The Marriage of Esther

"Ellison, I believe in you. Your wife believes in you. You told her your history, you cannot draw back now if you would. It would kill her if she thought you had lied to her. She would never honour or trust you again. But you haven't. It is only your stiff-necked pride that brings you to this decision; but you must put it aside, I tell you; you must, man, to save her life."

"But I cannot; it is impossible! Don't you hear me? I cannot!"

"You both can and must. I intend to make you. Do you love your wife? I know you do. Then do you wish to be responsible for her death, and do you wish to kill the child as well? Is not one murder enough for you, for I tell you plainly if she has to leave this place, and you and she are thrown penniless upon the world, as you certainly will be within the next two months unless you find this money somewhere, so certainly will it kill her, and the unborn child too. And you will have only your stubborn, obstinate, guilty pride to thank for it."

"But I cannot do it; you don't know all."

"I know quite enough to be certain that it is your duty to save your wife's life at any cost to yourself."

"At whatever cost to myself – do you mean that? On your word of honour – may God strike you dead if you lie?"

"I do mean it. At whatever cost to yourself it is your duty to save your wife's life."

"You will remember what you have just said, 'At any cost to myself!'"

"I will remember."

"But there, what is the use of our talking like this. The duke will pay no attention to my appeal."

"You are wrong, he will pay every attention."

"How do you know that?"

"Because I have a scheme in my brain that will make him."

"Will you tell me what it is?"

"Later on, perhaps, not now; you must trust to my honour."

"Very good. Then it shall be done. I will put aside all thought of myself. I will do what you wish. I will sin – for, remember, it is a sin – to save the woman I love. And remember also, that whatever happens in the future, whatever comes of it, misery to me, or to her, it is your doing."

"I will remember, and if any thing does come of it I will not only take the blame, but I will stand the punishment. Will you shake hands with me on it?"

"No, I will not. You have tempted me and I have fallen. God help me! After to-night we shall be no longer friends."

"Ellison!"

"I mean what I say. I have sinned before, perhaps in a worse way than this. But when I married I swore that nothing should ever tempt me to do so again. I have kept my word until to-night. To-night I sin deliberately, and in cold blood, for my wife's sake, God bless her!"

He raised his hat reverently as he spoke the last words. Then he sat down with the air of a man who had signed his own death-warrant, and asked:

"What am I to do?"

"Leave it all to me. To-morrow morning I will go across to the island, call upon the Government Resident, who knows me well enough by this time, tell him your story under pledge of secrecy, and get him to cable to your father for the money."

"He will refuse."

"I think not. He believes in my honour. Have you any objection to my doing so?"

"I object to nothing. I am past that. Only make it as certain of success as you can. The end will come soon enough in any case."

"You take it in a curious way. Ellison, is there anything you are hiding from me?"

"Only – only the pain you are giving me. But I suppose that hardly enters into your calculations."

"Ellison, I forgive you; but a day will come when you will never forgive yourself for what you are saying now. Remember, I am doing this only for your sake. As I promised you just now, so I promise again, whatever blame is to be taken for this I will take, whatever punishment is meted out – if any – I will bear. I only ask in return that you will believe in the honesty of my affection for you."

"Do you wish me to write any letter?"

"No. Leave everything to me."

"You do not want me any more to-night?"

"No. That is all. But, Ellison, you are not going to leave me like this?"

"In what way would you have me leave you? If I dared I would tell you everything, but I am too great a coward even for that. Good-night!"

Murkard only answered with a sigh. Ellison went out, closing the door after him. Once in the fresh air he looked up at the stars, then at the sea, then at the lamp-lit windows of his own house. Esther was seated at the table, sewing. He knew upon what work she was engaged, and a spasm of terror swept over him at the knowledge that even that little life, not yet born into the world, might some day be tempted to despise him. Instinctively he turned upon his heel, and for the second time since his arrival at the station strode away into the heart of the island, in an endeavour to dispel his own gloomy thoughts. On and on he walked, regardless of pace or destination. His whole being was consumed with horror at what he was doing. What did it mean? What would it mean? What had induced him to do it? Was it blind Fate, or what reason could be assigned to it? No! It was none of these things – it was to save his wife! Bitterly he upbraided himself for the first folly that had occasioned it, but it was too late now, too late, too late! If he went to his wife and confessed all, confessed that he had lied to her, that he was not the man he pretended to be, that he was only a common swindler and cheat, she would forgive him, because she was a good woman and loved him, but she would never trust him or believe in him again. In that case their ruin would be complete! If he persisted in the present course, and Murkard's plan proved successful, they would be saved for a little time, but the inevitable result would be worse than the first destruction. On neither side was there such a thing as safety. On one side was his wife's life, on the other her trust in him; there was no middle course. He was between the devil and the deep sea with a vengeance. God help him for a miserable man!

By the time he arrived at this conclusion he was on the headland above the station. A thrill of superstitious terror swept over him as he realised that the spot on which he was standing was the site of the Hermit's hut. In the glorious moonlight he could plainly discern the ruins of the blackened hearth, the boundary walls, and under the tall palm, nearer the cliff edge, the grave of the mysterious Unknown himself. What had led him in that direction on the one night of all others he would most have desired to avoid it? It seemed to him that the dead man's ghost was moving about the place taunting him with his sin, and pointing to a similar abandoned end in the inglorious future. Down on the shore below him he could hear the roll of the surf, but up here all was ghostly still. At last, unable to control himself any longer, he took to his heels and fled down the hill towards the station, craving to be with his kind once more. To his surprise he could see the light still burning in the sitting room. Late though it was, his wife had not yet gone to bed. Could she be sitting up for him?

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.