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Jacqueline of Golden River

<h3> CHAPTER XXII </h3> <h3> SURRENDER </h3> I saw the light, the sun's rays bright on the cliff tops. Once in the tunnel beyond that I could keep my pursuers at bay with my revolver, even if I had to fight every inch of my way to freedom. And then, just as I approached the barricade of earth-filled bags, Leroux and the man Raoul emerged from the tunnel's mouth and ran toward me. If I had been alone and unencumbered, I believe I could have spurted across the open and won free. But with Jacqueline in my arms it was impossible. I stopped behind the barricade. Even so I was fortunate, for had they gained the cave before I did they would have had me at their mercy like a rat trapped in a hole. They saw me and drew back hastily within the tunnel's mouth. I was panting with the weight of my unconscious burden, and I did not know what to do. My mind was filled with rage against my fate, and I shouted curses at them and strode up and down, behind the bags. Presently I saw something white fluttering from the tunnel. It was a white handkerchief upon a stick of wood, and slowly and gingerly Raoul emerged into the open. At that instant I fired. The bullet whipped past his face, and with an oath he dropped the stick and handkerchief too, and scuttled back to shelter. Then Leroux's voice hailed me from the tunnel. "Hewlett!" he called, and there was no trace of mockery in his tones now, "will you come out and talk with me? Will you meet me in the open, if you prefer?" I fired another shot in futile rage. It struck the cliff and sent a stone flying into the stream. Then silence followed. And I took Jacqueline and carried her back into the little hollow place. I put my hand upon her breast. It stirred. She breathed faintly, though she showed no sign of consciousness. And then I acted as a trapped animal would act. I raged up and down the tunnel from cataract to cave, and at each end I fired wildly, though there was no sign of any guard. Why should their guards expose themselves to fire at me when they had me at their mercy? They could surprize me from either end, and I suppose I thought by this trick to maintain the illusion of having some companion. Heaven knows what was in my mind. But now I stood beneath that awful cataract firing at the blind rock, and now I was back behind the earth-bags shooting into the tunnel. And again I was at Jacqueline's side, crouching over her, holding her hand in mine, pressing my lips to hers, imploring her to live for my sake, or, if she could not live, to open her eyes once more and speak to me. So the afternoon wore away. The sun had sunk behind the cliffs. I had fired away all but six of my cartridges. Then the memory of my similar act of folly before came home to me. I grew more calm. I understood Leroux's intentions—he meant to surprize me in the night when I was worn out, or when I made a blind dash in the dark for the tunnel. I felt my way around the cave with the faint hope that there might be some other egress there. There was none, but I made out a recess which I had not perceived, about one-half as large as the cave itself, and opening into it by a small passage just large enough to give admittance to a single person. Here I should have only one front to defend. So I carried Jacqueline inside and began laboriously to drag the bags of earth into this last refuge. Before it had grown quite dark I had barricaded Jacqueline and myself within a place the size of a hall bedroom enclosed upon three sides with rock. And there I waited for the end. What an eternity that was! I strained my ears to hear approaching steps. I beard the gurgle of the stream and the slow drip of water from the rocks, but nothing more. The star-light was just bright enough to prevent an absolute surprize. But I was utterly fatigued. My eyes alone, which bore the burden of the defence, remained awake; the rest of me was dead, from heavy hands to feet, and the body which I could hardly have dragged down to the stream again. I waited for the end. I sat beside Jacqueline, holding her hand with one of mine, and my revolver in the other. There was a faint flutter at her wrist. I fancied that it had grown stronger during the past half-hour. But I was unprepared to hear her whisper to me, and when she spoke I was alert in a moment. "Paul!" she said faintly. "Jacqueline!" "Paul! Bend down. I want to speak to you. Do you know I have been conscious for a long time, my dear? I have been thinking. Are you distressed because of me?" "My dear!" I said; and that was all that I could say. I clasped her cold little hand tightly in mine. "I don't know whether I shall live, Paul," she went on. "But now things have become much clearer than they were. When you wanted to take me through the tunnel I knew that you were wrong. I knew that even if we found my father I must still send you away, my dear. God does not mean for us to be for one another. Don't you see why? It is because there is the blood of a dead man between us that cannot be wiped away. "That is the cause of our misfortunes here, and they will never end, even if you can beat Leroux—because of that. So it could never have been. Yes, I knew that last night when I lay by you, and I was thinking of it and praying hard that I might see clearly." Her voice broke off from weakness, and for a long time she lay there, and I clasped her hand and waited, and my eyes searched the space beyond the bags. How long would they delay? Presently Jacqueline spoke again. "Do you know, Paul, I don't think life is such a good thing as it used to seem," she said. "I think that I could bear a great deal that I would once have thought impossible. I think I could yield to Leroux and be his wife to save your life, Paul." "No, Jacqueline." "Yes, Paul. If I live, my duty is with my father. He needs me, and he would never leave the château now that his fears have grown so strong. And, though he might come to no harm, I cannot leave him. And you must leave me, Paul, because—because of what is between us. You must go to Leroux and tell him so. You love me, Paul?" "Always, Jacqueline," I whispered. She put her arms about my neck. "I love you, Paul," she said. "It seems so easy to say it in the dark, and it used to be so hard. And I want to tell you something. I have always remembered a good deal more than you believed. Only it was so dear, that comradeship of ours, that I would not let myself remember anything except that I had you. "And do you know what I admired and loved you for, even when you thought my mind unstable and empty? How true you were! It was that, dear. It was your honour, Paul. "That was why, when I remembered everything that dreadful night in the snow, the revulsion was so terrible. I ran away in horror. I could not believe that it was true—and yet I knew it was true. "And Leroux was waiting there and found me. I did not want to leave you, but he told me there was Père Antoine's cabin close by, and that you would come to no harm. And he made me believe—you had stolen my money as well. But I never believed that, and I only taunted you with it to drive you away for your own sake." She drew me weakly toward her and went on: "Bend lower. Bend very near. Do you remember, Paul—in the train going to Quebec—I lay awake all night and cried, at first for happiness, to think you loved me, and then for shame, because I had no right—though I did not remember who he was at the time, the shock had been so great. That night—lying in my berth—I was shameless. I slipped the wedding ring from my finger and hid it away so that you should not know—because I loved you, Paul. And now that we are to part forever, and perhaps I am to die, I can speak to you from my heart and tell you, dear. Kiss me—as though I were your wife, Paul. "So you will go to Leroux?" she added presently. "Is that your will, Jacqueline?" "Yes, dear," she said. "Because we have fought and now we are beaten, Paul." I bowed my head. I knew that she spoke the truth. Slowly the passions cleared from my own heart—passion of hate, passion of love. I knew at last that I was vanquished. For, now that Jacqueline lay there so weak, so helpless, and thinking all our past was but a dream, there was nothing but to yield. I could not fight any more. Even though, by some miracle, the tunnel lay clear before us, to move her meant her death. So I would yield, to save her life, and with me Leroux might deal as he chose. So I left her and climbed across the bags and went down toward the stream. But before I had reached it a dark figure slipped from among the shadows of the rocks and came toward me; and by the faint starlight I saw the face of Pierre Caribou! I was bewildered, for Pierre seemed like one of those dream figures of the past; he might have come into my life long ago, but not to-day, nor yesterday. He stopped me and held me by both shoulders, and he drew me into the recesses of the rocks and bent his wizened old face forward toward mine. "Ah, monsieur, so you did not obey old Pierre Caribou and stay in the cave," he said. "Pierre, I did not know that you would return," I answered. "I thought that we could find the same road that you had taken." "Never mind," the Indian answered, looking at me strangely. "All finish now. Diable take Leroux. His time come. Diable show me!" "How?" I answered, startled. "All finish," said Pierre inexorably, and, as I watched him, a superstitious fear crept over me. He, who had cringed, even when he gave the command, now cringed no longer, and there was a look on his old face that I had only seen on one man's before—on my father's, the night he died. "Pierre, where is Leroux?" I whispered. "No matter," he answered. "All finish now." "Shall I surrender to him or shall I fight?" "No matter," he said once again. "M'sieur, suppose you go back to ma'm'selle, and soon Simon come. His diable lead him to you. His diable tell you what to say. All finish now!" He walked past me noiselessly, a tenuous shadow, and his bearing was as proud as that of his race had been in the long ago, when they were lords where their white masters ruled. He entered the passage at the back of the mine, through which I had come when I encountered Lacroix the first time with his gold. And as he passed I thought I saw Lacroix's face peering out at me through the shadows of the caves. I started toward him. Then I saw only the face of the cliff. My mind was playing me tricks; I thought it had created that apparition out of my thoughts. I went back to Jacqueline and took my seat upon the earth-bag barricade. I had my revolver in my hand, but it was not loaded. I threw the cartridges upon the floor. It seemed only a few minutes before a voice hailed me from the tunnel. "M. Hewlett! Are you prepared to speak with M. Leroux?" It was Raoul's voice, and I answered yes. A moment later Leroux came from the tunnel toward me. I got down from the barricade and met him at the stream. He stood upon one side and I at the other, and the stream gurgled and played between us. "Paul Hewlett," said Leroux, "you have made a good fight. By God, you have fought well! But you are done for. I offer you terms." "What terms?" I asked. "The same as before." "You planned to murder me," I answered, but with no bitterness. "Yes, that is true," answered Leroux. "But circumstances were different then from what they are tonight. I am no murderer. I am a man of business. And, within business limits, I keep my word. If I proposed to break it, it was because I had no other way. Besides, you had me in your power. Now you are in mine. "I thought then that you were in Carson's pay. That if I let you go you would betray—certain things you might have discovered. But you came here because you were infatuated with Mme. d'Epernay. Well, I can afford to let you go; for, though my instincts cry out loudly for your death, I am a business man, and I can suppress them when it has to be done. In brief, M. Hewlett, you can go when you choose." "M. Leroux," I answered, "I will say something to you for your own sake, and Mme. d'Epernay's, that I would not deign to say to any other man. She is as pure as the best woman in the land. I found her wandering in the street. I saved her from the assault of your hired ruffians. I tried to procure a room for her at the Merrimac, and when they refused her, I gave up my own apartment to her and went away." "But you went back!" he cried. "You went back, Hewlett!" "I can tell you no more," I answered. "Do you believe what I have said to you?" He looked hard into my face. "Yes," he said simply. "And it makes all the difference in the world to me." And at that moment, in spite of all, I felt something that was not far from affection toward the man. "Père Antoine will marry you?" I asked. "Yes," he replied. "And her father?" "Is safe in the château, playing with his wheel and amassing a fortune in his dreams." "One word more," I continued. "Mme. d'Epernay is very ill. She was struck by one of those bullets that you fired through the door. Wait!" for he had started. "I think that she will live. The wound cannot have pierced a vital part. But we must be very gentle in moving her. You had better bring the sleigh here, and you and I will lift her into it. And then—I shall not see her again." <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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