Boothby Guy
The Marriage of Esther

The path he followed was one that gave him a decided start, and he was able to reach the shore and take advantage of the shelter of a bush before the other turned the corner of the headland. He heard him coming closer and closer, breathing heavily after the struggle he had just undergone. Then Ellison stepped out of the shadow and confronted him, rifle in hand.

"It's no good, Merton, you haven't a chance. Put up your hands, or I fire!"

The other came to a dead halt, and without a second thought did as he was ordered. But overcome with astonishment though he was, his habitual nonchalance returned to him in an instant.

"You're a little smarter than usual, Mr. Ellison. I didn't bargain for this!"

"You'd better not talk. Keep your hands up, or I'll drill you through and through. There are eight more cartridges under my finger, and I'll shoot without a second thought. Right about face, and walk up the middle of the path. Don't attempt any escape, or you're a dead man."

Merton did as he was ordered, and in this fashion they returned to the store. As they approached it they could discern a small crowd collected round the door. The report of the rifle had brought the hands from their huts, and between them they had carried Murkard into the building.

"Straight on, Merton. Keep your hands up, and don't turn to the right or left, or stop till I give you permission."

They came up to the store door, and the crowd fell back on either side to let them pass.

"My lads," said Ellison, "this is a very bad business, as you can see. Two of you catch hold of this man, and take care that he doesn't escape. Jimmy Rhotoma, go into the store and bring me a pair of handcuffs you'll see hanging on a nail above my desk. Long Pete, you take a boat and pull across to the township for the doctor and a policeman. Bring them back with you, and be as quick as you can."

The handcuffs were soon forthcoming, and Ellison himself adjusted them on Merton's wrists.

"Now, boys, take him into your own hut and watch him there till I call. If he wants to talk tell him to hold his jaw. If he tries to bolt, kill him with the first thing you find handy. Two of you remain with me."

An angry growl from the men evidenced the reception Merton might expect to meet with if he attempted to escape, and he was wise enough to see that it would be impossible. When he had been led away Ellison entered the store. He found Murkard lying on the floor, his head pillowed on a couple of chair-cushions. The pool of blood by his side proclaimed the fact that he was seriously wounded. Moreover, he was unconscious. Ellison knelt beside him, and having found the wound on his breast, endeavoured to staunch the bleeding; but it was a hopeless task. Taking the whiskey bottle from the table, where it had remained since Merton had brought it down to him that evening, he tried to force some of the spirit into his mouth. A moment after he did so Murkard opened his eyes and looked about him.

"What has happened?" he asked faintly. Then his memory came back to him. "Oh, I remember. He has not escaped, Ellison?"

"Not he. We have him safe enough. But, oh, Murkard, to think that you should be wounded like this!"

"I told you what it would be, old man. This is the fulfilment of my prophecy. I knew it would come."

He moved his hand and let it fall to his side.

"I'm all wet," he went on, after a long pause. "By Jove! it's blood. Then it's hopeless. Well, I don't know that I'm sorry. But there is something else we have to do. When I came in he was burrowing behind that box there. Look for yourself. Don't bother about me."

He pointed to a box in the corner, and Ellison went towards it, and pulled it into the centre of the room.

"What do you see?"

"Nothing at all. Stay, there's a matchbox here."

He stooped and picked it up.

"Open it quickly – quickly!"

Ellison did as he was ordered.

"The pearl – the pearl! Here it is safe and sound!"

"I thought as much. The scoundrel! Now I can die happy. Give me some more whiskey."

Ellison thrust the pearl back into the safe, and then gave Murkard another drink of the spirit. It put fresh life into him for the moment.

"Ellison," he said, taking his friend's hand, "you've been a true friend to me."

"I have not been half as true a friend as you have been to me. My God, Murkard, is there nothing I can do for you until the doctor comes? I cannot let you die like this!"

"It's hopeless, old man. I can feel it. Let us talk while we have the chance. I want to tell you about that money. You see my family sent it to me, myself. They don't know you in the matter at all. I deceived you there. If you would like to pay it back and start afresh send it to them from me. Tell them, too," – he paused, – "tell them, too, – that I died – doing my duty. Do you understand? It will surprise them, but I should like them to know it."

"They shall know that you died like a hero, giving your life for mine."

"Don't pile on the agony, old fellow. They'd not believe it; we're by nature a sceptical race. I don't want the matter turned to ridicule."

"Is there nothing I can do to make you easier?"

"Nothing, old man, except to give me more liquor. Thank you. I'm getting weaker every minute. I wonder what they'll do to that fellow Merton?"

"Hang him if I can do anything to forward it."

"Poor devil! And yet he was only sent into the world for this. Look, Ellison, bring him here for a minute – I must speak to him."

"I'll send for him."

Ellison went to the door, and sent one of the hands for Merton. The night was almost spent; the stars were paling in the eastern heavens. A cold, cheerless wind blew up from the sea.

In less time than it takes to tell Merton entered the hut, carefully guarded. He looked at the man lying on the floor, and a half-contemptuous smile passed across his face.

"What do you bring me here for?" he asked.

"Murkard wishes to speak to you," said Ellison, and went outside leaving the pair together.

Three minutes later Merton emerged again, his face white as the death that was swiftly coming to the other. He was saying to himself over and over again, as the men led him away:

"God help me! If I had only known in time!"

Ellison went in again. One glance told him the end was very near at hand.

"Ellison, it's a rum world, isn't it? Do you know, I touched that fellow on his only tender spot, and I know now why he has always been so bitter against me. Poor devil, he never knew that – " He let the sentence die unfinished. Then he said, as if addressing someone present: "You need not have had any fear. I should not have betrayed you, dear. But five years is a long time to wait." A pause, during which his wits seemed to come back to him. "Would you mind holding my hand, Ellison. I've got rather a rocky place to pull through, and, after all, I'm a bit of a coward. Somehow I think I'm going to have a little sleep now. Remember – we've got – to – get – those – accounts away – by – the mail – to-morrow – "

He closed his eyes, and a moment later the other knew that Silas Murkard's soul's account had gone to be audited by the Auditor of Heaven.

Ellison, having placed the hand he held gently down by the dead man's side, rose to his feet, and with a great mist between his eyes and a choking sensation in his throat went out of the hut. The doctor and two police-officers were climbing the hill. He waited and returned with them into the store. To the police officials he said:

"This is the victim; the murderer is in custody in the hut yonder." To the doctor he only said: "I am sorry to have troubled you. You have come too late. He died five minutes ago."

CHAPTER XII
CONCLUSION AND EPILOGUE

When the doctor, policemen, and prisoner had left the island, Ellison went up to his own house. Though it only wanted a few minutes of sunrise, the lamp was still burning in the sitting room. He pushed open the door and walked in. To his surprise Esther stood before him. She did not look into his face, but waited with downcast eyes for him to speak. He gazed at her for a moment, and then led her to a chair.

"Esther," he said, kneeling beside her, "can you ever forgive me?"

"Forgive you what?" she asked, almost in a whisper.

"For the lie I told you. The lie that was the beginning of all this misery."

"I forgive you. I had forgotten all about it. Now let me go. It is daylight, and I must get away before anyone sees me."

"Go away? What do you mean? Where are you going to?"

"I don't know – I don't care. But it must be somewhere where no one will know my name. You will find everything in order here, and Mrs. Fenwick knows all your wants. The boy is asleep in the room there. You will not let him even learn the story of my shame, will you?"

He put his arm around her waist, but she put it off with a little shiver.

"No! You must not do that now."

"Why not? In God's name, why not?"

"Because of what has happened to-night. I am the cause of it all. I know you cannot forgive me now; but oh, some day, for the child's sake, you may not think so hardly of me."

He moved on to the sofa and tried to hold her, but she fell on her knees at his feet and burst into a storm of passionate weeping.

"Esther, you are deceiving yourself. I have nothing to forgive. I love you as fondly now – nay, I am wrong, I love you more fondly now than ever. Fortunately I heard all that man said to you. I heard you refuse and repulse him. It was then that I interfered. You are as much my own true wife as you ever were. I love you still, and, as God hears me, I have never doubted you, not for one single moment."

"You have never doubted me?"

"Never, so help me God!"

He took her in his arms and kissed her tears away. She did not repulse him this time, but clung to him like one returned from the dead.

"Oh, my husband! my husband!" was all that she could say. "Now that I know you love me still, I can bear anything. Tell me, Cuthbert, all that has happened? Don't spare me."

Without more ado he told her everything – who Murkard really was; how Merton had cherished such a deadly hatred of him; the loss of the pearl; Merton's return to the island, and all the events connected with that fatal night. With the exception of the murder he told her everything. When he had finished, she said;

"And Murkard – where is he? My thanks are due to him."

"He will never receive them, dearest. He is dead."

"Dead!" she cried, in horrified amazement. "Oh, this is too horrible! How did he die?"

"Merton killed him in the store."

Her head dropped on to her hands, and again she sat white and trembling.

"A thief and a murderer, and what did he want to make me?"

"Hush, hush! you must never think of that again; it could not have been. You are the mother of my boy, and I am not afraid for you."

"But, Cuthbert, you don't know all; you don't know how he fascinated me. I seemed to have no will at all when he was talking to me. When he looked into my eyes I had to do his bidding. I was very wicked and weak to listen to him; but try how I would to escape I could not get away."

"He will fascinate no more women; he is safely under lock and key by this time. Now you must go to bed, and try to sleep, or you will be seriously ill after all this excitement. And think what that will mean for me."

She stooped and kissed his forehead, and then, struggling with her tears, departed to her room. Ellison went out into the cool veranda. The sun was just rising above the horizon, and already the Kanaka cook was bustling in and out of his kitchen preparing breakfast for the hands as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Ellison descended the steps and went across to the store. With a feeling of intense awe he opened the door and passed in. Removing the blanket that covered the figure lying so stiff and cold upon the floor, he stood and looked down at the face he had grown to love so well. Poor Murkard, and yet rather happy, happy Murkard in his last great act of self-sacrifice. As he looked down at him his own sin rose before him in all its shame. Then by the dead body of his friend, who had given his life for him, he registered a solemn vow that never again would he yield to temptation. He had suffered bitterly for this one mistake, and now the whole future should be spent in endeavouring to make amends for it. He re-drew the blanket and left the store.

Shortly after breakfast a hand came to tell him that a police-officer desired to see him. He went out and asked the slim young official his business.

"I have been sent across, Mr. Ellison, to see you regarding the prisoner we removed from here last night on a charge of murder."

"Well, what about him?"

"He is dead – drowned."

"Drowned!" cried Ellison. "What do you mean? When was he drowned?"

"Crossing the straits last night. We'd got him halfway across; my mate pulling, the prisoner sitting amidships, the doctor and myself astern. Suddenly he gave a yell, jumped up, and threw himself overboard before we could stop him. There and then he sank, for his hands were handcuffed behind him, you see; and – well, we've not set eyes on him since, and I don't suppose we're likely to until his body's washed up."

"Good gracious!"

For a few seconds Ellison was so stunned by this intelligence that he could hardly think, and yet when he did come to think it out he could not help seeing that even in this Fate had been very good to him. Except for the fact that he had killed Murkard, he had no desire for Merton's death, and as it was now, even that result had been achieved. Merton would trouble nobody again. He had gone to hear his verdict at a higher court than that presided over by any Queensland judge, and Ellison could not but own that it was as well. He thanked the police-officer for his intelligence, and went in to tell Esther. She received the news calmly enough. Indeed, it seemed as if she were almost beyond being surprised at anything.

"We seem bereft of everything," she said at length; "friends, as well as enemies."

"But we still have each other, and we have the little one asleep in there. Does that count for something, dear?"

"It counts for everything," she said, and softly kissed his hands.

EPILOGUE

Eighteen months or so ago I happened to be in Tahiti, the capital of the Society Group. I had business in Papeete, and, while walking on the beautiful Broom Road one day, who should I chance upon but Ellison and his wife, picknicking among the palms. We walked down to the town together and dined in company. Afterwards I was invited to a trading schooner lying in the harbour.

"A beautiful boat," I remarked to her owner, when I had gained the deck. "Why, she's more like a Royal Cowes Yacht Squadron craft than a simple South Sea trader."

"It is our home, you see," he answered. "The pearling station, after Murkard's death, grew distasteful to us, and as I was fortunate enough to be able to sell it to great advantage, I bought this boat. Since then we have made it our home, and our life is spent cruising about these lovely seas. It suits my wife and the boy admirably, and for that reason, of course, it suits me. Won't you come and see our son?"

I followed him down the companion into the prettiest little cuddy it has ever been my good fortune to behold. Two large and beautifully fitted up cabins led off it, and in a corner of one of them hung a cradle. Mrs. Ellison conducted us to it, and drew aside the curtain, disclosing the tiny occupant asleep.

"What a really beautiful child!" I cried, in an outburst of sincere admiration, "and pray what may be his name?"

"Murkard," said the father quietly, and without another remark led me back on deck again.

The name, and the tone in which it was uttered, puzzled me very considerably. But I was destined to be enlightened later on.

That night, when we sat under the awning on deck, smoking, and watching the lights of Papeete glittering ashore, and only the gentle gurgle of the water rising and falling alongside disturbed our talk, Ellison told me the story I have here told you.

When he had finished I felt constrained to say:

"With a little alteration of names and places, what a good book it would make."

"Wouldn't it," he answered seriously. "But my life's far too full of other interests now to write it."

"Will you let me try my hand on it?" I asked eagerly.

"If you like. But before you do it you must promise me two things."

"What are they?"

"That you will do my wife and Murkard justice."

"Oh, yes! I'll promise that and more with pleasure. And the other?"

"That you'll let me down as lightly as possible."

"I'll promise that also."

"Very good then; go ahead."

I set to work, and in due time the book was written. The next time I met him was in Levuka, Fiji. The schooner was leaving for the Carolines the following morning, and I went on board to wish them God speed. Just as I was pushing off from the gangway on my return to the shore, Ellison, who with his wife alongside him was leaning on the taff-rail, called out:

"Oh, I say! what about your book, my friend?"

"It is finished."

"Hearty congratulations. I wish you all good luck with it. And pray what do you intend its name to be?"

"That's a difficult question to answer off-hand; but, all things considered, I think the most appropriate title would be The Marriage of Esther."

THE END