CHAPTER XXXIV
HOW I STOOD RESOLUTE IN MY FOLLY
The day was still young when we reached our habitation, and both of usglad to return, especially my lady.
"For truly I do grow to love this home of ours," says she, and setsherself to sweeping out her three caves. As for me I was determined onmaking her an arm chair forthright; to the which end I took my saw andset out for Deliverance Sands, there to cut and select such timber as Ineeded from my store. But scarce was I come hither than I uttered ashout of joy, for there, cast up high upon these white sands, lay agreat mast in a tangle of ropes and cordage.
Drawing near, I saw this for the mainmast of some noble ship but latelywrecked, wherefore I hasted along the beach and out upon the reef tosee if haply any other wreckage had come ashore, but found nothing toreward my search. Returning to the mast I saw to my joy that thiscordage was all new and sound, though woefully tangled. Howbeit I hadsoon unravelled some fifty yards of good stout twine, and abundance ofmore yet to hand together with the heavier ropes such as shrouds andback-stays. Taking this line I came to that rocky cleft where I hadkilled the goat, and clambering up the bush-grown cliff found it to behoney-combed with caves large and small and with abundant evidences ofthe animals I sought. Wherefore, choosing me a narrow, well-worn trackI set there a trap formed of a running noose, and this did I in diversother places, which done I returned to my labours on the mast. At thewhich occupation my lady, finding me, must needs fall to work besideme, aiding as well as she might like the true comrade she was.
Thus by late afternoon I had coiled and stowed safely away more goodhempen rope and cordage than I could ever want. This accomplished Ifound time to praise my companion's diligence; but finding her allwearied out with such rough and arduous labour, grew mighty vexed withmy heedlessness, reproaching myself therewith; but she (and alltoilworn as she was) laughed her weariness to scorn, as was ever herway:
"Why, Martin," says she, "labour is a good thing and noble since itgiveth health and strength to both mind and body. And 'tis my joy toshare in your labours when I may and a delight to see how, cast heredestitute of all things, you have contrived so much already. The moreI work and the harder, the more able am I for work, so trouble not if Ido grow a little weary sometimes!" This comforted me somewhat until,chancing to see her hands, I caught them in mine and turning them sawthese tender palms all red and blistered with the ropes; and grievingover them I would have kissed the poor little things had I dared (andindeed came mighty nigh doing it) as she perceived, I think, for sheflushed and laughed and drew them from my hold.
"Nay, Martin," says she softly. "I would have you forget mysex--sometimes!"
"'Twere a thing impossible!" says I, whereat she, stealing a glance atme, flushed all the hotter.
"Why then," says she, "You must not coddle and cosset me because I am awoman--"
"Never," quoth I, "'tis not my nature to do so."
"And yet you do, Martin."
"As how?"
"O in many ways--these blisters now, why should your hands grow roughand hard and not mine? Nature hath formed me woman but Fate hath mademe your comrade, Martin. And how may I be truly your comrade except Ishare your toil?"
Now when I would have answered I could not, and turning from her tostare away across the limitless ocean saw it a-gleam through a mist asit were.
"Surely," says I at last, "O surely never had man so sweet and true acomrade! And I so rude and unlovely--and in all ways so unworthy."
"But you are not, Martin, you are not!"
"Aye, but I am--beyond your guessing, you that are so pure, sosaintly--"
"Saintly? O Martin!" and here she laughs albeit a little tremulously."Surely I am a very human saint, for I do grow mighty hungry and yearnfor my supper. So prithee let us go and eat."
But on our way we turned aside to see if we had any fortune with mysnares; sure enough, coming nigh the place we heard a shuffling andsnorting, and presently discovered a goat fast by the neck andhalf-choked, and beside her a little kid pitifully a-bleating.
"O Martin!" cries my lady, and falling on her knees began caressing andfondling the little creature whiles I secured the dam, and mightyjoyful. The goat, for all its strangling, strove mightily, but lashingits fore and hind legs I contrived to get it upon my shoulders and thusburdened set off homewards, my lady carrying the kid clasped to herbosom, and it very content there and small wonder.
"'Tis sweet, pretty thing," says my lady, stroking its silky hair, "andshall soon grow tame."
"And here is the beginning of our flock: our cheese and butter shallnot be long a-lacking now, comrade."
"You must fashion me a press, Martin."
"And a churn," says I.
"Nay I can manage well enough with one of our pipkins."
"But a churn would be easier for you, so a churn you shall have, ofsorts."
This evening after supper, sitting by our fire, my lady (and despiteher weariness) was merrier than her wont and very full of plans for thefuture, deciding for me what furniture I must construct next, as chairs(two) a cupboard with shelves, and where these should stand when made:
"And, Martin," says she, "now that we own goats I must have a dairy formy cheese-making, and my dairy shall be our larder, aye, and stillroomtoo, for I have been tending our garden lately and found growing manygood herbs and simples. In time, Martin, these caves shall grow into ahome indeed and all wrought by our own hands, and this is a sweetthought."
"Why so it is," says I, "in very truth--but--"
"But what, sir?" she questioned, lifting admonishing finger.
"There may come a day when we may weary of it, how then?"
"Nay we are too busy--"
"Can it--could it be"--says I, beginning to stammer--"that you mightlive here thus content to the end of your days?"
"The end of my days?" says she staring thoughtfully into the fire."Why, Martin, this is a long way in the future I do pray, and ourfuture is in the hands of God, so wherefore trouble?"
"Because I who have been stranger to Happiness hitherto, dread lest itmay desert me and leave me the more woeful."
"Are you then happy at last--and so suddenly, Martin?"
Now this put me to no little heart-searching and perplexity, forcasting back over the time since our landing on the island I knew that,despite my glooms and ill-humours, happiness had come to me in thathour I had found her alive.
"Why, I am no longer the miserable wretch I was," quoth I at last.
"Because of late you have forgot to grieve for yourself and past wrongand sorrows, Martin. Mayhap you shall one day forget them quite."
"Never!" quoth I.
"Yet so do I hope, Martin, with all my heart," says she and with agreat sigh.
"Why then, fain would I forget an I might, but 'tis beyond me. Theagony of the rowing-bench, the shame of stripes--the blood andbestiality of it all--these I may never forget."
"Why then, Martin--dear Martin," says she, all suddenly slipping fromher stool to kneel before me and reach out her two hands. "I do prayour Heavenly Father, here and now before you, that you, remembering allthis agony and shame, may make of it a crown of glory ennobling yourmanhood--that you, forgetting nothing, may yet put vengeance from younow and for ever and strive to forget--to forgive, Martin, and winthereby your manhood and a happiness undreamed--" here she stopped, herbosom heaving, her eyes all tender pleading; and I (O deaf and purblindfool!) hearing, heard not and seeing, saw nought but the witchingbeauty of her; and now, having her hands in mine, beholding her sonear, I loosed her hands and turned away lest I should crush her to me.
"'Tis impossible!" I muttered. "I am a man and no angel--'tisimpossible!" Hereupon she rose and stood some while looking down intothe fire and never a word; suddenly she turned as to leave me, then,sitting on her stool, drew out her hairpins and shook down her shininghair that showed bronze-red where the light caught it. And beholdingher thus, her lovely face offset by the curtain of her ha
ir, her deep,long-lashed eyes, the vivid scarlet of her mouth, I knew the worldmight nowhere show me a maid so perfect in beauty nor so vitally awoman.
"Martin!" says she very softly, as she began braiding a thick tress ofhair. "Have you ever truly loved any woman?"
"No," says I, "No!"
"Could you so love, I wonder?"
"No!" says I again and clenching my hands. "No--never!"
"Why, true," says she, more softly, "methinks in your heart is no roomfor poor Love, 'tis over-full of Hate, and hate is a disease incurablewith you. Is't not so, Martin?"
"Yes--no! Nay, how should I know?" quoth I.
"Yet should love befall you upon a day, 'twould be love unworthy anygood woman, Martin!"
"Why then," says I, "God keep me from the folly of love."
"Pray rather that Love, of its infinite wisdom, teach you the folly ofhate, Martin!"
"'Tis a truth," says I bitterly, "a truth that hath become part of me!It hath been my companion in solitude, my comfort in my shamefulmisery, my hope, my very life or I had died else! And now--now you bidme forget it--as 'twere some mere whimsy, some idle fancy--this thoughtthat hath made me strong to endure such shames and tribulations as fewhave been forced to suffer!"
"Aye, I do, I do!" she cried. "For your own sake, Martin, and formine."
"No!" quoth I, "A thousand times! This thought hath been life to me,and only with life may I forego it!"
At this, the busy fingers faltered in their pretty labour, and, bowingher head upon her hand, she sat, her face hid from me, until I, notdoubting that she wept, grew uneasy and questioned her at last.
"Nay, my lady--since this must be so--wherefore grieve?"
"Grieve?" says she lifting her head, and I saw her eyes all radiant andher red lips up-curving in a smile. "Nay, Martin, I do marvel howeloquent you grow upon your wrongs, indeed 'tis as though you fearedyou might forget them. Thus do you spur up slothful memory, whichgiveth me sure hope that one day 'twill sleep to wake no more."
And now, or ever I might find answer, she rose and giving me"Good-night" was gone, singing, to her bed; and I full of bewilderment.But suddenly as I sat thus, staring into the dying fire, she was backagain.
"What now?" I questioned.
"Our goat, Martin! I may not sleep until I know her safe--come let usgo look!" and speaking, she reached me her hand. So I arose, and thuswith her soft, warm fingers in mine we went amid the shadows where Ihad tethered the goat to a tree hard beside the murmurous rill andfound the animal lying secure and placidly enough, the kid beside her.The which sight seemed to please my lady mightily.
"But 'tis shame the poor mother should go tied always thus. Could younot make a picket fence, Martin? And she should have some refugeagainst the storms," to the which I agreed. Thus as we went back wefell to making plans, one project begetting another, and we very blitheabout it.
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