"Poor girl! what can I say to you save that you have my sincerest, my most heartfelt sympathy? If you should want any assistance, remember that I am here to give it you, come what may."
Her only answer was to press the hand that rested on the veranda rail with her soft fingers. Her touch thrilled him through and through, and he went into the hut for lunch with a look in his face that had never been there before. He was beginning to understand his position more clearly now.
Towards the middle of the afternoon he was employing himself among the boats, when he saw her coming breathlessly towards him. He dropped the adze he held in his hand and went to meet her.
"He wants you to come to him," she managed to gasp. "Oh, I don't know how to tell you the agony of fear I'm suffering. He seems so much weaker. Come at once."
She accompanied him into the house, and to the door of her father's chamber. The change in the patient's face staggered him. It was ghastly white and drawn; approaching dissolution was staring from the restless eyes.
"Mr. Ellison," he said faintly, "I have sent for you, and I must be quick with what I have to say, for the end is near. Though I only saw you for the first time this morning, I seem to know you thoroughly. My daughter has told me of the kindness you and your friend have shown to her. She has also informed me that you told her last night of your love for her. Is that true, on your oath to a dying man?"
"Yes. It is true! I know now that I do love her."
"With your whole heart and soul, so help you God!"
"With my whole heart and soul, so help me God!"
"Is there anything to prevent you making her your wife?"
"In a legal sense, nothing. In a moral—well, perhaps I have not led the sort of life I might have done; but if you will trust her to me I swear before God, as I hope for heaven, that I will do my duty to her all the days of my life. I will endeavour to make her life happy at any cost to myself."
"She will be poor, remember. There is nothing for me to leave her save a few hundred pounds, this station, and the boats. You will have to work hard to support her."
"I will work my hands to the bone."
"Then as you deal with my motherless and fatherless girl, so may God deal with you. He has sent you to take my place, in her hour of need. If you stand firm by her he will not desert you in yours. As a dying man I trust you; that is enough. Now send her to me."
Ellison went to the door and called the girl. She came in, and the dying man gave them his blessing. After which he told them he would rather sleep.
When the doctor reached the house half an hour later Ellison met him on the threshold.
"How is he now?"
"You have come too late, doctor. He is dead!"
A WEDDING—A CONVERSATION—AND AN EPISODE.
Towards sundown the following afternoon the remains of Alexander McCartney were conveyed across the straits and interred in the little cemetery above the township of Port Kennedy. A week later his daughter became Cuthbert Ellison's wife. It had been the dead man's wish that there should be no delay in the marriage. He was anxious to have his daughter's safety assured within as short a time of his demise as possible. Nor had either of them any objection to raise. The wedding took place in the little church on the hill-side, and Silas Murkard acted as his friend's best man. After the ceremony they sailed quietly home in one of their own boats to receive the congratulations of Mrs. Fenwick and the station, and to take up the old life once more.
As Ellison lifted his wife out of the boat on to the little jetty he looked into her eyes. There was only pure happiness and unutterable trust written there. He lowered his own before her gaze and heaved a heavy sigh.
When she had passed into the house, proudly escorted by Mrs. Fenwick, Murkard came up to him and took his hand.
"Cuthbert, I have waited my chance to congratulate you. We are alone now, and from the bottom of my heart I wish you happiness."
"Thank you. You have been a good friend to me, Silas."
"There is no question offriendshipbetween us. It is more than that. But there is one thing I want to say to you."
"Say on."
"You will not be offended with me?"
"Never. I don't think it is in your power to do that, old friend."
"Very well, then I will say it. Cuthbert Ellison, you think you know the woman who has this day become your wife?"
Ellison nodded. He wondered what was coming.
"You would be surprised and perhaps angry if I told you that I know her a thousand times better than you do or ever will know her. I can read her nature as I can read yours. And for this reason I warn you. That woman has one of the purest and most beautiful minds ever given by God to any human being. Beware how you act towards her, beware of what you say! Remember, thoughyou may mean nothing by what you say, she will never forget one single word. You have only to look into her eyes to see what she thinks of younow. She believes in you heart and soul, she worships the very ground you walk on; it remains with you to say whether she shall retain that trust or not. What you have said to her already cling to as a shipwrecked man clings to a spar; what you say in the future must be your own concern. I will help you if ever help be needed, but in the meantime watch yourself, and if there is a God watching over us may he bless and keep you both. I have spoken!"
Having said this he turned on his heel and walked quickly away in the direction of his own solitary hut. He entered and closed the door.
The evening meal finished, Ellison and Esther passed out to the veranda together. The day had been fine, but the night was dark and stormy; thick clouds obscured the heavens, big waves broke on the beach with ominous grumblings, and now and again swift streaks of lightning flashed across the sky. Husband and wife sat side by side. The man was reviewing in his mind the events of the day, and wondering at the strange conversation he had had with Murkard that evening. In spite of his supreme happiness a vaguefeeling of sadness was upon him that would not be dispelled. Esther was all content. Woman-like she derived an intense pleasure from mere personal contact with the being she adored. She could just see the outline of his face against the sky, and she wondered at its sadness. At last she spoke:
"Of what are you thinking, husband mine?"
He started as if she had stung him, and hastened to reply:
"Can't you guess? I was thinking of you and of all you have done for me."
"Perhaps a little of me, but not altogether, I fear. Cuthbert, do you believe you will ever regret?"
"No, no! ten thousand times, no! Would a man ever regret having been given a chance of heaven?"
"You are begging the question! I mean, my husband,"—her voice dwelt with infinite tenderness upon the name,—"do you think you will ever have cause to wish you had never seen me, when you see what other cleverer and prettier women you might have married?"
"I should never have married any other. You are my destiny. I was born into the world to marry you, and no one else. How could it possibly have been otherwise?"
"You are very silly. I want to talk seriously."
"Thatistalking seriously."
"It is nonsense. But listen, dear. You must forgive me for bringing up the subject on this night, of all others, but I cannot let it rest. I will never speak of it again if you wish it. But you must answer me truthfully for the last time."
He bit his lip to keep back the cry of fear that almost escaped him. He knew what was coming, and dreaded it like the cutting of a flashing knife.
"Go on!"
"Cuthbert, if you ever went back to your old world and saw women, as I say, cleverer and more beautiful than I am, you might wish you had never seen me. You would not tell me so, and you would not, if you could help it, let me guess it, but my woman's instinct would warn me—and then what should I do? I should be chained to you, and you would be chained to me. I should be a drag upon you—a curse—instead of the help I wish to be. I should love you just the same, because I could never love anyone else; but think what the depth of my despair would be!"
A large tear fell on the back of his hand. He drew her to him with almost a fierceness.
"I told you the other day I should never go back to my old world. I am dead to it, and it isdead to me. I am Cuthbert Ellison, the pearler, your husband, and I wish to be no other. Forget, for mercy's sake, that I ever had a past; let us live only for my present and the future. Let me be to you the husband I would wish to be; let me work, toil, knowing no weariness in what is done for you; let me build up a new life of honour for your sake, and let the dead past bury its dead. I love you, and I want no world that has not you in it. Let us never speak on this subject again."
"You are not angry with me for saying what I did."
"Angry, no! I am sorry, full of remorse that I ever told you that story. God must help me to atone for it. I shall never be able to rid myself of the fear that you will hate me for it."
"You are unjust to yourself, and even, I think, a little unjust to me. Had you not told me, there would always have been a barrier between us. Now I know everything, and, believe me, I do not honour you the less for telling me."
She raised his hand to her mouth and imprinted a kiss upon it. That kiss stung him to the quick. Like the look of trust upon her face when he had helped her from the boat, it was almost a reproach. It was the beginning of his punishment. He made shift to change the course of the conversation.
"Darling," he said, "have you thought seriously yet of what our marriage means to us? Have you thought what you have made of the man who only a month ago stood before you in this very veranda, in rags and tatters, asking for employment to keep body and soul together? That man is now your husband. Linked to you not for to-day or to-morrow, next week or next month, but for all time, for all eternity. Your husband—part of your own self: surely that should be sufficient passport for me into heaven itself. My interests are to be your interests, your hopes my hopes—in fact, your life is mine, and my life yours. There is an awful solemnity about it. If I could only grasp the drift of it all!"
"Grasp the drift? You are the drift. You must help me to make my life, I must help you to make yours; that is what it means. If we do our duty to each other, surely we ought, then, to pull through?"
"I am afraid of myself, Esther. Not afraid of my love for you, but afraid of the slowness of Time, of the gradual development of things."
"Are we not getting a little out of our depth, love? I want to know nothing but your love for me, that is all. Let us leave the subject. See how vivid the lightning is getting. I fear we are in for a storm."
And in truth the flashes were growing almost alarming. Heavy thunder echoed among the islands, and the wind was every moment increasing in violence. Suddenly an awful flash seemed to tear the very heavens asunder. In that brief instant Ellison made out the figure of a man standing in the open before them, not more than forty yards from the veranda steps. His back was towards them, and his hands were uplifted above his head. Esther saw him too, and uttered a little cry.
"Who can it be?" she exclaimed in alarm. "Cuthbert, call him in! He will be struck by the lightning!"
She had hardly spoken before another flash rent the darkness. Still the figure stood before them exactly where they had first seen it. But this time his identity was unmistakable.It was Murkard!When the next flash came he was gone.
"What could he have been doing?" Esther asked, as the thunder rolled away. To her Murkard's ways were always a matter of much mystery.
"I can't think. Thank goodness, he doesn't often act in that fashion."
"I am afraid of him, Cuthbert. I have never been able to make myself take to him as I took to you."
"He is a difficult man to know, that is why, little woman. But he is as good as gold! A queer fish, perhaps a little mad, but with it all a better man than I am."
"That I will never believe."
"God grant you may never have reason to think otherwise. But don't worry yourself about Murkard. He is and always has been my truest friend."
"And what am I, my lord and master?"
"You are my wife—part of myself!"
She nestled lovingly against his side.
"Part of yourself! How sweet that sounds! I wonder if any other woman was ever so happy as I?"
Once more Ellison sighed. At that moment the lightning flashed out again, just in time to show them the same mysterious figure emerging from the group of palms and moving towards the hut, Esther saw it, and gave another little cry. Ellison rose.
"I must go and find out what he means by it. Don't be afraid, I'll be back in a minute."
As he left the veranda the storm broke, and the rain came pouring down. Presently he was running back. For a moment he could hardly speak. His face was as pale as death.
"Well, what did he say?"
"Nothing; he is fast asleep! I never knew he was a somnambulist before."
"But you are trembling, and you are as white as a sheet. Something is troubling you, Cuthbert. Tell me what it is."
"It is nothing, dearest, believe me. I was only a little frightened at the risk he had run. He might have been struck by lightning at any moment. Poor Murkard!"
A few minutes later she went inside and turned up the lamp. The rain was still pouring on the roof. But, though he was looking straight before him into the night, he hardly noticed it. He was saying to himself over and over again a sentence he had heard Murkard mutter in his sleep. It was an old Bible warning, one with which he had been familiar from his youth up, but to-night it had the power to shake him to his very core. It ran as follows:
"Be sure your sin will find you out!"
A TEMPTATION—A FALL—AND A SERIES OF EMOTIONS.
Six months had elapsed since the wedding—six months ofalmostperfect happiness for Ellison. I am compelled to say almost, for the reason that an influx of business worries during that period had caused him a very considerable amount of anxiety, and had, in a measure, necessarily detracted from his domestic peace. The pearling season had not turned out as well as had been expected of it. Continual stormy weather had militated against the boats at sea, and a gradual but appreciable decline in the price of shell had had the same effect on shore. As he could only regard himself in the light of a trustee of his wife's estate, this run of bad luck struck him in a tender place. But through it all Esther proved herself a most perfect wife. He found it an inestimable boon after a long and hard day's work to be able to go to her for sympathy and advice, both of which she was quite competent to give. She was, by long experience, a past mistress of all the details of the business, and her shrewd common sense and womanly penetration enabled her to grasp things and advise on them long before her more matter-of-fact husband had mastered their first general elements. His respect for her talents became almost enthusiastic. She was now no longer the old Esther of the past, but a new and glorious womanhood, figuring in his eyes more as a leader than a wife.
As the year advanced, instead of bettering themselves things grew steadily worse. Acting on the advice of his wife and Murkard, he had curtailed expenses in every direction, forced himself to do without many things that at other times would have been classed as absolute necessaries, and discharged as many hands as could possibly be spared. This lightened the load for a while; but it soon became painfully evident that, unless more capital was soon forthcoming, the pearling station must inevitably close its doors. But in what direction could they look for such assistance? The banks were already dropping hints as to long-standing overdrafts, and, seeing the losses they were daily sustaining, it would be impossible to expect any mercy from them. On all sides companies were abandoning stations, or transferring their business elsewhere. It was a time of serious financialdanger, and night and day Ellison worried himself to know how it was all to end. It was not for himself he cared; it was for Esther—only for Esther. Indeed, the anxiety was telling seriously upon his health. He could not sleep for its weight upon his mind. If only he could raise a couple of thousand pounds, he continually argued, he might place the station in a position by which it might not only weather the storm, but enable it to do even a larger business than before when the reaction set in. Again and again he discussed the matter with his wife and Murkard, but without arriving at any satisfactory conclusion.
One night after dinner, just as he was going out to the veranda for his customary smoke, Murkard called him outside.
"Come over to the store with me for a little while," he said. "I want a serious conversation with you."
Ellison followed him into the hut, and shut the door.
"Look here," said the smaller man, perching himself on the high stool behind his desk, and taking a letter from a pigeon-hole above him, "things have come to a climax. But there, you know that perhaps even better than I do."
"God help us! I think I do, and the anxiety isalmost killing me. What we are to do I can't for the life of me see."
"There is a lot of bills coming due next month, and we've got an even smaller return for that last shell than I expected. To cap it all, here's a letter from the bank over the way. It came before dinner, but you looked so precious miserable then that I thought I'd keep it till after you'd had your meal. It's a facer, and no mistake."
"Read it."
Murkard spread the paper out on the desk, and, clearing his throat in an effort to gain time, did as he was commanded.
In plain English, it was to the effect that unless the overdraft could be reduced by one-half within an absurdly short space of time, the bank would be compelled to realise upon its security, which would mean that the station would be closed, and Ellison and his wife thrown upon the world.
Ellison sank his head upon his hands, and groaned like a wounded bull.
"If only I could raise two thousand pounds," he sighed for the thousandth time.
"That's exactly what we must do at once. And why not? Is it so very impossible?"
"Of course; you must know that it is. Haven'twe discussed the question over and over again, in all its lights, for the last six weeks?"
"I know that as well as you do. But I've been thinking on a different tack these last two days."
"With what result? For mercy's sake don't play with me! I believe I'd kill you if you did. What have you been thinking?"
"Why, look here, Ellison, the position's just this: You are a married man, and you are likely soon to be more than that. Must you think of yourself just now, or are you bound to think of your wife?"
"To think of my wife, of course. Have I thought of myself at all since I've been married?"
"No, I'll grant you've been wonderfully unselfish. Well, this is the crux of it all. Are you prepared to make a big sacrifice for her sake? Are you prepared to make a sacrifice that will humble your pride to the very ground, but will probably be the means of saving the life you love? Are you prepared to do this, I say?"
"Of course I am. There is nothing in the world I would not do to save her. Surely you know me well enough by this time to know that!"
"Very good. That being so, we will proceed to business." He took up a pen and fell to tracing circles on the blotting-pad in front of him. "In the first place, do you remember the night yourowed her to the township and brought her back by moonlight?"
Ellison's face became suddenly pale. He shifted on his seat uneasily.
"Yes, I remember. What about it?"
"I was lonely that evening and went for a walk. I strolled down to Alligator Point and sat on the rocks above the water."
"Well?"
"The sea was as calm as a mill-pond, and the night was so still that I could almost hear people talking across the strait. I saw you leave the township, and I watched you sail towards where I sat. Your voices were plainly audible to me, and, forgive me, Ellison, but—I heard——"
"Say no more—I know what you heard, you cursed, eavesdropping spy—I know what you heard!"
"You are hardly just to me, but under the circumstances I will forgive your harshness. And what did I hear?"
"You heard the wretched story I told the woman I loved!"
"I did. And—ever since—that moment—I have known your secret."
There was complete silence between them for some minutes—Murkard went on tracing circles onthe blotting-paper as if his life depended on it, while Ellison rose from his seat and went over to the door. His hand trembled so that he could hardly control its movements. Murkard looked at him with a queer expression, half sympathy, half contempt upon his face. Suddenly Ellison wheeled round and confronted him.
"Plainly, Murkard, what is your object in telling me that you heard it?"
"Because I want to save you. That is why!"
"How can that save me? You mean because you want to damn me, body and soul. But you shan't! by God, you shan't! I'm desperate, I tell you that, desperate!"
"Hush, hush! She'll hear you if you shout like that. Come back and let us talk quietly. Good Heavens, Ellison, can't you see how great my love for you is? Haven't I shown it to you times out of number? Do you think, then, that I should turn on you in your hour of need? Surely you know me better than that?"
Ellison regarded him in silence for a minute. Then he went across and held out his hand.
"Forgive me, Silas. I am not myself to-night; I hardly know what I say. You don't know how much I have upon my mind. Don't you see how everything seems to be coming to a climax withme? But for her sake, and that of the child that is coming, I would willingly be dead. And yet I can't alarm her, and I can't let anything happen that would deprive her of a home—now. At any cost I must keep a roof over her head."
He went back to his seat by the counter and sat staring before him with a face drawn and haggard almost out of recognition.
"I am trying to save both for you," said Murkard quietly.
Ellison seized at the hope as a drowning man would catch at a life-buoy.
"I know you are, Murkard. I know it, and trust you to the bottom of my heart. What are you thinking of? What can I do? For mercy's sake, tell me; don't wait to weigh words."
"Steady, steady, old man. Be quiet and I will tell you. You are the Marquis of St. Burden. I heard you say so—there is no getting away from that. Believe me, your secret will never pass my lips. Your father is the Duke of Avonturn!"
Ellison said not a word, but it seemed to him that the beating of his heart must soon choke him. Murkard eyed him curiously.
"Well?"
"Well, what I propose is, that you shall communicate with your father; tell him that you havesettled down out here to a steady, honest, respectable life, tell him that difficulties beset you, and ask him for five thousand pounds."
"Never!"
Again there was a pause; try as he would, Ellison could not even bring his mind to think.
"And pray why not?"
"Because I refuse, once and for all; absolutely and implicitly I refuse, and you shall never make me budge from it."
"I shall not let you. You cannot help yourself."
"I can and will help myself. I refuse to do what you wish. I refuse—I refuse!"
His voice rose almost to a shriek in his excitement. He got up and looked towards the door as if he would settle the question by leaving the hut. Murkard sprang from his seat and held him by the arm. Both were grimly in earnest.
"Ellison, I believe in you. Your wife believes in you. You told her your history, you cannot draw back now if you would. It would kill her if she thought you had lied to her. She would never honour or trust you again. But you haven't. It is only your stiff-necked pride that brings you to this decision; but you must put it aside, I tell you; you must, man, to save her life."
"But I cannot; it is impossible! Don't you hear me? I cannot!"
"You both can and must. I intend to make you. Do you love your wife? I know you do. Then do you wish to be responsible for her death, and do you wish to kill the child as well? Is not one murder enough for you, for I tell you plainly if she has to leave this place, and you and she are thrown penniless upon the world, as you certainly will be within the next two months unless you find this money somewhere, so certainly will it kill her, and the unborn child too. And you will have only your stubborn, obstinate, guilty pride to thank for it."
"But I cannot do it; you don't know all."
"I know quite enough to be certain that it is your duty to save your wife's life at any cost to yourself."
"At whatever cost to myself—do you mean that? On your word of honour—may God strike you dead if you lie?"
"I do mean it. At whatever cost to yourself it is your duty to save your wife's life."
"You will remember what you have just said, 'At any cost to myself!'"
"I will remember."
"But there, what is the use of our talking likethis. The duke will pay no attention to my appeal."
"You are wrong, he will pay every attention."
"How do you know that?"
"Because I have a scheme in my brain that will make him."
"Will you tell me what it is?"
"Later on, perhaps, not now; you must trust to my honour."
"Very good. Then it shall be done. I will put aside all thought of myself. I will do what you wish. I will sin—for, remember, it is a sin—to save the woman I love. And remember also, that whatever happens in the future, whatever comes of it, misery to me, or to her, it is your doing."
"I will remember, and if any thingdoescome of it I will not only take the blame, but I will stand the punishment. Will you shake hands with me on it?"
"No, I will not. You have tempted me and I have fallen. God help me! After to-night we shall be no longer friends."
"Ellison!"
"I mean what I say. I have sinned before, perhaps in a worse way than this. But when I married I swore that nothing should ever tempt me to do so again. I have kept my word until to-night.To-night I sin deliberately, and in cold blood, for my wife's sake, God bless her!"
He raised his hat reverently as he spoke the last words. Then he sat down with the air of a man who had signed his own death-warrant, and asked:
"What am I to do?"
"Leave it all to me. To-morrow morning I will go across to the island, call upon the Government Resident, who knows me well enough by this time, tell him your story under pledge of secrecy, and get him to cable to your father for the money."
"He will refuse."
"I think not. He believes in my honour. Have you any objection to my doing so?"
"I object to nothing. I am past that. Only make it as certain of success as you can. The end will come soon enough in any case."
"You take it in a curious way. Ellison, is there anything you are hiding from me?"
"Only—only the pain you are giving me. But I suppose that hardly enters into your calculations."
"Ellison, I forgive you; but a day will come when you will never forgive yourself for what you are saying now. Remember, I am doing this only for your sake. As I promised you just now, so Ipromise again, whatever blame is to be taken for this I will take, whatever punishment is meted out—if any—I will bear. I only ask in return that you will believe in the honesty of my affection for you."
"Do you wish me to write any letter?"
"No. Leave everything to me."
"You do not want me any more to-night?"
"No. That is all. But, Ellison, you are not going to leave me like this?"
"In what way would you have me leave you? If I dared I would tell you everything, but I am too great a coward even for that. Good-night!"
Murkard only answered with a sigh. Ellison went out, closing the door after him. Once in the fresh air he looked up at the stars, then at the sea, then at the lamp-lit windows of his own house. Esther was seated at the table, sewing. He knew upon what work she was engaged, and a spasm of terror swept over him at the knowledge that even that little life, not yet born into the world, might some day be tempted to despise him. Instinctively he turned upon his heel, and for the second time since his arrival at the station strode away into the heart of the island, in an endeavour to dispel his own gloomy thoughts. On and on he walked, regardless of pace or destination. Hiswhole being was consumed with horror at what he was doing. What did it mean? What would it mean? What had induced him to do it? Was it blind Fate, or what reason could be assigned to it? No! It was none of these things—it was to save his wife! Bitterly he upbraided himself for the first folly that had occasioned it, but it was too late now, too late, too late! If he went to his wife and confessed all, confessed that he had lied to her, that he was not the man he pretended to be, that he was only a common swindler and cheat, she would forgive him, because she was a good woman and loved him, but she would never trust him or believe in him again. In that case their ruin would be complete! If he persisted in the present course, and Murkard's plan proved successful, they would be saved for a little time, but the inevitable result would be worse than the first destruction. On neither side was there such a thing as safety. On one side was his wife's life, on the other her trust in him; there was no middle course. He was between the devil and the deep sea with a vengeance. God help him for a miserable man!
By the time he arrived at this conclusion he was on the headland above the station. A thrill of superstitious terror swept over him as he realised that the spot on which he was standing was thesite of the Hermit's hut. In the glorious moonlight he could plainly discern the ruins of the blackened hearth, the boundary walls, and under the tall palm, nearer the cliff edge, the grave of the mysterious Unknown himself. What had led him in that direction on the one night of all others he would most have desired to avoid it? It seemed to him that the dead man's ghost was moving about the place taunting him with his sin, and pointing to a similar abandoned end in the inglorious future. Down on the shore below him he could hear the roll of the surf, but up here all was ghostly still. At last, unable to control himself any longer, he took to his heels and fled down the hill towards the station, craving to be with his kind once more. To his surprise he could see the light still burning in the sitting room. Late though it was, his wife had not yet gone to bed. Could she be sitting up for him?
As he entered the room she rose to meet him.
"My poor boy," she said, "how tired you look!"
"I have been worried nearly past endurance," he replied, "and went for a walk to try and think my difficulties out. I would not have gone had I thought you would sit up for me."
"I went over to the store when you did not come in, to see if you were there. Mr. Murkardsaid you had said good-night to him nearly two hours before, so I knew you had gone for a walk. You are very tired, I can see."
She leaned over his chair and ran her hand through his curly hair. Her touch, soft as it was, seemed to tear his very heart-strings. He could hardly bear to look her in the face. He left his seat and went across to the fireplace.
"Esther," he said, "difficulties are surrounding us on every side. If things don't change soon, goodness only knows what will happen to us."
"But they will change. God will help us, husband mine. Come what may, let us put our trust in him. He has not deserted us hitherto, and I am not afraid that he ever will."
"If only I had your faith. Oh, Esther, my own dear wife, I wonder if you will ever come to think badly of me."
"Never, Cuthbert, never! I shall believe in your honesty and goodness until my life's end."
She pulled his head down and kissed him on the forehead. Before he could answer she had left the room. He went out to the veranda and leaned against the rails, saying slowly to himself, over and over again:
"'I shall believe in your honesty and goodness until my life's end!'"
SATISFACTION—DISSATISFACTION—AND A CONTEMPLATED ARRIVAL.
First thing next morning Murkard went off to the township. He was gone about an hour, and during that time Ellison seemed to live a lifetime. Fearing that his face might frighten his wife, he found work for himself in the store and among the boats. Everything seemed to conspire to remind him of his position, and every few moments the inevitable result would rise before him in a new light and fairly take his breath away. Times out of number his patience got the better of him, and he went down to the shore to see if there were any sign of the boat's return. When at last he did make it out, his heart seemed first to stand still and then to throb until it felt as if it would burst his chest asunder. Nearer and nearer came the white sail, gleaming like a flake of ivory on the warm sunlit sea. When she drew alongside the jetty one glimpse of Murkard's face told him that the errand had been satisfactorily accomplished.He waited for him to beach the boat, and then they set off together for the store.
"Well," asked Ellison anxiously, as soon as they were inside and had shut the door, "how have you succeeded?"
"Admirably, so far. I have dispatched the cablegram, and by this time to-morrow we shall know our fate."
"But what proof have you that they will believe your tale?"
"The Government Resident's word. He has guaranteed the truth of my statement."
Not another syllable did Ellison utter. His lips moved, but no sound came from them. Then suddenly, with a little cry, he stretched out his arms towards the counter as if to sustain himself, and missing that, fell prone in a dead faint upon the floor.
In a minute or two Murkard had brought him back to consciousness.
"What on earth's the matter with you, Ellison?" he cried. "You're surely not going to give way now that the business is accomplished?"
"I don't know," the other replied shamefacedly, as soon as he was sufficiently recovered to talk. "I suppose the anxiety has been too much for me. My wife must know nothing of this, remember."
"Trust me. And now I shall advise you to keep very quiet until the answer comes. There is nothing to be gained by knocking yourself up, and everything, whichever way you look at it, by being calm."
"But, Murkard, for the life of me I don't understand how you managed it. No family in the world would advance such a sum without full and strict inquiry."
"Can you trust me, Ellison?"
"Implicitly—but——"
"There must be no 'buts,' I have taken the matter in hand. The Government Resident, who believes in me, strangely enough, has guaranteed the authenticity of what I have said. I have put the matter clearly before your family, and I leave it to their sense of justice to do what we ask. Remember if, as I said last night, there is any blame to be incurred by anyone, I take it."
"Murkard, I am not fit to look you in the face. I am a cur of the worst kind."
"Hush! hush! you mustn't say such things of yourself."
"But I mean it! I mean every word I say! I am not fit to——"
"Whatever you are, Cuthbert, I don't want to know it. I have told you before, and I tell youagain, our destinies, yours and mine, are one. Come what may, Imusthelp you."
"You have been the truest friend that mortal man ever had."
"And I shall continue to be until the day of my death. Whatever you may do, right or wrong, I shall stand by you. Never doubt that."
"Silas, I have a good mind to make a clean breast of everything to you."
"No, no! Don't tell me anything. I would rather not hear. All I want to know, I know. The rest lies outside the pale, and is no concern of mine."
"But itdoesconcern you. It concerns you very vitally, more vitally than you think."
"Then I refuse to hear it. If you attempt to make me, I shall be compelled to leave the place, to go away from the island."
"You are very obstinate."
"No, old friend. It is only kindness to you and your wife that makes me do it. Now I must get to my books. If this money is to arrive, we must be prepared for it. I see a golden future ahead of us."
Ellison passed out of the door saying to himself, "And I only ruin and disgrace."
He spent the rest of that day as one in a dream.He went about his work unconsciously, a great fear hanging over him like a suspended sword. Again and again he argued the case with himself. In a moment of sudden mental aberration—vanity, perhaps, at any rate, he could hardly say what—he had represented himself to be someone he was not. He had intended to leave the place next day; he had no intention or wish to deceive for any criminal or base purpose of his own. He had simply craved the girl's interest and sympathy, and then the deed was done. What could he do now? As he had told himself last night, if he went to his wife and confessed everything, she would loathe and despise him for the rest of his existence. He would be a detected liar and cheat without excuse of any kind. Now that Murkard had taken this course, the same inevitable result would ensue, only increased by the fact that his crime would be known to the whole world, and he would suffer the penalty, thereby bringing ruin and disgrace unspeakable upon those who loved him best. But, on the other hand, his wife had to be saved, and he had done it with his eyes open. It was too late to draw back now, and the blow might fall at any time. Yet, come what might, he could not tell Esther while she was in this critical condition. Small wonder, then, that he hung his head andlooked as if all joy had passed out of his existence forever.
Next morning Murkard again set off for the township. In an hour he returned jubilant. Ellison saw his boat approach, from the store veranda, and hastened down to meet him, his heart beating wildly. Murkard waved to him from the boat.
"It is done!" he cried, as he stepped ashore, his usually pale face aglow with excitement. "The cable arrived last night! A thousand pounds is placed to your credit in the bank. The rest will follow in a month. Good Heaven, Cuthbert, what is the matter?"
Ellison had thrown himself upon the sand, and was sobbing like a little child.
"Poor old chap!" said Murkard, seating himself beside him. "You're overwrought. The waiting has been too much for you. Never mind, now we are safe. The money is here, our credit is restored. Shell has gone up in the London market, and now we'll begin to make up for lost time. Come, come, you mustn't behave like this. Supposing any of the hands should see you?"
"It must all be repaid," Ellison answered almost fiercely, as soon as he recovered his composure, "every penny of it! I shall never rest until I have done that. Tell me everything, from first to last.Don't hide a word or detail from me. I must know everything!"
"You will know nothing more than I have already told you. Cuthbert, you must trust me. You have known me a long time now. Is your trust in my fidelity strong enough to convince you that I would do nothing that could bring you to any harm?"
"I am sure of that. But it is not enough to satisfy my fears for myself. I am making myself responsible for all this money. I must know exactly how you obtained it from—from my people, and on what terms. Imustknow it!"
"I got it from them on the plea that you had settled down to a respectable, honest, reputable business out here. That you had married a quiet, ladylike girl. That times were bad, and unless you could raise the amount of money asked for, you would be thrown upon the world again, and all your good resolutions scattered to the winds. The Government Resident and Blake the banker corroborated my assertions, and I made myself a surety, a poor one perhaps, but still a surety for the amount. Your father, the duke, cabled through his bankers to Blake that you might draw on him to the extent of one thousand pounds, and that the rest of the money would be dispatched during thepresent week. I have the papers for the one thousand pounds in my pocket now. You must sign them. In the meantime I have taken the liberty of cabling your thanks home."
"It was to save her—only to save her. Whatever happens, remember that!"
"What do you mean? You look as glum as a man about to be hanged. Come, come, Cuthbert, put a happier face on it, if only out of compliment to me. You are saved now! You can improve your business; you can send out more boats and do what you have been hankering after for a long time now, establish a floating station for your fleet."
"Yes, yes; we can certainly do more. But at what a cost?"
"My dear fellow, the cost will be nothing to the gains. Besides, you can always repay."
"I was not thinking of that cost. You don't know what an awful business this has been to me. The agony I have been through these past two days has made me an old man."
"Eating humble-pie, you mean? I can understand your feelings. But still it's done now, and what is better, well done. Now come to the store with me and sign those papers."
They went up the hill together, and with atrembling hand Ellison signed what was asked of him. This done, he tottered rather than walked out of the store towards his own abode. He went into the dining room and filled himself half a tumbler of whiskey, which he drank almost neat. The spirit pulled him together, and he departed in search of his wife. By the time he found her the liquor had begun to take effect. He became almost excited. She was sewing in the shade of the back veranda. He seated himself beside her, and with his left hand smoothed her soft brown hair.
"Little woman," he said, "I have great news for you. The happiest of happy news. We are saved; the overdraft will be paid off, and we are in smooth water again. In other words, the money has arrived."
"From your father, Cuthbert? Oh, you don't mean that?"
"But I do. The good Murkard was worked it admirably. A cablegram arrived this morning authorising me to draw on him for a thousand pounds. A draft for four thousand more will leave London this week."
"Thank God for his mercy! Oh, Cuthbert, what can I say to show you how pleased I am? And you deserve it too, you poor, hard-workingboy. Your face has been so long and solemn lately that I have been more than anxious about you."
"You need not be so any longer then, my sweet. The crisis is past. Now we will begin to put the money to practical use. I have all sorts of schemes in my mind. Dearie, you must say something nice to Murkard about it. For it is his cleverness that has brought it all about."
"You are very generous to that man, my husband."
"And I fear, forgive my saying so, that you are not generous enough to him. That man, as you call him would cut off his own right hand if he thought that by so doing he could help me."
"I know it, and perhaps that is why I am a little jealous of him. I am selfish enough to think I should like to be the only person in the whole world who could do anything for you."
"You are part of myself, little wife. It is for your sake I work. It was for your sake I——"
"What? What else have you done for my sake that you suddenly look so glum about it?"
He sank his voice almost to a whisper, when he replied:
"For your sake I have done in this business what I have done. Whatever comes of it, neverlose sight of that. It is the only bright spot in the whole miserable affair."
"I shall never forget that; you need not be afraid of it."
He stroked her hair for a moment, and then once more went down the garden path towards the store. Murkard was not there. On inquiring of the Kanakas, he discovered that he had gone across to the settlement in his boat.
In order to have something to distract his thoughts Ellison went down to the carpenter's shed, and set to work upon some business he had long neglected. It was a relief to him to have something to do, and he derived a peculiar peace from the chirrup of the plane, and a restfulness from the trailing shavings that had been a stranger to him for longer than he cared to remember. As he worked his thoughts took in all that had happened to him since his arrival in the settlement. He remembered that first night in the Hotel of All Nations; the fight and his curious resolve upon the hill-side; his search for work the following morning—their swim across the strait, and his first introduction to the girl who was now his wife. The death of her father came next; then their marriage; the difficulties and disasters of their business, and——But here his recollections came to an abrupt halt. He did not dare think of what had followed after. Oh, how bitterly he cursed himself for that one false step, and to the cowardice to which it had given birth! If only he had had the moral courage to own himself a liar at once, what awful after misery he might have saved himself. But, no! it was not to be—not to be. The saddest of all sad words—not to be. Now even if he managed to repay every farthing, there would always be the remembrance of his sin to haunt him. He put down the tools he was using, and turned to look across the straits. The afternoon's sun was hardly a hand's breadth above the horizon. A little fleet of luggers was tacking down, under a light breeze, towards the anchorage, their white sails gleaming picturesquely in the warm sunlight. The ripple of the waves on the beach came up to him like softest music, and he was just thinking how fair it all was when he heard footsteps hurrying on the hard-beaten path outside. Next moment old Mrs. Fenwick stood before him, hardly able to speak with excitement. In a flash Ellison divined her errand. Seizing her by the arm, he shook her almost savagely.
"What is it? What do you want? Is he wanted? Quick, quick!"
She nodded emphatically, unable to find breath to speak.
"Out of my way! I will go at once!"
He picked up his hat, dashed through the door and down the path towards the jetty. A boat lay moored alongside a lugger. He sprang into it, had cast her loose, and was sculling madly in the direction of the township before Mrs. Fenwick had time to wonder what had become of him. In a quarter of an hour he was ringing the medico's bell, and in half an hour they were back together at the station. As they approached the house the doctor stopped and looked at his companion.
"My friend," said he, "if I were you I should go for a long walk or a row. Don't come back for at least two hours. You can do nothing here, and you will only be in the way. If you stay I shall have you on my hands next."
Ellison looked at him as if he would like to argue the point with him.
"Man, man!" he said viciously, "you don't know the state I'm in. If anything happens to that woman it will kill me."
"I know, I know! I've had the same feeling myself. It's very commendable—very. But——"
"Oh, d—— your sentimental twaddle! No!no! Forgive my rudeness, you can see I'm not myself at all."
"That's why I order you to go for a row. Now be off, and don't let me see your face again for hours. Your wife will be quite safe in my hands."
"God grant she may be!"
He picked his hat up from where it had fallen, and without another protest walked back to the shore. Again he embarked aboard his boat, and once more he set sail, this time down the Pass in the opposite direction, and out into the open sea.
A VISION AND A REALITY.
If Cuthbert Ellison ever forgets any portion of his eventful career, it will certainly not be the part connected with his sail that evening. The sun lay like a disc of fire upon the horizon's edge as he left the bay; his ruddy glare lit up the sea, the islands, and the cloudless heavens, and the effect grew even more weird and wonderful the further he sank into his crimson bed. Ellison put his boat about and steered directly for the sinking orb, the water churning into foam under the little vessel's bows as he progressed. He seemed hardly conscious of his actions. He sat in the stern-sheets staring straight ahead of him, seeing little or nothing of the sea around him, looking only through his mind's-eye at his home and the momentous event that was occurring there. His own sin and its consequences seemed as nothing to him now in the white light of his new and greater anxiety. If anything disastrous should befall his wife in his absence, if she should diebefore he could get back to her, what would happen to him then? In that case the sooner he himself died the better. The very idea of such a thing set him trembling like a leaf. He knew now exactly how much he cared for his wife, and in his present state that knowledge was not a soothing one. He realised what the world, his world, would be to him without her.
The sun sank lower and lower until only a flake of gold remained to show where he was taking his departure. With his total disappearance the wind dropped entirely, and the boat stood pulseless upon the pearly levels of the deep. Then from the corners of the world great shadows stole out to meet him. The evening star trembled in its place, and one by one her sisters came to watch with her. Sometimes a big fish rose near the boat, and disappeared again with a sullen splash, awed perhaps by the silence and solemnity of the world upon the surface. Far away to starboard he could discern the dim outline of the land, but all around him was only water—water—water. He furled the sail, and, to defend himself against the terror of his own thoughts, took to the oars. It was a heavy boat to pull, but he found comfort in thus tiring himself.
For nearly an hour he rowed on and on, thenight closing in around him as he went. At last, thoroughly wearied, he drew in his oars, and again took his place in the stern. By this time it was quite dark. The stars shone now, not by ones or twos, but in their countless thousands. They were not, however, to shine for long, for in the east a curious trembling faintness foretold the rising of the moon. Little by little this indistinctness spread across the sky, and one by one the stars fell under its subtle influence and went back to their coffers in the treasure house of night. Then, with a beauty indescribable, a rim of gold looked up above the edge of the world, and grew every moment larger. It was the moon—the great round glorious tropic moon, and with her coming a broad track of silver was thrown by a giant hand across the ocean. On this the boat seemed but a tiny speck, a frail atom in that immensity of water. Not a sign of land was now to be seen anywhere, and to Ellison it seemed as if, in his anxiety, he had said good-bye to it forever. He stood up and looked around him. Still to right and left, before him and behind, was only water slowly heaving in the moonlight.
It had a curious effect upon his overstrung nerves, this expanse of moonlit water. A peculiar giddiness seized him. He sat down again and buried his face in his hands. Then suddenly something inside his head seemed to give way, and he looked up again. Whether he was mad for the time being, and really thought he saw the things he describes so vividly now, or whether he was dreaming, is a matter only for conjecture. At any rate, it seemed to him that from the place where he was, far removed from all the influences of the world, he saw a vision, the vision of the world's dead rising up to meet him. Sitting in the stern of his tiny boat, grasping the thwarts with either hand and looking out across the water, he watched and trembled. He saw the greatness of the deep opened as by a mighty hand. And from the void thus made, he witnessed a procession of the world's dead troop forth upon the silent waters like men walking on a silver road. There was no sound with them, not a footfall, neither a voice nor a rustle of garments. They came out of the east a mighty army, such as no man could number. They passed him where he sat and marched on again, still without a sound, towards the west. Every age and every nationality—semi-humans from the prehistoric ages, Israelites, Egyptians, Ethiopians, Medes, Persians, Assyrians, Babylonians, Goths, Greeks, Romans, Huns, and Norsemen; every race and every colour from the world's first death to the tiniest child giving up its little life at the momentthat he looked was represented there. There were old men bowed down with the weight of years, young men in all the pride of manly strength, aged women, gentle matrons and young girls, children, and even tiny babes. Men slain in battle with their wounds still gaping on their shattered bodies; men drowned at sea, with the weeds of ocean twined about them; kings and nobles in their robes of state, priests in their sacred vestments, and peasants in their homespun; holy men in flowing garments, martyrs and those who fought with beasts at Ephesus; English wives and dark skinned African mothers—all were there. They approached him, looked at him, and then passed upon their way. Some had hope written in their faces, some despair, some ineffable peace, some the imprint of everlasting remorse. Not one but bore some mark to witness to the life he or she had pursued on earth. On and on they passed; already the procession seemed to stretch from pole to pole, and every moment was adding to their number. But there was no sound at all with them.
Suddenly an intense fear and dread came over Ellison, such as he had never experienced in his life before. Had this vision been sent to prepare him for some great sorrow? Was it possible that Esther could be among them? Surely if she wereshe would come to him. Hardly conscious of what he was doing, he clambered forrard in the boat, and resting his hands upon the gunwale, stared at the passing multitude. There were mothers in plenty with infants in their arms—but Esther was not among them. He searched and searched, and still the relentless march went on—still they stretched out across the seas. All the dead of the earth, century and century and bygone ages; all the dead of the sea and under the sea paraded before him, and still the march went on. From every quarter of the globe the army was recruited, and everyone paused to look at this distracted man. In sheer weariness of movement he called upon them to stop—to stop if only for a minute. His voice rang out across the deep, again and again. But there was no change; there could be no halting in that march of death. As fast as the last ranks appeared thousands more came from all quarters to carry it on again. At first he had been all dumb, senseless wonderment. Then suddenly his ears were opened, and a second awful terror seized and held him spell-bound. He tried to shut his eyes to them, but they would not be shut out; he tried to stop his ears, but now the tramp of that mighty army could not be prevented. On and on and on it went, clashing and clanging,rolling and thundering, coming out of the east and disappearing into the west. And over it all the moon shone down pitiless and cold as steel. He tried to cry for mercy, but this time his voice refused to answer to his call. He stretched out his hands in feeble, despairing supplication, but still the march went on. At last he could hold out no longer; he stood up, raised his arms to Heaven, and pleaded piteously. As if in answer his senses deserted him, and he fell back into the bottom of his boat in a dead faint.
When he recovered himself the sky was overcast with clouds. He looked about him half expecting to see the procession still parading past his boat, but it was gone. He was alone once more upon the waters, and, to add to his feeling of desolation, a soft rain was wetting him to the skin. How long he had lain there unconscious he could not tell. He looked at his watch, but it had stopped at half-past eight—the moment of his fall. A smart breeze was blowing, and, in a frenzy of recollection, he turned the boat's head for home, resolved to know the worst. In a moment he was tearing through the water like a thing possessed. This sense of rapid movement was just what his spirits needed; he could not go fast enough. A brisk sea was running, but over it his craft dashed like aflying stag. He could not be more than a dozen miles from the station at the very most—an hour's smart sailing. He shook out the reef he had taken in the canvas and let the boat do her best.
With a heart like this tiny cockle-shell borne upon the tossing, tumbling sea, one moment uplifted by hope, and the next falling deep down into the trough of despair, he sailed on and on. Every second was bringing him nearer and nearer to his home. Already through the haze he could make out the bold outline of the island. Ten minutes later he was abreast of it, skimming safely along out of reach of that white line of dashing breakers. Rounding the point, he caught a glimpse of the lights of the station. With a rush his fear gripped hold of him again, not to leave him till he knew the best or worst. Like a drunken man he drove his boat ashore, leaped out on the sands, and commenced to haul her up. It was only when he had done this that he became aware of something lying on the sand just above high-water mark. It was the body of a man stretched out at full length. Wondering whether he could be still under the influence of the nightmare that had held him so at sea, he approached it. To his intense surprise it was Murkard—dead drunk. Kneeling by his side, he shook him vigorously, but without result. He was insensible, and from all appearances likely to remain so for some hours to come. But even this did not strike Ellison as it would have done at any other time; it appeared to him to be part and parcel of the nightmare under the influence of which he had so long been labouring. Rising to his feet he bent over the man, took him in his arms, and bore him up the hill to the hut.
No sound came from his own dwelling; indeed, had it not been for the light burning in the little sitting room window it might have been uninhabited. Having laid his burden on the bed, he retraced his steps and went across to know his fate. As he approached the house he became conscious of a figure sitting in the veranda. When it rose, and came softly out to meet him, he recognised his friend the doctor. Ellison's tongue refused its office, his throat was like a lime-kiln. The other saw his state, and in a whisper said:
"I have waited here to congratulate you. You ought to be a happy man. Your wifeand sonare doing excellently well."
Ellison reeled as if he had received a blow.
"Mother and son!" he managed to gasp. "Oh, my God, you're not deceiving me?"
As if in answer a little thin wail stole out fromthe house into the darkness, a little cry that went straight and plump to the very centre of the father's heart. It was true, then? There could be no deception about that!
"Oh, thank God! thank God!"
Again that feeble little voice came out to them, and again Ellison's nature was stirred to its lowest depths. All the world seemed centred in that tiny wail.
"And how is she? There is no danger? For mercy's sake tell me candidly. You don't know what I've suffered these last few hours."
"Your wife is doing wonderfully well. You need have no fear now. The old woman who is with her is an excellent nurse, and I shall come across first thing in the morning. I only waited to have the pleasure of telling you this myself."
"How can I thank you? And you have been sitting here so long in the dark without anyone to look after you. You must think me inhospitable to the last degree. Come inside now."
They went into the room, and Ellison set refreshment before the doctor. He would, however, not touch a drop himself.
"I dare not," he said, in reply to the other's look of astonishment. "In the state I'm in I should be dead drunk if I drank a thimbleful. Ican tell you I wouldn't live this night again for something."
"I wouldn't be answerable for your brain if you did," the doctor replied, glancing at the haggard face before him. "What on earth have you been doing with yourself! You look as if you'd been communing with the Legions of the Dead."
"So I have—so I have. You've just hit it. That's what Ihavebeen doing. I've seen the dead of all the world troop past me to-night."
"Give me your wrist."
He spoke in a tone of command, and almost unconsciously Ellison extended one arm. The doctor placed his finger on the pulse.
"Nothing much the matter there. You only want a good night's sleep now the anxiety's over, and I prophesy you'll be as fit as a fiddle to-morrow. I shouldn't be at all surprised if you tell me you're the proudest father in the hemisphere. Bless you, I know your sort!"
Ellison laughed softly, but for all that it was a mirthless laugh. He had not recovered yet from the shock of all he had undergone that evening.
"When may I see her?"
"She is asleep now. When she wakes, perhaps. The nurse, however, will settle that point. You must abide strictly by what she says for a week ortwo. Above all you must not frighten your wife with that face. Make that more cheerful before you go in, or I'll keep you away from her for a month."
"I'd break your neck if you did. And I'm pretty muscular even now."
"I'll take that assertion on trust. Now I must be going."
"I'll see you down to your boat."
They walked to the shore together. One of the Kanaka hands was in waiting to put the doctor across. When the little craft had disappeared from view, Ellison went back to the house. He was bathing in a sea of happiness. His fondest dream was realised. He went into the sitting room and threw himself upon the sofa. He had hardly been there a minute before the door opened, and Mrs. Fenwick appeared bearing in her arms a bundle. He sprang to his feet once more, trembling in every limb.
"I'm sure I wish you joy, sir," she began, as she came towards him. "He's the noblest boy I've seen these many years; I ought to know, for I've nursed a-many."
She parted the blankets that enshrined the treasure, and Ellison looked down on the little face.
"Take him in your own arms, sir. It's a proud father you ought to be."
For the first time in his life Ellison held his son in his arms. How sweet and desirable the world seemed to him then. In spite of everything that had gone before he would not have changed places with any man who breathed. But he was not to be permitted the honour of holding the infant long.