Part 3 — CHAPTER IX "I WILL ARISE..."

Again, but less poignantly now, that sense of desolation came upon Rosemary as she walked between the orange-trees in the hotel-garden. The anguish of soul that had possessed her that morning was over. That had passed while she had knelt upon the steps of the wayside Cross, and though complete peace was not yet hers, a certain sense of security had reached her there and still remained. She knew, quite inexplicably yet beyond question, that some decision would presently come to her—a right decision upon which she would be given strength to act. The amazing revelation regarding himself that her companion had made had not greatly affected her. In the old days it would have stirred her to the depths, but so much had happened of late, and she had known—somehow she had always known—that he was some species of prince in disguise. The discovery that she herself had made concerning him went deeper, and now she realized that it was not such a great discovery after all. She had been more or less aware of it from the beginning. From the moment of her recognition of him, she had regarded him as belonging to Aunt Bobby, and—she faced it now—it was in part that outlook which had induced her in the first overwhelming revulsion of feeling to give herself into his keeping. It had been an action of mad, unreasoning impulse made in a moment when all the values of life had changed for her. In her wild desire to escape at all costs she had not stopped to ask herself whither that desperate step might lead. That it had not so far led to complete shipwreck was due to no effort of hers. It was the half-cynical, half-compassionate chivalry of her companion that had been her salvation. Whether through kindness or indifference, he had given her time to realize the headlong rashness of her action, and to repent it if she so desired. It came to her as she walked that he had been astoundingly generous to her. Was it his love for Aunt Bobby that had made him so?

Again her thoughts returned to the beloved being who had been all the world to her, and for the first time she tried to bring them into some sort of order. There was much that she could not know, scarcely even surmise, but it seemed to her, after a brief review of her own fantastic situation, that if by some means Aunt Bobby had in the long ago been betrayed into taking a false step she was possibly not solely to blame. The bare thought of blaming her renewed the old pain, but she faced it with greater courage now and with less bitterness. Allowing for that one terrible fall for which there was no means of accounting, with what bravery and loyalty she had borne her burden since! Did she—Rosemary—owe her nothing for that? The lifelong deception was harder to condone, but it had been conceived for her own sake; that she clearly saw. And what was she, who had just acted with such wholesale disregard of consequences, such utter lack of consideration for others, to stand up in judgment? A strange humility had begun to awake in Rosemary. She saw herself in a new light, and by that light she now saw the deeds of others. Certainly she was in no position to condemn.

Wandering on in the sunshine, with glimpses here and there of a sea so vividly blue that it seemed as if it could not be real, she came slowly to the deeper understanding that she sought. So far she had only thought of herself. She realized the fact with shame. In her wild dash for freedom, nothing else had mattered. She had suffered cruelly, but by her action she had caused far greater suffering to Aunt Bobby. This she knew beyond question, and her sense of shame increased. Aunt Bobby, the beloved, who had done everything,—sacrificed everything—for her! What agonies had she endured as a consequence of this! Rosemary's hands clenched. It was harder in that moment to think of Aunt Bobby's pain than her own, but she found herself compelled to think. And this, though she knew it not, was the first definite upward step she had ever taken. Self-reproach followed swiftly and overwhelmingly, and presently she was stumbling blindly among the rocks on the shore of that incredibly blue sea, heedless of direction, conscious only of the one lacerating thought that Aunt Bobby—her beloved, her darling—had suffered and was still suffering through her.

Later, feeling physically exhausted and mentally bewildered, she sat on one of those dark rocks and gazed before her in a kind of maze of despair. What was she to do?

Later still—how much later she did not know—words which were somehow familiar to her began to repeat themselves over and over in her brain. It was like an inner voice, that would not be denied. "I will arise—I will arise—and go to my father—and say unto him, 'Father, I have sinned—I have sinned'" ... And then again, more insistently still: "I will arise—I will arise."

Then at last she knew that the message for which she had been subconsciously waiting ever since the morning had come to her, and she must obey. It was the one thing that she had said she could not do—the one thing that made her shrink with a scorching sense of shame; but it had been laid upon her, and she would not turn aside. Whatever the cost, the decision was made and she would not flinch. She got upon her feet and lifted her face to the sky that had begun to turn golden towards the west.

"I will do it," she said, and her voice was clear and steadfast. "I will go back."

The relief of having made that decision was greater than anything she had ever known. She felt as if a light had suddenly shone in the darkness, pointing the way, and though it was uphill and difficult she knew that the strength she needed for the journey would be given. How it was to be accomplished she knew not, but the will to accomplish was hers.

And so she turned her face once more towards the orange garden above the shore to seek her companion and to tell him of the decision she had made. He would probably be angry, but she faced the possibility without a falter. Whatever he did or said, she would not be deterred.

She found that she had wandered much further than she had realized, and already the chill of sunset was in the air. The sea lay like an immense opal, still and silent, under a sky that was changing from blue to purest primrose. The sun was sinking rapidly towards the horizon. The shore looked deeply black.

She quickened her steps. It would be dark before she reached the hotel. She had not been out alone so late before during their travels. She was not nervous, but the thought of Dick Dynamo, as she still called him to herself, agitated her somewhat. She did not want to upset him unnecessarily; for he had shown her more than once that he could be formidable.

The way back seemed endless, the curve of the shore interminable. She wondered what had induced her to come so far. But it was only the beginning of a much longer journey, and she would not suffer herself to be discouraged. She had already begun to return.

The sun dipped lower, finally sank. A cold wind swept up from the west and the whole world turned ashen. The change smote upon Rosemary's heart almost like a curse. She had the sudden scared feeling of a lost child. What if return were made impossible for her? What if she were condemned to wander forever in a world from which all the sunshine had been withdrawn? Then, away in the distance ahead of her, a star began to shine, and she took courage again. Whatever the difficulties ahead of her, she would meet them bravely. She would not be cast down.

The gloom became darkness as she finally drew near to the steps that led up from the shore to the hotel-garden. She broke into a run over the last few yards. It seemed to her that she was leaving an inexpressible dreariness behind. She stumbled as she ran, for the ground was rough and stony. The wind was wailing eerily along the beach.

She reached the steps with relief, began to spring up them; then suddenly stopped midway, standing with caught breath and wildly throbbing heart. There at the gate above her, dimly discernible, stood a figure.

It was not Dick Dynamo; of that she was practically certain. Yet the impression that it was someone who was awaiting her penetrated deeply into her consciousness. But if not Dick Dynamo,—and the vague outline looked too thick-set, altogether too heavily built to be his—if not he, who could it be?

She could not tell, but in those moments a positive panic of doubt went through her and she was near to turning in unreasoning terror and fleeing back along the beach by the way she had come. She thought later that it was only the desolate sighing of the wind and the moaning of the sea that deterred her. But many seconds passed before she nerved herself to continue the ascent to the top of the steps.

She accomplished it at length, slowly, as if her limbs obeyed her with difficulty, mounting step by step until she reached the last. And still the figure above her stood quite motionless, waiting for her.

She accosted it at last because the silence was unbearable, almost uncanny.

"Are you wanting anything?" she said. "Are you waiting for me?"

She spoke in English intuitively. Some inner prompting told her that it could be no Italian standing there, impervious to that icy mistral.

And at once a voice replied in English—a calm, deliberate voice that sent all the blood to her heart in a rush.

"Yes, I was waiting for you," it said, "but I've done now. I'm going to take you home."

"Good gracious!" gasped Rosemary, and nearly fell backwards in her astonishment. "It's The Old Bean!"

A big hand came out and grasped her, pulling her safely through the gate. "Yes, it's me," said The Old Bean superfluously and somewhat grimly. "And now we'll go back."