Читать книгу Under Three Flags - Bert Leston Taylor - Страница 3

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“No; I am not tired of life. Who could be on such a day? I am weary simply of this way of living. I want to get away—away from this stagnant hole. It is the same dull story over and over again, day after day, world without end, amen!”

“Would you be a bit more contented in any other spot?”

“I think so. I cannot believe that mankind in general is so selfish, so hypocritical, and, worst crime of all, so hopelessly stupid as it is here. The world is 25,000 miles in circumference. Why spend all one’s days in this split in the mountains?”

“But, tell me, what is your ambition, then? Have you one?”

“You would smile pityingly if I told it you.”

“No; I’ll be as serious as—as you.”

“Then incline thine ear. I would I were the ruler of a savage tribe, in the heart of far-away New Zealand, shut in by towering mountains from the outer world.”

“But why spend all one’s days in a valley?”

“Oh, well, if you’re going in for a valley, why not have a good one?”

She throws herself down beside him on the grass and clasps her arms about his neck. “You foolish boy; you don’t know what you want.”

“Don’t I?” He draws the glowing face to his and kisses it.

The two are idling in a grassy nook on the slope of one of Vermont’s green hills, sheltered by a clump of spruce from observation and the slanting rays of the sun.

There is an infinite calm in the late spring air, and the golden afternoon drifts by on lazy pinions. Away in the west, across the vale, the main spur of the Green Mountain range awaits the last pencilings of the low-descending sun. Southward Wild River sings its way through buttercup and daisy flecked meadows; to the north the smoke from the chimneys of Raymond blurs the lines of as fair a landscape as earth can boast.

Derrick Ames pulls his hat over his eyes, stretches himself on the greensward and gazes long and lovingly at his companion. The fair face, browned by many rambles among the hills; the rippling hair, tumbled in confusion about mischievous and laughter-laden brown eyes; the rounded arms; the slim, girlish figure, about which even the coarse dress donned for mountain climbing falls in graceful lines; the dainty feet and the perfectly turned ankles, make a picture for an artist.

She picked up the book which lies open upon the grass and glances over its pages, dreamily.

The sun goes down in a golden haze, and still the lovers tarry in their sylvan trysting-place.

“It is getting late and damp; we had better be moving,” he says, finally.

They arise and take their way across the pasture, their arms clasped about each other’s waist. Derrick is talking in low, earnest tones, with an infrequent interruption by his companion.

“It’s no use,” he exclaims, impatiently, in reply to a protest on her part. “Twice I have spoken to your father, with the same result. I have been refused and insulted. He is selfish, overbearing—”

She places one hand upon his lips. “But will you not make a third trial—for my sake,” she pleads.

“For your sake I would do anything,” he answers, pressing the soft hand to his lips. “There is no time like the present. Will you wait for me here?” She nods. “Where will I find your father?”

“At the bank. I think he said he would be there all the evening.”

“I will return shortly, for I know what the answer will be.”

She watches the erect form of her lover as he strides down the road leading into the village.

The shadows deepen in the valley. The opalescent light that hangs over the range fades into the darkening gray. The moon rises in full, round splendor and transforms the river into a silver torrent.

The clanging of the Raymond town clock, as it hammers out the hour of 8, rouses the girl. “Derrick should be here soon,” she murmurs. Then she clutches her heart with an exclamation of pain and terror.

It is a swift, sharp spasm, that passes away as quickly as it came, and which leaves the girl for several minutes afterward somewhat dazed. Footsteps echo in the road.

“The result?” eagerly, anxiously queries the girl as Derrick reaches her side.

He must have walked swiftly. He is breathing hard and his face is pale as the moonlight. Or is it the reflection of that light?

“Come away from here, for God’s sake!” he exclaims in a harsh, unnatural voice, half-dragging her into the road. “I beg your pardon; I did not mean to be rough,” he adds, as the astonished eyes of the girl look into his. “Will you come for a walk, dear?” And as she follows, mechanically, wonderingly, he walks swiftly away from the village.

“I am all out of breath,” she protests, after a few moments of the fierce pace he has set. And they stop to rest at a spring beside the road.

“You have quarreled with father,” asserts the girl, half questioningly; but Derrick remains silent.

He stops suddenly, and, holding her in his arms, smooths back the dark ringlets from her moist brow. “Helen, darling, do not press me for an answer to-night. Let us be happy in the present. God knows it may not be for long.” He presses a passionate kiss upon the girl’s unresisting and unresponsive lips, and then lifts to the moonlight a face as troubled as the tossing river behind the dusky willows. As he releases her he extends his arm toward the ball of silver that is wheeling up the heavens. “See!” he cries. “The moon is up and it is a glorious night. Shall we follow that pathway of silver over the hills and far away?”

A loving look is her willing assent.

The witchery that the moon is said to exert o’er mortals must be more than a poet’s myth. A strange peace has come upon the girl. Her senses are exalted. She seems to be walking on air. Nor does she now break upon the silence of her companion, whose agitation has been replaced by a singular calm.

What a stillness, yet what a busy world claims the woods they are crossing to-night! The crawling of a beetle through the dead leaves is distinctly heard, and a thousand small noises that the day never hears fill the forest with a strange music.

A short distance farther and the wanderers emerge into the open and pause to marvel at the picture spread before them.

It is a wondrous night. Bathed in a radiance that tips with silver every dew-laden spear of grass, the pasture slopes down to a highway, and the brawling of the brook beside it comes to their ears as a strain of music.

Silently the lovers take their way through this fairyland, clamber over the wall into the road, and continue on.

“I am cold,” complains the girl, with a little shiver. Derrick wraps his light overcoat about her shoulders.

The striking of a town clock causes them both to start.

“Where are we?” asks the girl, looking about her in bewilderment. The moon passes behind a cloud. The spell is over.

“Why, this is Ashfield, isn’t it? There is the station, and the church and the—Derrick! Derrick, where have we been wandering? Five miles from home and midnight! What will Louise and father say? We must go home at once.”

“Home,” he repeats, bitterly, pointing to the north. “There is no home yonder for me. Listen, Helen!” He draws her to him fiercely. “If we part now it must be forever. I shall never go back. I cannot go back! Will you not come away with me—somewhere—anywhere? Hark!”

The whistle of the Montreal express sounds from the north.

The girl seems not to hear him. The long whistle of the express again echoes through the night.

“Helen, darling!” There is a world of yearning and entreaty in his voice.

She throws her arms about him and kisses him. “Yes, Derrick; I will go with you—to the end of the world.”

The station agent regards the pair suspiciously. In the dim light of the kerosene lamps of the waiting-room their features are only partially discernible.

“Sorry,” he says, “but this train don’t stop except for through passengers to New York.”

“But we are going to New York,” almost shouts Derrick. “Quick, man!” The train has swept around the curve above the village and is thundering down the stretch.

“Wall, I guess I kin accommerdate ye,” drawls the station master. He seizes his lantern and swings it about his head and No. 51 draws up panting in the station.

“Elopement, I guess,” confides the station agent to the conductor, as Derrick and the girl clamber aboard the train.

The latter growls something about being twenty minutes late out of St. Albans, swings his lantern and No. 51 rumbles away in the mist and moonlight.