start, heard her breath catch in a sob, but, in my madness I swept her to my embrace. Then as I stooped she held me off striving fiercely against me; all at once her struggles ceased and I heard her breath come in a long, tremulous sigh.

"Martin!" says she, "O thank G.o.d 'tis you! I dreamed these Black Bartlemy's cruel arms about me and I was sick with fear and horror--thank G.o.d 'tis you, dear Martin, and I safe from all harms soever. So hold me an you will, Martin, you that have saved me from so much and will do till the end."

"Aye, by G.o.d!" says I, bending my head above her that she might not see my face, "And so I will, faithfully, truly, until the very end!"

"Do I not know it--O do I not know it!" says she in choking voice, and here, lying beside me, she must take my hand and hold it to her soft cheek. "Indeed I do think there is no man like you in the whole world."

At this, knowing myself so unworthy, I thought no man in the world so miserable as I, as I would have told her but dared not.

"G.o.d make me worthy of your trust!" says I at last.

"'Tis a good prayer, Martin. Now hear mine, 'tis one I have prayed full oft--G.o.d make you strong enough to forgive past wrongs and, forgetting vengeance, to love your enemy."

"'Tis thing impossible!" says I.

"Yet the impossible shall come to pa.s.s soon or late, Martin, this am I sure."

"And why so sure?"

"My heart telleth me so!" says she drowsily, and looking down I saw her eyes were closed and she on the verge of slumber. And beholding her thus, my self-hate grew, insomuch that her fingers loosing their hold, I stole away my hand and, seeing her asleep, crept from the place.

Being come to the stream I stood awhile staring down at the hurrying waters, minded to cast myself therein; but presently I turned aside, and coming amid leafy gloom lay there outstretched, my face hidden from the stars and I very full of bitterness, for it seemed that I was as great a rogue and well-nigh as vile as ever Bartlemy had been. And thus merciful sleep found me at last.

CHAPTER x.x.xIV