“Yes, Dick,” she answered, “I am quite, quite sure. My gratitude you won long ago; it was yours when we first stood on the deck of the Mermaid together, dripping from our long night’s immersion in the sea—for had you not, even then, saved my life? And it grew even deeper as I noted day by day your thoughtful care and anxiety for my welfare. But gratitude and love are two very different feelings; and while I should of course have always been profoundly grateful to you for your unceasing care, I am sure that I should never have learned to love you had I not first seen that you loved me.”
“Then God be praised for His unspeakable mercy in bestowing upon me this pricelessly precious gift of your dear love!” exclaimed Dick, fervently. “I will accept it, ay and I will moreover prove myself worthy of it. This blessed day marks a turning-point in my life; from this moment I leave my wretched past behind me; there shall be no more useless fretting and grieving for me. My work, now, is first to restore you to your father; next to free myself—by his help, if he will give it me, but anyway, to free myself—from the undeserved stigma that attaches to my true name; and, finally, to win for you such a home and position as you deserve. And, God helping me, I will do it!”
This was the second time within a few minutes that Dick Leslie had spoken the name of the Deity, and nothing could more clearly have indicated the change wrought in him by the knowledge of Flora’s love. Hitherto he had felt himself to be an outcast, cruelly and unjustly deserted by his Creator; despised and condemned by his fellow-men; but now everything was different; he firmly believed that God had at last relented and had given him this girl’s love to comfort and encourage him in his great trouble and humiliation; and he once more took hope into his heart. If God had relented, everything, he felt convinced, would yet be well with him.
And what is to be said of Flora; is any excuse needed for the extreme step that she took in forcing a confession of love from Leslie? Well, possibly there is; it may be that there are people who would assert that, despite her disclaimer, she was unmaidenly. If such there be, and if excuse for her be needed, then let it be found for her in the following facts. In the first place Leslie, despite his utmost caution, had betrayed his intense love for her in a thousand different ways, until the fact had become clear, unmistakable, and indisputable; a thing not to be doubted or gainsaid. And, in the next place, she saw that, for some unknown reason, he never intended to declare his love if he could possibly help it. A dozen times the declaration had trembled on his lips, yet he had resolutely withheld it. Why? Clearly for some reason that he deemed all-sufficient, and which, she fancied, must be intimately associated with those oft-recurring fits of gloom and depression from which she could not help seeing that he suffered. Finally, she loved him, and believed that—he also loving her—the knowledge of this fact might go far toward restoring his lost happiness. And when she had heard his story—told with all the bitterness and grief and indignation that had been eating into his soul and destroying his faith in God and man for over seven interminable years of suffering—she knew that she was right; that there was but one remedy for his misery; and, conscious of the nobility of her own motives, she fearlessly administered it. Who can or will blame her?
Meanwhile the brooding storm was slowly gathering its forces together for an outburst; the bank of cloud had piled itself so high above the western horizon that it had long ago obscured the sun; a weird twilight had fallen upon the scene; the stagnant air had grown even more oppressively hot than at first; not a bird uttered a single note; not an insect raised a chirp; not a leaf stirred; and in the profound silence the roar of the surf on the reef became thunderous in its resonance. They dined somewhat earlier than usual that night, and while they sat over their meal the darkness fell and they lighted the lamps. Then Leslie went out to see to the security of the catamaran, making her fast to the shore with additional moorings; and upon his return Flora insisted that he should lie down on the sofa while she sang and played to him. Then Leslie, in his turn, his heart lightened with returning hope and happiness, lifted up his voice, and for the first time since that terrible and memorable day, nearly eight years ago, broke into song. And finally they began to sing duets together, his clear, rich, mellow tenor blending well with Flora’s sweet, sympathetic soprano.
The concert was interrupted by the distant muttering of thunder and the fitful flickering of lightning; and they went out together down to the shore to watch the gathering storm. It was a long time in coming, but by-and-by, as they stood together close to the water’s edge, a sudden swishing sound, like that of wind stirring leaves, became audible, and in another moment the blast was upon them and tearing across the glassy surface of the lagoon, darkening its surface and lashing it into foam. Then, a minute or two later, down came the rain in sheets, and they had to beat a precipitate retreat to the tent, getting a thorough drenching on the journey, though it occupied them but a minute. The gale raged all through the night and up to nearly noon on the following day, when it broke, the sky cleared, and the wind gradually dropped to a moderate breeze, veering all the time round by north to east until the south-east trade wind was once more blowing, but very much more gently than usual. Upon going out, the next day, Leslie was delighted to find that the gale had done no damage whatever anywhere, all stores and materials having been effectually protected from the rain, while the direction of the gale had been such that it could not possibly harm the brig.
Although the gale actually broke—as has been said—shortly before noon, it moderated so gradually throughout the afternoon that it was not until the next day that the sea had gone down sufficiently to permit of the catamaran being taken alongside the brig without danger. As soon, however, as this was the case, Leslie went off again, accompanied by Flora, and resumed his task of breaking up the brig’s deck. It was about the middle of the afternoon when Flora, who had been allowing her gaze to wander out over the sea to the southward and westward, called her companion’s attention to a small object floating at a distance of about a mile in the offing. Leslie, ever on the alert, at once brought the telescope to bear upon the object, which appeared to be drifting helplessly before wind and sea toward the surf beating on the weather side of the reef, and immediately pronounced it to be a small canoe, apparently empty.
“We must have that craft; she will be very useful to us,” he exclaimed, dropping the telescope and preparing to cast off the catamaran. “Will you come with me, sweetheart? You can be useful to me by taking the tiller, when we come alongside her, while I jump aboard and make fast a rope. But we must be smart or she will be among the breakers before we can reach her.”
A minute later they were under way and slipping along toward the entrance channel, upon clearing which Leslie at once hauled his wind, standing to the eastward for about a mile, which took him far enough to windward to enable him to fetch the canoe on the next tack. He then hove about without a moment’s delay, for the little craft was by this time perilously close to the surf, and it was questionable whether they would reach her in time to save her from being caught and dashed to pieces in it. So close, indeed, was she that Leslie began to seriously ask himself whether he was justified in taking the catamaran into a situation of such danger for the mere sake of an insignificant canoe; but reflecting that she was evidently light enough to enable Flora to paddle about in her without much exertion, and that it would afford the girl pleasure to do so; also that the little craft would be very useful for fishing and other purposes, he decided to risk it; and accordingly steered to shave just past her to windward. Then, when they were drawing close up to her, he handed over the tiller to Flora—who was by this time quite an expert helmswoman—instructing her to tack to the eastward the moment that he sprang into the canoe. Then, taking the end of a rope in his hand, he stood by to jump into the canoe as the catamaran shaved past her. Another moment and they were alongside the little craft, into which Dick nimbly leaped, with the rope’s-end in his hand, crying, as he did so—
“Down helm, dear, and put her round!” A moment later he added, under his breath, “Hillo! here is a complication; a couple of naked savages in her! I wonder whether the beggars are dead!”