Foul Play [154]
and not selfishly--you have behaved nobly until to-day; go one step farther on the right road; call worldly honor and the God whose vows you have taken, sir, to your aid, and do your duty."
"Oh, man, man!" cried Robert Penfold, "you ask more of me than flesh and blood can bear. What shall I say? What shall I do?"
Helen replied, calmly: "Take my hand, and let us die together, since we cannot live together with honor."
General Rolleston groaned. "For this, then, I have traversed one ocean, and searched another, and found my child. I am nothing to her--nothing. Oh, who would be a father!"
He sat down oppressed with shame and grief, and bowed his stately head in manly but pathetic silence.
"Oh, papa, papa!" cried Helen, "forgive your ungrateful child!" And she kneeled and sobbed, with her forehead on his knees.
Then Robert Penfold, in the midst of his own agony, found room in that great suffering heart of his for pity. He knelt down himself, and prayed for help in this bitter trial. He rose haggard with the struggle, but languid and resigned, like one whose death-warrant has been read.
"Sir," said he, "there is but one way. You must take her home; and I shall stay here."
"Leave you all alone on this island!" said Helen. "Never! If you stay here, I shall stay to comfort you."
"I decline that offer. I am beyond the reach of comfort."
"Think what you do, Robert," said Helen, with unnatural calmness. "If you have no pity on yourself, have pity on us. Would you rob me of the very life you have taken such pains to save? My poor father will carry nothing to England but my dead body. Long before we reach that country I loved so well, and now hate it for its stupidity and cruelty to you, my soul will have flown back to this island to watch over you, Robert. You bid me to abandon you to solitude and despair. Neither of you two love me half as much as I love you both."
General Rolleston sighed deeply. "If I thought that--" said he. Then, in a faint voice, "My own courage fails me now. I look into my heart, and I see that my child's life is dearer to me than all the world. She was dying, they say. Suppose I send Moreland to the Continent for a clergyman, and marry you. Then you can live on this island forever. Only you must let me live here, too; for I could never show my face again in England after acting so dishonorably. It will be a miserable end of a life passed in honor; but I suppose it will not be for long. Shame can kill as quickly as disappointed love."
"Robert, Robert!" cried Helen, in agony.
The martyr saw that he was master of the situation, and must be either base or very noble--there was no middle way. He leaned his head on his hands, and thought with all his might.
"Hush!" said Helen. "He is wiser than we are. Let him speak."
"If I thought you would pine and die upon the voyage, no power should part us. But you are not such a coward. If my life depended on yours, would you not live?"
"You know I would."
"When I was wrecked on White Water Island, you played the man. Not one woman in a thousand could have launched a boat, and sailed it with a boat-hook for a mast, and--"
Helen interrupted him. "It was nothing; I loved you. I love you better now."
"I believe it, and therefore I ask you to rise above your sex once more, and play the man for me. This time it is not my life you are to rescue, but that which is more precious still--my good name."
"Ah! that would be worth living for!" cried Helen.
"You will find it very hard to do; but not harder for a woman than to launch a boat, and sail her without a mast. See my father, Michael Penfold. See Undercliff, the expert. See the solicitor, the counsel. Sift the whole story; and, above all, find out why Arthur Wardlaw dared not enter the witness-box. Be obstinate as a man; be supple as a woman; and don't talk of dying when there is a friend to be rescued from dishonor by living and working."
"Die! while I can rescue you from death or dishonor! I will not be so base. Ah, Robert, Robert, how well you know me!"
"Yes, I
"Oh, man, man!" cried Robert Penfold, "you ask more of me than flesh and blood can bear. What shall I say? What shall I do?"
Helen replied, calmly: "Take my hand, and let us die together, since we cannot live together with honor."
General Rolleston groaned. "For this, then, I have traversed one ocean, and searched another, and found my child. I am nothing to her--nothing. Oh, who would be a father!"
He sat down oppressed with shame and grief, and bowed his stately head in manly but pathetic silence.
"Oh, papa, papa!" cried Helen, "forgive your ungrateful child!" And she kneeled and sobbed, with her forehead on his knees.
Then Robert Penfold, in the midst of his own agony, found room in that great suffering heart of his for pity. He knelt down himself, and prayed for help in this bitter trial. He rose haggard with the struggle, but languid and resigned, like one whose death-warrant has been read.
"Sir," said he, "there is but one way. You must take her home; and I shall stay here."
"Leave you all alone on this island!" said Helen. "Never! If you stay here, I shall stay to comfort you."
"I decline that offer. I am beyond the reach of comfort."
"Think what you do, Robert," said Helen, with unnatural calmness. "If you have no pity on yourself, have pity on us. Would you rob me of the very life you have taken such pains to save? My poor father will carry nothing to England but my dead body. Long before we reach that country I loved so well, and now hate it for its stupidity and cruelty to you, my soul will have flown back to this island to watch over you, Robert. You bid me to abandon you to solitude and despair. Neither of you two love me half as much as I love you both."
General Rolleston sighed deeply. "If I thought that--" said he. Then, in a faint voice, "My own courage fails me now. I look into my heart, and I see that my child's life is dearer to me than all the world. She was dying, they say. Suppose I send Moreland to the Continent for a clergyman, and marry you. Then you can live on this island forever. Only you must let me live here, too; for I could never show my face again in England after acting so dishonorably. It will be a miserable end of a life passed in honor; but I suppose it will not be for long. Shame can kill as quickly as disappointed love."
"Robert, Robert!" cried Helen, in agony.
The martyr saw that he was master of the situation, and must be either base or very noble--there was no middle way. He leaned his head on his hands, and thought with all his might.
"Hush!" said Helen. "He is wiser than we are. Let him speak."
"If I thought you would pine and die upon the voyage, no power should part us. But you are not such a coward. If my life depended on yours, would you not live?"
"You know I would."
"When I was wrecked on White Water Island, you played the man. Not one woman in a thousand could have launched a boat, and sailed it with a boat-hook for a mast, and--"
Helen interrupted him. "It was nothing; I loved you. I love you better now."
"I believe it, and therefore I ask you to rise above your sex once more, and play the man for me. This time it is not my life you are to rescue, but that which is more precious still--my good name."
"Ah! that would be worth living for!" cried Helen.
"You will find it very hard to do; but not harder for a woman than to launch a boat, and sail her without a mast. See my father, Michael Penfold. See Undercliff, the expert. See the solicitor, the counsel. Sift the whole story; and, above all, find out why Arthur Wardlaw dared not enter the witness-box. Be obstinate as a man; be supple as a woman; and don't talk of dying when there is a friend to be rescued from dishonor by living and working."
"Die! while I can rescue you from death or dishonor! I will not be so base. Ah, Robert, Robert, how well you know me!"
"Yes, I