THE WORLD, THE FLESH, AND THE DEVIL.

Long before the first month was ended both men had settled down comfortably to their work-a-day existence. They had arrived at a thorough understanding of their duties, had made friends with their fellow-workers, and found it difficult to believe that they could be the same two men who were the beach-combers of the previous month. As for Murkard he derived the keenest pleasure from the daily, almost monotonous, routine of his office. He discovered abundance of work to keep him busy, his keen instinct detected endless opportunities of creating additional business, and he hoped that, when the owner of the station should return from his pearling venture, he might not only be in a position to convince him that his daughter's appointment was fully justified, but to demonstrate to him that it was likely to prove the stepping-stone to a sound commercial future. To Esther the man himself was a complete and continual mystery. Try how she would, she could not understand him. On one occasion a combination of circumstances led her to attempt to set him right on a certain matter connected with his own department. Much to her surprise and discomfiture she found him not only firmly resolved to assert his own independence, and to resist to the utmost any attempt at interference, but even prepared to instruct if need be. Routed on every side she had fled the field ignominiously, but though mortified at her rebuff, still she could not find it in her heart to quarrel with the man. To tell the truth, she was more than a little afraid of him, as he intended she should be. His sharp tongue and peculiar faculty of quiet ridicule were particularly distasteful to her. She preferred venting her abuse upon his inoffensive companion—who, it would appear, absolutely failed to do anything to her complete satisfaction.

To Ellison, in spite of his joy at having found employment at last, that first month was not altogether one of happiness. He was too keenly conscious of his limited powers to be thoroughly at his ease, and yet he did his work from morning till night with dog-like faithfulness, grudging himself no labour, sparing himself no pains to ensure the faithful discharge of the duties entrusted to him. Not only that, but he often went out of his way to find work. She watched him and invariably found fault. So surely as his hard day's work was ended, would she discover something left undone. This she would never fail to point out to him, and the result well-nigh drove him distracted. And yet there were times when she was more than kind, bright days in his calendar that shone with a greater lustre, perhaps, because they were so few and far between. As instance the following:

His own work being over for the day, he had crossed to the wood pile behind the kitchen and set to work sawing logs for the cook's fire. The wood was tough and the labour hard, but he kept the saw going with endless perseverance. As he came near the end of the supply, Esther chanced upon him. It was the first time he had seen her since the early morning.

"Good afternoon," he said, but did not desist from his labour.

"Good afternoon," she returned, regarding him for a moment, and then seating herself upon an upturned box beside him. "I think you will remember that I asked you for some screws for a corner bracket this morning."

"I beg your pardon; I think you asked if I could find any in the boat-house. I remembered having seen some, and offered to procure them. You then determined that you would wait until to-morrow for them."

"Ah, yes! so I did. I had forgotten that."

"As you are clearly in the wrong, you might beg my pardon, I think."

"I don't see why. It is my duty to keep you up to your work."

"Very well, then we'll say no more. The screws shall be on your table on the veranda at ten o'clock to-morrow morning."

"Without fail?"

"Without fail. I always keep my word."

He went on with his sawing. She sat and watched him, and for the first time became aware of the elegance and symmetry of his figure.

"Not always, I think. I asked you yesterday to tell me what brought you to Australia; you said you would, but you have evidently forgotten your promise."

"Again you misinterpreted my speech. I think I said I could not bore you with it until I knew you better."

"And by that I am to understand that you won't tell me?"

"Not yet."

The saw cut through the log with a little whine, and the end dropped to the ground.

"You don't know me well enough yet to trust me, I suppose?"

"I know you as well as I suppose I ever shall know you. You are not a difficult person to understand."

"Have you so much experience of my sex, then?"

"More than most men, perhaps. God help me!"

"You don't seem to realise that that is a dangerous admission to make to a woman."

"Why? You let me see very plainly yesterday that our ways lie far apart. In fact, that whatever my rank may once have been, I am now only your father's servant."

She rose from the box on which she had been sitting and stamped her foot. He looked up and saw that indignant tears stood in her eyes.

"You are very unjust and very unkind. I'm sure I never said or implied anything of the sort."

"Then I must crave your pardon once more for misunderstanding you. I certainly understood that to be your meaning."

She sat down again and fell to scraping up the shavings and litter with her foot. He resumed his sawing. For the space of about three minutes neither spoke. Then she said timidly:

"I notice that you are very patient and persevering."

He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye suspiciously. This was too novel and satisfactory not to make him a little distrustful.

"And pray what makes you think that?"

"For many reasons. One because you don't saw wood like most men I have seen. You go right through till the cut is even and the end drops off of its own weight. Most men saw it three parts through, then drive in a wedge, and break off the rest. It saves time, but it means laziness. I think I like your way best."

"It is very kind of you to say so."

"Oh, not at all. I thought as I've scolded you so often I ought to tell you of something I approve, that's all."

Decidedly he was a handsome man. She liked his colour, she liked his glow of health and strength, and she was not quite certain that she did not like his eyes; but she wasn't going to let him think she had the very smallest grain of admiration for him. He wondered what was coming next.

"All the same, you're not a very quick worker. I don't know that it's quite a profitable occupation for you. One of the boys would have done twice as much in half the time—not so neatly perhaps, but it would have burned just as well."

That was the way with her. He never made any advance but she drove him back further than he was originally. She saw how her last remark was affecting him, and a smile flickered over her face that was not altogether one of discouragement. He looked up just in time to catch it. 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 embarrassment. 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 passed 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 shore 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 grass 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 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.

In five minutes they were passing close under the nearest point of their own island. High cliffs rose above them, crowned with a wealth of vegetation. She looked up at them, and then turned to her companion.

"Mr. Ellison, do you know the story of that bluff?"

"No. I must plead guilty to not being aware that it possessed one. May I hear it?"

"It has a strange fascination for me—that place. I never pass it without thinking of the romance connected with it. Do you see that tall palm to the right there?"

"Yes."

"Well, under that palm is a grave; the resting-place of a man whom I can remember seeing very often when I was only a little child."

"What sort of a man?"

"Ah, that's a question a good many would have liked to have answered. Though it's years ago, I can see him now as plainly as if it were but yesterday. He was very tall and very handsome. Possibly forty years old, though at first sight he looked more than that, for the reason that his hair and moustache were as white as snow. He lived in a hut on that bluff far away from everybody. In all the years he was there he was never known to cross the straits to the settlement, but once every three months he used to come down to our store for rations and two English letters. I believe we were the only souls he ever spoke to, and then he never said any more than was absolutely necessary. The pearlers used to call him the Hermit of the Bluff."

"Do you think he was quite sane?"

"I'm sure of it. I think now he must have been the victim of some great sorrow, or, perhaps, some man of family exiled from his country for no fault of his own."

"What makes you imagine that?"

"Why, because it was my father who found him lying lifeless on the floor of his hut. He had been dead some days and nobody any the wiser. Hoping to find something to tell him who he was, my father searched the hut, but without success. But when, however, he lifted the poor body, he caught a glimpse of something fastened round his neck. It was a large gold locket, with a crown or coronet upon the cover. Inside it was a photograph of some great lady—but though he recognised her, my father would never tell me her name—and a little slip of paper, on which was written these words: 'Semper fidelis: Thank God, I can forgive. It is our fate. Good-bye.' They buried him under the palm yonder and the locket with him."

"Poor wretch! Another victim of fate! I wonder who he could have been."

"That is more than anyone will ever know, until the last great Judgment Day. But, believe me, he is not the only one of that class out here. I could tell you of half a dozen others that I remember. There was Bombay Pete; it was said he was a fashionable preacher in London, and was nearly made a bishop. He died—bewitched, he said—in a Kanaka's hut over yonder behind the settlement. Then there was the Gray Apollo—but who he was nobody ever knew; at any rate he was the handsomest and most reckless man on the island until he was knifed in the Phillipines; and the man from New Guinea; and Sacramento Dick; and the Scholar; and John Garfitt, who turned out to be a lord. Oh, I could tell you of dozens of others. Poor miserable, miserable men."

"You have a sympathy for them, then?"

"Who could help it? I pity them from the bottom of my heart. Fancy their degradation. Fancy having been brought up in the enjoyment of every luxury, started with every advantage in life, and then to come out here to consort with all the riff-raff of the world and to die, cut off from kith and kin, in some hovel over yonder. It is too awful."

Ellison sighed. She looked at him, and then said very softly:

"Mr. Ellison, I do not want to pry into your secret, but is there no hope for you?"

He appeared not to have heard her. A great temptation was upon him. He was going away to-morrow: she would never see him again. She had evidently a romantic interest in these shattered lives—could he not allow himself the enjoyment of that sympathy just for a few brief hours? Why not? Ah, yes, why not?

"Miss McCartney," he said, after a long pause, "do you know, while you were away to-night, and I was sitting waiting for you, I subjected myself to a severe cross-examination?"

"On what subject?"

"Partly yourself, partly myself."

"What sort of cross-examination do you mean, Mr. Ellison?"

"Well, that is rather a difficult question to answer, and for the following reason: In the first place, to tell you would necessitate my doing a thing I had made up my mind never to do again."

"What is that?"

"To unlock the coffers of my memory and to take out the history of my past. Eight years ago I swore that I would forget certain things—the first was my real name, the second was the life I had once led, and the third was the reason that induced me to give up both."

"Well?"

"I have tried to remember that you have only known me a month, that you really know nothing of myself, my disposition, or my history."

"But I think I do know."

"I fear that is impossible. But, Miss McCartney, since I see your sympathy for others, I have a good mind to tell you everything, and let you judge for yourself. You are a woman whose word I would take against all the world. You will swear that whatever I reveal to you shall never pass your lips."

"I swear!"

She was trembling in real earnest now. To prolong their interview he put the boat over on another tack, one that would bring her close under the headland by the station. Esther raised no objection, but sat looking before her with parted lips and rather startled eyes. She noticed that his voice, when he spoke, took another tone. She attributed it to nervousness, when in reality it was only unconscious acting.

"Miss McCartney, living here in this out-of-the-way part of the world, you can have no idea what my life has been. Thrown into temptation as a child, is it to be wondered at that I fell? Brought up to consider myself heir to untold wealth, is it to be wondered that I became extravagant? Courted by everybody, can you be surprised that I thought my own attractions irresistible? My father was a proud and headstrong man, who allowed me to gang my own gait without let or hindrance. When I left Eton, I left it a prig; when I left Oxford, I left it a man of pleasure, useless to the world and hurtful to myself and everybody with whom I fell in contact. But not absolutely and wholly bad with it all, you must understand. Mind you, Miss McCartney, I do not attempt to spare myself in the telling; I want you to judge fairly of my character."

"I promise you I will. Go on."

"With a supreme disregard for consequences, I plunged into absurd speculations, incurred enormous liabilities, and when my creditors came down upon me for them I went to my father for relief. He laughed in my face and told me he was ruined; that I was a pauper and must help myself; sneered in my face, in fact, and told me to go to the devil my own way as fast as I was able. I went to my brothers, who jeered at me. I went to all my great friends, who politely but firmly showed me their doors. I went to men who at other times had lent me money, but they had heard of my father's embarrassments, and refused to throw good money after bad. Checkmated at every turn, I became desperate. Then to crown it all a woman came to me, a titled lady, in the dead of night; she told me a story, so base, so shameful, that I almost blush now to think of it. She said she had heard I was going to fly the country. My name was talked of with her—I alone could save her. In a moment of recklessness I agreed to take her shame upon myself. What was my good name to me? At least I could help her. It was the one and only good action of my life. The next day I left England a pauper, and what is worse, a defaulter, doomed never to return to it, and never to bear my own name again. That is how I came to be a loafer, the dead-beat, the beach-comber I was when you took compassion upon me."

"And—and your name?"

"I—I am the Marquis of St. Burden; my father is the Duke of Avonturn."

"You—you—Mr. Ellison, a—marquis!"

"Heaven help me—yes! But why do you look at me like that? You surely do not hate me now that you have heard my wretched story?"

"Hate you! Oh, no, no! I only pity you from the bottom of my heart."

Her voice was very low and infinitely, hopelessly sad. He was looking out to sea. Suddenly he bowed his head and seemed to gasp for breath. Then, turning to her again, he seized her hand with a gesture that was almost one of despair.

"Esther, Esther! My God, what have I done? Forget what I have said. Blot it out from your memory forever. I was mad to have told you. Oh, Heavens, how can I make you forget the mischief my treacherous tongue has dragged me into!"

"Your secret is safe with me, never fear. No mortal shall ever dream that I know your history. But, my lord, you will go back some day?"

Instantly his voice came back to him clear and strong:

"Never! never! Living or dead, I will never go back to England again. That is my irrevocable determination."

"Then may God help you!"

"Esther, can't you guess now why I must go away from here, why I must leave to-morrow?"

He could hardly recognise the voice that answered.

"Yes, yes, I see. It is impossible for you to be my father's servant any longer."

"That was not what I meant. I meant because I am afraid to stay with you, lest my evil life should contaminate yours."

"That is impossible! How can you hurt me?"

He pressed the hand he held in his almost savagely.

"I mean that I love you. You must have known it long since. I mean that you are dearer to me than all the world."

"Oh, let me go! I cannot listen to you!"

"But you must! you must!"

"Oh, let me go!"

"You do not love me, then?"

"Oh, let me go, let me go!"

But he held her fast, pressing her closer and closer to him.

"I will not let you go until you tell me!"

"Oh, I can't tell you! Can't you see that what you have told me makes all the difference in the world?"

"I beg your pardon. I should have expected this. Forgive me and forget me; I will go away to-morrow."

Her only reply was a choking sob. He put the boat back on her course, and in five minutes they had grounded on the beach; having helped her to disembark, he turned to pull the boat up out of reach of the tide. This done, he looked to find her waiting for him, but she was gone. He could see her white dress flitting up the path towards the house. Without attempting to follow her, he left the beach and strode away round the hill into the interior of the island. When he had gone about a mile he came to an abrupt halt and looked towards the sea.

"Again, again!" he cried, with a great and exceeding bitter cry. "Oh, God! I was tempted and I fell; forgive me, for I can never forgive myself!"

As if in answer to his cry a night-hawk hooted among the rocks. He wheeled about and strode off in a different direction. In that instant he seemed to have learned a secret he had never even guessed at before.

The sun was in the act of making his appearance above the horizon when he reached the station again. He was utterly worn-out, both mentally and physically. Without undressing he threw himself upon his bed, and slept a dreamless sleep for an hour. Then he got up and looked out upon the world. It was the beginning of his last day at the station.