Kitabı oku: «The Marriage of Esther», sayfa 6

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. Murkard said 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!'"

CHAPTER VII
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 you again, our destinies, yours and mine, are one. Come what may, I must help 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 it does concern 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 and looked 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. I must know 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 the present 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 a trembling 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-working boy. 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, never lose 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.

CHAPTER VIII
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 die before 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, the night 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 moment that 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 were she 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 a flying 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 wife and son are 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 from the 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. I can 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 I have been 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!"