Boothby Guy
The Marriage of Esther

"I'm afraid you must have grown very tired of waiting for me."

"I'm very glad to see you, certainly; but I don't think I can say I'm tired. It is a beautiful evening. Look at that glorious moon. We shall have a perfect sail home."

He hoisted the canvas, and they pushed off. In spite of the resolve he had just made it was vastly pleasant to be seated beside her, to feel the pressure of her warm soft body against his on the little seat. There was a fair breeze, and the water bubbling under the boat's sharp bows was like tinkling music as they swept from the shadow of the pier into the broad moonlight. Again, for want of something to do, she put her hand into the water; and the drops from her fingers when she lifted them shone like silver. As if in contradiction of her affected unconcern, she was palpably nervous. Once he could almost have sworn he felt her tremble.

"You are not cold, I hope?"

"Oh, dear, no! What could make you think so?"

"I thought I felt you shiver."

"It was nothing. I am perfectly warm."

"All the same I shall put this spare sail over your knees – so."

He took a piece of canvas from behind him, and spread it round her. She made no attempt at resistance. In spite of her show of independence, there was something infinitely pleasant to her in being thus tended and cared for by this great strong man.

In five minutes they were passing close under the nearest point of their own island. High cliffs rose above them, crowned with a wealth of vegetation. She looked up at them, and then turned to her companion.

"Mr. Ellison, do you know the story of that bluff?"

"No. I must plead guilty to not being aware that it possessed one. May I hear it?"

"It has a strange fascination for me – that place. I never pass it without thinking of the romance connected with it. Do you see that tall palm to the right there?"

"Yes."

"Well, under that palm is a grave; the resting-place of a man whom I can remember seeing very often when I was only a little child."

"What sort of a man?"

"Ah, that's a question a good many would have liked to have answered. Though it's years ago, I can see him now as plainly as if it were but yesterday. He was very tall and very handsome. Possibly forty years old, though at first sight he looked more than that, for the reason that his hair and moustache were as white as snow. He lived in a hut on that bluff far away from everybody. In all the years he was there he was never known to cross the straits to the settlement, but once every three months he used to come down to our store for rations and two English letters. I believe we were the only souls he ever spoke to, and then he never said any more than was absolutely necessary. The pearlers used to call him the Hermit of the Bluff."

"Do you think he was quite sane?"

"I'm sure of it. I think now he must have been the victim of some great sorrow, or, perhaps, some man of family exiled from his country for no fault of his own."

"What makes you imagine that?"

"Why, because it was my father who found him lying lifeless on the floor of his hut. He had been dead some days and nobody any the wiser. Hoping to find something to tell him who he was, my father searched the hut, but without success. But when, however, he lifted the poor body, he caught a glimpse of something fastened round his neck. It was a large gold locket, with a crown or coronet upon the cover. Inside it was a photograph of some great lady – but though he recognised her, my father would never tell me her name – and a little slip of paper, on which was written these words: 'Semper fidelis: Thank God, I can forgive. It is our fate. Good-bye.' They buried him under the palm yonder and the locket with him."

"Poor wretch! Another victim of fate! I wonder who he could have been."

"That is more than anyone will ever know, until the last great Judgment Day. But, believe me, he is not the only one of that class out here. I could tell you of half a dozen others that I remember. There was Bombay Pete; it was said he was a fashionable preacher in London, and was nearly made a bishop. He died – bewitched, he said – in a Kanaka's hut over yonder behind the settlement. Then there was the Gray Apollo – but who he was nobody ever knew; at any rate he was the handsomest and most reckless man on the island until he was knifed in the Phillipines; and the man from New Guinea; and Sacramento Dick; and the Scholar; and John Garfitt, who turned out to be a lord. Oh, I could tell you of dozens of others. Poor miserable, miserable men."

"You have a sympathy for them, then?"

"Who could help it? I pity them from the bottom of my heart. Fancy their degradation. Fancy having been brought up in the enjoyment of every luxury, started with every advantage in life, and then to come out here to consort with all the riff-raff of the world and to die, cut off from kith and kin, in some hovel over yonder. It is too awful."

Ellison sighed. She looked at him, and then said very softly:

"Mr. Ellison, I do not want to pry into your secret, but is there no hope for you?"

He appeared not to have heard her. A great temptation was upon him. He was going away to-morrow: she would never see him again. She had evidently a romantic interest in these shattered lives – could he not allow himself the enjoyment of that sympathy just for a few brief hours? Why not? Ah, yes, why not?

"Miss McCartney," he said, after a long pause, "do you know, while you were away to-night, and I was sitting waiting for you, I subjected myself to a severe cross-examination?"

"On what subject?"

"Partly yourself, partly myself."

"What sort of cross-examination do you mean, Mr. Ellison?"

"Well, that is rather a difficult question to answer, and for the following reason: In the first place, to tell you would necessitate my doing a thing I had made up my mind never to do again."

"What is that?"

"To unlock the coffers of my memory and to take out the history of my past. Eight years ago I swore that I would forget certain things – the first was my real name, the second was the life I had once led, and the third was the reason that induced me to give up both."

"Well?"

"I have tried to remember that you have only known me a month, that you really know nothing of myself, my disposition, or my history."

"But I think I do know."

"I fear that is impossible. But, Miss McCartney, since I see your sympathy for others, I have a good mind to tell you everything, and let you judge for yourself. You are a woman whose word I would take against all the world. You will swear that whatever I reveal to you shall never pass your lips."

"I swear!"

She was trembling in real earnest now. To prolong their interview he put the boat over on another tack, one that would bring her close under the headland by the station. Esther raised no objection, but sat looking before her with parted lips and rather startled eyes. She noticed that his voice, when he spoke, took another tone. She attributed it to nervousness, when in reality it was only unconscious acting.

"Miss McCartney, living here in this out-of-the-way part of the world, you can have no idea what my life has been. Thrown into temptation as a child, is it to be wondered at that I fell? Brought up to consider myself heir to untold wealth, is it to be wondered that I became extravagant? Courted by everybody, can you be surprised that I thought my own attractions irresistible? My father was a proud and headstrong man, who allowed me to gang my own gait without let or hindrance. When I left Eton, I left it a prig; when I left Oxford, I left it a man of pleasure, useless to the world and hurtful to myself and everybody with whom I fell in contact. But not absolutely and wholly bad with it all, you must understand. Mind you, Miss McCartney, I do not attempt to spare myself in the telling; I want you to judge fairly of my character."

"I promise you I will. Go on."

"With a supreme disregard for consequences, I plunged into absurd speculations, incurred enormous liabilities, and when my creditors came down upon me for them I went to my father for relief. He laughed in my face and told me he was ruined; that I was a pauper and must help myself; sneered in my face, in fact, and told me to go to the devil my own way as fast as I was able. I went to my brothers, who jeered at me. I went to all my great friends, who politely but firmly showed me their doors. I went to men who at other times had lent me money, but they had heard of my father's embarrassments, and refused to throw good money after bad. Checkmated at every turn, I became desperate. Then to crown it all a woman came to me, a titled lady, in the dead of night; she told me a story, so base, so shameful, that I almost blush now to think of it. She said she had heard I was going to fly the country. My name was talked of with her – I alone could save her. In a moment of recklessness I agreed to take her shame upon myself. What was my good name to me? At least I could help her. It was the one and only good action of my life. The next day I left England a pauper, and what is worse, a defaulter, doomed never to return to it, and never to bear my own name again. That is how I came to be a loafer, the dead-beat, the beach-comber I was when you took compassion upon me."

"And – and your name?"

"I – I am the Marquis of St. Burden; my father is the Duke of Avonturn."

"You – you – Mr. Ellison, a – marquis!"

"Heaven help me – yes! But why do you look at me like that? You surely do not hate me now that you have heard my wretched story?"

"Hate you! Oh, no, no! I only pity you from the bottom of my heart."

Her voice was very low and infinitely, hopelessly sad. He was looking out to sea. Suddenly he bowed his head and seemed to gasp for breath. Then, turning to her again, he seized her hand with a gesture that was almost one of despair.

"Esther, Esther! My God, what have I done? Forget what I have said. Blot it out from your memory forever. I was mad to have told you. Oh, Heavens, how can I make you forget the mischief my treacherous tongue has dragged me into!"

"Your secret is safe with me, never fear. No mortal shall ever dream that I know your history. But, my lord, you will go back some day?"

Instantly his voice came back to him clear and strong:

"Never! never! Living or dead, I will never go back to England again. That is my irrevocable determination."

"Then may God help you!"

"Esther, can't you guess now why I must go away from here, why I must leave to-morrow?"

He could hardly recognise the voice that answered.

"Yes, yes, I see. It is impossible for you to be my father's servant any longer."

"That was not what I meant. I meant because I am afraid to stay with you, lest my evil life should contaminate yours."

"That is impossible! How can you hurt me?"

He pressed the hand he held in his almost savagely.

"I mean that I love you. You must have known it long since. I mean that you are dearer to me than all the world."

"Oh, let me go! I cannot listen to you!"

"But you must! you must!"

"Oh, let me go!"

"You do not love me, then?"

"Oh, let me go, let me go!"

But he held her fast, pressing her closer and closer to him.

"I will not let you go until you tell me!"

"Oh, I can't tell you! Can't you see that what you have told me makes all the difference in the world?"

"I beg your pardon. I should have expected this. Forgive me and forget me; I will go away to-morrow."

Her only reply was a choking sob. He put the boat back on her course, and in five minutes they had grounded on the beach; having helped her to disembark, he turned to pull the boat up out of reach of the tide. This done, he looked to find her waiting for him, but she was gone. He could see her white dress flitting up the path towards the house. Without attempting to follow her, he left the beach and strode away round the hill into the interior of the island. When he had gone about a mile he came to an abrupt halt and looked towards the sea.

"Again, again!" he cried, with a great and exceeding bitter cry. "Oh, God! I was tempted and I fell; forgive me, for I can never forgive myself!"

As if in answer to his cry a night-hawk hooted among the rocks. He wheeled about and strode off in a different direction. In that instant he seemed to have learned a secret he had never even guessed at before.

The sun was in the act of making his appearance above the horizon when he reached the station again. He was utterly worn-out, both mentally and physically. Without undressing he threw himself upon his bed, and slept a dreamless sleep for an hour. Then he got up and looked out upon the world. It was the beginning of his last day at the station.

CHAPTER IV
DESTINY – AN ACCIDENT – AND A BETROTHAL

Early as it was, Ellison discovered that Murkard was out before him. Pulling himself together as well as he was able, he took his towel and went down to the beach to bathe. It was an exquisite morning, a fresh breeze played among the palms and shrubs; the blue sea danced and glistened in the sunshine; columns of palest blue smoke rose, curling and twisting, into the sweet morning air. Ellison alone was sad. Even a swim failed to raise his spirits. He dressed himself and went back to breakfast with a face that was like that of a doomed man. So far he had seen no sign of Esther, nor had he any expectation of doing so until he went in to say good-bye to her. As the clanging bell called to breakfast, Murkard made his appearance. He also seemed out of sorts, and nodded to Ellison without a word as he seated himself at the table. The other was hardly prepared for this treatment of his trouble.

"Why, what on earth's wrong with you this morning?" Ellison asked irritably. "Has the whole world gone dismal mad?"

"I'm very worried about something. Don't ask me what, old man. I'm trying to fight it down, and if you leave me alone I shall be all right directly."

"I'm afraid I shan't be here to see it, then. I'm leaving in an hour's time – for good and all."

Murkard sprang to his feet with a new face.

"Then that puts me right at once. God bless you, Ellison, you could not have given me better news! I knew you'd do what was right!"

"Have you been fretting about me, then?"

"A little. But more about that girl over yonder. Of course, whatever happened, I should stand by you – you know that, don't you? But – well, the long and the short of it is, I couldn't bear to see the poor child getting to care for you more and more every day, when I knew that your affection was not the kind to satisfy her craving. Poor little thing, it will be hard on her, devilish hard, but all the same I believe you're doing what is best and happiest for both of you."

"Do you think so, honour bright?"

"I don't think, I'm sure of it!"

"Then I'll go. But you don't know, old man, what a bitter fight it has been. Since you laughed at me a week ago I've been arguing it over, and the result is, I'm beginning to think I do care for her, after all."

"If you only think, you're still on the wrong side of the stream. No, no; we must go. There is no question about that. I'll put our few traps together after breakfast, and then we'll say farewell and adieu to respectability once more."

"But you are not coming too. I could never allow that!"

"You'll have no option. Of course I must come! Didn't I tell you the other day that we're bound up together? My destiny is in your hands. I must never leave you. I had an idea the end would have come here, but it seems I'm mistaken."

"I wish you'd be a little more explicit sometimes."

"It would probably amuse you if I were, and though I'm not the sort of man who fears ridicule, as a general rule, I could not bear to have you laugh at this."

"I should not laugh; it seems to me I shall never laugh again. Tell me, Murkard, what you mean."

"I will tell you."

He rose and walked up and down the little room for some minutes. Then he stopped, and leaning against the smoke-coloured mantelpiece, spoke.

"In the first place, I suppose you will admit that there are some men in this extraordinary world of ours more delicately constructed than others. You agree to that. Very good. Well, that being so, I am perhaps more sensitive than you – possibly, though I don't say absolutely, accounted for by my deformity. I look at commonplace things in a different way; my brain receives different impressions from passing events. I don't say whether my impressions are right or wrong. At any rate, they are there. Directly I set eyes on you, that first night of our meeting, I knew you were my fate. Don't ask me how I knew it. It is sufficient that I did know it. Something inside here seemed to tell me that our lives were bound up together; in fact, that you were the man for whose sake I was sent into the world. You remember we were starving at the time, and that we slept under a Moreton Bay fig in the Domain. Well, perhaps as the result of that hunger, I dreamed a dream. Something came to me and bade me to go with you, bade me be by your side continually because I was necessary to your life, and because my death would be by your hands."

"Good gracious, Murkard, think what you're saying!"

"I have thought, and I know. I don't mean that you will murder me, but I do mean that it will be in connection with you that I shall meet my death. The same dream told me that a chance would be given us. That chance has come. Also the dream told me that my only hope of heaven lay in saving you by laying down my own life. That time has not come yet – but it will come as surely as we are now located in this hut. In the meantime there is another life between us. That life we have not met yet; what or whose it is I have no notion, but I dread it night and day."

"You don't mean to tell me you believe all that you're telling me?"

"As implicitly as I believe that I am standing before you now. And so will you when it is too late – not before."

"But think, man, think! How can such a thing be contemplated for a moment? Your life by my hands! No, no!"

"Let it drop. Forget that I ever told you. We shall see whether it turns out as I say. Moreover, something tells me that although we are preparing to leave this place, we shall not go!"

Without further argument he opened the door and went out. Ellison in his turn began to pace the room.

"He is mad, the man is undoubtedly mad. And yet God knows why he should be. If vileness has anything to do with it, I am despicable enough to do anything he might dream! Surely there never was so miserable a wretch as I! But we will go from here. Of that I am determined."

He began feverishly to put together the few little odds and ends he had collected during the past month. It was not a lengthy business, but it cut him to the heart to have to do it. If he left this place, where for a month he had been so happy, what would his future be? Turned out to seek employment again, would he drift back into the old vagabond life or not? And if he did, he asked himself, what would it matter? Who was there in the world to care? He tied up his bundle, threw it on the bed, and then in his turn left the hut. Esther was on the veranda of her own house. He crossed the path to speak to her.

"Miss McCartney," he said, "have you been able to find it in your heart to forgive me for my rudeness last night?"

Her hand shook and her voice trembled as she answered, with downcast eyes, "There is nothing to forgive, my lord."

"No, no; you must not call me that!"

He raised his hand as if to ward off a blow. She noticed the look of pain that leaped into his eyes.

"Forgive me in your turn. I am sorry I hurt you."

"Do you think it matters? My life will be all one long pain now. I am going away; I have come to say good-bye to you."

"You are – really – going – away?"

"Yes; I cannot live here after what I told you last night. It is impossible for both of us. I must go out into the world again and try to win back the self-respect I have lost. But before I go I want to thank you for all you have done for me; for a month you have enabled me to shake hands with happiness. I can never be sufficiently grateful to you."

"Where – where shall you go when you leave here?"

"I haven't the remotest notion. On to the mainland most probably; out to some station in the far West, where I can forget and be forgotten. What does it matter where I go?"

"Does – does it never strike you that in thus dooming yourself to hopeless misery you are being very cruel to me?"

"It is only to be kind. God knows I have thought of you before myself, and the only conclusion I can come to is that it would be worse for you if I stayed."

"Then good-bye, and may God bless you and protect you always!"

He looked into her face; it was pale as death. She held out her hand, and he raised it to his lips. The knowledge that had come to him the previous night was confirmed now. In that second he learned how much he loved her.

"Good-bye – good-bye!"

He watched her pass into the house, and was in the act of leaving the spot himself when he heard a heavy fall within. In an instant he had divined its meaning, and was inside the room, to find Esther upon the floor in a dead faint. Raising her in his arms he carried her to a sofa and laid her on it; then, procuring water, he bathed her forehead and chafed her hands till she returned to consciousness. When her eyes opened she looked at him with a frightened stare.

"Oh, what has happened?"

"The sun was too much for you out there. You fainted; fortunately I heard you fall and carried you here. Are you better?"

"Yes, thank you. I am almost all right again."

"You are quite sure?"

"Quite."

He took up his hat and left the house. As he crossed the veranda he noticed a stir in the station. The Kanakas had turned out of their hut and were staring in the direction of the bay. From the place where he stood he could see two luggers approaching the jetty.

"Her father has returned," he said to himself, almost without interest, and went down to the shore. His supposition proved correct. But from the way the last of the boats manœuvred there was evidently something wrong. He waited until it got alongside, and then walked down the jetty to find out what this peculiarity might mean. A little crowd was collected on the second boat; those Kanakas who knew him made way for him to step on board. The crew of the boat itself regarded him with some surprise.

"What is the matter?" he asked.

"The boss has met with an accident," explained the oldest of the men, "and we don't know how to let his daughter know."

"Where is he?"

"In the cabin aft. Step below and see him for yourself."

Ellison did as he was directed, and went down the companion into the box of a cabin. An elderly man, with gray hair and beard, bearing an unmistakable likeness to Esther, lay on a roughly constructed bed placed on the port side. He looked up as Ellison entered.

"And who may you be?" he asked faintly.

"My name is Ellison," the other replied. "I have been a month in your employ – your daughter took me on as a carpenter and general hand in place of Paddy the Lasher, discharged."

"You talk like a gentleman."

"I was considered one once."

"Then you may be able to do me a good turn. I have met with a serious accident – slipped on those steps there and injured my back. From the numbness of my lower half, I'm almost afraid it's a hopeless case; but I don't want to frighten my daughter without need. Will you go up and break the news to her?"

"If you wish it. But surely it's not as bad as you say. Perhaps it's only a severe sprain."

"I fear not. As I tell you, I'm dead below the waist."

"Will you stay here till I come back, or shall we carry you up now?"

"I'll stay here. But don't be longer than you can help, and break the news as gently as you can to her."

"You may trust me."

Ellison went up the steps again, passed through the little crowd, and made his way back towards the house. He was only just in time, for Esther had seen the boats come in, and was on her way to meet her father. She was surprised to see the man to whom she had just said "Good-bye" coming along the path towards her. Something in his face must have warned her that he was the bearer of evil tidings, for she stopped, and he heard her catch her breath with a little convulsive sob.

"My father has returned, and you have bad news for me?"

"That of course depends upon how you take it. Yes, your father has returned, but – well, the long and short of it is, he is not very well."

"My father – not well! He was never ill in his life. It must be something serious, or he would not have sent you to tell me."

"He has met with a bit of an accident – a fall. He asked me to come on in advance and let you know, lest you should be frightened when you saw them carrying him up."

"That is not all; he is worse than you say. Oh, Mr. Ellison, for Heaven's sake, don't deceive me – tell me all! I can bear it, believe me."

"I am not deceiving you. God knows I would be the last to do that. You shall see him for yourself in a minute or two. But had you not better first run back and have a bed prepared for him. I will go down and help them carry him up."

"How good you are to me!"

She went back to the house, while he returned to the boat. Before he arrived Murkard had put in an appearance, and with his usual foresight had set to work upon a rough litter in which to carry the sick man up to the house. This constructed, he was placed upon it, and between them they bore him up the hill. Ellison and Murkard carried him across the veranda into the room his daughter had prepared for him. She received him with greater bravery than Ellison had expected. The father's courage was wonderful.

"This is a nice way to come home, my girl!" he said, with an attempt at cheerfulness. "You're not accustomed to seeing your father carried, are you?"

With her eyes full of tears she stooped and kissed him. Perhaps the coldness of his forehead told her something of the truth, for she started and looked at Ellison in terrified surprise. The two men laid him on the bed, and while she was in another room removed his clothes. It was a difficult business, but once it was accomplished the patient felt infinitely relieved. As they were leaving the house Esther met them. She drew Ellison aside.

"Someone must cross to the settlement for the doctor immediately. It is useless to attempt to blind me as to his condition. I can see it for myself."

"I will go over, and bring him back with me."

"God bless you! I feel so terribly lonely now; it is good to know that I have a friend in you."

"A friend faithful to the death. Esther, will you answer me one question? Would it make you happier if I stayed with you a little longer – say, till your father is able to get about again?"

She hung her head, but his eager ears caught the timid little "Yes" that escaped her lips.

"Then so be it. Now I will go for the doctor."

She held out her hand; he took it, and for the second time that morning raised it to his lips. Then he strode away in the direction of the store. Murkard was not surprised at the news. He accompanied him to the beach, and helped him to push his boat into the water. When Ellison was past the jetty he returned to his work, muttering:

"I knew something would happen to prevent it. This is the hand of Destiny again."

Ellison pulled swiftly across to the township, beached his boat opposite the Chinese quarter, and after inquiring the direction of the doctor's house, set off for it without a moment's delay. He discovered the medico smoking on his veranda, and in less than three minutes had given him a complete summary of the case. They returned to the boat together, and Ellison, after pulling him across, conducted him straightway to the sick man's bedroom. He did not go in himself, but waited on the veranda. In half an hour the doctor emerged and beckoned him out of hearing of the house. Ellison read the worst in his face.

"Is there no hope?"

"Not a scrap. I tell you this straightforwardly. Of course I presume, from your anxiety, you are an interested party, and as such have a right to know. The man's spine is fatally injured. Paralysis has already set in in the lower limbs. It is only a matter of time with him now."

"How long do you think he may live?"

"It is impossible to say – six hours, possibly eight, certainly not more. If you have any business to consult him upon, I advise you to do it at once; he may not be conscious very long."

"You have not told his daughter?"

"Only that the case is serious. I have told him, and I think he will tell her."

"Thank you for being so candid. It is really no business of mine, but I must try and help that poor girl to bear her sorrow. Shall you see him again?"

"I think so, though I am convinced it is hopeless. Still, I shall look over in the course of the afternoon. Who will put me across?"

"I will."

They got into the boat and pushed off. When he had landed the doctor, Ellison pulled slowly back. His brain was staggering under a multitude of thoughts. What was he to do? What must his duty be now? Should he go away and leave this girl to bear her sorrow alone? Or should he take the bull by the horns, ask her father to be allowed to make her his wife, and trust to Providence for the rest? He didn't know, he couldn't tell – both seemed equally impossible. He resolved to leave it, as he had done before, to the decision of blind Fate. In the meantime he pulled back to the jetty, secured the boat, and went up to the house. Esther saw him pass the window, and came quietly out on the veranda.

"He is sleeping now," she almost whispered; "but it doesn't seem a natural sleep. I cannot tell you how terrified I am about him."

"Poor girl! what can I say to you save that you have my sincerest, my most heartfelt sympathy? If you should want any assistance, remember that I am here to give it you, come what may."

Her only answer was to press the hand that rested on the veranda rail with her soft fingers. Her touch thrilled him through and through, and he went into the hut for lunch with a look in his face that had never been there before. He was beginning to understand his position more clearly now.