The Marriage of Esther

It had a curious effect upon his overstrung nerves, this expanse of moonlit water. A peculiar giddiness seized him. He sat down again and buried his face in his hands. Then suddenly something inside his head seemed to give way, and he looked up again. Whether he was mad for the time being, and really thought he saw the things he describes so vividly now, or whether he was dreaming, is a matter only for conjecture. At any rate, it seemed to him that from the place where he was, far removed from all the influences of the world, he saw a vision, the vision of the world's dead rising up to meet him. Sitting in the stern of his tiny boat, grasping the thwarts with either hand and looking out across the water, he watched and trembled. He saw the greatness of the deep opened as by a mighty hand. And from the void thus made, he witnessed a procession of the world's dead troop forth upon the silent waters like men walking on a silver road. There was no sound with them, not a footfall, neither a voice nor a rustle of garments. They came out of the east a mighty army, such as no man could number. They passed him where he sat and marched on again, still without a sound, towards the west. Every age and every nationality – semi-humans from the prehistoric ages, Israelites, Egyptians, Ethiopians, Medes, Persians, Assyrians, Babylonians, Goths, Greeks, Romans, Huns, and Norsemen; every race and every colour from the world's first death to the tiniest child giving up its little life at the moment that he looked was represented there. There were old men bowed down with the weight of years, young men in all the pride of manly strength, aged women, gentle matrons and young girls, children, and even tiny babes. Men slain in battle with their wounds still gaping on their shattered bodies; men drowned at sea, with the weeds of ocean twined about them; kings and nobles in their robes of state, priests in their sacred vestments, and peasants in their homespun; holy men in flowing garments, martyrs and those who fought with beasts at Ephesus; English wives and dark skinned African mothers – all were there. They approached him, looked at him, and then passed upon their way. Some had hope written in their faces, some despair, some ineffable peace, some the imprint of everlasting remorse. Not one but bore some mark to witness to the life he or she had pursued on earth. On and on they passed; already the procession seemed to stretch from pole to pole, and every moment was adding to their number. But there was no sound at all with them.

Suddenly an intense fear and dread came over Ellison, such as he had never experienced in his life before. Had this vision been sent to prepare him for some great sorrow? Was it possible that Esther could be among them? Surely if she were she would come to him. Hardly conscious of what he was doing, he clambered forrard in the boat, and resting his hands upon the gunwale, stared at the passing multitude. There were mothers in plenty with infants in their arms – but Esther was not among them. He searched and searched, and still the relentless march went on – still they stretched out across the seas. All the dead of the earth, century and century and bygone ages; all the dead of the sea and under the sea paraded before him, and still the march went on. From every quarter of the globe the army was recruited, and everyone paused to look at this distracted man. In sheer weariness of movement he called upon them to stop – to stop if only for a minute. His voice rang out across the deep, again and again. But there was no change; there could be no halting in that march of death. As fast as the last ranks appeared thousands more came from all quarters to carry it on again. At first he had been all dumb, senseless wonderment. Then suddenly his ears were opened, and a second awful terror seized and held him spell-bound. He tried to shut his eyes to them, but they would not be shut out; he tried to stop his ears, but now the tramp of that mighty army could not be prevented. On and on and on it went, clashing and clanging, rolling and thundering, coming out of the east and disappearing into the west. And over it all the moon shone down pitiless and cold as steel. He tried to cry for mercy, but this time his voice refused to answer to his call. He stretched out his hands in feeble, despairing supplication, but still the march went on. At last he could hold out no longer; he stood up, raised his arms to Heaven, and pleaded piteously. As if in answer his senses deserted him, and he fell back into the bottom of his boat in a dead faint.

When he recovered himself the sky was overcast with clouds. He looked about him half expecting to see the procession still parading past his boat, but it was gone. He was alone once more upon the waters, and, to add to his feeling of desolation, a soft rain was wetting him to the skin. How long he had lain there unconscious he could not tell. He looked at his watch, but it had stopped at half-past eight – the moment of his fall. A smart breeze was blowing, and, in a frenzy of recollection, he turned the boat's head for home, resolved to know the worst. In a moment he was tearing through the water like a thing possessed. This sense of rapid movement was just what his spirits needed; he could not go fast enough. A brisk sea was running, but over it his craft dashed like a flying stag. He could not be more than a dozen miles from the station at the very most – an hour's smart sailing. He shook out the reef he had taken in the canvas and let the boat do her best.

With a heart like this tiny cockle-shell borne upon the tossing, tumbling sea, one moment uplifted by hope, and the next falling deep down into the trough of despair, he sailed on and on. Every second was bringing him nearer and nearer to his home. Already through the haze he could make out the bold outline of the island. Ten minutes later he was abreast of it, skimming safely along out of reach of that white line of dashing breakers. Rounding the point, he caught a glimpse of the lights of the station. With a rush his fear gripped hold of him again, not to leave him till he knew the best or worst. Like a drunken man he drove his boat ashore, leaped out on the sands, and commenced to haul her up. It was only when he had done this that he became aware of something lying on the sand just above high-water mark. It was the body of a man stretched out at full length. Wondering whether he could be still under the influence of the nightmare that had held him so at sea, he approached it. To his intense surprise it was Murkard —dead drunk. Kneeling by his side, he shook him vigorously, but without result. He was insensible, and from all appearances likely to remain so for some hours to come. But even this did not strike Ellison as it would have done at any other time; it appeared to him to be part and parcel of the nightmare under the influence of which he had so long been labouring. Rising to his feet he bent over the man, took him in his arms, and bore him up the hill to the hut.

No sound came from his own dwelling; indeed, had it not been for the light burning in the little sitting room window it might have been uninhabited. Having laid his burden on the bed, he retraced his steps and went across to know his fate. As he approached the house he became conscious of a figure sitting in the veranda. When it rose, and came softly out to meet him, he recognised his friend the doctor. Ellison's tongue refused its office, his throat was like a lime-kiln. The other saw his state, and in a whisper said:

"I have waited here to congratulate you. You ought to be a happy man. Your wife and son are doing excellently well."

Ellison reeled as if he had received a blow.

"Mother and son!" he managed to gasp. "Oh, my God, you're not deceiving me?"

As if in answer a little thin wail stole out from the house into the darkness, a little cry that went straight and plump to the very centre of the father's heart. It was true, then? There could be no deception about that!

"Oh, thank God! thank God!"

Again that feeble little voice came out to them, and again Ellison's nature was stirred to its lowest depths. All the world seemed centred in that tiny wail.

"And how is she? There is no danger? For mercy's sake tell me candidly. You don't know what I've suffered these last few hours."

"Your wife is doing wonderfully well. You need have no fear now. The old woman who is with her is an excellent nurse, and I shall come across first thing in the morning. I only waited to have the pleasure of telling you this myself."

"How can I thank you? And you have been sitting here so long in the dark without anyone to look after you. You must think me inhospitable to the last degree. Come inside now."

They went into the room, and Ellison set refreshment before the doctor. He would, however, not touch a drop himself.

"I dare not," he said, in reply to the other's look of astonishment. "In the state I'm in I should be dead drunk if I drank a thimbleful. I can tell you I wouldn't live this night again for something."

"I wouldn't be answerable for your brain if you did," the doctor replied, glancing at the haggard face before him. "What on earth have you been doing with yourself! You look as if you'd been communing with the Legions of the Dead."

"So I have – so I have. You've just hit it. That's what I have been doing. I've seen the dead of all the world troop past me to-night."

"Give me your wrist."

He spoke in a tone of command, and almost unconsciously Ellison extended one arm. The doctor placed his finger on the pulse.

"Nothing much the matter there. You only want a good night's sleep now the anxiety's over, and I prophesy you'll be as fit as a fiddle to-morrow. I shouldn't be at all surprised if you tell me you're the proudest father in the hemisphere. Bless you, I know your sort!"

Ellison laughed softly, but for all that it was a mirthless laugh. He had not recovered yet from the shock of all he had undergone that evening.

"When may I see her?"

"She is asleep now. When she wakes, perhaps. The nurse, however, will settle that point. You must abide strictly by what she says for a week or two. Above all you must not frighten your wife with that face. Make that more cheerful before you go in, or I'll keep you away from her for a month."

"I'd break your neck if you did. And I'm pretty muscular even now."

"I'll take that assertion on trust. Now I must be going."

"I'll see you down to your boat."

They walked to the shore together. One of the Kanaka hands was in waiting to put the doctor across. When the little craft had disappeared from view, Ellison went back to the house. He was bathing in a sea of happiness. His fondest dream was realised. He went into the sitting room and threw himself upon the sofa. He had hardly been there a minute before the door opened, and Mrs. Fenwick appeared bearing in her arms a bundle. He sprang to his feet once more, trembling in every limb.

"I'm sure I wish you joy, sir," she began, as she came towards him. "He's the noblest boy I've seen these many years; I ought to know, for I've nursed a-many."

She parted the blankets that enshrined the treasure, and Ellison looked down on the little face.

"Take him in your own arms, sir. It's a proud father you ought to be."

For the first time in his life Ellison held his son in his arms. How sweet and desirable the world seemed to him then. In spite of everything that had gone before he would not have changed places with any man who breathed. But he was not to be permitted the honour of holding the infant long.

"When may I see my wife?" he asked, as he laid the babe back in his nurse's arms.

"I'll call you when she wakes, sir."

For nearly an hour he was left alone. The little clock on the mantelpiece ticked off the score. Not a sound came from the outer world save the monotonous thunder of the surf upon the reef. He contrasted this night with that when, after the fight at the Hotel of All Nations, he had waited on the side of the hill, wondering what the morrow would bring forth, and whether it was too late for him to pull up and save himself. But he had pulled up, and now he —

Again a knock came to the door, and once more Mrs. Fenwick entered the room.

"She is awake now, sir. If you would like to see her for a moment, you can do so. But you must be careful not to excite her."

Ellison gave his promise, and followed the woman into his wife's room. Esther looked very white and thin; but it was evident she was glad to see him. Her pretty hair straggled across the pillow, and her great eyes looked into his with a love that nothing could ever quench. One hand lay on the coverlet; he took it softly in his, and raised it to his lips. A little smile of intense happiness hovered round her mouth. Suddenly he seemed to remember. Turning to the nurse, he whispered:

"Give me the child."

Without a word she did as she was ordered, and again Cuthbert Ellison held his new-born son in his arms. Then stooping, with all the tenderness his nature was capable of, he laid the sleeping babe within the hollow of the mother's arm. And bending over her, he kissed her on the lips.

"God bless and keep you both," he said, and softly hurried from the room, his heart overflowing with joy and thankfulness.

CHAPTER IX

HAPPINESS – UNHAPPINESS – AND A MAN OF THE WORLD

The birth of his son opened up to Ellison a new world. For the first month of that baby life everything connected with his own past was forgotten in one intense joy of possession. He began to understand that hitherto he had only vegetated; now he lived the life of a man who was not only a husband but a parent. The thread of his existence was a continuous one, woven and drawn in by the pink tenderness of a baby fingers. And as he noticed the growth of intelligence in those little eyes – the first faint dawning of the human soul within – his pleasure and delight increased a thousand-fold. He could hardly believe that the child was his own, his very own, bound to him by all the ties of flesh and blood – a veritable human, with a soul to be lost or to be saved by his influence. On the strength of his happiness he began to build gigantic castles in the air, and, what was more, to handsomely furnish them.

As for Esther, the motherhood that had come to her added a charm to her sweetness that her husband, much as he loved her, had neither known nor guessed that she possessed. The child was a perpetual mystery to her, and a never-ending charm. And yet with it all her husband was always the chiefest in her eyes. There was a difference in the love she felt for them – a difference that she could hardly account for or understand. One was of the other, yet not the other. One was a love she had in a measure created for herself; the other was nothing more nor less than herself. Indeed, their home life was now almost as perfect as it was possible for it to be. With a substantial banking account – how obtained Ellison never allowed himself to think; the new pearling season approaching with glowing prospects; a tender, loving wife to care for and protect; a son and heir to bind them closer to each other, he might indeed esteem himself a lucky man. Murkard found occasion, one morning, to tell him so in the store.

"Everything seems to prosper with you now, Ellison. If I had such a wife and son to work for, there'd be nothing I couldn't do."

"There shall be nothing I can't do. If things have changed, so much the better. I will make hay while the sun shines, and you must help me."

"There is nothing I would do more willingly. You know you may always count on my hearty cooperation."

Ellison shook him warmly by the hand.

"I know," he said. "You have been a good friend to me, Murkard."

"And you will forget it all in a moment."

"What do you mean?"

"Nothing. I'm only looking ahead. A habit of mine. Forget it." He turned to the desk at which he had been writing, and took up some papers. "Now let us talk business. The season is beginning, as you know. Are you ready for it?"

"Quite. The boats are in first-class trim; the two new divers will be here to-morrow; we shall get to sea on Thursday morning, all being well."

"And you still intend going with them?"

"On this particular trip – yes! I want to see how things work out yonder, and what chances there are for a floating station."

A floating station, in pearling parlance, is a larger vessel than the ordinary diving lugger, capable of anchoring in the vicinity of the fleet, of carrying stores sufficient to supply the boats during their operations, and of taking over their cargoes of shell when obtained. By this means the time which would otherwise be occupied in sailing the distance backward and forward to the land station, not unfrequently a distance of some hundreds of miles, would be saved, and the luggers enabled to go on working uninterruptedly. A floating station is also capable of meeting ships in the open sea, and of transhipping to them her cargo of shell, packed and addressed direct to the London markets, by this means again saving agents' fees, storage, wharfage, etc., etc., in Thursday Island. The advantages to be gained by employing such a vessel must be obvious.

"I wonder you like to tear yourself away just at present," said Murkard, after a little pause.

"I don't like it. I am dreading it like the coward I am; but it's got to be done, Murkard. Try as I will I can't blink that fact. As I told you a month ago, I intend to put my shoulder to the wheel now with a vengeance. I think I've proved since we came here that I'm made of the right sort of stuff. Well, I'm going to do twice as much now in support of that assertion. I have made one firm resolve?"

"And that is?"

"That save for the purposes of my business, in the strictest sense of the word, I will not touch a penny of that five thousand pounds. And I will deny myself no toil and no thrift that can help me to repay every farthing of what I do take, and with interest. Then it shall go back to England."

"But, man, you must be mad! It's your own money. As much yours as the child in yonder."

"Not the two in the same breath, as you love your life, Murkard. No! When I took the money I took it as a loan, and only as a loan. By God's help I will repay every farthing of it, and with interest. So only can I hope to satisfy my conscience."

Murkard looked at him. There was determination in every line of Ellison's face. He lifted his hand from the desk, and put it on the other's shoulder.

"Ellison, you're a brave man, and I respect you for it."

"That's because you don't know everything."

"I know quite enough to convince me of the justice of what I have just said. If there's any more at the back of it – I'll respect you the more for that too."

"Well, at any rate, that's enough on the subject for the present. Of course, while I'm away you will be in charge here. You understand that, don't you? I leave everything in your hands, including the safety of my wife and child. I need not say I trust you."

"You need have no fears on that score. I will guard them as if they were my own. How long do you expect to be away?"

"At least a month. It is no use going so far for less. If we have much luck I may stay longer; but it is very doubtful."

"Very doubtful, I should think."

Ellison picked up his hat and left the store. On returning to the house he found Esther seated on the veranda, the baby sleeping in a cradle by her side. He took the hammock and stretched himself out. Without speaking she signed to him, by taking his hand, to look; then stooping she drew the mosquito netting back from the cradle head, and showed him the child lying fast asleep. Hand in hand they looked down upon the little pink face; and the one little arm outside the quilt, with its tiny fist tight clenched, seemed to draw the father's and mother's hearts if possible closer even than before. Then she dropped the net again, and turned towards her husband. She saw that his face was preternaturally solemn.

"You have something to tell me," she said.

"Something rather unpleasant, I'm afraid," he murmured in reply. "And yet, after all, looked straight in the face, it is not very much. I meant to have told you before, but I've been putting it off from day to day. The fact is, Esther, I'm going away with the luggers the day after to-morrow for a month."

"You – going – away – and – for – a month! Oh, Cuthbert!"

It was the first real parting since their marriage, and the news came as an unpleasant shock to her. But Esther knew she must be brave, and not try to hinder him from what was evidently his duty. Calling Mrs. Fenwick out to the veranda, she gave the child to her; then, taking her husband's arm, she went with him down the path towards the shore.

"It is weak of me to think I can expect to keep you with me always," she said, when they had gone a little way. "But baby and I will miss you dreadfully."

"It must be, darling. You see, I must work now even harder than before."

"Why must you? We are doing well enough as it is, surely?"

"Yes, things have improved, certainly; but while that loan hangs over me I shall know no peace. It haunts me night and day. You would not have me idle my time away here on the strength of that money, would you?"

"Of course not. But I fear whatever you did, I should think right."

"Forgive my doubting that assertion. I'm certain, darling, if you saw me idle, even your love would not be above telling me so."

"But I should only tell you because I loved you."

"That is precisely why I am going away. I want to work hard, that I may prevent your ever being called upon to tell me."

"We are getting a little out of our depths, are we not?"

They had reached a little clearing in the jungle. Here she stopped, and taking his great brown hand in hers, stroked it with her own white fingers. Then, looking up into his face with a faint little smile, through which the tears threatened at any moment to burst, she said:

"Go, and may God prosper your labours!"

That was the last of her opposition.

Two days later Ellison gave the signal for departure, and the three luggers weighed anchor and stood out of the bay. His own boat was the last to leave, and until the headland shut her from his sight, Ellison waved a farewell to the white figure standing in the veranda. Then the sea took him into her arms, and for a month the station knew him no more.

It was sundown on the twenty-third day at sea. Work was almost over. The sun was little more than a hand's breadth above the horizon, and another hour would find him gone. Hardly a ripple disturbed the pearly serenity of the ocean; the only spot of land to be seen was a tiny island just peeping up on the sky-line away to starboard. Ellison sat upon the combing of the main hatch, holding the diver's life-line in his hand, watching the movements of the other boats, and listening to the throbbing of the air-pump on the deck beside him. It was nearly time for the diver to ascend.

Suddenly the line he held twitched violently in his hand. It was a signal to haul up the canvas bag containing the oysters gathered. He hauled in, and having emptied the contents on the deck, lowered the bag to be re-filled. Then with his knife he set to work to open the oysters. The first and second were valuable shells, but destitute of pearls; the third contained an almost insignificant gem; the fourth he opened carefully, with a sort of premonition that it would be found to contain something valuable. If the truth were known, he was thinking more of Esther than the work upon which he was engaged. When he did look inside, he almost dropped the shell in amazement. Tangled among the beard, and half hidden from his sight, was an enormous black pearl, perfect, so far as he could make out, in symmetry, and larger than a hazel-nut. Trembling with eagerness, yet without allowing a sign to escape him to show his crew that he had made a find out of the ordinary, he disentangled the gem from its bearded setting, and with exquisite care removed it altogether from the shell. He could hardly believe his good fortune. Perfect in shape, of enormous size, and, as far as he could tell, without a flaw, it was a jewel fit for a royal crown. He was afraid to think of its value, but from what he knew of pearls, five thousand pounds would hardly buy it.

He had barely time to conceal it in his pocket and order one of the Kanakas to stow the shells in their proper places, when the diver signalled that he was coming up. As soon as he had seen him disrobed he descended to his cabin, and after another careful examination of the gem, put it away in a place of safety. If his calculation of its value proved anything like correct, he would now be able to pay off his debt, relieve his mind of its weight of anxiety, and start again with a fresh sheet. But even without this marvellous bit of good fortune their trip had been phenomenally successful; now, with this additional piece of good luck, he felt that he was justified in weighing anchor the following morning and setting sail for home.