DESTINY—AN ACCIDENT—AND A BETROTHAL.

Early as it was, Ellison discovered that Murkard was out before him. Pulling himself together as well as he was able, he took his towel and went down to the beach to bathe. It was an exquisite morning, a fresh breeze played among the palms and shrubs; the blue sea danced and glistened in the sunshine; columns of palest blue smoke rose, curling and twisting, into the sweet morning air. Ellison alone was sad. Even a swim failed to raise his spirits. He dressed himself and went back to breakfast with a face that was like that of a doomed man. So far he had seen no sign of Esther, nor had he any expectation of doing so until he went in to say good-bye to her. As the clanging bell called to breakfast, Murkard made his appearance. He also seemed out of sorts, and nodded to Ellison without a word as he seated himself at the table. The other was hardly prepared for this treatment of his trouble.

"Why, what on earth's wrong with you this morning?" Ellison asked irritably. "Has the whole world gone dismal mad?"

"I'm very worried about something. Don't ask me what, old man. I'm trying to fight it down, and if you leave me alone I shall be all right directly."

"I'm afraid I shan't be here to see it, then. I'm leaving in an hour's time—for good and all."

Murkard sprang to his feet with a new face.

"Then that puts me right at once. God bless you, Ellison, you could not have given me better news! I knew you'd do what was right!"

"Have you been fretting about me, then?"

"A little. But more about that girl over yonder. Of course, whatever happened, I should stand by you—you know that, don't you? But—well, the long and the short of it is, I couldn't bear to see the poor child getting to care for you more and more every day, when I knew that your affection was not the kind to satisfy her craving. Poor little thing, it will be hard on her, devilish hard, but all the same I believe you're doing what is best and happiest for both of you."

"Do you think so, honour bright?"

"I don't think, I'm sure of it!"

"Then I'll go. But you don't know, old man, what a bitter fight it has been. Since you laughed at me a week ago I've been arguing it over, and the result is, I'm beginning to think I do care for her, after all."

"If you only think, you're still on the wrong side of the stream. No, no; we must go. There is no question about that. I'll put our few traps together after breakfast, and then we'll say farewell and adieu to respectability once more."

"But you are not coming too. I could never allow that!"

"You'll have no option. Of course I must come! Didn't I tell you the other day that we're bound up together? My destiny is in your hands. I must never leave you. I had an idea the end would have come here, but it seems I'm mistaken."

"I wish you'd be a little more explicit sometimes."

"It would probably amuse you if I were, and though I'm not the sort of man who fears ridicule, as a general rule, I could not bear to have you laugh at this."

"I should not laugh; it seems to me I shall never laugh again. Tell me, Murkard, what you mean."

"I will tell you."

He rose and walked up and down the little room for some minutes. Then he stopped, and leaning against the smoke-coloured mantelpiece, spoke.

"In the first place, I suppose you will admit that there are some men in this extraordinary world of ours more delicately constructed than others. You agree to that. Very good. Well, that being so, I am perhaps more sensitive than you—possibly, though I don't say absolutely, accounted for by my deformity. I look at commonplace things in a different way; my brain receives different impressions from passing events. I don't say whether my impressions are right or wrong. At any rate, they are there. Directly I set eyes on you, that first night of our meeting, I knew you were my fate. Don't ask me how I knew it. It is sufficient that I did know it. Something inside here seemed to tell me that our lives were bound up together; in fact, that you were the man for whose sake I was sent into the world. You remember we were starving at the time, and that we slept under a Moreton Bay fig in the Domain. Well, perhaps as the result of that hunger, I dreamed a dream. Something came to me and bade me to go with you, bade me be by your side continually because I was necessary to your life, and because my death would be by your hands."

"Good gracious, Murkard, think what you're saying!"

"I have thought, and I know. I don't mean that you will murder me, but I do mean that it will be in connection with you that I shall meet my death. The same dream told me that a chance would be given us. That chance has come. Also the dream told me that my only hope of heaven lay in saving you by laying down my own life. That time has not come yet—but it will come as surely as we are now located in this hut. In the meantime there is another life between us. That life we have not met yet; what or whose it is I have no notion, but I dread it night and day."

"You don't mean to tell me you believe all that you're telling me?"

"As implicitly as I believe that I am standing before you now. And so will you when it is too late—not before."

"But think, man, think! How can such a thing be contemplated for a moment? Your life by my hands! No, no!"

"Let it drop. Forget that I ever told you. We shall see whether it turns out as I say. Moreover, something tells me that although we are preparing to leave this place, we shall not go!"

Without further argument he opened the door and went out. Ellison in his turn began to pace the room.

"He is mad, the man is undoubtedly mad. And yet God knows why he should be. If vileness has anything to do with it, I am despicable enough to do anything he might dream! Surely there never was so miserable a wretch as I! But we will go from here. Of that I am determined."

He began feverishly to put together the few little odds and ends he had collected during the past month. It was not a lengthy business, but it cut him to the heart to have to do it. If he left this place, where for a month he had been so happy, what would his future be? Turned out to seek employment again, would he drift back into the old vagabond life or not? And if he did, he asked himself, what would it matter? Who was there in the world to care? He tied up his bundle, threw it on the bed, and then in his turn left the hut. Esther was on the veranda of her own house. He crossed the path to speak to her.

"Miss McCartney," he said, "have you been able to find it in your heart to forgive me for my rudeness last night?"

Her hand shook and her voice trembled as she answered, with downcast eyes, "There is nothing to forgive, my lord."

"No, no; you must not call me that!"

He raised his hand as if to ward off a blow. She noticed the look of pain that leaped into his eyes.

"Forgive me in your turn. I am sorry I hurt you."

"Do you think it matters? My life will be all one long pain now. I am going away; I have come to say good-bye to you."

"You are—really—going—away?"

"Yes; I cannot live here after what I told you last night. It is impossible for both of us. I must go out into the world again and try to win back the self-respect I have lost. But before I go I want to thank you for all you have done for me; for a month you have enabled me to shake hands with happiness. I can never be sufficiently grateful to you."

"Where—where shall you go when you leave here?"

"I haven't the remotest notion. On to the mainland most probably; out to some station in the far West, where I can forget and be forgotten. What does it matter where I go?"

"Does—does it never strike you that in thus dooming yourself to hopeless misery you are being very cruel to me?"

"It is only to be kind. God knows I have thought of you before myself, and the only conclusion I can come to is that it would be worse for you if I stayed."

"Then good-bye, and may God bless you and protect you always!"

He looked into her face; it was pale as death. She held out her hand, and he raised it to his lips. The knowledge that had come to him the previous night was confirmed now. In that second he learned how much he loved her.

"Good-bye—good-bye!"

He watched her pass into the house, and was in the act of leaving the spot himself when he heard a heavy fall within. In an instant he had divined its meaning, and was inside the room, to find Esther upon the floor in a dead faint. Raising her in his arms he carried her to a sofa and laid her on it; then, procuring water, he bathed her forehead and chafed her hands till she returned to consciousness. When her eyes opened she looked at him with a frightened stare.

"Oh, what has happened?"

"The sun was too much for you out there. You fainted; fortunately I heard you fall and carried you here. Are you better?"

"Yes, thank you. I am almost all right again."

"You are quite sure?"

"Quite."

He took up his hat and left the house. As he crossed the veranda he noticed a stir in the station. The Kanakas had turned out of their hut and were staring in the direction of the bay. From the place where he stood he could see two luggers approaching the jetty.

"Her father has returned," he said to himself, almost without interest, and went down to the shore. His supposition proved correct. But from the way the last of the boats manoeuvred there was evidently something wrong. He waited until it got alongside, and then walked down the jetty to find out what this peculiarity might mean. A little crowd was collected on the second boat; those Kanakas who knew him made way for him to step on board. The crew of the boat itself regarded him with some surprise.

"What is the matter?" he asked.

"The boss has met with an accident," explained the oldest of the men, "and we don't know how to let his daughter know."

"Where is he?"

"In the cabin aft. Step below and see him for yourself."

Ellison did as he was directed, and went down the companion into the box of a cabin. An elderly man, with gray hair and beard, bearing an unmistakable likeness to Esther, lay on a roughly constructed bed placed on the port side. He looked up as Ellison entered.

"And who may you be?" he asked faintly.

"My name is Ellison," the other replied. "I have been a month in your employ—your daughter took me on as a carpenter and general hand in place of Paddy the Lasher, discharged."

"You talk like a gentleman."

"I was considered one once."

"Then you may be able to do me a good turn. I have met with a serious accident—slipped on those steps there and injured my back. From the numbness of my lower half, I'm almost afraid it's a hopeless case; but I don't want to frighten my daughter without need. Will you go up and break the news to her?"

"If you wish it. But surely it's not as bad as you say. Perhaps it's only a severe sprain."

"I fear not. As I tell you, I'm dead below the waist."

"Will you stay here till I come back, or shall we carry you up now?"

"I'll stay here. But don't be longer than you can help, and break the news as gently as you can to her."

"You may trust me."

Ellison went up the steps again, passed through the little crowd, and made his way back towards the house. He was only just in time, for Esther had seen the boats come in, and was on her way to meet her father. She was surprised to see the man to whom she had just said "Good-bye" coming along the path towards her. Something in his face must have warned her that he was the bearer of evil tidings, for she stopped, and he heard her catch her breath with a little convulsive sob.

"My father has returned, and you have bad news for me?"

"That of course depends upon how you take it. Yes, your father has returned, but—well, the long and short of it is, he is not very well."

"My father—not well! He was never ill in his life. It must be something serious, or he would not have sent you to tell me."

"He has met with a bit of an accident—a fall. He asked me to come on in advance and let you know, lest you should be frightened when you saw them carrying him up."

"That is not all; he is worse than you say. Oh, Mr. Ellison, for Heaven's sake, don't deceive me—tell me all! I can bear it, believe me."

"I am not deceiving you. God knows I would be the last to do that. You shall see him for yourself in a minute or two. But had you not better first run back and have a bed prepared for him. I will go down and help them carry him up."

"How good you are to me!"

She went back to the house, while he returned to the boat. Before he arrived Murkard had put in an appearance, and with his usual foresight had set to work upon a rough litter in which to carry the sick man up to the house. This constructed, he was placed upon it, and between them they bore him up the hill. Ellison and Murkard carried him across the veranda into the room his daughter had prepared for him. She received him with greater bravery than Ellison had expected. The father's courage was wonderful.

"This is a nice way to come home, my girl!" he said, with an attempt at cheerfulness. "You're not accustomed to seeing your father carried, are you?"

With her eyes full of tears she stooped and kissed him. Perhaps the coldness of his forehead told her something of the truth, for she started and looked at Ellison in terrified surprise. The two men laid him on the bed, and while she was in another room removed his clothes. It was a difficult business, but once it was accomplished the patient felt infinitely relieved. As they were leaving the house Esther met them. She drew Ellison aside.

"Someone must cross to the settlement for the doctor immediately. It is useless to attempt to blind me as to his condition. I can see it for myself."

"I will go over, and bring him back with me."

"God bless you! I feel so terribly lonely now; it is good to know that I have a friend in you."

"A friend faithful to the death. Esther, will you answer me one question? Would it make you happier if I stayed with you a little longer—say, till your father is able to get about again?"

She hung her head, but his eager ears caught the timid little "Yes" that escaped her lips.

"Then so be it. Now I will go for the doctor."

She held out her hand; he took it, and for the second time that morning raised it to his lips. Then he strode away in the direction of the store. Murkard was not surprised at the news. He accompanied him to the beach, and helped him to push his boat into the water. When Ellison was past the jetty he returned to his work, muttering:

"I knew something would happen to prevent it. This is the hand of Destiny again."

Ellison pulled swiftly across to the township, beached his boat opposite the Chinese quarter, and after inquiring the direction of the doctor's house, set off for it without a moment's delay. He discovered the medico smoking on his veranda, and in less than three minutes had given him a complete summary of the case. They returned to the boat together, and Ellison, after pulling him across, conducted him straightway to the sick man's bedroom. He did not go in himself, but waited on the veranda. In half an hour the doctor emerged and beckoned him out of hearing of the house. Ellison read the worst in his face.

"Is there no hope?"

"Not a scrap. I tell you this straightforwardly. Of course I presume, from your anxiety, you are an interested party, and as such have a right to know. The man's spine is fatally injured. Paralysis has already set in in the lower limbs. It is only a matter of time with him now."

"How long do you think he may live?"

"It is impossible to say—six hours, possibly eight, certainly not more. If you have any business to consult him upon, I advise you to do it at once; he may not be conscious very long."

"You have not told his daughter?"

"Only that the case is serious. I have told him, and I think he will tell her."

"Thank you for being so candid. It is really no business of mine, but I must try and help that poor girl to bear her sorrow. Shall you see him again?"

"I think so, though I am convinced it is hopeless. Still, I shall look over in the course of the afternoon. Who will put me across?"

"I will."

They got into the boat and pushed off. When he had landed the doctor, Ellison pulled slowly back. His brain was staggering under a multitude of thoughts. What was he to do? What must his duty be now? Should he go away and leave this girl to bear her sorrow alone? Or should he take the bull by the horns, ask her father to be allowed to make her his wife, and trust to Providence for the rest? He didn't know, he couldn't tell—both seemed equally impossible. He resolved to leave it, as he had done before, to the decision of blind Fate. In the meantime he pulled back to the jetty, secured the boat, and went up to the house. Esther saw him pass the window, and came quietly out on the veranda.

"He is sleeping now," she almost whispered; "but it doesn't seem a natural sleep. I cannot tell you how terrified I am about him."

"Poor girl! what can I say to you save that you have my sincerest, my most heartfelt sympathy? If you should want any assistance, remember that I am here to give it you, come what may."

Her only answer was to press the hand that rested on the veranda rail with her soft fingers. Her touch thrilled him through and through, and he went into the hut for lunch with a look in his face that had never been there before. He was beginning to understand his position more clearly now.

Towards the middle of the afternoon he was employing himself among the boats, when he saw her coming breathlessly towards him. He dropped the adze he held in his hand and went to meet her.

"He wants you to come to him," she managed to gasp. "Oh, I don't know how to tell you the agony of fear I'm suffering. He seems so much weaker. Come at once."

She accompanied him into the house, and to the door of her father's chamber. The change in the patient's face staggered him. It was ghastly white and drawn; approaching dissolution was staring from the restless eyes.

"Mr. Ellison," he said faintly, "I have sent for you, and I must be quick with what I have to say, for the end is near. Though I only saw you for the first time this morning, I seem to know you thoroughly. My daughter has told me of the kindness you and your friend have shown to her. She has also informed me that you told her last night of your love for her. Is that true, on your oath to a dying man?"

"Yes. It is true! I know now that I do love her."

"With your whole heart and soul, so help you God!"

"With my whole heart and soul, so help me God!"

"Is there anything to prevent you making her your wife?"

"In a legal sense, nothing. In a moral—well, perhaps I have not led the sort of life I might have done; but if you will trust her to me I swear before God, as I hope for heaven, that I will do my duty to her all the days of my life. I will endeavour to make her life happy at any cost to myself."

"She will be poor, remember. There is nothing for me to leave her save a few hundred pounds, this station, and the boats. You will have to work hard to support her."

"I will work my hands to the bone."

"Then as you deal with my motherless and fatherless girl, so may God deal with you. He has sent you to take my place, in her hour of need. If you stand firm by her he will not desert you in yours. As a dying man I trust you; that is enough. Now send her to me."

Ellison went to the door and called the girl. She came in, and the dying man gave them his blessing. After which he told them he would rather sleep.

When the doctor reached the house half an hour later Ellison met him on the threshold.

"How is he now?"

"You have come too late, doctor. He is dead!"