The Marriage of Esther

"Because you're going deliberately to work to make an ass 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 class; 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 hell. 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 God! if you are a God, why do you torture me so? Is my sin not expiated yet? How long am I to drag on in this earthly hell? 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, assumed possession of the tiller. The expression on his face was one of annoyed embarrassment. She saw it, and her colour came and went across her face like clouds across an April sky.

"I'm afraid I am trespassing 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 embarrassing.

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

"My dear Miss McCartney, what on earth can have made you imagine such a thing?"

"But I know you do. I'm afraid I was very rude to you the other day. I have never forgiven myself for it. It was very ungrateful of me after all the kind things you have done for me since I have known you."

"But, I assure you, you are quite mistaken. Your treatment of me may have been a little unkind, but it was certainly not rude. Besides, what I have done for you has all been done out of pure selfishness, because, you see, it gives me pleasure to serve you."

"Mr. Murkard hinted to me this morning that you are thinking of leaving us. Is that true?"

"I was thinking of doing so, but – "

"But you will forgive me before you go, won't you? Let us be friends again for the little time that is left to us."

She held out her dry hand towards him; he leaned forward gravely and took it, after which they were silent again for some time. The crisis was passed, but the situation was still sufficiently awkward to deprive them both of conversation. By the time they had recovered enough to resume it, they had passed the hulk and were approaching the township jetty. He brought the boat alongside in a masterly fashion, and held it close to the steps for his companion to disembark.

"Thank you, Mr. Ellison," she said, as she stepped out. "I have enjoyed myself very much. I hope you will have a pleasant sail back!"

"I am going to wait for you."

"Indeed you are not. I could not think of such a thing. I shall be sure to find someone who will put me across."

"I am going to wait for you. It will be very pleasant sitting here; and, remember, we have just made friends. You must not quarrel with me so soon again."

"Very well, since you wish it. I will try not to be any longer than I can help."

She tripped up the wooden steps and disappeared along the jetty. He made the boat fast, and seating himself in the place she had just vacated, lit his pipe.

For nearly an hour he sat and smoked. The heavens were bright with stars above him; the sleeping waters rose and fell round the piers with gentle gurgling noises. A number of pearling luggers rode at anchor on either hand of him, and the township lights twinkled merrily ashore. His heart was happier than it had been for some time past, and yet again and again Murkard's words of warning rose upon his recollection. Did the girl love him? And more important still, if she did, did he love her as she deserved to be loved? He asked himself these two questions repeatedly, and each time he could not answer either of them to his satisfaction.

Was his affection for her a sincere one, founded on a genuine admiration? He had been piqued by her behaviour; his vanity (poor remnant of a feeling) had been hurt by it. Since then he had brought himself to believe he loved her. Was he prepared to sacrifice everything for her? Again the torturing doubt. It would be passing sweet to love her; but could he do so with a clear conscience? He knew his failing – could he lie to himself? The night affected him; the moon, just rising blood-red above the hill-top, spoke to him of love. Not the love of a lifetime, not the love that will give and take, bear and forbear, thinking no ill, and enduring for all eternity; but of love-talk, of a woman's face against his, of gratified vanity perhaps, at all events of a love of possession. No, he knew in his inmost heart, his conscience told him, that he did not care for her as, in the event of his making her his wife, he felt she would have a right to expect.

Besides, there was another, and even more important, point to be considered. Was he worthy of a good woman's love? he, until lately an adventurer – a – No, no! If he were a man of honour he would go away; he would go out into the world again, and, in forgetting her, enable her to forget him. And yet the temptation to stay – to hear from her own lips that she loved him – was upon him, calling him in tenderest accents to remain. He sat and thought it out as dispassionately as he was able, and his final resolve was to go. In this case, at least, he would not think of himself, he would think only of what was best for her. Yes, he would go! Suddenly away down the jetty he heard the patter of shoe heels. His heart throbbed painfully. She was coming back. They came closer and closer. She appeared on the sky-line, and, descending the steps, took his hand to jump into the boat.

"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.