Paul Ralston

by Mary Jane Holmes

The next morning was dark and gloomy, as November days are apt to be, and there were very few passengers on the boat, and only the express and hackmen were on the wharf when the Ralston carriage drew up with Mrs. Percy and Clarice in it. This was Paul’s suggestion. He would have every possible attention paid to Clarice and had asked that their carriage be sent for her. Tom, who drove it, was civil,—nothing more,—for he despised the selfish girl who had shown so little heart for Paul. He bought their tickets and saw their baggage checked, and then, without a word, was turning to leave, when Clarice took his hand and said, “Tom, I know where he is. Elithe told me. I couldn’t see him, believing what I do, but I am sorry,—oh, so sorry. Tell him so, and give him my love.”

Tom bowed and walked away, thinking it doubtful if he gave the message to Paul.

“I want him to forget her,” he said; “want him to see the difference between her and that other one who has stood by him so nobly. God bless her!”

As he drove from the landing he looked back and saw Mrs. Percy and Clarice standing in a part of the boat which could be seen distinctly from the top of the Ralston House, where a white flag was floating. Tying her handkerchief to her umbrella, Clarice returned the signal which Paul had fastened to the railing, and then sat down on the floor beside it, waiting for some sign that it was recognized. He had often waved a good-bye to friends when they were leaving, and he remembered that once, when he was a boy, and Clarice was going away and Jack was staying a few days longer with him, they had dragged their sheets from their beds and shaken them in the wind, while Clarice stood upon a chair and kissed her hand to them. Now Jack was dead and he was accused of killing him, and Clarice was going from him forever. He felt that this was so. Clarice was lost. Her love for him was dead or dying, and from that moment his own began to die. When the boat disappeared and he could no longer see the two black figures, the sight of which had made Jack’s death so real, he took down his white flag, and, covering his face with his hands, said sadly: “It’s over between us. The bitterness of death is passed. God pity me, and give me courage to do what I must do. I have lost Clarice. I know it now, and perhaps it is better so. She could not bear the disgrace.”

There was a step near him and a hand was laid upon his arm. It was Elithe, who had been sent by Mrs. Ralston to tell him there were callers in the drawing-room and he was to stay where he was. At sight of him she forgot her errand and tried to comfort him as she would have comforted her brother.

“Don’t feel so badly,” she said. “You will see her again and be happy.”

“Never,” he answered. “It is all over between us. I don’t know that I blame her. She believes I killed her brother. How can she forgive that?” He was silent a moment; then he continued: “I have made up my mind and nothing can change it. I shall go back to prison and take my chance. I do not believe it will be hanging. I’ve thought it all out, and I can stand prison life better than this dodging and hiding from the world, as I should have to do no matter where I might be. Neither Europe nor Canada, supposing I could get there, would free me from myself. I shall go back.”

Here he stopped, struck by something in Elithe’s face he could not mistake and which awoke an answering chord in him. During the weeks of his isolation in his father’s house he had seen Elithe nearly every day. He had watched for her coming, and missed her when she went away. She had read to him in the Smuggler’s room during his convalescence, and once or twice she had sung to him, just as she had sung to Jack Percy in the miners’ camp at Deep Gulch. He had no evil spirits to be exorcised like Jack, but she had soothed and quieted him until he felt his strength returning and knew he owed it largely to her. He had always been interested in her since he first knew her, and, with the exception of Clarice, had liked her better than any girl he had ever met. Now she stood in a different relation to him. She had been with him in all his trouble and had made it her own. She was necessary to him, and as he looked at her it came to him with a pang that to give himself up to the law was to give her up, too. There would be no more waiting for her coming,—no more readings,—no more talks,—no more anything! His heart had ached when he sent his farewell after Clarice, and it ached nearly as hard now as he thought of losing Elithe. Taking her hands, he said: “God only knows all you have been to me. No sister could have done more. Do you think I can forget that night on the sea when you risked your life for me, or what you have been to me since? One of the hardest things in going to prison will be giving you up, but whether I go for life or for a term of years I know you’ll stand by me. You’ll not forget me. You’ll write to me. You’ll come to see me some time.”

“I shall never forget you, wherever you are, whether in prison or at the ends of the earth, and if I can I’ll go to you if you need me,” Elithe answered him.

She was greatly excited, and perhaps her words implied more than she really meant, but they brought to Paul a second time a feeling, half of joy, half of pain, as he began to realize what she might have been to him had he never seen Clarice.