"Practice in the study of faces, that's all. Another bad habit."
"But if I take you on you will give up the liquor, won't you? It seems such a pity that a man should throw himself away like that when there's so much in the world worth living for."
"That's, of course, if there is. Suppose, for the sake of argument, there is nothing? Suppose that a man has forfeited all right to self-respect—suppose he has been kicked out of house and home, deprived of his honour, disowned even by those who once loved him best—would you think it foolish if he attempted to find a City of Refuge in the Land of Alcohol?"
"Are you that man?"
Her face grew very gentle and her voice soft, as she put the question.
"I simply instance an example to confute your argument. May I change the subject? What is my work to be? Much must of course depend on that. Like the elephant, my strength is in my head rather than my hands, certainly not in my legs."
"Our store-keeper and book-keeper left us a month ago. Since then I have been doing his work. Are you good at figures?"
"Fairly; that sort of work would suit me admirably, and would, I believe, enable me to give you satisfaction. And, my friend——But here he comes to ask for himself."
Ellison was sauntering slowly up the path. He looked a fine figure of a man in the evening sunlight. His borrowed plumes fitted and suited him admirably. He lifted his hat with the air of a court chamberlain when he came to the veranda steps.
"I am glad to see you about again," he said to Murkard, who was examining him critically, "you certainly look better."
"I am, as I have already said, a different man."
"You look happier, certainly."
"I have just received my appointment to a position of trust."
Ellison glanced at the woman. She laughed and nodded.
"Yes, I have put him on as book-keeper and store-man. It's a billet worth a pound a week and his keep."
"It is very generous of you."
"Oh, but that's not all. If you care to stay youcan do so as general knockabout hand on the same terms. There will be a good deal that will want looking to now that you've disabled Paddy the Lasher. You can occupy the hut where you are now, and I'll tell Rhotoma Jimmy to serve your meals in the barracks across the way."
"I hope we shall show ourselves worthy of your trust."
"I hope you will; but no more black eyes, remember. The sooner you get rid of the one you're wearing the better I shall like you. You'll find my father, when he returns, will take to you sooner without it. And now you'd better go and get your teas."
She rose to go inside. They stepped from the veranda. Ellison happened to look round. Her head was half turned, and she was watching him. Their eyes met, and the next moment she had vanished into the house.
The two men walked across to their hut in silence. When they reached it, they sat themselves down on their respective beds and looked at each other. Murkard opened the conversation.
"You were going to say that you cannot imagine why she has done this? Isn't that so?"
"Yes. Iwasjust going to do so. How on earth did you guess it?"
"Never mind that. But you've got hold of the wrong end of the stick, my boy. She's not doing it for the reason you suppose. Would it surprise you very much to be told that in all probability it is done formysake. No, don't laugh; and yet I really do think it is, and I'll tell you why. There was uncertainty written in her face and, well, if I must say it, a little bit of distrust of you, until I appeared upon the scene. Then you know my way with women. I told her the plain, unvarnished truth, without any compliments or gilt edging of any sort. Painted myself as a gentleman gone a-mucker, hopeless cripple, etc., etc. Then she dropped that infernal business air, and her womanly side came uppermost. That decided for us—I am appointed Paymaster-General; while you, if you play your cards well, may be anything from Grand Vizier downward. I think you have reason to congratulate yourself."
"Murkard, you are playing fair, aren't you?"
Murkard turned white as death.
"Playing fair! you are playing fair, aren't you? What the devil makes you use those infernal words to me again? My God, man! do you want to send me into hell a raving lunatic?"
He ran his fingers through his long hair and glared at his companion, who sat too astonished atthis sudden outburst to speak. But after a few moments he cooled down and resumed his natural, half-cynical tone:
"I beg your pardon. Hope I didn't startle you very much. Habit of mine. What beastly things words are. How they bring up like a flash the very things one's been trying for years to forget. Yes, yes! I intend to do my duty by this girl. I promise you that. By the way, that's the second time you've asked me that question this afternoon."
"I wanted to make certain, that was all. What are you staring at? Are you mad?"
"No, I think not. I was only wondering."
Ellison rose and went to the door. Leaning against the post he had an uninterrupted view of the still waters of the bay. Hardly a ripple disturbed its surface. The sun was in the last act of sinking into his crimson bed, and as he went he threw a parting shaft of blood-red light across the deep. Everything stood out with an unusual distinctness. Across the straits, so full of importance to them that day, he could see the settlement of Thursday—count the houses and even distinguish people walking upon the sea-front. The peaceful beauty of the evening soothed his soul like sweetest music. He was happier than he had been for months, nay, years past. It seemed to him that hewas in a new world—a world as far removed from that of the morning as is heaven from hell. He almost found it difficult to believe that he, the well-dressed, well-fed man, leaning against the doorpost, was the same being who only that morning had contemplated suicide on the pier-head over yonder, in that abject and black despair engendered of starvation. With this feeling of wonderment still upon him he turned his head in the direction of the station house—a lamp was just lighted in the sitting room, and by moving a step further to the left he could discern the loosely rolled brown hair of a woman's head. Almost unconsciously he sighed. It was a long time since any woman had manifested so much interest in him. Had he got past the desire to be worthy of it? No, he hoped not! He had told himself repeatedly since midday this was certainly his last chance, and come what might, having obtained it, he would make a struggle to win back the respect he had begun to believe he had lost forever.
The evening drew on. The night wind rose and played through the palm fronds above the hut, rubbing against the thatch with soothing sweep. Murkard was lying on his bed inside, smoking. Esther had brought her work on to the veranda, but had discarded it when the light failed, and nowsat looking out across the sea. Ellison made no attempt to speak to her, and she gave no sign to show that she saw him. Some time afterward he heard Murkard put down his pipe, and come out to stand beside him.
"A beautiful night. Look at that last gleam of crimson low down upon the horizon. What are you thinking of, old man?"
Ellison did not make any reply for a minute, and then he said quietly:
"Of a night like this eight years ago! That's all."
"You ought not to have let her tell you."
"I couldn't help myself. It was done before I knew it. And then I had her guilty secret to keep as well as my own. Bah! what a fool I was. But what am I saying! How did you come to know anything of her?"
"Another of my guesses, that's all."
"Murkard, there's something devilish uncanny about you."
"Because you don't understand me, eh? No, no; don't be afraid, old man, you will never have cause to fear me. I owe you too much ever to prove myself ungrateful. Bear with my crotchets—for as surely as I stand before you now, the day will come when you will regret any harsh word you have ever spoken to me. My destiny isbefore me written in letters of fire—I cannot escape it, and God knows I would not if I could."
"What on earth do you mean?"
"Don't ask me, or try to find out. When I saw your face for the first time that wet night on the wharf in Sydney, I knew you to be the man for whom I was sent into the world. There is a year of grace before us, let us enjoy it—then—wellthen I shall do my duty."
Ellison put his hand on the small man's deformed shoulder.
"Silas, I don't grasp what you're driving at!"
"Then, as I say, don't seek to know. Believe that I'm a dreamer. Believe that I'm a little mad. I shall never speak of it to you again. But to-night I felt as if I must speak out—the hand of the Future was upon me. Good-night!"
"Good-night!"
As Murkard went in the woman rose from her chair, advanced to the veranda rails, and once more stood looking out across the bay. A clock in the Kanakas' hut struck ten. Then she too turned to go in. But before doing so she looked across at Ellison, and said kindly, "Good-night!"
"Good-night!" he called in return.
And all the silence of the world seemed to echo that "Good-night!"
THE WORLD, THE FLESH, AND THE DEVIL.
Long before the first month was ended both men had settled down comfortably to their work-a-day existence. They had arrived at a thorough understanding of their duties, had made friends with their fellow-workers, and found it difficult to believe that they could be the same two men who were the beach-combers of the previous month. As for Murkard he derived the keenest pleasure from the daily, almost monotonous, routine of his office. He discovered abundance of work to keep him busy, his keen instinct detected endless opportunities of creating additional business, and he hoped that, when the owner of the station should return from his pearling venture, he might not only be in a position to convince him that his daughter's appointment was fully justified, but to demonstrate to him that it was likely to prove the stepping-stone to a sound commercial future. To Esther the man himself was a complete and continual mystery. Try how she would, she could notunderstand him. On one occasion a combination of circumstances led her to attempt to set him right on a certain matter connected with his own department. Much to her surprise and discomfiture she found him not only firmly resolved to assert his own independence, and to resist to the utmost any attempt at interference, but even prepared to instruct if need be. Routed on every side she had fled the field ignominiously, but though mortified at her rebuff, still she could not find it in her heart to quarrel with the man. To tell the truth, she was more than a little afraid of him, as he intended she should be. His sharp tongue and peculiar faculty of quiet ridicule were particularly distasteful to her. She preferred venting her abuse upon his inoffensive companion—who, it would appear, absolutely failed to do anything to her complete satisfaction.
To Ellison, in spite of his joy at having found employment at last, that first month was not altogether one of happiness. He was too keenly conscious of his limited powers to be thoroughly at his ease, and yet he did his work from morning till night with dog-like faithfulness, grudging himself no labour, sparing himself no pains to ensure the faithful discharge of the duties entrusted to him. Not only that, but he often went out of his way tofind work. She watched him and invariably found fault. So surely as his hard day's work was ended, would she discover something left undone. This she would never fail to point out to him, and the result well-nigh drove him distracted. And yet there were times when she was more than kind, bright days in his calendar that shone with a greater lustre, perhaps, because they were so few and far between. As instance the following:
His own work being over for the day, he had crossed to the wood pile behind the kitchen and set to work sawing logs for the cook's fire. The wood was tough and the labour hard, but he kept the saw going with endless perseverance. As he came near the end of the supply, Esther chanced upon him. It was the first time he had seen her since the early morning.
"Good afternoon," he said, but did not desist from his labour.
"Good afternoon," she returned, regarding him for a moment, and then seating herself upon an upturned box beside him. "I think you will remember that I asked you for some screws for a corner bracket this morning."
"I beg your pardon; I think you asked if I could find any in the boat-house. I remembered having seen some, and offered to procure them. You thendetermined that you would wait until to-morrow for them."
"Ah, yes! so I did. I had forgotten that."
"As you are clearly in the wrong, you might beg my pardon, I think."
"I don't see why. It is my duty to keep you up to your work."
"Very well, then we'll say no more. The screws shall be on your table on the veranda at ten o'clock to-morrow morning."
"Without fail?"
"Without fail. I always keep my word."
He went on with his sawing. She sat and watched him, and for the first time became aware of the elegance and symmetry of his figure.
"Not always, I think. I asked you yesterday to tell me what brought you to Australia; you said you would, but you have evidently forgotten your promise."
"Again you misinterpreted my speech. I think I said I could not bore you with it until I knew you better."
"And by that I am to understand that you won't tell me?"
"Not yet."
The saw cut through the log with a little whine, and the end dropped to the ground.
"You don't know me well enough yet to trust me, I suppose?"
"I know you as well as I suppose I ever shall know you. You are not a difficult person to understand."
"Have you so much experience of my sex, then?"
"More than most men, perhaps. God help me!"
"You don't seem to realise that that is a dangerous admission to make to a woman."
"Why? You let me see very plainly yesterday that our ways lie far apart. In fact, that whatever my rank may once have been, I am now only your father's servant."
She rose from the box on which she had been sitting and stamped her foot. He looked up and saw that indignant tears stood in her eyes.
"You are very unjust and very unkind. I'm sure I never said or implied anything of the sort."
"Then I must crave your pardon once more for misunderstanding you. I certainly understood that to be your meaning."
She sat down again and fell to scraping up the shavings and litter with her foot. He resumed his sawing. For the space of about three minutes neither spoke. Then she said timidly:
"I notice that you are very patient and persevering."
He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye suspiciously. This was too novel and satisfactory not to make him a little distrustful.
"And pray what makes you think that?"
"For many reasons. One because you don't saw wood like most men I have seen. You go right through till the cut is even and the end drops off of its own weight. Most men saw it three parts through, then drive in a wedge, and break off the rest. It saves time, but it means laziness. I think I like your way best."
"It is very kind of you to say so."
"Oh, not at all. I thought as I've scolded you so often I ought to tell you of something I approve, that's all."
Decidedly he was a handsome man. She liked his colour, she liked his glow of health and strength, and she was not quite certain that she did not like his eyes; but she wasn't going to let him think she had the very smallest grain of admiration for him. He wondered what was coming next.
"All the same, you're not a very quick worker. I don't know that it's quite a profitable occupation for you. One of the boys would have done twiceas much in half the time—not so neatly perhaps, but it would have burned just as well."
That was the way with her. He never made any advance but she drove him back further than he was originally. She saw how her last remark was affecting him, and a smile flickered over her face that was not altogether one of discouragement. He looked up just in time to catch it. The result was disastrous. He missed his thrust—the saw slipped and cut his hand. It was not a deep wound, but it bled profusely—into the white slit of wood, and, drop by drop, down upon the little heap of saw-dust at his feet. She saw it as soon as he did, and gave a little cry of alarm.
"Oh, you have cut yourself, and all through my stupidity! Quick, give me your handkerchief and let me tie it up."
Before he had properly realised what had happened, she had drawn her own handkerchief from her pocket, taken his hand, and was binding it up.
"I'm so very, very sorry. It was all my fault. I should not have stayed here worrying you with my silly talk. Can you forgive me?"
He looked into her face—with its great brown eyes so close to his—this time without the least embarrassment. And what beautiful eyes they were!
"You are not to blame. It was the result ofmy own carelessness. I should have looked at the saw instead of your face."
"Very possibly; but you must not cut any more wood. I forbid it! Do you think you will remember what I say?"
"I'm very much afraid so."
Not another word passed between them. She went into the house, and he, with a sea of happiness surging at his heart that he would have been puzzled to account for, back to the store.
But that evening all the enjoyment he had got out of the afternoon was destined to be taken away from him. After dinner, Murkard had some work in the office he wished to finish in time for the China mail next day, so Ellison wandered down to the shore alone. The moon was just rising over the headland, and the evening was very still; there was hardly enough wind to stir the palm leaves on the hill-top. Further round the island alligators were numerous, and as he stepped on to the beach Ellison thought he could make out one lying on the sand ahead of him. He stepped across to obtain a closer view, only to find that it was the trunk of a sandal-wood tree washed up by the tide. As he turned to retrace his steps he heard someone coming through the long grass behind him. It was Esther.
"Good-evening!" he said, raising his hat. "What a perfect night for a stroll it is. Just look at the effect of the moonlight on the water yonder."
"How is your hand?"
"Progressing very satisfactorily, thank you. It is very good of you to take so much interest in my tiny accident."
"I don't see why! I should have been just as interested in anyone else. I pity the woman who could fail to be affected by an ugly cut like that. Good-night!"
She resumed her walk, and as he had nothing to say in answer to her speech, he looked across the stretch of water at the twinkling lights of Thursday. He had received a well-merited snub, he told himself—one he would not be likely to forget for a few days to come. He had presumed too much on her kindness of the afternoon. Who was he that he might expect from her anything more than ordinary civility? He was her father's servant, paid by the week to do odd jobs about the place; a position only found for him out of charity by a kind-hearted girl. With a gesture of anger he went briskly across the sands, plunged into the thicket, and strode back towards the house. He was not of course to know that after leavinghim she had stopped in her walk and watched him until he disappeared. When she, in her turn, wended her way homeward, it was, illogically enough, with an equally heavy heart. She did not, perhaps, regret her action, but her mind was torn with doubts.
"If only I could be certain," she kept repeating to herself. "If only I could be certain!"
But that didn't mend matters very much. That she had angered him, at least, was certain. Then came the question which was destined to keep her awake half the night. Had she played with him too much? She could see that he was thoroughly angered.
On arriving at the hut Ellison discovered Murkard in the act of going to bed. He was seated on his couch, one boot on, the other in his hand. He looked up as his friend entered, and one glance at his face told him all he wanted to know. Placing the boot he held in his hand carefully on the floor, he removed the other and arranged it beside its fellow. Then, addressing himself to the ceiling cloth, he said:
"I have often noticed that when a man imagines himself happiest he is in reality most miserable, andvice versa. Last night my friend was supremely happy,—don't ask me how I knew I saw it,—andyet he sighed in his sleep half the night. This evening he would have me believe that he is miserable, and yet there's a look in his eyes that tells me at the bottom he is really happy."
"You're quite out of your reckoning, my friend, as far as to-night is concerned. I am miserable, miserable in heart and soul, and for two pins I'd leave the place to-morrow."
"I should."
"The devil! and why?"
"Because you're going deliberately to work to make an ass of yourself, if you want it in plain, unvarnished English. You're falling head over ears in love with a woman you've only known a month, and what's the result to be?"
"What do you think?"
"Why, that you'll go a-mucker. Old man, I don't know your history. I don't even know your name. You're no more Ellison, however, than I am. I've known that ages. You're a public school and Oxford man, that's plain to those with the least discernment, and from those facts and certain others I surmise you belong to that detestable class; miscalled the English aristocracy. I don't care a jot what brought you to grief—something pretty bad I haven't a doubt—but believe me, and I'm not joking when I say it, if you marry this girl,without really loving her, you'll commit the cruellest action of your life, and what's worse ten thousand times, you'll never cease to regret it. She's a nice girl, a very nice girl, I don't deny that, but if ever you think there's a chance of your going home, if you ever want to go, or dream of going, you're in honour bound to give her up. Go away, clear out, forget you ever saw her; but for mercy's sake don't drag her down to your hell. Give her a chance, if you won't give yourself one."
"You speak pretty plainly."
"I speak exactly as I feel, knowing both you and the girl. Do you think I haven't seen all this coming on? Do you fancy I'm blind? Knowing what I know of your face, do you think I haven't read you like a book. At first you looked at it as an investment. You thought the old man, her father, might have money; you half determined to go in for the girl. But about 8.30 last Thursday week night you had a bout with your conscience. You came into the store and talked politics—Queensland politics, too, of all things in the world—to distract your thoughts. I let you meander on, but I knew of what you were thinking. After that you gave up the mercenary notion and talked vaguely of trying your luck on the mainland. Then she began to snub you, and you to find newbeauties in her character. You may remember that we discussed her, sitting on the cliff yonder, for nearly three hours on Wednesday evening. You held some original notions about her intellect, if I remember aright. Now, because you're afraid of her, you're imagining yourself over head and ears in love with her. Go away, my boy, go away for a month, on any excuse. I'll get them to keep your billet open for you if you want to return. You'll know your own mind by that time. What do you think?"
"I'll do it. I'll give her a week and then go."
"That's the style. You'll repent and want to cry off your bargain in the morning, but for the present that's the style."
So saying, this guide, philosopher, and friend drew on his boots again and went out into the still hot night. Having reached the store veranda he seated himself on a box and lit his pipe.
"This torture is getting more and more acute every day," he began, as a sort of apology to himself for coming out, "and yet they must neither of them ever know. If they suspected I should be obliged to go. And why not? What good can it ever do me to stay on here looking at happiness through another man's eyes. For she loves him. If he were not so blindly wrapped up in his ownconceit he would see it himself, and the worst of it is he has no more notion of her worth than I have of heaven. With me it is 'Mr. Murkard this, and Mr. Murkard that'—kindness and confidence itself—but oh, how widely different from what I would have her say. My God! if you are a God, why do you torture me so? Is my sin not expiated yet? How long am I to drag on in this earthly hell? How long, O Lord, how long?"
The night breeze whispering among the leaves brought back the words in mockery: "How long, how long?"
After an hour's communion with his own thoughts he returned to the hut. Ellison was in bed sleeping quietly, one strong arm thrown round his head and a faint smile upon his lips. Murkard, lamp in hand, stood and looked down on him, and as he looked, his lips formed a sentence.
"Whatever is before us, old friend, have no fear. Come what may, I make my sacrifice for you. Remember that—for you!"
Then, as if he had shouted his shameless secret to the mocking world, he, too, went hastily to bed.
For a week after that eventful night Ellison saw little of Esther. She hardly ventured near him, and when necessity compelled that she should seek him, it was only to complete her businesswith all possible dispatch and hurry away again. No more did she enter into conversation with him about his work. No more did she chaff him about his scrupulous care and trouble. Their estrangement seemed complete. Murkard noticed it, and being wise in his generation, thought much but said little.
One evening after dinner, towards the end of the week, Ellison had strolled down to the beach to smoke his after-dinner pipe when he heard his name called. He recognised the voice immediately and, turning, went across to where Esther was standing by the tiny jetty. Her face was very pale, and she spoke with hesitation.
"Are you very busy for a few minutes, Mr. Ellison?"
"Not at all. My day's work is over. Can I be of any service to you?"
"Would it be too much to ask you to row me across the straits to the township?"
"I will do so with pleasure. Are you ready now?"
"Quite ready."
Without another word he ran a boat into the water, and with a few strokes of the oar brought it alongside the steps for her to embark. She stepped daintily in and, seating herself in thestern-sheets, assumed possession of the tiller. The expression on his face was one of annoyed embarrassment. She saw it, and her colour came and went across her face like clouds across an April sky.
"I'm afraid I am trespassing on your good-nature," she remarked at length, feeling she must say something. "I ought to have asked one of the boys to take me over."
"And have had to visit all the saloons to find him when you wanted to return," he replied. "No, no! Miss McCartney, I am glad you asked me."
She looked at him nervously; but his face told her nothing. He appeared to be fully occupied with the management of the boat. She put her hand overboard and played with the water alongside, casting furtive glances at him ever and anon. The silence became more and more embarrassing.
"Mr. Ellison, I am afraid you think very badly of me?" she said, in sheer desperation.
"My dear Miss McCartney, what on earth can have made you imagine such a thing?"
"But I know you do. I'm afraid I was very rude to you the other day. I have never forgiven myself for it. It was very ungrateful of me after all the kind things you have done for me since I have known you."
"But, I assure you, you are quite mistaken. Your treatment of me may have been a little unkind, but it was certainly not rude. Besides, what I have done for you has all been done out of pure selfishness, because, you see, it gives me pleasure to serve you."
"Mr. Murkard hinted to me this morning that you are thinking of leaving us. Is that true?"
"Iwasthinking of doing so, but——"
"But you will forgive me before you go, won't you? Let us be friends again for the little time that is left to us."
She held out her dry hand towards him; he leaned forward gravely and took it, after which they were silent again for some time. The crisis was passed, but the situation was still sufficiently awkward to deprive them both of conversation. By the time they had recovered enough to resume it, they had passed the hulk and were approaching the township jetty. He brought the boat alongside in a masterly fashion, and held it close to the steps for his companion to disembark.
"Thank you, Mr. Ellison," she said, as she stepped out. "I have enjoyed myself very much. I hope you will have a pleasant sail back!"
"I am going to wait for you."
"Indeed you are not. I could not think of sucha thing. I shall be sure to find someone who will put me across."
"I am going to wait for you. It will be very pleasant sitting here; and, remember, we have just made friends. You must not quarrel with me so soon again."
"Very well, since you wish it. I will try not to be any longer than I can help."
She tripped up the wooden steps and disappeared along the jetty. He made the boat fast, and seating himself in the place she had just vacated, lit his pipe.
For nearly an hour he sat and smoked. The heavens were bright with stars above him; the sleeping waters rose and fell round the piers with gentle gurgling noises. A number of pearling luggers rode at anchor on either hand of him, and the township lights twinkled merrily ashore. His heart was happier than it had been for some time past, and yet again and again Murkard's words of warning rose upon his recollection. Did the girl love him? And more important still, if she did, did he love her as she deserved to be loved? He asked himself these two questions repeatedly, and each time he could not answer either of them to his satisfaction.
Was his affection for her a sincere one, foundedon a genuine admiration? He had been piqued by her behaviour; his vanity (poor remnant of a feeling) had been hurt by it. Since then he had brought himself to believe he loved her. Was he prepared to sacrifice everything for her? Again the torturing doubt. It would be passing sweet to love her; but could he do so with a clear conscience? He knew his failing—could he lie to himself? The night affected him; the moon, just rising blood-red above the hill-top, spoke to him of love. Not the love of a lifetime, not the love that will give and take, bear and forbear, thinking no ill, and enduring for all eternity; but of love-talk, of a woman's face against his, of gratified vanity perhaps, at all events of a love of possession. No, he knew in his inmost heart, his conscience told him, that he did not care for her as, in the event of his making her his wife, he felt she would have a right to expect.
Besides, there was another, and even more important, point to be considered. Was he worthy of a good woman's love? he, until lately an adventurer—a——No, no! If he were a man of honour he would go away; he would go out into the world again, and, in forgetting her, enable her to forget him. And yet the temptation to stay—to hear from her own lips that she loved him—wasupon him, calling him in tenderest accents to remain. He sat and thought it out as dispassionately as he was able, and his final resolve was to go. In this case, at least, he would not think of himself, he would think only of what was best for her. Yes, he would go! Suddenly away down the jetty he heard the patter of shoe heels. His heart throbbed painfully. She was coming back. They came closer and closer. She appeared on the sky-line, and, descending the steps, took his hand to jump into the boat.
"I'm afraid you must have grown very tired of waiting for me."
"I'm very glad to see you, certainly; but I don't think I can say I'm tired. It is a beautiful evening. Look at that glorious moon. We shall have a perfect sail home."
He hoisted the canvas, and they pushed off. In spite of the resolve he had just made it was vastly pleasant to be seated beside her, to feel the pressure of her warm soft body against his on the little seat. There was a fair breeze, and the water bubbling under the boat's sharp bows was like tinkling music as they swept from the shadow of the pier into the broad moonlight. Again, for want of something to do, she put her hand into the water; and the drops from her fingers when she liftedthem shone like silver. As if in contradiction of her affected unconcern, she was palpably nervous. Once he could almost have sworn he felt her tremble.
"You are not cold, I hope?"
"Oh, dear, no! What could make you think so?"
"I thought I felt you shiver."
"It was nothing. I am perfectly warm."
"All the same I shall put this spare sail over your knees—so."
He took a piece of canvas from behind him, and spread it round her. She made no attempt at resistance. In spite of her show of independence, there was something infinitely pleasant to her in being thus tended and cared for by this great strong man.
In five minutes they were passing close under the nearest point of their own island. High cliffs rose above them, crowned with a wealth of vegetation. She looked up at them, and then turned to her companion.
"Mr. Ellison, do you know the story of that bluff?"
"No. I must plead guilty to not being aware that it possessed one. May I hear it?"
"It has a strange fascination for me—that place.I never pass it without thinking of the romance connected with it. Do you see that tall palm to the right there?"
"Yes."
"Well, under that palm is a grave; the resting-place of a man whom I can remember seeing very often when I was only a little child."
"What sort of a man?"
"Ah, that's a question a good many would have liked to have answered. Though it's years ago, I can see him now as plainly as if it were but yesterday. He was very tall and very handsome. Possibly forty years old, though at first sight he looked more than that, for the reason that his hair and moustache were as white as snow. He lived in a hut on that bluff far away from everybody. In all the years he was there he was never known to cross the straits to the settlement, but once every three months he used to come down to our store for rations and two English letters. I believe we were the only souls he ever spoke to, and then he never said any more than was absolutely necessary. The pearlers used to call him the Hermit of the Bluff."
"Do you think he was quite sane?"
"I'm sure of it. I think now he must have been the victim of some great sorrow, or, perhaps,some man of family exiled from his country for no fault of his own."
"What makes you imagine that?"
"Why, because it was my father who found him lying lifeless on the floor of his hut. He had been dead some days and nobody any the wiser. Hoping to find something to tell him who he was, my father searched the hut, but without success. But when, however, he lifted the poor body, he caught a glimpse of something fastened round his neck. It was a large gold locket, with a crown or coronet upon the cover. Inside it was a photograph of some great lady—but though he recognised her, my father would never tell me her name—and a little slip of paper, on which was written these words: 'Semper fidelis: Thank God, I can forgive. It is our fate. Good-bye.' They buried him under the palm yonder and the locket with him."
"Poor wretch! Another victim of fate! I wonder who he could have been."
"That is more than anyone will ever know, until the last great Judgment Day. But, believe me, he is not the only one of that class out here. I could tell you of half a dozen others that I remember. There was Bombay Pete; it was said he was a fashionable preacher in London, and was nearlymade a bishop. He died—bewitched, he said—in a Kanaka's hut over yonder behind the settlement. Then there was the Gray Apollo—but whohewas nobody ever knew; at any rate he was the handsomest and most reckless man on the island until he was knifed in the Phillipines; and the man from New Guinea; and Sacramento Dick; and the Scholar; and John Garfitt, who turned out to be a lord. Oh, I could tell you of dozens of others. Poor miserable, miserable men."
"You have a sympathy for them, then?"
"Who could help it? I pity them from the bottom of my heart. Fancy their degradation. Fancy having been brought up in the enjoyment of every luxury, started with every advantage in life, and then to come out here to consort with all the riff-raff of the world and to die, cut off from kith and kin, in some hovel over yonder. It is too awful."
Ellison sighed. She looked at him, and then said very softly:
"Mr. Ellison, I do not want to pry into your secret, but is there no hope for you?"
He appeared not to have heard her. A great temptation was upon him. He was going away to-morrow: she would never see him again. She had evidently a romantic interest in these shatteredlives—could he not allow himself the enjoyment of that sympathy just for a few brief hours? Why not? Ah, yes, why not?
"Miss McCartney," he said, after a long pause, "do you know, while you were away to-night, and I was sitting waiting for you, I subjected myself to a severe cross-examination?"
"On what subject?"
"Partly yourself, partly myself."
"What sort of cross-examination do you mean, Mr. Ellison?"
"Well, that is rather a difficult question to answer, and for the following reason: In the first place, to tell you would necessitate my doing a thing I had made up my mind never to do again."
"What is that?"
"To unlock the coffers of my memory and to take out the history of my past. Eight years ago I swore that I would forget certain things—the first was my real name, the second was the life I had once led, and the third was the reason that induced me to give up both."
"Well?"
"I have tried to remember that you have only known me a month, that you really know nothing of myself, my disposition, or my history."
"But I think I do know."
"I fear that is impossible. But, Miss McCartney, since I see your sympathy for others, I have a good mind to tell you everything, and let you judge for yourself. You are a woman whose word I would take against all the world. You will swear that whatever I reveal to you shall never pass your lips."
"I swear!"
She was trembling in real earnest now. To prolong their interview he put the boat over on another tack, one that would bring her close under the headland by the station. Esther raised no objection, but sat looking before her with parted lips and rather startled eyes. She noticed that his voice, when he spoke, took another tone. She attributed it to nervousness, when in reality it was only unconscious acting.
"Miss McCartney, living here in this out-of-the-way part of the world, you can have no idea what my life has been. Thrown into temptation as a child, is it to be wondered at that I fell? Brought up to consider myself heir to untold wealth, is it to be wondered that I became extravagant? Courted by everybody, can you be surprised that I thought my own attractions irresistible? My father was a proud and headstrong man, who allowed me to gang my own gait without let orhindrance. When I left Eton, I left it a prig; when I left Oxford, I left it a man of pleasure, useless to the world and hurtful to myself and everybody with whom I fell in contact. But not absolutely and wholly bad with it all, you must understand. Mind you, Miss McCartney, I do not attempt to spare myself in the telling; I want you to judge fairly of my character."
"I promise you I will. Go on."
"With a supreme disregard for consequences, I plunged into absurd speculations, incurred enormous liabilities, and when my creditors came down upon me for them I went to my father for relief. He laughed in my face and told me he was ruined; that I was a pauper and must help myself; sneered in my face, in fact, and told me to go to the devil my own way as fast as I was able. I went to my brothers, who jeered at me. I went to all my great friends, who politely but firmly showed me their doors. I went to men who at other times had lent me money, but they had heard of my father's embarrassments, and refused to throw good money after bad. Checkmated at every turn, I became desperate. Then to crown it all a woman came to me, a titled lady, in the dead of night; she told me a story, so base, so shameful, that I almost blush now to think of it. She saidshe had heard I was going to fly the country. My name was talked of with her—I alone could save her. In a moment of recklessness I agreed to take her shame upon myself. What was my good name to me? At least I could help her. It was the one and only good action of my life. The next day I left England a pauper, and what is worse, a defaulter, doomed never to return to it, and never to bear my own name again. That is how I came to be a loafer, the dead-beat, the beach-comber I was when you took compassion upon me."
"And—and your name?"
"I—I am the Marquis of St. Burden; my father is the Duke of Avonturn."
"You—you—Mr. Ellison, a—marquis!"
"Heaven help me—yes! But why do you look at me like that? You surely do not hate me now that you have heard my wretched story?"
"Hate you! Oh, no, no! I only pity you from the bottom of my heart."
Her voice was very low and infinitely, hopelessly sad. He was looking out to sea. Suddenly he bowed his head and seemed to gasp for breath. Then, turning to her again, he seized her hand with a gesture that was almost one of despair.
"Esther, Esther! My God, what have I done?Forget what I have said. Blot it out from your memory forever. I was mad to have told you. Oh, Heavens, how can I make you forget the mischief my treacherous tongue has dragged me into!"
"Your secret is safe with me, never fear. No mortal shall ever dream that I know your history. But, my lord, you will go back some day?"
Instantly his voice came back to him clear and strong:
"Never! never! Living or dead, I will never go back to England again. That is my irrevocable determination."
"Then may God help you!"
"Esther, can't you guess now why I must go away from here, why I must leave to-morrow?"
He could hardly recognise the voice that answered.
"Yes, yes, I see. It is impossible for you to be my father's servant any longer."
"That was not what I meant. I meant because I am afraid to stay with you, lest my evil life should contaminate yours."
"That is impossible! How can you hurt me?"
He pressed the hand he held in his almost savagely.
"I mean that I love you. You must have known it long since. I mean that you are dearer to me than all the world."
"Oh, let me go! I cannot listen to you!"
"But you must! you must!"
"Oh, let me go!"
"You do not love me, then?"
"Oh, let me go, let me go!"
But he held her fast, pressing her closer and closer to him.
"I will not let you go until you tell me!"
"Oh, I can't tell you! Can't you see that what you have told me makes all the difference in the world?"
"I beg your pardon. I should have expected this. Forgive me and forget me; I will go away to-morrow."
Her only reply was a choking sob. He put the boat back on her course, and in five minutes they had grounded on the beach; having helped her to disembark, he turned to pull the boat up out of reach of the tide. This done, he looked to find her waiting for him, but she was gone. He could see her white dress flitting up the path towards the house. Without attempting to follow her, he left the beach and strode away round the hill into the interior of the island. When he had gone about amile he came to an abrupt halt and looked towards the sea.
"Again, again!" he cried, with a great and exceeding bitter cry. "Oh, God! I was tempted and I fell; forgive me, for I can never forgive myself!"
As if in answer to his cry a night-hawk hooted among the rocks. He wheeled about and strode off in a different direction. In that instant he seemed to have learned a secret he had never even guessed at before.
The sun was in the act of making his appearance above the horizon when he reached the station again. He was utterly worn-out, both mentally and physically. Without undressing he threw himself upon his bed, and slept a dreamless sleep for an hour. Then he got up and looked out upon the world. It was the beginning of his last day at the station.
DESTINY—AN ACCIDENT—AND A BETROTHAL.
Early as it was, Ellison discovered that Murkard was out before him. Pulling himself together as well as he was able, he took his towel and went down to the beach to bathe. It was an exquisite morning, a fresh breeze played among the palms and shrubs; the blue sea danced and glistened in the sunshine; columns of palest blue smoke rose, curling and twisting, into the sweet morning air. Ellison alone was sad. Even a swim failed to raise his spirits. He dressed himself and went back to breakfast with a face that was like that of a doomed man. So far he had seen no sign of Esther, nor had he any expectation of doing so until he went in to say good-bye to her. As the clanging bell called to breakfast, Murkard made his appearance.Healso seemed out of sorts, and nodded to Ellison without a word as he seated himself at the table. The other was hardly prepared for this treatment of his trouble.
"Why, what on earth's wrong with you thismorning?" Ellison asked irritably. "Has the whole world gone dismal mad?"
"I'm very worried about something. Don't ask me what, old man. I'm trying to fight it down, and if you leave me alone I shall be all right directly."
"I'm afraid I shan't be here to see it, then. I'm leaving in an hour's time—for good and all."
Murkard sprang to his feet with a new face.
"Then that puts me right at once. God bless you, Ellison, you could not have given me better news! I knew you'd do what was right!"
"Have you been fretting about me, then?"
"A little. But more about that girl over yonder. Of course, whatever happened, I should stand by you—you know that, don't you? But—well, the long and the short of it is, I couldn't bear to see the poor child getting to care for you more and more every day, when I knew that your affection was not the kind to satisfy her craving. Poor little thing, it will be hard on her, devilish hard, but all the same I believe you're doing what is best and happiest for both of you."
"Do you think so, honour bright?"
"I don't think, I'm sure of it!"
"Then I'll go. But you don't know, old man, what a bitter fight it has been. Since you laughedat me a week ago I've been arguing it over, and the result is, I'm beginning to think Idocare for her, after all."
"If you onlythink, you're still on the wrong side of the stream. No, no; we must go. There is no question about that. I'll put our few traps together after breakfast, and then we'll say farewell and adieu to respectability once more."
"But you are not coming too. I could never allow that!"
"You'll have no option. Of course I must come! Didn't I tell you the other day that we're bound up together? My destiny is in your hands. I must never leave you. I had an idea the end would have come here, but it seems I'm mistaken."
"I wish you'd be a little more explicit sometimes."
"It would probably amuse you if I were, and though I'm not the sort of man who fears ridicule, as a general rule, I could not bear to have you laugh at this."
"I should not laugh; it seems to me I shall never laugh again. Tell me, Murkard, what you mean."
"I will tell you."
He rose and walked up and down the littleroom for some minutes. Then he stopped, and leaning against the smoke-coloured mantelpiece, spoke.
"In the first place, I suppose you will admit that there are some men in this extraordinary world of ours more delicately constructed than others. You agree to that. Very good. Well, that being so, I am perhaps more sensitive than you—possibly, though I don't say absolutely, accounted for by my deformity. I look at commonplace things in a different way; my brain receives different impressions from passing events. I don't say whether my impressions are right or wrong. At any rate, they are there. Directly I set eyes on you, that first night of our meeting, I knew you were my fate. Don't ask me how I knew it. It is sufficient that Ididknow it. Something inside here seemed to tell me that our lives were bound up together; in fact, that you were the man for whose sake I was sent into the world. You remember we were starving at the time, and that we slept under a Moreton Bay fig in the Domain. Well, perhaps as the result of that hunger, I dreamed a dream. Something came to me and bade me to go with you, bade me be by your side continually because I was necessary to your life, and because my death would be by your hands."
"Good gracious, Murkard, think what you're saying!"
"I have thought, and I know. I don't mean that you will murder me, but Idomean that it will be in connection with you that I shall meet my death. The same dream told me that a chance would be given us. That chance has come. Also the dream told me that my only hope of heaven lay in saving you by laying down my own life. That time has not come yet—but it will come as surely as we are now located in this hut. In the meantime there is another life between us. That life we have not met yet; what or whose it is I have no notion, but I dread it night and day."
"You don't mean to tell me you believe all that you're telling me?"
"As implicitly as I believe that I am standing before you now. And so will you when it is too late—not before."
"But think, man, think! How can such a thing be contemplated for a moment? Your life by my hands! No, no!"
"Let it drop. Forget that I ever told you. We shall see whether it turns out as I say. Moreover, something tells me that although we are preparing to leave this place, we shall not go!"
Without further argument he opened the doorand went out. Ellison in his turn began to pace the room.
"He is mad, the man is undoubtedly mad. And yet God knows why he should be. If vileness has anything to do with it, I am despicable enough to do anything he might dream! Surely there never was so miserable a wretch as I! But we will go from here. Of that I am determined."
He began feverishly to put together the few little odds and ends he had collected during the past month. It was not a lengthy business, but it cut him to the heart to have to do it. If he left this place, where for a month he had been so happy, what would his future be? Turned out to seek employment again, would he drift back into the old vagabond life or not? And if he did, he asked himself, what would it matter? Who was there in the world to care? He tied up his bundle, threw it on the bed, and then in his turn left the hut. Esther was on the veranda of her own house. He crossed the path to speak to her.
"Miss McCartney," he said, "have you been able to find it in your heart to forgive me for my rudeness last night?"
Her hand shook and her voice trembled as she answered, with downcast eyes, "There is nothing to forgive, my lord."
"No, no; you must not call me that!"
He raised his hand as if to ward off a blow. She noticed the look of pain that leaped into his eyes.
"Forgive me in your turn. I am sorry I hurt you."
"Do you think it matters? My life will be all one long pain now. I am going away; I have come to say good-bye to you."
"You are—really—going—away?"
"Yes; I cannot live here after what I told you last night. It is impossible for both of us. I must go out into the world again and try to win back the self-respect I have lost. But before I go I want to thank you for all you have done for me; for a month you have enabled me to shake hands with happiness. I can never be sufficiently grateful to you."
"Where—where shall you go when you leave here?"
"I haven't the remotest notion. On to the mainland most probably; out to some station in the far West, where I can forget and be forgotten. What does it matter where I go?"
"Does—does it never strike you that in thus dooming yourself to hopeless misery you are being very cruel to me?"
"It is only to be kind. God knows I havethought of you before myself, and the only conclusion I can come to is that it would be worse for you if I stayed."
"Then good-bye, and may God bless you and protect you always!"
He looked into her face; it was pale as death. She held out her hand, and he raised it to his lips. The knowledge that had come to him the previous night was confirmed now. In that second he learned how much he loved her.
"Good-bye—good-bye!"
He watched her pass into the house, and was in the act of leaving the spot himself when he heard a heavy fall within. In an instant he had divined its meaning, and was inside the room, to find Esther upon the floor in a dead faint. Raising her in his arms he carried her to a sofa and laid her on it; then, procuring water, he bathed her forehead and chafed her hands till she returned to consciousness. When her eyes opened she looked at him with a frightened stare.
"Oh, what has happened?"
"The sun was too much for you out there. You fainted; fortunately I heard you fall and carried you here. Are you better?"
"Yes, thank you. I am almost all right again."
"You are quite sure?"
"Quite."
He took up his hat and left the house. As he crossed the veranda he noticed a stir in the station. The Kanakas had turned out of their hut and were staring in the direction of the bay. From the place where he stood he could see two luggers approaching the jetty.
"Her father has returned," he said to himself, almost without interest, and went down to the shore. His supposition proved correct. But from the way the last of the boats manœuvred there was evidently something wrong. He waited until it got alongside, and then walked down the jetty to find out what this peculiarity might mean. A little crowd was collected on the second boat; those Kanakas who knew him made way for him to step on board. The crew of the boat itself regarded him with some surprise.
"What is the matter?" he asked.
"The boss has met with an accident," explained the oldest of the men, "and we don't know how to let his daughter know."
"Where is he?"
"In the cabin aft. Step below and see him for yourself."
Ellison did as he was directed, and went down the companion into the box of a cabin. An elderlyman, with gray hair and beard, bearing an unmistakable likeness to Esther, lay on a roughly constructed bed placed on the port side. He looked up as Ellison entered.
"And who may you be?" he asked faintly.
"My name is Ellison," the other replied. "I have been a month in your employ—your daughter took me on as a carpenter and general hand in place of Paddy the Lasher, discharged."
"You talk like a gentleman."
"I was considered one once."
"Then you may be able to do me a good turn. I have met with a serious accident—slipped on those steps there and injured my back. From the numbness of my lower half, I'm almost afraid it's a hopeless case; but I don't want to frighten my daughter without need. Will you go up and break the news to her?"
"If you wish it. But surely it's not as bad as you say. Perhaps it's only a severe sprain."
"I fear not. As I tell you, I'm dead below the waist."
"Will you stay here till I come back, or shall we carry you up now?"
"I'll stay here. But don't be longer than you can help, and break the news as gently as you can to her."
"You may trust me."
Ellison went up the steps again, passed through the little crowd, and made his way back towards the house. He was only just in time, for Esther had seen the boats come in, and was on her way to meet her father. She was surprised to see the man to whom she had just said "Good-bye" coming along the path towards her. Something in his face must have warned her that he was the bearer of evil tidings, for she stopped, and he heard her catch her breath with a little convulsive sob.
"My father has returned, and you have bad news for me?"
"That of course depends upon how you take it. Yes, your father has returned, but—well, the long and short of it is, he isnotvery well."
"My father—not well! He was never ill in his life. It must be something serious, or he would not have sent you to tell me."
"He has met with a bit of an accident—a fall. He asked me to come on in advance and let you know, lest you should be frightened when you saw them carrying him up."
"That is not all; he is worse than you say. Oh, Mr. Ellison, for Heaven's sake, don't deceive me—tell me all! I can bear it, believe me."
"I am not deceiving you. God knows I wouldbe the last to do that. You shall see him for yourself in a minute or two. But had you not better first run back and have a bed prepared for him. I will go down and help them carry him up."
"How good you are to me!"
She went back to the house, while he returned to the boat. Before he arrived Murkard had put in an appearance, and with his usual foresight had set to work upon a rough litter in which to carry the sick man up to the house. This constructed, he was placed upon it, and between them they bore him up the hill. Ellison and Murkard carried him across the veranda into the room his daughter had prepared for him. She received him with greater bravery than Ellison had expected. The father's courage was wonderful.
"This is a nice way to come home, my girl!" he said, with an attempt at cheerfulness. "You're not accustomed to seeing your father carried, are you?"
With her eyes full of tears she stooped and kissed him. Perhaps the coldness of his forehead told her something of the truth, for she started and looked at Ellison in terrified surprise. The two men laid him on the bed, and while she was in another room removed his clothes. It was a difficult business, but once it was accomplished the patient felt infinitely relieved. As they were leaving the house Esther met them. She drew Ellison aside.
"Someone must cross to the settlement for the doctor immediately. It is useless to attempt to blind me as to his condition. I can see it for myself."
"I will go over, and bring him back with me."
"God bless you! I feel so terribly lonely now; it is good to know that I have a friend in you."
"A friend faithful to the death. Esther, will you answer me one question? Would it make you happier if I stayed with you a little longer—say, till your father is able to get about again?"
She hung her head, but his eager ears caught the timid little "Yes" that escaped her lips.
"Then so be it. Now I will go for the doctor."
She held out her hand; he took it, and for the second time that morning raised it to his lips. Then he strode away in the direction of the store. Murkard was not surprised at the news. He accompanied him to the beach, and helped him to push his boat into the water. When Ellison was past the jetty he returned to his work, muttering:
"I knew something would happen to prevent it. This is the hand of Destiny again."
Ellison pulled swiftly across to the township, beached his boat opposite the Chinese quarter, and after inquiring the direction of the doctor's house, set off for it without a moment's delay. He discovered the medico smoking on his veranda, and in less than three minutes had given him a complete summary of the case. They returned to the boat together, and Ellison, after pulling him across, conducted him straightway to the sick man's bedroom. He did not go in himself, but waited on the veranda. In half an hour the doctor emerged and beckoned him out of hearing of the house. Ellison read the worst in his face.
"Is there no hope?"
"Not a scrap. I tell you this straightforwardly. Of course I presume, from your anxiety, you are an interested party, and as such have a right to know. The man's spine is fatally injured. Paralysis has already set in in the lower limbs. It is only a matter of time with him now."
"How long do you think he may live?"
"It is impossible to say—six hours, possibly eight, certainly not more. If you have any business to consult him upon, I advise you to do it at once; he may not be conscious very long."
"You have not told his daughter?"
"Only that the case is serious. I have told him, and I think he will tell her."
"Thank you for being so candid. It is really no business of mine, but I must try and help that poor girl to bear her sorrow. Shall you see him again?"
"I think so, though I am convinced it is hopeless. Still, I shall look over in the course of the afternoon. Who will put me across?"
"I will."
They got into the boat and pushed off. When he had landed the doctor, Ellison pulled slowly back. His brain was staggering under a multitude of thoughts. What was he to do? What must his duty be now? Should he go away and leave this girl to bear her sorrow alone? Or should he take the bull by the horns, ask her father to be allowed to make her his wife, and trust to Providence for the rest? He didn't know, he couldn't tell—both seemed equally impossible. He resolved to leave it, as he had done before, to the decision of blind Fate. In the meantime he pulled back to the jetty, secured the boat, and went up to the house. Esther saw him pass the window, and came quietly out on the veranda.
"He is sleeping now," she almost whispered;"but it doesn't seem a natural sleep. I cannot tell you how terrified I am about him."