VII Strange That Love Should Make One Afraid
The fierce inrush of a wave swept him from his feet. She spun around with a little cry. Then she saw what Brassid had seen and had kept from her. Fear touched the heart which had never feared before.
“Brassid,” she whispered, “I did not know that we had come so far!”
Brassid tried to laugh.
“The tide will help us.”
“Brassid, you kept me here—you kept me from looking—so that I might rest—and be—strong?”
“I kept you here,” said Brassid, “to make you mine.”
“Brassid,” she whispered, “why did you do so splendid a thing? Dreadful, too! I am afraid to drown now. I wasn’t before.”
“Why are you afraid now?”
“Because then I should never see you again. That is what made the little fear you saw. It all came in a flash. I know. But I am not—afraid—not now.”
“Not now! My love!”
But he saw that panic had followed fear, that every nerve had slackened, that every muscle was unstrung. She swam, panting now,—he had never seen her do that,—and for a while conquered fear. She kept at his side. Now and then she touched him, and always she watched him piteously.
“Brassid—you are stronger—than I thought—stronger than I—as a man ought to be. I am—glad.”
“Yes,” gasped Brassid, “I am strong—and you are brave—”
“Brassid, I don’t mind being saved by you.”
“I should think not.”
“We will not forget the—Indian-fighter—Brassid.”
“Nor the whaler.”
“Yes; I want to live—to be—your—wife—Brassid.”
“My wife!”
Then was silence; nothing but the beating of their breath.
“Brassid—dear—if we do not—get home—stay with me! I do not want—to—stay out here—alone! Oh! Alone! Brassid—will you—stay with me—no—matter—no matter—”
“No matter—what!”
Perhaps it was wrong to say that. But his love was what he had called it—the big love. She gave up.
“Then—beloved—if you—will stay—with—me—”
She could even smile at him.
“The Indian-fighter—the whaler!” pleaded Brassid.
“Yes.”
She responded, and again and again responded. But he saw her first stroke fail. Each of his own cost what seemed a life.
“I am too—tired—Brassid.”
“Courage!” gasped Brassid.
“Yes; once more. To be your wife!”
They swam silently.
“Brassid—I am thinking—of all the dear things you—said. I didn’t notice some of them then. But now—as the drowning do—they are all—very—sweet.”
“You are not drowning,” said Brassid, with his last ferocity.
“It is so strange—that love—should make—one—afraid! I never was—afraid—until I loved you—Brassid—Brassid! Until I—loved—you!”
Brassid put his arm under her to float her. As he did so she sank away from him.
“Can’t—Brassid—dear,” she whispered. “I—am—too—tired—too—tired—”
He saw the dear face with the green water between them. The sun made it glorious—piteous.
“Too late!” said the eyes, as they had said it that first night—he could read it now as plainly as then. And another smile, as then. Her eyes kept upon him. She was quite still. Her arms opened to him. They closed about him, and once more Brassid followed the lovely Sea-Lady to the bottom.