A TEMPTATION—A FALL—AND A SERIES OF EMOTIONS.

Six months had elapsed since the wedding—six months of almost perfect happiness for Ellison. I am compelled to say almost, for the reason that an influx of business worries during that period had caused him a very considerable amount of anxiety, and had, in a measure, necessarily detracted from his domestic peace. The pearling season had not turned out as well as had been expected of it. Continual stormy weather had militated against the boats at sea, and a gradual but appreciable decline in the price of shell had had the same effect on shore. As he could only regard himself in the light of a trustee of his wife's estate, this run of bad luck struck him in a tender place. But through it all Esther proved herself a most perfect wife. He found it an inestimable boon after a long and hard day's work to be able to go to her for sympathy and advice, both of which she was quite competent to give. She was, by long experience, a past mistress of all the details of the business, and her shrewd common sense and womanly penetration enabled her to grasp things and advise on them long before her more matter-of-fact husband had mastered their first general elements. His respect for her talents became almost enthusiastic. She was now no longer the old Esther of the past, but a new and glorious womanhood, figuring in his eyes more as a leader than a wife.

As the year advanced, instead of bettering themselves things grew steadily worse. Acting on the advice of his wife and Murkard, he had curtailed expenses in every direction, forced himself to do without many things that at other times would have been classed as absolute necessaries, and discharged as many hands as could possibly be spared. This lightened the load for a while; but it soon became painfully evident that, unless more capital was soon forthcoming, the pearling station must inevitably close its doors. But in what direction could they look for such assistance? The banks were already dropping hints as to long-standing overdrafts, and, seeing the losses they were daily sustaining, it would be impossible to expect any mercy from them. On all sides companies were abandoning stations, or transferring their business elsewhere. It was a time of serious financial danger, and night and day Ellison worried himself to know how it was all to end. It was not for himself he cared; it was for Esther—only for Esther. Indeed, the anxiety was telling seriously upon his health. He could not sleep for its weight upon his mind. If only he could raise a couple of thousand pounds, he continually argued, he might place the station in a position by which it might not only weather the storm, but enable it to do even a larger business than before when the reaction set in. Again and again he discussed the matter with his wife and Murkard, but without arriving at any satisfactory conclusion.

One night after dinner, just as he was going out to the veranda for his customary smoke, Murkard called him outside.

"Come over to the store with me for a little while," he said. "I want a serious conversation with you."

Ellison followed him into the hut, and shut the door.

"Look here," said the smaller man, perching himself on the high stool behind his desk, and taking a letter from a pigeon-hole above him, "things have come to a climax. But there, you know that perhaps even better than I do."

"God help us! I think I do, and the anxiety is almost killing me. What we are to do I can't for the life of me see."

"There is a lot of bills coming due next month, and we've got an even smaller return for that last shell than I expected. To cap it all, here's a letter from the bank over the way. It came before dinner, but you looked so precious miserable then that I thought I'd keep it till after you'd had your meal. It's a facer, and no mistake."

"Read it."

Murkard spread the paper out on the desk, and, clearing his throat in an effort to gain time, did as he was commanded.

In plain English, it was to the effect that unless the overdraft could be reduced by one-half within an absurdly short space of time, the bank would be compelled to realise upon its security, which would mean that the station would be closed, and Ellison and his wife thrown upon the world.

Ellison sank his head upon his hands, and groaned like a wounded bull.

"If only I could raise two thousand pounds," he sighed for the thousandth time.

"That's exactly what we must do at once. And why not? Is it so very impossible?"

"Of course; you must know that it is. Haven't we discussed the question over and over again, in all its lights, for the last six weeks?"

"I know that as well as you do. But I've been thinking on a different tack these last two days."

"With what result? For mercy's sake don't play with me! I believe I'd kill you if you did. What have you been thinking?"

"Why, look here, Ellison, the position's just this: You are a married man, and you are likely soon to be more than that. Must you think of yourself just now, or are you bound to think of your wife?"

"To think of my wife, of course. Have I thought of myself at all since I've been married?"

"No, I'll grant you've been wonderfully unselfish. Well, this is the crux of it all. Are you prepared to make a big sacrifice for her sake? Are you prepared to make a sacrifice that will humble your pride to the very ground, but will probably be the means of saving the life you love? Are you prepared to do this, I say?"

"Of course I am. There is nothing in the world I would not do to save her. Surely you know me well enough by this time to know that!"

"Very good. That being so, we will proceed to business." He took up a pen and fell to tracing circles on the blotting-pad in front of him. "In the first place, do you remember the night you rowed her to the township and brought her back by moonlight?"

Ellison's face became suddenly pale. He shifted on his seat uneasily.

"Yes, I remember. What about it?"

"I was lonely that evening and went for a walk. I strolled down to Alligator Point and sat on the rocks above the water."

"Well?"

"The sea was as calm as a mill-pond, and the night was so still that I could almost hear people talking across the strait. I saw you leave the township, and I watched you sail towards where I sat. Your voices were plainly audible to me, and, forgive me, Ellison, but—I heard——"

"Say no more—I know what you heard, you cursed, eavesdropping spy—I know what you heard!"

"You are hardly just to me, but under the circumstances I will forgive your harshness. And what did I hear?"

"You heard the wretched story I told the woman I loved!"

"I did. And—ever since—that moment—I have known your secret."

There was complete silence between them for some minutes—Murkard went on tracing circles on the blotting-paper as if his life depended on it, while Ellison rose from his seat and went over to the door. His hand trembled so that he could hardly control its movements. Murkard looked at him with a queer expression, half sympathy, half contempt upon his face. Suddenly Ellison wheeled round and confronted him.

"Plainly, Murkard, what is your object in telling me that you heard it?"

"Because I want to save you. That is why!"

"How can that save me? You mean because you want to damn me, body and soul. But you shan't! by God, you shan't! I'm desperate, I tell you that, desperate!"

"Hush, hush! She'll hear you if you shout like that. Come back and let us talk quietly. Good Heavens, Ellison, can't you see how great my love for you is? Haven't I shown it to you times out of number? Do you think, then, that I should turn on you in your hour of need? Surely you know me better than that?"

Ellison regarded him in silence for a minute. Then he went across and held out his hand.

"Forgive me, Silas. I am not myself to-night; I hardly know what I say. You don't know how much I have upon my mind. Don't you see how everything seems to be coming to a climax with me? But for her sake, and that of the child that is coming, I would willingly be dead. And yet I can't alarm her, and I can't let anything happen that would deprive her of a home—now. At any cost I must keep a roof over her head."

He went back to his seat by the counter and sat staring before him with a face drawn and haggard almost out of recognition.

"I am trying to save both for you," said Murkard quietly.

Ellison seized at the hope as a drowning man would catch at a life-buoy.

"I know you are, Murkard. I know it, and trust you to the bottom of my heart. What are you thinking of? What can I do? For mercy's sake, tell me; don't wait to weigh words."

"Steady, steady, old man. Be quiet and I will tell you. You are the Marquis of St. Burden. I heard you say so—there is no getting away from that. Believe me, your secret will never pass my lips. Your father is the Duke of Avonturn!"

Ellison said not a word, but it seemed to him that the beating of his heart must soon choke him. Murkard eyed him curiously.

"Well?"

"Well, what I propose is, that you shall communicate with your father; tell him that you have settled down out here to a steady, honest, respectable life, tell him that difficulties beset you, and ask him for five thousand pounds."

"Never!"

Again there was a pause; try as he would, Ellison could not even bring his mind to think.

"And pray why not?"

"Because I refuse, once and for all; absolutely and implicitly I refuse, and you shall never make me budge from it."

"I shall not let you. You cannot help yourself."

"I can and will help myself. I refuse to do what you wish. I refuse—I refuse!"

His voice rose almost to a shriek in his excitement. He got up and looked towards the door as if he would settle the question by leaving the hut. Murkard sprang from his seat and held him by the arm. Both were grimly in earnest.

"Ellison, I believe in you. Your wife believes in you. You told her your history, you cannot draw back now if you would. It would kill her if she thought you had lied to her. She would never honour or trust you again. But you haven't. It is only your stiff-necked pride that brings you to this decision; but you must put it aside, I tell you; you must, man, to save her life."

"But I cannot; it is impossible! Don't you hear me? I cannot!"

"You both can and must. I intend to make you. Do you love your wife? I know you do. Then do you wish to be responsible for her death, and do you wish to kill the child as well? Is not one murder enough for you, for I tell you plainly if she has to leave this place, and you and she are thrown penniless upon the world, as you certainly will be within the next two months unless you find this money somewhere, so certainly will it kill her, and the unborn child too. And you will have only your stubborn, obstinate, guilty pride to thank for it."

"But I cannot do it; you don't know all."

"I know quite enough to be certain that it is your duty to save your wife's life at any cost to yourself."

"At whatever cost to myself—do you mean that? On your word of honour—may God strike you dead if you lie?"

"I do mean it. At whatever cost to yourself it is your duty to save your wife's life."

"You will remember what you have just said, 'At any cost to myself!'"

"I will remember."

"But there, what is the use of our talking like this. The duke will pay no attention to my appeal."

"You are wrong, he will pay every attention."

"How do you know that?"

"Because I have a scheme in my brain that will make him."

"Will you tell me what it is?"

"Later on, perhaps, not now; you must trust to my honour."

"Very good. Then it shall be done. I will put aside all thought of myself. I will do what you wish. I will sin—for, remember, it is a sin—to save the woman I love. And remember also, that whatever happens in the future, whatever comes of it, misery to me, or to her, it is your doing."

"I will remember, and if any thing does come of it I will not only take the blame, but I will stand the punishment. Will you shake hands with me on it?"

"No, I will not. You have tempted me and I have fallen. God help me! After to-night we shall be no longer friends."

"Ellison!"

"I mean what I say. I have sinned before, perhaps in a worse way than this. But when I married I swore that nothing should ever tempt me to do so again. I have kept my word until to-night. To-night I sin deliberately, and in cold blood, for my wife's sake, God bless her!"

He raised his hat reverently as he spoke the last words. Then he sat down with the air of a man who had signed his own death-warrant, and asked:

"What am I to do?"

"Leave it all to me. To-morrow morning I will go across to the island, call upon the Government Resident, who knows me well enough by this time, tell him your story under pledge of secrecy, and get him to cable to your father for the money."

"He will refuse."

"I think not. He believes in my honour. Have you any objection to my doing so?"

"I object to nothing. I am past that. Only make it as certain of success as you can. The end will come soon enough in any case."

"You take it in a curious way. Ellison, is there anything you are hiding from me?"

"Only—only the pain you are giving me. But I suppose that hardly enters into your calculations."

"Ellison, I forgive you; but a day will come when you will never forgive yourself for what you are saying now. Remember, I am doing this only for your sake. As I promised you just now, so I promise again, whatever blame is to be taken for this I will take, whatever punishment is meted out—if any—I will bear. I only ask in return that you will believe in the honesty of my affection for you."

"Do you wish me to write any letter?"

"No. Leave everything to me."

"You do not want me any more to-night?"

"No. That is all. But, Ellison, you are not going to leave me like this?"

"In what way would you have me leave you? If I dared I would tell you everything, but I am too great a coward even for that. Good-night!"

Murkard only answered with a sigh. Ellison went out, closing the door after him. Once in the fresh air he looked up at the stars, then at the sea, then at the lamp-lit windows of his own house. Esther was seated at the table, sewing. He knew upon what work she was engaged, and a spasm of terror swept over him at the knowledge that even that little life, not yet born into the world, might some day be tempted to despise him. Instinctively he turned upon his heel, and for the second time since his arrival at the station strode away into the heart of the island, in an endeavour to dispel his own gloomy thoughts. On and on he walked, regardless of pace or destination. His whole being was consumed with horror at what he was doing. What did it mean? What would it mean? What had induced him to do it? Was it blind Fate, or what reason could be assigned to it? No! It was none of these things—it was to save his wife! Bitterly he upbraided himself for the first folly that had occasioned it, but it was too late now, too late, too late! If he went to his wife and confessed all, confessed that he had lied to her, that he was not the man he pretended to be, that he was only a common swindler and cheat, she would forgive him, because she was a good woman and loved him, but she would never trust him or believe in him again. In that case their ruin would be complete! If he persisted in the present course, and Murkard's plan proved successful, they would be saved for a little time, but the inevitable result would be worse than the first destruction. On neither side was there such a thing as safety. On one side was his wife's life, on the other her trust in him; there was no middle course. He was between the devil and the deep sea with a vengeance. God help him for a miserable man!

By the time he arrived at this conclusion he was on the headland above the station. A thrill of superstitious terror swept over him as he realised that the spot on which he was standing was the site of the Hermit's hut. In the glorious moonlight he could plainly discern the ruins of the blackened hearth, the boundary walls, and under the tall palm, nearer the cliff edge, the grave of the mysterious Unknown himself. What had led him in that direction on the one night of all others he would most have desired to avoid it? It seemed to him that the dead man's ghost was moving about the place taunting him with his sin, and pointing to a similar abandoned end in the inglorious future. Down on the shore below him he could hear the roll of the surf, but up here all was ghostly still. At last, unable to control himself any longer, he took to his heels and fled down the hill towards the station, craving to be with his kind once more. To his surprise he could see the light still burning in the sitting room. Late though it was, his wife had not yet gone to bed. Could she be sitting up for him?

As he entered the room she rose to meet him.

"My poor boy," she said, "how tired you look!"

"I have been worried nearly past endurance," he replied, "and went for a walk to try and think my difficulties out. I would not have gone had I thought you would sit up for me."

"I went over to the store when you did not come in, to see if you were there. Mr. Murkard said you had said good-night to him nearly two hours before, so I knew you had gone for a walk. You are very tired, I can see."

She leaned over his chair and ran her hand through his curly hair. Her touch, soft as it was, seemed to tear his very heart-strings. He could hardly bear to look her in the face. He left his seat and went across to the fireplace.

"Esther," he said, "difficulties are surrounding us on every side. If things don't change soon, goodness only knows what will happen to us."

"But they will change. God will help us, husband mine. Come what may, let us put our trust in him. He has not deserted us hitherto, and I am not afraid that he ever will."

"If only I had your faith. Oh, Esther, my own dear wife, I wonder if you will ever come to think badly of me."

"Never, Cuthbert, never! I shall believe in your honesty and goodness until my life's end."

She pulled his head down and kissed him on the forehead. Before he could answer she had left the room. He went out to the veranda and leaned against the rails, saying slowly to himself, over and over again:

"'I shall believe in your honesty and goodness until my life's end!'"