“Honored Señor [wrote the captain of the Carmen].—“You asked me to write after seven years. Well, praised be my patron saint, I am still alive, and I hope you are. I have often spoken to my wife of the wretchedness of soul you caused me by disappearing among those accursed Indians; but I must admit, nevertheless, that your short voyage in my ship brought me luck, for I fell in with a liner with a broken shaft caused by colliding with a derelict, and she was drifting into the reefs off Hanover Island when I got a tow-rope on board. It was a fine job to haul her as far as Punta Arenas; but, thanks to the Eleven Thousand Virgins, I managed it, and the salvage made me a rich man. The Carmen, too, ran ashore at Iquique on the homeward voyage, and she was well insured. Write, I pray you, if you have escaped from the cannibals. If not, a year from this date, I shall pay for two masses for the repose of your soul.”
So, then, he was remembered by a few friends. The knowledge consoled him for the heedless rush and flurry of New York.
An impulse seized him to break the seals of an envelop marked, “To be burnt, unopened, by my executors,” and take therefrom two letters which he knew it contained. The action was nothing more nor less than a trial of his new-born resolve; since the letters were Nancy’s to himself and Willard’s to his mother. He read them calmly and dispassionately. Willard’s malicious threat he dismissed quickly. It had served its vile purpose, and its victims had paid the price demanded, the mother by death, the son by suffering. But Nancy’s few disconnected sentences gripped his imagination with a new force. Had he misjudged her? he wondered. What argument had Willard used that she yielded so promptly and completely? The broken, pitiful words brought a mist before his eyes. Poor girl! Perhaps, in her woman’s way, she had endured miseries from which life among the Indians had rescued him. Then he recalled the farewell message she had given to Dacre, and the momentary belief that he might have acted precipitately died away. Should he ever meet her in the years to come? He hoped not, with all his heart. He must so contrive Meg’s life and his own that they would pass their days far from the haunts of society. The worship of the golden calf permits its votaries no escape. Thank Heaven, and he and his wife would never practise the cult!
Glancing casually through the rest of the heap, his attention was drawn to a couple of cablegrams. He opened one, and found that it was dated in the late autumn of that memorable year. It read:
“Leave everything, and forget all that has passed. Come at once.
“N.”
One night, sleeping in the depths of a Patagonian forest, he had been aroused by the snarl of some wild animal close at hand. He had never known what beast it was that rustled away among the undergrowth; but he felt the same sense of impending evil now. Thinking the other message might be more explanatory, he tore at the envelop with nervous fingers; but the contents were an exact replica of its predecessor. Then he saw that one had been sent to Bison and the other to New York on the same day, the place of origin of each being London.
He could not doubt that “N” was “Nancy,” and he asked himself, with quick foreboding, what strong motive had inspired this urgent command. He was to forget all that had passed! What strangely variable creatures woman were, to be sure! Could she, or any woman, honestly imagine that such a request might be obeyed? Forget that struggle between love and duty; forget the delirium of that fortnight in the Adirondacks; forget the numb agony of the days following her flight? As soon might a man forget his own name!
Nerving himself to the task, he searched for some written word which should make clear the baffling enigma. Soon he came across two letters in Nancy’s handwriting, and bearing the London postmark. The dates were three months apart, and the earlier one corresponded with that on the cablegrams; so he opened it first, and read:
“My own dear Derry.—A few hours ago I cabled you, both to Bison and New York, that you are to come to me without delay, and I hope, I even pray on my knees, that you are already in the train or steamer. Still, I am in such a fever of dread lest any untoward event may have kept my message from you, or prevented you from starting instantly, that I write also. If, which Heaven forbid, any shred of doubt or misgiving has gripped you, and you have decided to await a more explicit reason for my action in bidding you come, I am writing by to-day’s mail to tell you that circumstances beyond my control, or yours, render it imperative that I should leave Hugh Marten now and forever. Derry, don’t ask me to explain myself more fully. There are things which a woman may whisper, but which she cannot write. Yet it is only just that I should, at least, make plain the dreadful conditions under which I left you five months since. My father meant to kill you before my eyes. No consideration would have stopped him. He was resolved to shoot you without warning if I refused to return to Marten’s house, and I yielded; for I could not bear the thought of seeing you stretched lifeless in front of the dear little hut in which we had been so happy. I may have been weak, but I loved you too much to let you give your life in exchange for my love, and he convinced me that he was in deadly earnest. So I went away with him, and tried to make myself despicable in your eyes as the surest way of searing the bitter wound my action would cause. Remember, he left me no alternative. The break had to be final, or he would seek you out and slay you without mercy, and I knew only too well that he not only meant what he said, but that our laws would support and public opinion acclaim his action. Well, I traveled with him to England, and have been so ill ever since—though not physically such a wreck as I have pretended to be—that Marten believes I am suffering from the effects of the heat wave, and has compelled me to endure the treatment and scrutiny of many doctors. And today, one of them—— But now I must be dumb, except to tell you that, whether or not it means death to both of us, you must come and take me away to some secret place where none can find us. Don’t think that this letter is written in a moment of impulse. It is not the product of a woman’s hysteria. It is a cry from my very heart. And, in the midst of my desolation, I am glad—oh, so glad! I am aflame with a delight that is almost superhuman; for I know that you will understand, and that nothing on earth can ever part us again. My tears are falling on this page, but my higher and truer self is singing a canticle of praise and wonderful joy. Hurry, Derry, hurry!