The Marriage Of Esther Part 7

The result was disastrous. He missed his thrust--the saw slipped and cut his hand. It was not a deep wound, but it bled profusely--into the white slit of wood, and, drop by drop, down upon the little heap of saw-dust at his feet. She saw it as soon as he did, and gave a little cry of alarm.

"Oh, you have cut yourself, and all through my stupidity! Quick, give me your handkerchief and let me tie it up."

Before he had properly realised what had happened, she had drawn her own handkerchief from her pocket, taken his hand, and was binding it up.

"I'm so very, very sorry. It was all my fault. I should not have stayed here worrying you with my silly talk. Can you forgive me?"

He looked into her face--with its great brown eyes so close to his--this time without the least embarra.s.sment. And what beautiful eyes they were!

"You are not to blame. It was the result of my own carelessness. I should have looked at the saw instead of your face."

"Very possibly; but you must not cut any more wood. I forbid it! Do you think you will remember what I say?"

"I'm very much afraid so."

Not another word pa.s.sed between them. She went into the house, and he, with a sea of happiness surging at his heart that he would have been puzzled to account for, back to the store.

But that evening all the enjoyment he had got out of the afternoon was destined to be taken away from him. After dinner, Murkard had some work in the office he wished to finish in time for the China mail next day, so Ellison wandered down to the sh.o.r.e alone. The moon was just rising over the headland, and the evening was very still; there was hardly enough wind to stir the palm leaves on the hill-top. Further round the island alligators were numerous, and as he stepped on to the beach Ellison thought he could make out one lying on the sand ahead of him. He stepped across to obtain a closer view, only to find that it was the trunk of a sandal-wood tree washed up by the tide. As he turned to retrace his steps he heard someone coming through the long gra.s.s behind him. It was Esther.

"Good-evening!" he said, raising his hat. "What a perfect night for a stroll it is. Just look at the effect of the moonlight on the water yonder."

"How is your hand?"

"Progressing very satisfactorily, thank you. It is very good of you to take so much interest in my tiny accident."

"I don't see why! I should have been just as interested in anyone else.

I pity the woman who could fail to be affected by an ugly cut like that.

Good-night!"

She resumed her walk, and as he had nothing to say in answer to her speech, he looked across the stretch of water at the twinkling lights of Thursday. He had received a well-merited snub, he told himself--one he would not be likely to forget for a few days to come. He had presumed too much on her kindness of the afternoon. Who was he that he might expect from her anything more than ordinary civility? He was her father's servant, paid by the week to do odd jobs about the place; a position only found for him out of charity by a kind-hearted girl. With a gesture of anger he went briskly across the sands, plunged into the thicket, and strode back towards the house. He was not of course to know that after leaving him she had stopped in her walk and watched him until he disappeared. When she, in her turn, wended her way homeward, it was, illogically enough, with an equally heavy heart. She did not, perhaps, regret her action, but her mind was torn with doubts.

"If only I could be certain," she kept repeating to herself. "If only I could be certain!"

But that didn't mend matters very much. That she had angered him, at least, was certain. Then came the question which was destined to keep her awake half the night. Had she played with him too much? She could see that he was thoroughly angered.

On arriving at the hut Ellison discovered Murkard in the act of going to bed. He was seated on his couch, one boot on, the other in his hand. He looked up as his friend entered, and one glance at his face told him all he wanted to know. Placing the boot he held in his hand carefully on the floor, he removed the other and arranged it beside its fellow. Then, addressing himself to the ceiling cloth, he said:

"I have often noticed that when a man imagines himself happiest he is in reality most miserable, and _vice versa_. Last night my friend was supremely happy,--don't ask me how I knew I saw it,--and yet he sighed in his sleep half the night. This evening he would have me believe that he is miserable, and yet there's a look in his eyes that tells me at the bottom he is really happy."

"You're quite out of your reckoning, my friend, as far as to-night is concerned. I am miserable, miserable in heart and soul, and for two pins I'd leave the place to-morrow."

"I should."

"The devil! and why?"

"Because you're going deliberately to work to make an a.s.s of yourself, if you want it in plain, unvarnished English. You're falling head over ears in love with a woman you've only known a month, and what's the result to be?"

"What do you think?"

"Why, that you'll go a-mucker. Old man, I don't know your history. I don't even know your name. You're no more Ellison, however, than I am.

I've known that ages. You're a public school and Oxford man, that's plain to those with the least discernment, and from those facts and certain others I surmise you belong to that detestable cla.s.s; miscalled the English aristocracy. I don't care a jot what brought you to grief--something pretty bad I haven't a doubt--but believe me, and I'm not joking when I say it, if you marry this girl, without really loving her, you'll commit the cruellest action of your life, and what's worse ten thousand times, you'll never cease to regret it. She's a nice girl, a very nice girl, I don't deny that, but if ever you think there's a chance of your going home, if you ever want to go, or dream of going, you're in honour bound to give her up. Go away, clear out, forget you ever saw her; but for mercy's sake don't drag her down to your h.e.l.l.

Give her a chance, if you won't give yourself one."

"You speak pretty plainly."

"I speak exactly as I feel, knowing both you and the girl. Do you think I haven't seen all this coming on? Do you fancy I'm blind? Knowing what I know of your face, do you think I haven't read you like a book. At first you looked at it as an investment. You thought the old man, her father, might have money; you half determined to go in for the girl. But about 8.30 last Thursday week night you had a bout with your conscience.

You came into the store and talked politics--Queensland politics, too, of all things in the world--to distract your thoughts. I let you meander on, but I knew of what you were thinking. After that you gave up the mercenary notion and talked vaguely of trying your luck on the mainland.

Then she began to snub you, and you to find new beauties in her character. You may remember that we discussed her, sitting on the cliff yonder, for nearly three hours on Wednesday evening. You held some original notions about her intellect, if I remember aright. Now, because you're afraid of her, you're imagining yourself over head and ears in love with her. Go away, my boy, go away for a month, on any excuse. I'll get them to keep your billet open for you if you want to return. You'll know your own mind by that time. What do you think?"

"I'll do it. I'll give her a week and then go."

"That's the style. You'll repent and want to cry off your bargain in the morning, but for the present that's the style."

So saying, this guide, philosopher, and friend drew on his boots again and went out into the still hot night. Having reached the store veranda he seated himself on a box and lit his pipe.

"This torture is getting more and more acute every day," he began, as a sort of apology to himself for coming out, "and yet they must neither of them ever know. If they suspected I should be obliged to go. And why not? What good can it ever do me to stay on here looking at happiness through another man's eyes. For she loves him. If he were not so blindly wrapped up in his own conceit he would see it himself, and the worst of it is he has no more notion of her worth than I have of heaven. With me it is 'Mr. Murkard this, and Mr. Murkard that'--kindness and confidence itself--but oh, how widely different from what I would have her say. My G.o.d! if you are a G.o.d, why do you torture me so? Is my sin not expiated yet? How long am I to drag on in this earthly h.e.l.l? How long, O Lord, how long?"

The night breeze whispering among the leaves brought back the words in mockery: "How long, how long?"

After an hour's communion with his own thoughts he returned to the hut.

Ellison was in bed sleeping quietly, one strong arm thrown round his head and a faint smile upon his lips. Murkard, lamp in hand, stood and looked down on him, and as he looked, his lips formed a sentence.

"Whatever is before us, old friend, have no fear. Come what may, I make my sacrifice for you. Remember that--for you!"

Then, as if he had shouted his shameless secret to the mocking world, he, too, went hastily to bed.

For a week after that eventful night Ellison saw little of Esther. She hardly ventured near him, and when necessity compelled that she should seek him, it was only to complete her business with all possible dispatch and hurry away again. No more did she enter into conversation with him about his work. No more did she chaff him about his scrupulous care and trouble. Their estrangement seemed complete. Murkard noticed it, and being wise in his generation, thought much but said little.

One evening after dinner, towards the end of the week, Ellison had strolled down to the beach to smoke his after-dinner pipe when he heard his name called. He recognised the voice immediately and, turning, went across to where Esther was standing by the tiny jetty. Her face was very pale, and she spoke with hesitation.

"Are you very busy for a few minutes, Mr. Ellison?"

"Not at all. My day's work is over. Can I be of any service to you?"

"Would it be too much to ask you to row me across the straits to the township?"

"I will do so with pleasure. Are you ready now?"

"Quite ready."

Without another word he ran a boat into the water, and with a few strokes of the oar brought it alongside the steps for her to embark. She stepped daintily in and, seating herself in the stern-sheets, a.s.sumed possession of the tiller. The expression on his face was one of annoyed embarra.s.sment. She saw it, and her colour came and went across her face like clouds across an April sky.

"I'm afraid I am trespa.s.sing on your good-nature," she remarked at length, feeling she must say something. "I ought to have asked one of the boys to take me over."

"And have had to visit all the saloons to find him when you wanted to return," he replied. "No, no! Miss McCartney, I am glad you asked me."

She looked at him nervously; but his face told her nothing. He appeared to be fully occupied with the management of the boat. She put her hand overboard and played with the water alongside, casting furtive glances at him ever and anon. The silence became more and more embarra.s.sing.

"Mr. Ellison, I am afraid you think very badly of me?" she said, in sheer desperation.