He paused, and she suddenly burst out into wild hysterical sobs and tears.
"Let me go home," she said, between her sobs. "I will give you my answer then.... I will not forget! I will not be thoughtless and foolish any more.... But let me go home first: I must go home. I cannot stay here alone!"
"You cannot go home, Kitty," said Hugo, modulating his voice to one of extreme softness and sweetness. He knelt before her, and took both her hands in his. "You left Mrs. Baxter's yesterday afternoon—to meet me, you said. Where have you been since then?—that will be the first question. You cannot go home without me now: what would the world say? Don't you understand?"
"What does it matter what the world says? My father would know that it was all right," said Kitty, helplessly.
"Would your father take you in?" Hugo whispered. "Would he not rather say that you must have planned it all, that you were not to be trusted, that you had better have married me when I asked you? For, if you leave this house before you are my wife, Kitty, I shall not ask you again to marry me. Are you so simple as not to know why? You would be compromised: that is all. You need not have obliged me to tell you so."
She wrenched her hands away from him and put them before her eyes.
"Oh, I see it all now," she moaned. "I am trapped—trapped. But I will not marry you. I will die rather. Oh, Rupert, Rupert! why do you not come?"
And then she fell into a fit of hysterical shrieking, succeeded by a swoon, from which Hugo found some difficulty in recovering her. He was obliged to call the nurse to his aid, and the nurse and the kitchen-maid between them carried the girl upstairs and placed her on the bed. Here Kitty came to herself by degrees, but it was thought well to leave the kitchen-maid, Elsie, beside her for some time, for as soon as she was left alone the hysterical symptoms reappeared. She saw Hugo no more that day, but on the following morning, when she sat pale and listless over the fire in her sitting-room, he reappeared. He spoke to her gently, but she gave him no answer. She looked at him with blank, languid eyes, and said not a word. He was almost frightened at her passivity. He thought that he had perhaps over-strained matters: that he had sent her out of her mind. But he did not lose hope. Kitty, with weakened powers of body and mind, would still be to him the woman that he loved, and that he had set his heart upon winning for his wife.
That day passed, and the next, with no change in her condition. Hugo began to grow impatient. He resolved to try stronger measures.
But stronger measures were not necessary. On the fifth day, he came to her at eleven o'clock in the morning, with a curious smile upon his lips. He had an opera-glass in his hand.
"I have something to show you, Kitty," he said to her.
He led her to the window, and directed her attention to a distant point in the view where a few yards of the highroad could be discerned. "You see the road," he said. "Now look through the glass for a few minutes."
Languidly enough she did as he desired. The strong glass brought into her sight in a few moments two gentlemen on horseback. Kitty uttered a faint cry. It was her father and Mr. Colquhoun.
"I thought that we should see them in a minute or two," said Hugo, calmly. "They were here a quarter-of-an-hour ago."
"Here! In this house?"
"Yes; making inquiries after you. I think I quite convinced them that I knew nothing about you. They apologised for the trouble they had given me, and went away."
"Oh, father, father!" cried Kitty, stretching out her arms and sobbing wildly, as if she could make him hear: "Oh, father, come back! come back! Am I to die here and never see you again—never again?"
Hugo said nothing more. He had no need. She wept herself into quietness, and then remained silent for a long time, with her head buried in her hands. He left her in this position, and did not return until the evening. And then she spoke to him in a voice which showed that her strength had deserted her, her will had been bent at last.
"Do as you please," she said. "I will be your wife. I see no other way. But I hate you—I hate you—and I will never forgive you for what you have done as long as ever I live."
Rupert Vivian went to London with a fixed determination not to return to Strathleckie. He told himself that he had been thinking far too much of the whims and vagaries of a silly, pretty girl; and that it would be for his good to put such memories of her bright eyes, and vain, coquettish ways as remained to him, completely out of his mind. He did his best to carry out this resolution, but he was not very successful.
He had some troubles of his own, and a good deal of business to transact; but the weeks did not pass very rapidly, although his time was so fully occupied. He began to be anxious to hear something of his friend, Percival Heron; he searched the newspapers for tidings of theArizona, he called at Lloyd's to inquire after her; but a mystery seemed to hang over her fate. She had never reached Pernambuco—so much was certain! Had she gone to the bottom, carrying with her passengers and crew? And theFalcon, in which Brian had sailed—also reported missing—what had become of her?
Rupert knew enough of Elizabeth Murray's story to think of her with anxiety—almost with tenderness—at this juncture. He knew of no reason why the marriage with Percival should not take place, for he had not heard a word about her special interest in Brian Luttrell; but he had been told of Brian's reappearance, and of the doubt cast upon his claim to the property. He was anxious, for Percival's sake as well as for hers, that the matter should be satisfactorily adjusted; and he felt a pang of dismay when he first learnt the doubt that hung over the fate of theArizona.
His anxiety led him one day to stroll with a friend into the office of a shipowner who had some connection with theArizona. Here he found an old sailor telling a story to which the clerks and the chief himself were listening with evident interest. Vivian inquired who he was. The answer made him start. John Mason, of the good shipArizona, which I saw with my own eyes go down in eight fathoms o' water off Rocas reef. Me and the mate got off in the boat, by a miracle, as you may say. All lost but us.
And forthwith he told the story of the wreck—as far as he knew it.
Vivian listened with painful eagerness, and sat for some little time in silence when the story was finished, with his hand shading his eyes. Then he rose up and addressed the man.
"I want you to go with me to Scotland," he said, abruptly. "I want you to tell this story to a lady. She was to have been married to the Mr. Heron of whom you speak as soon as he returned. Poor girl! if anything can make it easier for her, it will be to hear of poor Heron's courage in the hour of death."
He set out that night, taking John Mason with him, and gleaning from him many details concerning Percival's popularity on board ship, details which he knew would be precious to the ears of his family by-and-bye. Mason was an honest fellow, and did not exaggerate, even when he saw that exaggeration would be welcome: but Percival had made himself remarked, as he generally did wherever he went, by his ready tongue and flow of animal spirits. Mason had many stories to tell of Mr. Heron's exploits, and he told them well.
Vivian was anxious to see the Herons before any newspaper report should reach them; and he therefore hurried the seaman up to Strathleckie after a hasty breakfast at the hotel. But at Strathleckie, disappointment awaited him. Everybody was out—except the baby and the servants. The whole party had gone to spend a long day at the house of a friend: they would not be back till evening.
Rupert was forced to resign himself to the delay. The man, Mason, was regaled in the servants' hall, and was there regarded as a kind of hero; but Vivian had no such distraction of mind. He had nothing to do: he had reasons of his own for neither walking out nor trying to read. He leaned back in an arm-chair, with his back to the light, and closed his eyes. From time to time he sighed heavily.
He felt himself quite sufficiently at home to ask for anything that he wanted; and the glass of wine and biscuit which formed his luncheon were brought to him in the study, the room that seemed to him best fitted for the communication that he would have to make. He had been there for two or three hours, and the short winter day was already beginning to grow dim, when the door opened, and a footstep made itself heard upon the threshold.
It was a woman's step. It paused, advanced, then paused again as if in doubt. Vivian rose from his chair, and held out both hands. "Kitty," he said. "Kitty, is it you?"
"Yes, it is I," she said. Her voice had lost its ring; there was a tonelessness about it which convinced Rupert that she had already heard what he had come to tell.
"I thought you had gone with the others," he said, "but I am glad to find you here. I can tell you first—alone. I have sad news, Kitty. Why don't you come and shake hands with me, dear, as you always do? I want to have your little hand in mine while I tell you the story."
He was standing near the arm-chair, from which he had risen, with his hand extended still. There was a look of appeal, almost a look of helplessness, about him, which Kitty did not altogether understand. She came forward and touched his hand very lightly, and then would have withdrawn it had his fingers not closed upon it with a firm, yet gentle grasp.
"I think I know what you have come to say," she answered, not struggling to draw her hand away, but surrendering it as if it were not worth while to consider such a trifle. "I read it all in the newspapers this morning. The others do not know."
"You did not tell them?" said Rupert, a little surprised.
"I came to tell them now."
"You have been away? Ah, yes, I heard you talking about a visit to Edinburgh some time ago: you have been there, perhaps? I came to see your father—to see you all, so that you should not learn the story first from the newspapers, but I was too late to shield you, Kitty."
"Yes," she said, with a weary sigh; "too late."
"I have brought the man Mason with me. He will tell you a great deal more than you can read in the newspapers. Would you like to see him now? Or will you wait until your father comes?"
"I will wait, I think," said Kitty, very gently. "They will not be long now. Sit down, Mr. Vivian. I hope you have had all that you want."
"What is the matter, Kitty?" asked Vivian, with (for him) extraordinary abruptness. "Why have you taken away your hand, child? What have I done?"
She made no answer.
"You are in trouble, Kitty. Can I not comfort you a little? I would give a great deal to be able to do it. But the day for that is gone by."
"Yes, it is gone by," echoed Kitty once more in the tones that never used to be so sad.
"It is selfish to talk about myself when you have this great loss to bear," he pursued; "and yet I must tell you what has happened to me lately, so that you may understand what perhaps seems strange to you. Am I altered, Kitty? Do I look changed to your eyes in any way?"
"No," she answered, hesitatingly; "I think not. But people do not change very easily in appearance, do they? Whatever happens, they are the same. I am not at all altered, they tell me, since—since you were here."
"Why should you be?" said Rupert, vaguely touched, he knew not why, by the pathetic quality that had crept into her voice. "Even a great sorrow, like this one, does not change us in a single day. But I have had some weeks in which to think of my loss; small and personal though it may seem to you."
"What loss?" said Kitty.
"Is it no loss to think that I shall never see your face again, Kitty? I am blind."
"Blind!" She said the word again, with a strange thrill in her voice. "Blind!"
"Not quite, just yet," said Rupert, quietly, but with a resolute cheerfulness. "I know that you are standing there, and I can still grope my way amongst the tables and chairs in a room, without making many mistakes: but I cannot see your sweet eyes and mouth, Kitty, and I shall never look upon the purple hills again. Do you remember that we planned to climb Craig Vohr next summer for the sake of the fine view? Not much use my attempting it now, I am afraid—unless you went with me, and told me what you saw."
She did not say a word. He waited a moment, but none came; and he could not see the tears that were in her eyes. Perhaps he divined that they were there.
"It has been coming on for some time," he said, still in the cheerful tone which he had made himself adopt. "I was nearly certain of it when I was here in January; and since then I have seen some famous oculists, and spent a good deal of time in a dark room—with no very good result. Nothing can be done."
"Nothing? Absolutely nothing?"
"Nothing at all. I must bear it as other men have done. I am rather old to frame my life anew, and I shall never equal Mr. Fawcett in energy and power, though I think I shall take him as my model," said Rupert, with a rather sad smile, "but I must do my best, and I dare say I shall get used to it in time. Kitty, I thought—somehow—that I should like to hear you say that you were sorry.... And you have not said it yet."
"I am sorry," said Kitty, in a low voice.
The tears were falling over her pale cheeks, but she did not turn away her head—why should she? He could not see.
"I have been a fool," said Vivian, with the unusual energy of utterance which struck her as something new in him. "I am thirty-eight—twenty years older than you, Kitty—and I have missed half the happiness that I might have got out of my life, and squandered the other half. I will tell you what happened when I was a lad of one-and-twenty—before you were a year old, Kitty: think of that!—I fell in love with a woman some years older than myself. She was a barmaid. Can you fancy me now in love with a barmaid? I find it hard to imagine, myself. I married her, Kitty. Before we had been married six weeks I discovered that she drank. I was tied to a drunken, brawling, foul-mouthed woman of the lower class—for life. At least I thought it was for life."
He paused, and asked with peculiar gentleness:—
"Am I telling you this at a wrong time? Shall I leave my story for another day? You are thinking of him, perhaps: I am not without thoughts of him, too, even in the story that I tell. Shall I stop, or shall I go on?"
"Go on, please. I want to hear. Yes, as well now as any other time. You married. What then?"
Could it be Kitty who was speaking? Rupert scarcely recognised those broken, uneven tones. He went on slowly.
"She left me at last. We agreed to separate. I saw her from time to time, and made her an allowance. She lived in one place: I in another. She died last year."
"Last year?"
"Yes, in the autumn. You heard that I had gone into Wales to see a relation who was dying: that was my wife."
"Did Percival know?" asked Kitty, in a low voice.
"No. I think very few persons knew. I wonder whether I ought to have told the world in general! I did not want to blazon forth my shame."
For a little time they both were silent. Then Rupert said, softly:—
"When she was dead, I remembered the little girl whom I used to know in Gower-street; and I said to myself that I would find her out."
"You found her changed," said Kitty, with a sob.
"Very much changed outwardly; but with the same loving heart at the core. Kitty, I was unjust to you: I have come back to offer reparation."
"For what?"
"For that injustice, dear. When I went away from Strathleckie in January, I was angry and vexed with you. I thought that you were throwing yourself away in promising to marry Hugo Luttrell—" then, as Kitty made a sudden gesture—"oh, I know I had no right to interfere. I was wrong, quite wrong. I must confess to you now, Kitty, that I thought you a vain, frivolous, little creature; and it was not until I began to think over what I had said to you and what you had said to me, that I saw clearly, as I lay in my darkened room, how unjust I had been to you."
"You were not unjust," said Kitty, hurriedly; "and I was wrong. I did not tell you the truth; I let you suppose that I was engaged to Hugo when I was not. But——"
"You were not engaged to him?"
"No."
"Then I may say what I should have said weeks ago if I had not thought that you had promised to marry him?"
"It cannot make much difference what you say now," said Kitty, heavily. "It is too late."
"I suppose it is. I cannot ask any woman—especially any girl of your age—to share the burden of my infirmity."
"It is not that. Anyone would be proud to share such a burden—to be of the least help to you—but I mean—you have not heard——"
She could not go on. If he had seen her face, he might have guessed more quickly what she meant. But he could not see; and her voice, broken as it was, told him only that she was agitated by some strong emotion—he knew not of what kind. He rose and stood beside her, as if he did not like to sit while she was standing. Even at that moment she was struck by the absence of his old airs of superiority; his blindness seemed to have given him back the dependence and simplicity of much earlier days.
"I suppose you mean that you are not free," he said. "And even if you had been free, my dear, it is not at all likely that I should have had a chance. There are certain to be many wooers of a girl possessed of your fresh sweetness and innocent gaiety. I wished only to say to you that I have been punished for any harsh words of mine, by finding out that I could not forget your face for a day, for an hour. I will not say that I cannot live without you; but I will say that life would have the charm that it had in the days of my youth, if I could have hoped that you, Kitty, would have been my wife."
There was a faint melancholy in the last few words that went to Kitty's heart. Rupert heard her sob, and immediately put out his hand with the uncertain action of a man who cannot see.
"Kitty!" he said, ruefully, "I did not mean to make you cry, dear. Don't grieve. There are obstacles on both sides now. I am a blind, helpless old fellow; and you are going to be married. Child, what does this mean?"
Unable to speak, she had seized his hand and guided it to the finger on which she wore a plain gold ring. He felt it: he felt her hand, and then he asked a question.
"Are you married already, Kitty?"
"Yes."
"To whom?"
"To Hugo Luttrell." And then she sank down almost at his feet, sobbing, and her hot tears fell upon the hand which she pressed impulsively to her lips. "Oh, forgive me! forgive me!" she cried. "Indeed, I did not know what to do. I was very wicked and foolish. And now I am miserable. I shall be miserable all my life."
These vague self-accusations conveyed no very clear idea to Vivian's mind; but he was conscious of a sharp sting of pain at the thought that she was not happy in her marriage.
"I did not know. I would not have spoken as I did if I had known," he said.
"No, I know you would not; and yet I could not tell you. You will hear all about it from the others. I cannot bear to tell you. And yet—yet—don't think me quite so foolish, quite so wrong as they will say that I have been. They do not know all. I cannot tell them all. I was driven into it—and now I have to bear the punishment. My whole life is a punishment. I am miserable."
"Life can never be a mere punishment, if it is rightly led," said Vivian, in a low tone. "It is, at any rate, full of duties and they will bring happiness."
"To some, perhaps; not to me," said Kitty, raising herself from her kneeling posture and drying her eyes. "I have no duties but to look nice and make myself agreeable."
"You will find duties if you look for them. There is your husband's happiness, to begin with——"
"My husband," exclaimed Kitty, in a tone of passionate contempt that startled him. But they could say no more, for at that moment the carriage came up to the door, and, from the voices in the hall, it was plain that the family had returned.
A great hush fell upon those merry voices when Mr. Vivian's errand was made known. Mrs. Heron, who was really fond of Percival, was inconsolable, and retired to her own room with the little boys and the baby to weep for him in peace. Mr. Heron, Kitty, and Elizabeth remained with Rupert in the study, listening to the short account which he gave of the wreck of theArizona, as he had learnt it from Mason's lips. And then it was proposed that Mason should be summoned to tell his own story.
Mason's eyes rested at once upon Elizabeth with a look of respectful admiration. He told his story with a rough, plain eloquence which more than once brought tears to the listeners' eyes; and he dwelt at some length on the presence of mind and cheery courage which Mr. Heron had shown during the few minutes between the striking of the ship and her going down. "Just as bold as a lion, ladies and gentlemen; helping every poor soul along, and never thinking of himself. They told fine tales of one of the men we took aboard from theFalcon; but Mr. Heron beat him and all of us, I'm sure."
"You took on board someone from theFalcon?" said Elizabeth, suddenly.
"Yes, ma'am, three men that were picked up in an open boat, where they had been for five days and nights; theFalconhaving been burnt to the water's edge, and very few of the crew saved."
Elizabeth's hands clasped themselves a little more tightly, but she suffered no sign of emotion to escape her.
"Do you remember the names of the men saved from theFalcon?" she said.
"There was Jackson," said the sailor, slowly; "and there was Fall; and there was a steerage passenger—seems to me his name was Smith, but I can't rec'llect exackly."
"It was not Stretton?"
"No, it warn't no name like that, ma'am."
"Then they are both lost," said Elizabeth, rising up with a deadly calm in her fixed eyes and white face; "both lost in the great, wild sea. We shall see them no more—no more." She paused, and then added in a much lower voice, as if speaking to herself: "I shall go to them, but they will not return to me."
Her strength seemed to give way. She walked a few steps unsteadily, threw up her hands as if to save herself, and without a word and without a cry, fell in a dead faint to the ground.
Vivian went back to London on the following morning, taking Mason with him. He had heard what made him anxious to leave Strathleckie before any accidental meeting with Hugo Luttrell should take place. The story told of Kitty's marriage was that she had eloped with Hugo; and Mr. Heron, in talking the matter over with his son's friend, declared that an elopement had been not only disgraceful, but utterly unnecessary, since he should never have thought of opposing the marriage. He had been exceedingly angry at first; and now, although he received Kitty at Strathleckie, he treated her with great coldness, and absolutely refused to speak to Hugo at all.
In a man of Mr. Heron's easy temperament, these manifestations of anger were very strong; and Vivian felt even a little surprised that he took the matter so much to heart. He himself was not convinced that the whole truth of the story had been told: he was certain, at any rate, that Hugo Luttrell had dragged Kitty's name through the mire in a most unjustifiable way, and he felt a strong desire to wreak vengeance upon him. For Kitty's sake, therefore, it was better that he should keep out of the way: he did not want to quarrel with her husband, and he knew that Hugo would not be sorry to find a cause of dispute with him.
He could not abandon the hope of some further news of theArizonaand theFalcon. He questioned Mason repeatedly concerning the shipwrecked men who had been taken on board but he obtained little information. And yet he could not be content. It became a regular thing for Vivian to be seen, day after day, in the shipowners' offices, at Lloyd's, at the docks, asking eagerly for news, or, more frequently, turning his sightless eyes and anxious face from one desk to another, as the careless comments of the clerks upon his errand fell upon his ear. Sometimes his secretary came with him: sometimes, but, more seldom, a lady. For Angela was living with him now, and she was as anxious about Brian as he was concerning Percival.
He had been making these inquiries one day, and had turned away with his hand upon Angela's arm, when a burly, red-faced man, with a short, brown beard, whom Angela had seen once or twice before in the office, followed, and addressed himself to Rupert.
"Beg pardon: should like to speak to you for a moment, sir, if agreeable to the lady," he said, touching his cap. "You were asking about theArizona, wrecked off the Rocas Reef, were you not?"
"Yes, I was," said Vivian, quickly. "Have you any news? Have any survivors of the crew returned?"
"Can't say I know of any, save John Mason and Terry, the mate," said the man, shaking his head. He had a bluff, good-natured manner, which Angela did not dislike; but it seemed somewhat to repel her brother.
"If you have no news," he began in a rather distant tone; but the man interrupted him with a genial laugh.
"I've got no news, sir, but I've got a suggestion, if you'll allow me to make it. No concern of mine, of course, but I heard that you had friends aboard theArizona, and I took an interest in that vessel because she came to grief at a place which has been the destruction of many a fine ship, and where I was once wrecked myself."
"You! And how did you escape?" said Angela, eagerly.
"Swam ashore, ma'am," said the man, touching his cap. Then, with a shy sort of smile, he added:—"What I did, others may have done, for certain."
"You swam to the reef?" asked Vivian.
"First to the reef and then to the island, sir. There's two islands inside the reef forming the breakwater. More than once the same thing has happened. Men had been there before me, and had been fetched away by passing ships, and men may be there now for aught we know."
"Oh, Rupert!" said Angela, softly.
"How long were you on the island then?" asked Rupert.
"About three weeks, sir. But I have heard of the crew of a ship being there for as many months—and more. You have to take your chance. I was lucky. I'm always pretty lucky, for the matter of that."
"Would it be easy to land on the island?"
"There's an opening big enough for boats in the reef. It ain't a very easy matter to swim the distance. I was only thinking, when I heard you asking questions, that it was just possible that some of the crew and passengers might have got ashore, after all, as I did, and turn up when you're least expecting it. It's a chance, anyway. Good morning, sir."
"Excuse me," said Vivian; "would you mind giving me your name and address?"
The man's name was Somers: he was the captain of a small trading vessel, and was likely to be in London for some weeks.
"But if you have anything more to ask me, sir," he said, "I shall be pleased to come and answer any of your inquiries at your own house, if you wish. It's a long tramp for you to come my way."
"Thank you," said Vivian. "If it is not troubling you too much, I think I had better come to you. Your time is valuable, no doubt, and mine is not."
"You'll find me in between three and five almost any time," said Captain Somers, and with these words they parted.
Rupert fell into a brown study as soon as the captain had left them, and Angela did not interrupt the current of his thoughts. Presently he said:—
"What sort of face had that man, Angela?"
"A very honest face, I think," she said.
"He seemed honest. But one can tell so much from a man's face that does not come out in his manner. This is the sort of interview that makes me feel what a useless log I am."
"You must not think that, Rupert."
"But I do think it. I wish I could find something to do—something that would take me out of myself and these purely personal troubles of mine. At my age a man certainly ought to have a career. But what am I talking about? No career is open to me now." And then he sighed; and she knew without being told that he was thinking of his dead wife and of Kitty Heron, as well as of his blindness.
Little by little he had told her the whole story; or rather she had pieced it together from fragments—stray words and sentences that he let fall; for Rupert was never very ready to make confidences. But at present he was glad of her quiet sympathy; and during the past few weeks she had learnt more about her brother than he had ever allowed her to learn before. But she never alluded to what he called his "purely personal troubles" unless he first made a remark about them of his own accord; and he very seldom indulged himself by referring to them.
He had not informed the Herons of a fact that was of some importance to him at this time. He had never been without fair means of his own; but it had recently happened that a distant relative died and left him a large fortune. He talked at first to Angela about purchasing the old house in Devonshire, which had been sold in the later years of his father's life; but during the last few weeks he had not mentioned this project, and she almost thought that he had given it up.
One result of this accession of wealth was that he took a pleasant house in Kensington, where he and his sister spent their days together. He had a young man to act as his secretary and as a companion in expeditions which would have been beyond Angela's strength; and on his return from the docks, where he met Captain Somers, he seemed to have a good deal to say to this young fellow. He sent him out on an errand which took up a good deal of time. Angela guessed that he was making inquiries about Captain Somers. And she was right.
Vivian went next day to the address which the sea-captain had given him; and he took with him his secretary, Mr. Fane. They found Captain Somers at home, in a neat little room for which he looked too big; a room furnished like the cabin of a ship, and decorated with the various things usually seen in a seaman's dwelling—some emu's eggs, a lump of brain coral, baskets of tamarind seeds, and bunches of blackened seaweed. There were maps and charts on the table, and to one of these Captain Somers directed his guest's attention.
"There, sir," he said. "There's the Rocas Reef; off Pernambuco, as you see. That's the point where theArizonastruck, I'm pretty sure of that."
"Show it to my friend, Mr. Fane," said Vivian, gently pushing the chart away from him. "I can't see. I'm blind."
"Lord!" ejaculated the captain. Then, after an instant of astonished silence, "One would never have guessed it. I'm sure I beg your pardon, sir."
"What for?" said Vivian, smiling. "I am glad to hear that I don't look like a blind man. And now tell me about your shipwreck on the Rocas Reef."
Captain Somers launched at once into his story. He gave a very graphic description of the island, and of the days that he had spent upon it; and he wound up by saying that he had known of two parties of shipwrecked mariners who had made their way to the place, and that, in his opinion, there was no reason why there should not be a third.
"But, mind you, sir," he said, "it's only a strong man and a good swimmer that would have any chance. There wasn't one of us that escaped but could swim like a fish. Was your friend a good swimmer, do you happen to know?"
"Remarkably good."
"Ah, then, he had a chance; you know, after all, the chance is very small."
"But you think," said Vivian, deliberately, "that possibly there are now men on that island, waiting for a ship to come and take them off?"
"Well, sir," said the captain, thrusting his hands into the pockets of his pea-jacket, and settling himself deep into his wooden arm-chair, "it's just a possibility."
"Do ships ever call at the island?"
"They give it as wide a berth as they can, sir. Still, if it was a fine, clear day, and a vessel passed within reasonable distance, the castaways, if there were any, might make a signal. The smoke from a fire can be seen a good way off. Unfortunately, the reef lies low. That's what makes it dangerous."
Vivian sat brooding over this information for some minutes. The captain watched him curiously, and said:—
"It's only fair to remind you, sir, that even if some of the men did get safe to the island, there's no certainty that your friend would be amongst them. In fact, it's ten to one that any of them got to land; and it's a hundred to one that your friend is there. It would need a good deal of pluck, and strength, and skill, too, to save himself in that way, or else a deal of lack. I had the luck," said Captain Somers, modestly, "but I own it's unusual."
"I don't know about the luck," said Vivian, "but if pluck, and strength, and skill could save a man under those circumstances, I think my friend Heron had a good chance."
They had some more conversation, and then Vivian took his leave. He did not talk much when he reached the street, and throughout the rest of the day he was decidedly absent-minded and thoughtful. Angela forebore to question him, but she saw that something lay upon his mind, and she became anxious to hear what it was. Mr. Fane preserved a discreet silence. It was not until after dinner that Rupert seemed to awake to a consciousness of his unwonted silence and abstraction.
The servants had withdrawn. A shaded lamp threw a circle of brilliance upon the table, and brought out its distinctive features with singular distinctness against a background of olive-green wall and velvet curtain. Its covering of glossy white damask, its ornaments of Venetian glass, the delicate yet vivid colours of the hothouse flowers and fruit in the dishes, the gem-like tints of the wines, the very texture and the hues of the Bulgarian embroidery upon the d'oyleys, formed a study in colour which an artist would have loved to paint. The faces and figures of the persons present harmonised well enough with the artistic surroundings. Angela's pale, spiritual loveliness was not impaired by the sombreness of her garments; she almost always wore black now, but it was black velvet, and she had a knot of violets in her bosom. Rupert's musing face, with its high-bred look of distinction, was turned thoughtfully to the fire. Arthur Fane had the sleek, fair head, straight features, and good-humouredly intelligent expression, characteristic of a very pleasant type of young Englishman. The beautiful deerhound which sat with its long nose on Rupert's knee, and its melancholy eyes lifted affectionately from time to time to Rupert's face, was a not unworthy addition to the group.
Vivian spoke at last with a smile. "I am very unsociable to-night," he said, tuning his face to the place where he knew Angela sat. "I have been making a decision."
Fane looked up sharply; Angela said "Yes?" in an inquiring tone.
But Rupert did not at once mention the nature of his decision. He began to repeat Captain Somer's story; he told her what kind of a place the Rocas Reef was like; he even begged Fane to fetch an atlas from the study and show her the spot where theArizonahad been wrecked.
"You must please not mention this matter to the Herons when you are writing, you know, Angela," he continued, "or to Miss Murray. It is a mere chance—the smallest chance in the world—and it would not be fair to excite their hopes."
"But it is a chance, is it not, Rupert?"
"Yes, dear, it is a chance."
"Then can nothing be done?"
"I think something must be done," said he, quietly. There was a purpose in his tone, a hopeful light in his face, which she could not but remark.
"What will you do, Rupert?"
"I think, dear," he said, smiling, "that the easiest plan would be for me to go out to the Rocas Reef myself."
"You, Rupert!"
"Yes, I, myself. That is if Fane will go with me."
"I shall be delighted," said Fane, whose grey eyes danced with pleasure at the idea.
"You must take me, too," said Angela.
It was Rupert's turn now to ejaculate. "You, Angela! My dear child, you are joking."
"I'm not joking at all. You would be much more comfortable if I went, too. And I think that Aunt Alice would go with us, if we asked her. Why not? You want to travel, and I have nothing to keep me in England. Let us go together."
Rupert smiled. "I want to lose no time," he said. "I must travel fast."
"I am fond of travelling. And I shall be so lonely while you are away."
That argument was a strong one. Rupert conceded the point. Angela should go with him on condition that Aunt Alice—usually known as Mrs. Norman—should go too. They would travel with all reasonable swiftness, and if—as was to be feared—their expedition should prove unsuccessful, they could loiter a little as they came back, and make themselves acquainted with various pleasant and interesting places on their way. They spent the rest of the evening in discussing their route.
Rupert was rich enough to carry out his whim—if whim it could be called—in the pleasantest and speediest way. Before long he was the temporary owner of a fine little schooner, in which he proposed to scour the seas in search of his missing friend. To his great satisfaction, Captain Somers consented to act as his skipper: a crew of picked men was obtained; and the world in general received the information that Mr. Vivian and his sister were going on a yachting expedition for the good of their health, and would probably not return to England for many months.
Rupert's spirits rose perceptibly at the prospect of the voyage. He was tired of inaction, and welcomed the opportunity of a complete change. He had not much hope of finding Percival, but he was resolved, at any rate, to explore the Rocas Reef, and discover any existing traces of theArizona. "And who knows but what there may be some other poor fellows on that desolate reef?" he said to his secretary, Fane, who was wild with impatience to set off. "We can but go and see. If we are unsuccessful we will go round Cape Horn and up to Fiji. I always had a hankering after those lovely Pacific islands. If you are going down Pall Mall, Fane, you might step into Harrison's and order those books by Miss Bird and Miss Gordon Cumming—you know the ones I mean. They will make capital reading on board."
Angela had been making some purchases in Kensington one afternoon, and was thinking that it was time to return home, when she came unexpectedly face to face with an acquaintance. It was Elizabeth Murray.
Angela knew her slightly, but had always liked her. A great wave of sympathy rose in her heart as her eyes rested upon the face of a woman who had, perhaps, lost her lover, even as Angela had lost hers. Elizabeth's face had parted with its beautiful bloom; it was pale and worn, and the eyelids looked red and heavy, as though from sleepless nights and many tears. The two clasped hands warmly. Angela's lips quivered, and her eyes filled with tears, but Elizabeth's face was rigidly set in an enforced quietude.
"I am glad I have met you," she said. "I was wondering where to find you. I did not know your address."
"Come and see me now," said Angela, by a sudden impulse.
"Thank you. I will."
A few minutes' walking brought them to the old house which Rupert had lately taken. It was in a state of some confusion: boxes stood in the passages, parcels were lying about the floor. Angela coloured a little as she saw Elizabeth's eye fall on some of these.
"We are going away," she said, hurriedly, "on a sea-voyage. The doctors have been recommending it to Rupert for some time."
This was strictly true.
"I knew you were going away," said Elizabeth, in a low tone.
She was standing beside a table in the drawing-room: her left hand rested upon it, her eyes were fixed absently upon the muff which she carried in her right hand. Angela asked her to sit down. But Elizabeth did not seem to hear. She began to speak with a nervous tremor in her voice which made Angela feel nervous, too.
"I have heard a strange thing," she said. "I have heard it rumoured that you are going to cross the Atlantic—that you mean to visit the Rocas Reef. Tell me, please, if it is true or not."
Angela did not know what to say.
"We are going to South America," she murmured, with a somewhat embarrassed smile. "We may pass the Rocas Reef."
"Ah, speak to me frankly," said Elizabeth, putting down her muff and moving forward with a slight gesture of supplication. "Mr. Vivian was Percival's friend. Does he really mean to go and look for him? Do they think that some of the crew and passengers may be living upon the island still?"
"There is just a chance," said Angela, quoting her brother. "He means to go and see. We did not tell you: we were afraid you might be too—too—hopeful."
"I will not be too hopeful. I will be prudent and calm. But you must tell me all about it. Do you really think there is any chance? Oh, you are happy: you can go and see for yourself, and I can do nothing—nothing—nothing! And it was my doing that he went!"
Her voice sank into a low moan. She clasped her hands together and wrung them a little beneath her cloak. Angela, looking at her with wet, sympathetic eyes, had a sudden inspiration. She held out her hand.
"Come with us," she said, gently. "Why should you not? We will take care of you. What would I not have given to do something for the man I loved! If Mr. Heron is living, you shall help us to find him."
Elizabeth's face turned white. "I cannot go with you under false pretences," she said. "You will think me base—wicked; you cannot think too ill of me—but——It was not Percival Heron whom I loved. And he knew it—and loved me still. You—you—have been true in your heart to your promised husband; but I—in my heart—was false."
She covered her face and burst into passionate weeping as she spoke. But Angela did not hesitate.
"If that is the case," she said, very softly and sweetly, "if you are anxious to repair any wrong that you have done to him, help us to find him now. You have nothing to keep you in England! My brother will say what I say—Come with us."
"As far as I can calculate," said Percival, "this is the end of March. Confound it! I wish I had some tobacco."
"Don't begin to wish," remarked Brian, lazily, "or you will never end."
"I haven't your philosophy. I am wishing all day long—and for nothing so much as the sight of a sail on yonder horizon."
In justice to Percival, it must be observed that he never spoke in this way except when alone with Brian, and very seldom even then. There had been a marked change in their relations to each other since the night when Heron had made what he called "his confession." They had never again mentioned the subject then discussed, but there had been a steady growth of friendship and confidence between them. If it was ever interrupted, it was only when Percival had now and then a moody fit, during which he would keep a sort of sullen silence. Brian respected these moods, and thought that he understood them. But he found in the end that he had been as much mistaken about their origin as Percival had once been mistaken in attributing motives of a mercenary kind to him. And when the cloud passed, Percival would be friendlier and more genial than ever.
"Of course," said Heron, presently, "if a vessel saw our signal—and hove to, we should have to send out one of our ingeniously constructed small boats and state our case. Jackson and I would be the best men for the purpose, I suppose. Then they would send for the rest of you. A good opportunity for leaving you behind, Brian, eh?"
"A hermit's life would not suit me badly," said Brian, who was lying on his back on a patch of sand in the shade, with a hat of cocoa-nut fibre tilted over his eyes. "I think I could easily let you go back without me."
"I shall not do that, you know."
"It is foolish, perhaps, to let our minds dwell on the future," said Brian, after a moment's pause; "but the more I think of it the more I wonder that your mind is so set upon dragging me back to England. You know that I don't want to go. You know that that business could be settled just as well without me as with me; better, in fact. I shall have to stultify myself; to repudiate my own actions; to write myself down an ass."
"Good for you," said Percival, with an ironical smile.
"Possibly; but I don't see what you gain by it."
"Love of dominion, my dear fellow. I want to drag you as a captive at my chariot-wheels, of course. We will have a military band at the Dunmuir Station, and it shall play 'See the conquering hero comes.'"
"Very well. I don't mind assisting at your triumph."
"Hum! My triumph? Wait till that day arrives, and we shall see. What's that fellow making frantic signs about from that biggest palm-tree? It looks as if——Good Heavens, Brian, it's a sail!"
He dashed the net that he had been making to the ground, and rushed off at the top of his speed to the place where a pile of wood and seaweed had been heaped to make a bonfire. Brian followed with almost equal swiftness. The others had already collected at the spot, and in a few minutes a thin, wavering line of smoke rose up into the air, and flashes of fire began to creep amongst the carefully-dried fuel.
For a time they all watched the sail in silence. Others had been seen before; others had faded away into the blue distance, and left their hearts sick and sore. Would this one vanish like the others? Was their column of smoke, now rising thick and black towards the cloudless sky, big enough to be seen by the man on the look-out? And, if it was seen—what then? Why, even then, they might choose to avoid that perilous reef, and pass it by.
"It's coming nearer," said Jackson, at last, in a loud whisper.
Brian looked at Percival, then turned away and fixed his eyes once more upon the distant sail. There was something in Percival's face which he hardly cared to see. The veins on his forehead were swollen, his lips were nearly bitten through, his eyes were strained with that passionate longing for deliverance to which he seldom gave vent in words. If this vessel brought no succour, Brian trembled to think of the force of the reaction from that intense desire. For himself, Brian had little care: he was astonished to find how slightly the suspense of waiting told upon him, except for others' sake. He had no prospects: no future. But Percival had everything in the world that heart could wish for: home, happiness, success. It was natural that his impatience should have something in it that was fierce and bitter. If this ship failed them, the disappointment would almost break his heart.
"They've seen us," Jackson repeated, hoarsely. "They're making for the island. Thank God!"
"Don't be too sure," said Percival, in a harsh voice. Then, in a few minutes, he added:—"The boats had better be seen to. I think you are right."
Fenwick and the boy went off immediately to the place where the two little boats were moored—boats which they had all laboured to manufacture out of driftwood and rusty iron nails. Jackson remained to throw fuel on the fire, and Percival, suddenly laying a hand on Brian's arm, led him apart and turned his back upon the glittering expanse of sea.
"I'm as bad as a woman," he said, tightening his grasp till it seemed like one of steel on Brian's arm. "It turns me sick to look. Do you think it is coming or not!"
"Of course it is coming. Don't break down at the last moment, Heron."
"I'm not such a fool," said Percival, gruffly. "But—good God! think of the months we have gone through. I say," with a sudden and complete change of tone, "you're not going to back out of our arrangements, are you? You're coming to England with me?"
"If you wish it."
"I do wish it."
"Very well. I will come."
They clasped hands for a moment in silence and then separated. Brian went to the hut to collect the scanty belongings of the party: Percival made his way down to the boats.
There was no mistake about the vessel now. She was making steadily for the Rocas Reef. About a mile-and-a-half from it she hove to; and a boat was lowered. By this time Heron and Jackson had rowed to the one gap in the barrier reef that surrounded the island; they met the ship's boat half-way between the reef and the ship itself. A young, fair, pleasant-looking man in the ship's boat attracted Percival's attention at once: he seemed to be in some position of authority, although it was evident that he was not one of the ship's officers. As soon as they were within speaking distance of each other, questions and answers were exchanged. Percival was struck by the brightness of the young man's face as he gave the information required. After a little parley, the boat went its way to the schooner; the officer in charge declaring with an odd smile that the castaways had better make known their condition to the captain, before returning for the others on the island. Percival was in no mood to demur: he and Jackson stepped into the ship's boat, and their own tiny craft was towed behind it as a curiosity in boatbuilding.
There was a good deal of crowding at the ship's sides to look at the new-comers: and, as Percival sprang on board, with a sense of almost overpowering relief and joy at the sight of his country-men, a broad, red-faced man with a black beard, came up, and, as soon as he learnt his name, shook him heartily by the hand.
"So you're Mr. Heron," he said, giving him an oddly interested and approving look. "Well, sir, we've come a good way for you, and I hope you're glad to see us. You'll find some acquaintances of yours below."
"Acquaintances?" said Heron, staring.
"There's one, at any rate," said the captain, pushing forward a seaman who was standing at his elbow, with a broad grin upon his face. "Remember Mason of theArizona, Mr. Heron? Ah, well! if you go into the cabin, you'll find someone you remember better." And then the captain laughed, and Heron saw a smile on the faces round him, which confused him a little, and made him fancy that something was going wrong. But he had not much time for reflection. He was half-led, half-pushed, down the companion ladder, but in such a good-humoured, friendly way that he did not know how to resist; and then the fair-haired young man opened a door and said, "He's here, sir!" in a tone of triumph, which was certainly not ill bestowed. And then there arose some sort of confusion, and Percival heard familiar voices, and felt that his hand was half-shaken off, and that somebody had kissed his cheek.
But for the moment he saw no one but Elizabeth.
They had known for some little time that their quest had been successful, that Percival was safe. They had seen him as he rowed from the island, as he entered the other boat, as he set his foot upon the schooner; and then they had withdrawn into the cabin, so that they might not meet him under the inquisitive, if friendly, eyes of the captain and his crew. Perhaps they had hardly made enough allowance for the shock of surprise and joy which their appearance was certain to cause Percival. His illness and long residence on the island had weakened his physical force. In almost the first time in his life he felt a sensation of faintness, which made him turn pale and stagger, as he recognised the faces of the two persons whom he loved better than any other in the world—his friend and his betrothed. A thought of Brian, too, embittered this his first meeting with Elizabeth. Only one person noticed that momentary paleness and unsteadiness of step; it was natural that Angela, a sympathetic spectator in the background, should see more than even Elizabeth, whose eyes were dim with emotions which she could not have defined.
Explanations were hurriedly given, or deferred till a future time. It was proposed that the whole party should go on shore, as everyone was anxious to see the place where Percival had spent so long a time. Even Rupert talked gleefully of "seeing" it. Percival had never seen his friend so exultant, so triumphant. And then, without knowing exactly how it happened, he found himself for a moment alone with Elizabeth, with whom he had hitherto exchanged only a hurried, word or two of greeting. But her hand was still in his when he turned to speak to her alone.
"How beautiful you look!" he said. "If you knew what it is to me to see you again, Elizabeth!"
But it was not pure joy that sparkled in his eyes.
"Dear Percival! I am glad to see you, so glad to know that you are safe."
"You were sorry when you heard——"
"Oh," she said, "sorry is not the word. I could not forgive myself! I can never thank God enough that we have found you."
"Yes," said he, in a low tone. "I think you are glad that I am safe. I don't deserve that you should be, but——Well, never mind all that. Won't you give me one kiss, Elizabeth, my darling?" Then, in a more cheerful voice, "Come and see this wretched hole in which we have passed the last four months. It is an interesting place."
"Oh, Percival, it is just like yourself to say so!" said Elizabeth, smiling, but with tearful eyes. "And how pale and thin you are."
"You should have seen me a couple of months ago. I was a skeleton then," said Percival, as he opened the door for her. "A shell-fish diet is not one which I should recommend to an invalid."
He was conscious of a question in her eyes which he did not mean to answer: he even found time to whisper a word to Jackson before they got into the boat. "Not a word about Luttrell," he whispered. "Say it was a steerage passenger who gave his name as Mackay. And don't say anything unless they ask you point blank." Jackson stared, but nodded an assent. He had a good deal of faith in Mr. Heron's wisdom.
Pale and gaunt as Percival undoubtedly was, Elizabeth thought that he looked very like his old self, as he stood frowning and biting his moustache in the bows, and looking shorewards as though he were afraid of something that he might see. This familiar expression—something between anxiety and annoyance—made Elizabeth smile to herself in spite of her agitation. Percival was not much changed.
She was sitting near him, and she longed to ask the question which was uppermost in her mind; but it was a difficult question to ask, seeing that he did not mention Brian Luttrell of his own accord. With an effort that made her turn pale, she bent forward at last, and said, fixing her eyes steadily upon him:—
"What news of theFalcon?"
He looked at her and hesitated, "Don't ask me now," he said, averting his face.
She was silent. He heard a little sigh, and glancing at her again, saw a look of heart-sick resignation in her white face which told him that she thought Brian must be dead. He felt a pang of compunction, and a desire to tell her all, then he restrained himself. "She will not have to wait long," he thought, with a rather bitter smile.
When they landed, he quietly took her hand in his, and led her a little apart from the others. Angela and Rupert, Mrs. Norman and Mr. Fane, were, however, close behind. They followed Percival's footsteps as he showed the way to one of the huts which the men had occupied during their stay on the island. When they were near it, he turned and spoke to Rupert and Angela. "I am obliged to be very rude," he said. "Let me go into the hut with Miss Murray first of all. There is something I want her to see—something I must say. I will come back directly."
They saw that he was agitated, although he tried to speak as if nothing were the matter; and they drew back, respecting his emotion. As for Elizabeth, she waited: she could do nothing else. A little while ago she had said to herself that Percival was not changed: she thought differently now. He was changed; and yet she did not know how or why.
He stopped at the door, and turned to her. He still held her hand in a close, warm grasp. "Don't be startled," he said, gently. "I am going to surprise you very much. There is a friend of mine here: remember, I say, a friend of mine. He was saved from the wreck of theFalcon—do you understand whom I mean?"
And then he opened the door. "Brian," he said, in a voice that seemed strange to Elizabeth, because of its measured quietness, "come here."
Elizabeth was trembling from head to foot. "Don't be afraid, child," he said, with more of an approach to his old tones and looks than she had yet heard or seen; "nobody will hurt you. Here he is—and I think I may fairly say that I have kept my word."
Brian Luttrell had been collecting the possessions which he thought that his comrades might wish to take with them as mementoes of their stay upon the island. He sprang up quickly at the first sound of Percival's voice, and then stood, as if turned to stone, looking at Elizabeth. The healthy colour faded from his face, leaving it nearly as pale as hers; he set his lips, and Percival could see that he clenched his hands. Elizabeth did not look up at all.
"Is this all the thanks I get," said Percival, in an ironical tone, "for introducing one cousin to another? I have taken a good deal of trouble for you both; I think that now you have met you might be civil to each other."
There was a perceptible pause. Elizabeth was the first to recover herself. She made a step forward and put out her hand, which Brian instantly took in his. But neither of them spoke. Percival, with his back against the door, and his arms folded, observed them with a slightly humorous smile.
"You are surprised," he said to Elizabeth, "and I don't wonder. The last thing you expected was to find me on good terms with Brian Luttrell, was it not? And we have been on fairly good terms, have we not, Luttrell?"
"He saved my life twice," said Brian.
"And he nursed me through a fever," interposed Percival, with a huge laugh, "so we are quits. Oh, we have both played our parts in a highly creditable manner as long as we were on a desert island; but the island is inhabited now, and I think it's time that we returned to the habits of civilised life. As a matter of fact, I consider Brian Luttrell my deadliest enemy."
"You do nothing of the kind," said Brian, unable to repress a smile, although it hardly altered the look of pain that had come into his eyes. "Don't believe him, Miss Murray: I am glad to say that we are good friends."
"Idyllic simplicity! Don't you know that I did but dissemble, like the man in the play? How can we be friends when we both——" he stopped short, looked at Elizabeth, and then back at Brian, and finished his sentence—"both want to marry the same woman?"
"Heron, you are going too far. Don't make these allusions; they are unsuitable," said Brian.
Elizabeth had winced as if she had received a blow. Percival laughed in their faces.
"Out of taste, isn't it?" he said. "I ought to ignore the circumstances under which we meet, and talk as if we were in a drawing-room. I'm not such a fool. Look here, you two: let us talk sensibly. I have surely a right to demand something of you both, have I not?"
"Yes, yes, indeed," they answered.
"Then, for Heaven's sake, speak the truth! Here have I been chasing Brian half over the world, getting myself shipwrecked and thrown on desert islands, and what not, all because I wanted you, Elizabeth, to acknowledge that I was not such a mean and selfish wretch as you concluded me to be. Have I cleared myself? or, perhaps I should say, have I expiated the crime that I did commit?"
"It was no crime," said Brian, warmly. "No one who knows you could think you capable of meanness."
"I was not speaking to you, Mr. Luttrell," said Percival. "You're not in it at all. I am having a little conversation with my cousin. Well, Elizabeth, what do you say?"
"I think you have been most kind and generous," she said.
"Then I may retire with a good character? And, to come back to what I said before, as we both wish——"
"You are not generous now, Heron," said Brian, quickly.
"No! But I will be—sometime. You seem very anxious to repudiate all desire to marry my cousin. Have you changed your mind?"
"Percival, I will not listen. Have you brought me here only to insult me?" cried Elizabeth, passionately.
Percival smiled. "I am waiting for Brian Luttrell's answer," he replied, looking at him steadily.
"I do not know what answer you expect," said Brian, "unless you want me to say the truth—that I loved Elizabeth Murray with all my heart and soul, before I knew that she had promised to be your wife; and that as I loved her then, I love her still. It is my misfortune—or my privilege—to do so; I scarcely know which. And for that reason, as you know, I have earnestly wished never to cross her path again, lest I should trouble her or distress her in any way."
"Fate has been against you," said Percival, grimly. "You seem destined to cross her path in one way or another—and mine, too. It is time all this came to an end. You think I am saying disagreeable things for the mere pleasure of saying them; but it is not so. I will beg your pardon afterwards if I hurt you. What I want to say is this: I withdraw all my claims, if I had any, to Miss Murray's hand. I release her from any promise that she ever made to me. She is as free to choose as—as you are yourself, or as I am. We have both offered ourselves to Miss Murray at different times. It is for her to say which of us she prefers."
There was a silence. Elizabeth's face changed from white to red, from red to white again. At last she looked up, and looked at Brian. He came to her side at once, as if he saw that she wanted help.
"Percival," he said, "you are very generous in act: be generous in word as well. Let the matter rest. It is cruel to ask her to decide."
"It seems to me that she has decided," said Percival, with a sharp, short laugh, "seeing that she lets you speak for her."
"Oh, Percival, forgive me," murmured Elizabeth.
A spasm of pain seemed to pass over his face as he turned towards her: then it grew strangely gentle. "My dear," he said, "I never pretended to be anything but a very selfish fellow; but if I can secure your happiness, I shall feel that I have accomplished one, at least, of the ends of my life. There!"—with a laugh: "I think that's well said. Haven't I known for months that I should be obliged to give you up to Luttrell in the long run? And the worst is, that I haven't the satisfaction of hating him through it all, because we have managed—I don't know how—to fight our way to a sort of friendship. Eh, Brian? And now I'll leave you to yourself for a few minutes, and you can settle the matter while you have the opportunity."
He walked out of the hut before they could protest. But the smile died away from his lips when he had left them, and was succeeded for a few minutes by an expression of intense pain. He stood and looked at the sea; perhaps it was the dazzling reflection of the sun upon the waters which made his eyes so dim. After five minutes' reflection, he shrugged his shoulders and turned away.
"There's one great consolation in returning to civilised life," he said, strolling up to the group of friends as they returned from a walk round the island. "That is—tobacco! Fate can't do much harm to the man who smokes." And he accepted a cigarette from Mr. Fane. "Now," he continued, "fortune may buffet me as she pleases; I do not care. I have not smoked for four months. Consequently I am as happy as a king."
He smoked with evident satisfaction; but Angela thought that she discerned a look of trouble upon his face.