Boothby Guy
The Marriage of Esther

 
"Sweet is true Love tho' given in vain, in vain;
And sweet is Death who puts an end to pain:
I know not which is sweeter, no, not I.
 
 
"Love, art thou sweet? Then bitter Death must be:
Love, thou art bitter; sweet is Death to me.
Oh, Love, if Death be sweeter, let me die.
 
 
"Sweet Love, that seems not made to fade away,
Sweet Death, that seems to make us loveless clay,
I know not which is sweeter, no, not I.
 
 
"I fain would follow Love, if that could be;
I needs must follow Death, who calls for me;
Call and I follow, I follow! Let me die."
 

His voice sank almost to a whisper as he uttered the last words. They seemed to hang and tremble upon the silent air for some seconds after he had finished; the effect was complete upon his audience. He left the piano and came out again to the veranda.

"Thank you. You are a wonderful singer," said Esther, tears still wet upon her eyelashes. "I have never heard anything like your voice before, and yet we have had many well-known singers among the pearlers in the settlement."

Ellison was silent. The influence of the music and the wail of the song were still upon him, and he could not shake them off. They seemed in some mysterious fashion to remind him of his dead but not forgotten past.

Merton seated himself, and turned the conversation into another channel. He had created the effect he desired, and that was sufficient for the present. He did not want to appear conceited.

"Hark!" said Esther suddenly, holding up her hand. "I thought I heard someone calling."

They all listened, but no sound rewarded their attention.

"The sea," said her husband, "or a night-bird in the scrub."

"Where is Mr. Murkard to-night?" asked Esther. "I have not seen him since you returned."

Merton suddenly leaned forward, and then as suddenly sat back. Ellison noticed his action, but attached no importance to it.

"He's not at all well, dear. As I'm rather anxious about him, I induced him to go to bed."

Merton sat suddenly upright.

"You were quite right, Mrs. Ellison. I heard someone call then. Who can it be?"

Again they listened, this time with more success. It was the voice of a man in deadly terror, and it came from the hut opposite. Ellison sprang to his feet.

"Murkard!" he cried. "I must go to him."

He dashed across the veranda and down the path to the hut. On the threshold, and before opening the door, he paused to light a match. When he entered, the room was in total darkness. He knew a candle stood on the table near the door, and having found it, he lit it; then holding it aloft, he looked about him. The bed was disordered, half the clothes were lying on the floor. A moment later he sighted the man of whom he was in search. He was crouched in the furthest corner, staring wildly before him. His long legs were drawn up close to his chin – his broad shoulders seemed to overlap his body. But his eyes were his chief horror; they seemed to be starting from their sockets. Streams of perspiration – the perspiration of living fear – rolled down his cheeks, and every now and then he uttered a cry of abject terror.

"Hold me back – hold me back!" he yelled. "I'm falling – falling – falling! Is there no help – my God – no help! Help! Help! Help!"

Ellison put down the candle and ran towards him.

"Murkard, what on earth does this mean? Pull yourself together! You're all right!"

But the man took no notice. He only drew himself further into his corner and clutched at the woodwork of the wall.

"Don't come near me," he cried; "for pity's sake, don't come near me! You're shaking me, you're loosening my hold, and I shall fall!" His voice went up to a shriek again. "I shall fall! I'm falling, falling, falling! Help! Help! Help!"

Again and again he shrieked. Then he suddenly sprang to his feet, tottered to and fro, and next moment fell forward unconscious. At the same moment Ellison heard a footstep behind him. Looking round he saw Merton standing in the doorway.

"What is the matter with him?" he asked. "Can I be of any assistance?"

"D. T., I'm afraid. And a pretty bad case, I think. What can we do?"

"Get him on to his bed, I should say, and send for the doctor."

"Well, let's try."

Between them they picked him up and carried him to his bed. Having laid him there, Ellison said:

"Would you mind staying with him for a minute while I send a hand across to the settlement for the medico?"

"Go ahead, I'll watch him."

Ellison went out and left them alone together. As soon as the door had closed upon him Merton leaned over the bed and looked fixedly at the man stretched upon it.

"Yes," he said, when he had finished his scrutiny, "I thought I couldn't be mistaken. It's the very man himself. This is getting interesting. My friend, – what do you call yourself? Oh, Murkard – when you recover your wits again you'll have a little surprise in store for you. In the meantime I've got to play my cards carefully, or that fool may suspect."

Five minutes later Ellison returned. Merton turned to him.

"What are you going to do now?"

"Watch him till the doctor comes. Don't you stay. Go to bed and try to forget all about him."

"Sure I can be of no use?"

"Certain."

"Then I think I will take your advice and say good-night!"

"Good-night!"

As he went across to the house Merton smiled to himself.

"Forget him? When I forget him may my right hand forget its cunning. No, no, my friend, you and I have a score to settle before we can forget! In the meantime Diplomacy must be my watchword."

CHAPTER X
DELIRIUM – A RECOGNITION – A DEPARTURE AND A RETURN

Many times during Murkard's illness Ellison found cause to bless Merton's coming. Not only was his cheerful nature calculated to counteract the horrors of the patient's delirium, but without being asked he took upon himself the invalid's work and made himself invaluable in the store. He was a clever fellow, able to turn his hand to anything; and before he had been a week in the house he had brought himself to be looked upon as quite a member of the family. His singing was a great source of delight to both his host and hostess. Esther, in particular, seemed never tired of listening to him, and it was noticeable that when she was in his audience he sang his best. But he was more than a talented musician, he was a clever talker, had read everything that was worth reading, and boasted a most capacious memory. He could recite, conjure, and ventriloquise better than most professionals, and however hard he might have been working during the day, when evening came he always exerted his talents to please. Once or twice he had volunteered to sit with Murkard, but Ellison could not be brought to permit it. He was afraid to leave them alone together, lest by any chance Murkard should let slip something which it would be inadvisable the other should know. He need not have worried himself, however, for even in his worst delirium Murkard was singularly reticent about the station affairs. Once or twice he spoke of his own past history, but only in the vaguest fashion. His main delusion seemed to be that he had done somebody a grievous wrong by not speaking out on a certain subject, and on this he harped continually.

"You must tell him!" he would reiterate times out of number. "He will never find it out otherwise. You must tell him!" A pause. "Oh, coward! coward! coward! Have you fallen so low?"

Ellison racked his brains to discover the meaning of this constant self-accusation, but in vain. At times he thought it referred to himself, but what had Murkard to tell him that could cause him so much pain. Then he would ascribe it to some detail of his past, but it was too real and recent for that. In the silence of the night, with only the moan of the waves on the beach, the monotonous voice would cry:

"You must tell him! He is suffering so. He will never find out otherwise. Oh, coward! coward! coward! Have you fallen so low?"

Once or twice Ellison tried to question him. But it was of little or no use. Only on one occasion could he get anything approaching a clear response from him.

"What is it, old man," he asked, directly the sick man had completed his customary speech, "that you must tell? Can I help you?"

Murkard leaned out of his bed and took his friend by the wrist. His eyes were still strangely bright, and his face was hard set as flint.

"Tell him," he almost hissed, "tell him at once and save his soul. D'you think I haven't watched – aye, watched day and night. The man must be saved, I tell you, and for her sake! For her sake, don't you hear, you fool, you dolt, you ninny? Can't you understand Queen's English when you hear it?" He dropped his voice to a whisper. "The man must be saved for the woman's sake, and the woman for the man's, and both for the child's. Three in one, and one in three. Isn't that plain enough? God help you if you can't see it as plainly as I can!"

Ellison put the next question with almost a tremble in his voice:

"Who is the man, old friend? Tell me, and let me help you with your trouble."

Murkard picked at the counterpane with quivering fingers.

"In the Hebrew he is called Abaddon, but the Greek hath it Apollyon, ribbed with chains of fire and hung about with chains of gold, silver, and ivory. I wish you could see it as I see it.

 
"'Her folded wings as of a mighty eagle,
But all too impotent to lift the regal
Robustness of her earth-born strength and pride.'
 

It's a pity that you don't understand Queen's English. I don't know exactly that I do myself, because you see my head's a little queer. When I want to think I have to pull my brains round from the back of my head, so to speak. And that's very painful," – a pause, – "painful for you, dear love, but total extinction for me. I must go away for your honour's sake, don't you see, out into the lonely world. But it really can make no possible difference. Ich hab' Dich geliebt und liebe Dich noch.

 
"'I loved thee once, I love thee still,
And, fell this world asunder,
My love's eternal flame would rise
'Midst chaos, crash, and thunder.'
 

'Chaos, crash, and thunder!' Cuthbert, you fool, why didn't you trust me from the very beginning?"

"Trust you about what, old friend?"

Murkard lay back on the pillows again with a sigh.

"You'll excuse me, sir, but I don't think I have the pleasure of your acquaintance… My lord, I grant you circumstances are against me, but I give you my word – Bah, what's my word worth? I tell you I am not a thief. Guilty, or not guilty? If I plead not guilty it must all come out, and her reputation will be gone forever." He sat up in bed and called with a loud voice: "Guilty, my lord!"

From across the road, in the dead silence that followed, Ellison could hear Merton singing. The song he had chosen was, "Come, live with me and be my love." Evidently Murkard was listening too.

"That voice!" he said slowly. "Now, where the devil have I heard that voice?"

"Lie down, old chap, and try and get some sleep. That'll do you more good than any singing."

Like a little child Murkard did as he was ordered, and in five minutes was fast asleep again. Ellison made everything safe in the hut, and then went quietly back to his own house. Merton had stopped singing, and was now holding a skein of wool for Esther to wind. There was a look on her face that Ellison could not quite understand. It troubled him, and yet he could not exactly tell why.

"Thanks for your music, Merton," he said, as he seated himself in a chair; "I could hear it across the way."

"How is your patient to-night?"

"Asleep now, but he's been very restless."

Merton removed one of his hands to disentangle the wool.

"I suppose you will get rid of the man when he's well enough to go? In my opinion it's hardly safe for Mrs. Ellison to have such a fellow about the place."

Ellison frowned. It was a curious speech for a stranger to make. But then, of course, the other was unaware of the position in which the two men stood to each other. He was about to reply in sharp terms, in spite of the look of fear in Esther's face, when Merton broke in again:

"Forgive me. I know it's like my impertinence to intrude on your affairs. I was only thinking of Mrs. Ellison's safety."

"You may be sure I will take good care of that. I can quite understand your feelings, but you see the trouble is that you don't know all about us. There is a tie between that man and myself that nothing can ever loose."

"I beg your pardon, then, for speaking about it at all."

Esther had risen, and now said "Good-night." She did not look at Merton, merely gave him her hand and then passed from the room. A few moments later Merton wished his host good-night and in his turn departed. Ellison lit his pipe at the lamp, and went into the veranda, preparatory to crossing to the hut, where he had been sleeping of late. Esther was waiting there to say good-night to him. She was leaning against the veranda rails gazing down on the star-lit sea. Ellison stationed himself beside her.

"I thought you had gone to bed, dearie."

"I intended to go, but the house is so hot. I thought I would come out and get cool first."

"I'm afraid you're not very well to-night, little woman?"

"What makes you think that? Yes, I am quite well, thank you. A little tired, perhaps, but quite well."

He passed his arm round her waist. She started as if with surprise.

"Why, what's the matter?" he asked anxiously.

"I did not know what it was," she answered. "You frightened me."

"That makes me certain you're not very well. I must have the doctor over to see you to-morrow morning, if you don't feel better."

"I shall be all right in the morning. I think I am over-tired to-night."

"Perhaps Merton's music has given you a headache. I think he thumps a little hard for my taste."

This was scarcely the truth. He had never really thought so, but he wanted to find some reason for her downcast demeanour. She did not answer. Then suddenly, and without any apparent reason, she turned to him, and throwing her arms round his neck, sobbed upon his shoulder as if her heart were breaking.

"Why, Esther, my darling," he cried, this time in real alarm, "what on earth does this all mean? You frighten me, dearest. Try and tell me what is the matter with you." He led her to a chair, placed her in it, and seated himself beside her. "Come, try and tell me what it is, and let me help you. You frighten me dreadfully."

"It is nothing, nothing, nothing; Oh, Cuthbert, my husband, bear with me to-night. Don't be angry with me, I beseech you. You don't know how the memory of this night will always remain with me."

"You are very mysterious to-night. I can't think what you mean."

"Don't ask to be told. Indeed, I could not tell you. I don't know myself. I only know that I am more miserable to-night than I have ever been in my life before."

"And you can't tell me why? Esther, that puts us such a long way apart. I thought we were to be everything to each other, in sorrow as well as happiness!"

"It is ungenerous of you to taunt me with that now, just because I will not gratify your curiosity."

She rose with an offended air, and made as if she would go to her room. He caught her by the wrist and held her. She turned on him almost fiercely!

"You are hurting me! Let me go!"

"Esther, you are very cruel to me to-night. Do you know that?"

"Have you been so kind that you can bring that accusation against me? But there, I won't quarrel with you, even though you seem to want to make me."

"I want to make you quarrel with me, Esther? You know that is not true. You wrong me, on my soul, you do!"

She began to cry again, and fell back into the chair.

"I know I do, I know I do! I cannot do anything right to-night. I can't even think, my brain seems asleep. Oh, forgive me, forgive me!"

He smoothed back her hair and kissed her on the forehead.

"There is nothing to forgive, darling. It was altogether my fault. I wanted to sympathise with you, and I did it in my usual clumsy fashion. It is you who must forgive me."

She still hung her head. Suddenly she raised it and looked him in the face.

"Some day you will hate and despise me, I know. You will curse my name. But before God to-night I swear that – that – that – No, I can't say it. It must go through eternity unsaid, one little word unspoken."

"Dear girl, do you know what you are saying? Don't you think you had better go to bed?"

Without another word she rose and went down the veranda to her room. He sat like a man dazed, turning and twisting her behaviour this way and that in an endeavour to pierce the cloud that seemed to be settling on him. What did she mean by her last speech? What was to be the upshot of all these vague allusions? What was it she had intended to say, and then thought better of? He racked his brains for a solution of the problem, but without success. He could hit on nothing feasible. In a state of perfect bewilderment he went across to the hut and spent a miserable night, only to find at breakfast next morning that she had quite recovered and was her old self once more.

After that night Murkard might be considered convalescent. Like a shadow of the man he used to be, he managed to creep out into the sunshine of the beach, to sit there for hours every day. The bout had been a severe one, and it would be some time before he could be himself again. All this time Ellison allowed no word of reproach to fall from his lips, nor did Murkard offer any apology. But there was a wistfulness in his eyes when they lighted on the other that told a tale of gratitude and of devotion that was plainer than anything words could have uttered. On the third morning of his convalescence he was sitting in his usual spot just below the headland, looking across the blue straits dotted here and there with the sails of luggers, and at the white roofs of the township, when he heard steps approaching. The pedestrian, whoever he might be, was evidently in merry pin, for he was whistling a gay chanson, and seemed to be in the best conceit, not only with himself, but with all the world. Turning the corner, he came directly upon Murkard, who looked up full and fair into his face. It was Merton. If the latter seemed surprised, the effect upon Murkard was doubly so. His eyes almost started from his head, his mouth opened, and his jaw dropped, his colour became ashen in its pallor.

"You – you here!" he cried. "Oh, my God! Is this a horrible dream? I thought you were dead long since."

The other was also a little pale, but he managed to laugh with a pretence of merriment.

"My dear boy, this is the most delightful surprise I have ever experienced. I hope you're not sorry to see me. May I sit down? Well, what a funny thing this is, to be sure. To think that we should meet like this, and here of all places in the world. You've been seriously ill, I'm sorry to hear."

"How long have you been in this place?"

"Nearly a fortnight now. I've seen you a good many times, but you never knew me!"

"I wish I could say that I don't know you now. And what devil's business are you up to here?"

"Amusing myself, as usual. Studying men and manners. Your friends here are very entertaining, the woman particularly so."

"Do they know who you are?"

"George Merton of Brankforth Manor, near Exeter, County Devon, at your service."

He threw himself down on the sands with another merry laugh.

"It's extraordinary, isn't it? our meeting like this. I've often laughed over it. And so your name's Murkard? Silas too, if I'm not mistaken. What a rum beggar you are, to be sure. Do you still take life as seriously as you used to in the old days?"

"You're evidently as cold-blooded a devil as when I last found you out."

"Found me out? My dear fellow, aren't you rather confusing things? Wasn't it the other way round? But seriously, Bur – "

"Silence! My name is Murkard."

"What did I say? Oh, I forgot; pray forgive me. It shan't occur again. Seriously, Murkard, I want you to believe that I have never ceased to regret that terrible business. You must remember you put me in such a position that, though it cut me to the heart to do it, I had no option but to expose you."

"If you had told all you knew you might have saved me. As it was, I had to take the course I did. I could not help myself."

"'Pon my honour, I knew nothing more. The stones were lost. I happened to stumble quite by accident on the baggage and found them there. The baggage was yours – what could I do?"

"Very well. I have at least paid the penalty; we need not discuss the subject further. But one thing must be settled now and forever. What are you going to do?"

"When? Now, do you mean? Well, I think I shall stay here for a month or so longer; and then – well, then I don't quite know what I shall do."

"You will leave here at once – in an hour's time."

"My dear fellow, impossible. Not to be thought of, I assure you."

"Either you or I must go. We cannot both remain."

"Still taking life seriously, I see. Well, I fear in that case it will have to be you. I'm sorry, but it can't be helped. I have reasons for staying on. A holiday will do you no harm."

"Supposing I tell Ellison all I know of you."

"He might believe you, but I should think it extremely doubtful. On the other hand, what if I tell him all I know about you? Who you are, for instance, and what drove you out of England?"

Murkard turned, if possible, even paler than before.

"You could not, surely, blackguard as you are, be villain enough for that!"

"My dear fellow, I would do it in an instant if it suited me – and I rather think it would. You see, I have a game to play here, and, by Jove! come what may, I intend to play it. Your presence is detrimental to my interests. I may have to rid myself of you."

"I shall go to Ellison at once, and tell him all."

"You will spike your own guns then, I promise you, and without doing yourself a hap'orth of good. Besides, you will in all probability be putting me to the unpleasant necessity of – but there, you won't – you can't do it."

"Have you let him suspect who I am?"

"Not by one single word or deed. As far as I am concerned, he knows nothing."

"On your honour? – but there, I forget; you have no honour."

"What an extraordinary little chap it is, to be sure! Of course I've no honour. In this commercial age nobody outside the covers of books has. But all the same, I am not in the humour just now to be trifled with. As I say, he knows nothing, and he shall know nothing if you do as I wish. Why not go away for a holiday? you need a change. Come back in a month; I shall be gone then. There's a compact for you. Give me a clear field for a month, and I'll give you my promise not to reveal the fact that I know anything of your past. Will you agree?"

"I must think it over. But what devilry are you up to here? I must know that before I decide. Do you think I'm going to leave him to your mercy? If you do, you're mistaken."

"I am up to no devilry, as you term it. I've got a speculation on hand, and I must watch it. I see a chance of doing a big stroke of business in the pearl market, that was what brought me out here; if you don't interfere I shall make my fortune; if you do I shall take steps to rid myself of you, as I have said. Can't you see you haven't a card in your hand worth playing. If you're a sensible man you'll adopt my suggestion and go away for a day or two, regain your health, then come back, take up your old life again, and everything will go on as before. It's not a very difficult course to steer, surely?"

"If I could only be certain that you are speaking the truth."

"I can't give you my word, because as I am a man without honour you wouldn't accept it as evidence. But if you want proof as to my business – see here."

He took from his pocket a number of letters. Selecting one that bore an English postage stamp, he tossed it across to Murkard. It was from a well-known firm of London pearl merchants, and notified the fact, to whom it might concern, that the bearer, Mr. Merton, was authorised to conduct certain negotiations on their behalf.

"Well," said Murkard, when he had perused the document, "this looks genuine enough. But I don't see that it makes your position here any plainer."

"You surely don't expect me to enter into particulars, do you? At any rate, that's my offer, and consider it well, for it's the last I'll make. If you don't decide to-night, I must tell your employer everything I know about you to-morrow morning. Make no mistake about that."

"I will give you my decision by sundown."

"Very good. In the meantime, let me offer you a cigarette. No? Don't you smoke? A pity! Well, I have the honour to wish you a very good-day."

He raised his hat with ironical politeness, and resumed his walk along the beach, humming as before.

Murkard lay where he was, trying to pull his thoughts together. This was the last straw. He saw all the plans he had formed, all the honourable future he had built up for himself, shattered at one blow. His past had risen and struck him in the face. What was to be done now? Could he trust this man whom he had always known to be unfaithful? He had no option – no option at all. He must go away, or Ellison would discover everything, and then all would be irretrievably lost.

And so the afternoon wore on. The sun sank lower and lower, until he disappeared entirely beneath the horizon. As he sank from view, Murkard made up his mind and rose to his feet. Merton was coming back along the beach. He signalled to him, and they passed together into the shelter of the trees that ran down to the shore. Once there, Murkard turned on him.

"I have been thinking over what you said to me just now."

The other bowed and smiled.

"And with what result?"

"I don't quite know. First and foremost I want you to tell me, in the event of my declining to leave the island, what you will tell my friend about me?"

"Shall I really tell you? You mean it? Very well, then, I will. I'm not going to let you know how I became aware of things – you must guess that for yourself."

"Not so many words. Answer my question."

"In the first place, answer me this: Who is your friend? He calls himself Cuthbert Ellison, but who is he?"

Murkard looked away. This was what he had dreaded.

"How should I know?"

"Well, I'll tell you at least who he is not. He is not the Marquis of St. Burden. When he told his wife that he was he lied to her, as he has lied before, and as he will probably lie again."

"How do you know that he told his wife he was? At least, she has not told you."

"Very probably not. But still I know. Perhaps I learned it from you in your delirium."

Murkard groaned. The man's possession of this secret was the very thing he had feared.

"Now, supposing in addition to telling Ellison who you are, I tell her who he is not – what would you say?"

"I should say you were the most inhuman wretch that ever trod God's earth, and it would be the truth. Don't you know – haven't you seen that that woman worships the very ground he treads on, that she believes every word that falls from his lips? Would you shatter her happiness and trust forever, at one blow, and only to gratify your own miserable ends?"

"Yes, do you know, now I think of it, I even believe I should. But you seem to forget that it would be you who had driven me to it. If you go away it will be to my interest not to tell her. I wish to remain on good terms with both of them until my business here is accomplished. Will you go?"

"Yes; I will go."

"When?"

"To-night. At once. You need have no fear."

"I have none, I assure you. I thought just now you were going to make a fool of yourself. I'm glad you can see reason. And look here, my – Oh, very well, if you would rather not, I won't say it. I shall be at home in three months. If I chance upon any members of your family, shall I tell them where they can find you?"

"You need not trouble yourself. They know."

"Very good. Then our business is accomplished. Now let us part."

"Go on. I will follow you. I decline to be seen in your company."

"My dear boy, that is rude, for you will not have another opportunity."

Without going back to his hut, Murkard walked down to the beach, and asked one of the Kanakas he found there to row him across to the settlement. The man did so, and on his return to the station reported the fact to Ellison, who marvelled, but said nothing. He was expecting that night an important visitor in the shape of a globe-trotting pearl dealer, to whom he had written regarding the black pearl, and he had, therefore, small concern for Murkard's doings. The mail boat had arrived that afternoon, and as she was to go on the same night, their appointment was for six o'clock. Even as the fact of Murkard's absence was reported to him by the native, the dealer's boat was to be seen making its way across the straits. He went down to the beach to receive him.

The newcomer was a tall, gray-haired man, with quick, penetrating eyes, and a general air of shrewdness that his business capabilities did not belie. He greeted Ellison with considerable cordiality, and they walked up to the house together. Merton was lying in the hammock in the veranda, smoking and reading an ancient English newspaper. He got up as the men approached, and Ellison introduced him to the stranger. They then entered the house together. After a little refreshment and conversation Ellison proposed going down to the store. This they accordingly did, leaving Merton to resume his literary studies. He looked after them and smiled, then throwing the paper down he went into the house, where Esther joined him.

When they were alone in the store, Ellison unlocked the safe, and took out the box containing the pearl.

"Your ventures seem to have prospered, Mr. Ellison," said the stranger, as he watched him undo the box containing his treasure. "A black pearl of the size you describe yours to be is indeed a gem worth having."

"Yes, and it could not have come at a better time," replied Ellison. "Things have been very bad here, I can assure you, within the last twelve or fourteen months."

The first box undone, he came upon a second; this was full of cotton wool, but in the centre of it, carefully wrapped up, was the treasure he sought. With obvious care and pride he took it out, and placed it on a sheet of white note-paper upon the counter. It lay there full and black, staring them in the face, as large a pearl as had ever been found in those seas. The dealer was enchanted.