Give him heedful note;

For I mine eyes will rivet to his face,

And after we will both our judgments join.

Thou wouldst not think how ill all's here about my heart: but it is no matter.

You must needs have heard, how I am punish'd

With sore distraction. What I have done

I here proclaim was madness.—Hamlet.

IT was very generally thought that it was a fortunate circumstance for Mr. Oswin Markham that there chanced to be in the fore-cabin of the steamer an enterprising American speculator who was taking out some hundred dozens of ready-made garments for disposal to the diamond miners—and an equal quantity of less durable clothing, in which he had been induced to invest some money with a view to the ultimate adoption of clothing by the Kafir nation. He explained how he had secured the services of a hard-working missionary whom he had sent as agent in advance to endeavour to convince the natives that if they ever wished to gain a footing among great nations, the auxiliary of clothing towards the effecting of their object was worth taking into consideration. When the market for these garments would thus be created, the speculator hoped to arrive on the scene and make a tolerable sum of money. In rear of his missionary, he had scoured most of the islands of the Pacific with very satisfactory results; and he said he felt that, if he could but prevail upon his missionary in advance to keep steady, a large work of evangelisation could be done in South Africa.

By the aid of this enterprising person, Mr. Markham was able to clothe himself without borrowing from any of the passengers. But about the payment for his purchases there seemed likely to be some difficulty. The bank order for four hundred pounds was once again in the possession of Mr. Markham, but it was payable in England, and how then could he effect the transfer of the few pounds he owed the American speculator, when he was to leave the vessel at St. Helena? There was no agency of the bank at this island, though there was one at the Cape, and thus the question of payment became somewhat difficult to solve.

“Do you want to leave the craft at St. Helena, mister?” asked the American, stroking his chin thoughtfully.

“I do,” said Mr. Markham. “I must leave at the island and take the first ship to England.”

“It's the awkwardest place on God's footstool, this St. Helena, isn't it?” said the American.

“I don't see that it is; why do you say so?”

“Only that I don't see why you want so partickler to land thar, mister. Maybe you'll change yer mind, eh?”

“I have said that I must part from this ship there,” exclaimed Mr. Markham almost impatiently. “I must get this order reduced to money somehow.”

“Wal, I reckon that's about the point, mister.” said the speculator. “But you see if you want to fly it as you say, you'll not breeze about that it's needful for you to cut the craft before you come to the Cape. I'd half a mind to try and trade with you for that bit of paper ten minutes ago, but I reckon that's not what's the matter with me now. No, sir; if you want to get rid of that paper without much trouble, just you give out that you don't care if you do go on to the Cape; maybe a nibble will come from that.”

“I don't know what you mean, my good fellow,” said Markham; “but I can only repeat that I will not go on to the Cape. I shall get the money somehow and pay you before I leave, for surely the order is as good as money to any one living in the midst of civilisation. I don't suppose a savage would understand it, but I can't see what objection any one in business could make to receiving it at its full value.”

The American screwed up his mouth in a peculiar fashion, and smiled in a still more peculiar fashion. He rather fancied he had a small piece of tobacco in his waistcoat pocket, nor did the result of a search show that he was mistaken; he extracted the succulent morsel and put it into his mouth. Then he winked at Mr. Markham, put his hands in his pockets, and walked slowly away without a word.

Markham looked after him with a puzzled expression. He did not know what the man meant to convey by his nods and his becks and his wreathed smiles. But just at this moment Mr. Harwood came up; he had of course previously made the acquaintance of Markham.

“I suppose we shall soon be losing you?” said Harwood, offering him a cigar. “You said, I think, that you would be leaving us at St. Helena?”

“Yes, I leave at St. Helena, and we shall be there in a few days. You see, I am now nearly as strong as ever, thanks to Campion, and it is important for me to get to England at once.”

“No doubt,” said Harwood; “your relatives will be very anxious if they hear of the loss of the vessel you were in.”

Markham gave a little laugh, as he said, “I have no relatives; and as for friends—well, I suppose I shall have a number now.”

“Now?”

“Yes; the fact is I was on my way home from Australia to take up a certain property which my father left to me in England. He died six months ago, and the solicitors for the estate sent me out a considerable sum of money in case I should need it in Australia—this order for four hundred pounds is what remains of it.”

“I can now easily understand your desire to be at home and settled down,” said Harwood.

“I don't mean to settle down,” replied Markham. “There are a good many places to be seen in the world, small as it is.”

“A man who has knocked about in the Colonies is generally glad to settle down at home,” remarked Harwood.

“No doubt that is the rule, but I fear I am all awry so far as rules are concerned. I haven't allowed my life to be subject to many rules, hitherto. Would to God I had! It is not a pleasant recollection for a son to go through life with, Harwood, that his father has died without becoming reconciled to him—especially when he knows that his father has died leaving him a couple of thousands a year.”

“And you——”

“I am such a son,” said Markham, turning round suddenly. “I did all that I could to make my father's life miserable till—a climax came, and I found myself in Australia three years ago with an allowance sufficient to keep me from ever being in want. But I forget, I'm not a modern Ancient Mariner, wandering about boring people with my sad story.”

“No,” said Harwood, “you are not, I should hope. Nor am I so pressed for time just now as the wedding guest. You did not go in for a sheep-run in Australia?”

“Nothing of the sort,” laughed the other. “The only thing I went in for was getting through my allowance, until that letter came that sobered me—that letter telling me that my father was dead, and that every penny he had possessed was mine. Harwood, you have heard of people's hair turning white in a few hours, but you have not often heard of natures changing from black to white in a short space; believe me it was so with me. The idea that theologians used to have long ago about souls passing from earth to heaven in a moment might well be believed by me, knowing as I do how my soul was transformed by that letter. I cast my old life behind me, though I did not tell any one about me what had happened. I left my companions and said to them that I was going up country. I did go up country, but I returned in a few days and got aboard the first ship that was sailing for England, and—here I am.”

“And you mean to renew your life of wandering when you reach England?” said Harwood, after a pause.

“It is all that there is left for me,” said the man bitterly, though a change in his tone would have made his words seem very pitiful. “I am not such a fool as to fancy that a man can sow tares and reap wheat. The spring of my life is over, and also the summer, the seed-time and the ripening; shall the harvest be delayed then? No, I am not such a fool.”

“I cannot see that you might not rest at home,” said Harwood. “Surely you have some associations in England.”

“Not one that is not wretched.”

“But a man of good family with some money is always certain to make new associations for himself, no matter what his life has been. Marriage, for instance; it is, I think, an exceedingly sure way of squaring a fellow up in life.”

“A very sure way indeed,” laughed Markham. “Never mind; in another week I shall be away from this society which has already become so pleasant to me. Perhaps I shall knock up against you in some of the strange places of the earth, Harwood.”

“I heartily hope so,” said the other. “But I still cannot see why you should not come on with us to the Cape. The voyage will completely restore you, you can get your money changed there, and a steamer of this company's will take you away two days after you land.”

“I cannot remain aboard this steamer,” said Markham quickly. “I must leave at St. Helena.” Then he walked away with that shortness of ceremony which steamer voyagers get into a habit of showing to each other without giving offence.

“Poor beggar!” muttered Harwood. “Wrecked in sight of the haven—a pleasant haven—yes, if he is not an uncommonly good actor.” He turned round from where he was leaning over the ship's side smoking, and saw the man with whom he had been talking seated in his chair by the side of Daireen Gerald. He watched them for some time—for a long time—until his cigar was smoked to the very end. He looked over the side thoughtfully as he dropped the remnant and heard its little hiss in the water; then he repeated his words, “a wreck.” Once more he glanced astern, and then he added thoughtfully, “Yes, he is right; he had much better part at St. Helena—very much better.”

Mr. Markham seemed quite naturally to have found his place in Mrs. Crawford's set, exclusive though it was; for somehow aboard ship a man amalgamates only with that society for which he is suited; a man is seldom to be found out of place on account of certain considerations such as one meets on shore. Not even Mr. Glaston could raise any protest against Mr. Markham's right to take a place in the midst of the elect of the cabin. But the young lady in whose birthday book Mr. Markham had inscribed his name upon the first day of his appearance at the table, thought it very unkind of him to join the band who had failed to appreciate her toilet splendours.

During the day on which he gave Harwood his brief autobiographical outline, Mr. Oswin Markham was frequently by the side of Miss Gerald and Mrs. Crawford. But towards night the major felt that it would be unjust to allow him to be defrauded of the due amount of narratory entertainment so necessary for his comfort; and with these excellent intentions drew him away from the others of the set, and, sitting on the secluded bridge, brought forth from the abundant resources of his memory a few well-defined anecdotes of that lively Arradambad station. But all the while the major was narrating the stories he could see that Markham's soul was otherwhere, and he began to be disappointed in Mr. Markham.

“I mustn't bore you, Markham, my boy,” he said as he rose, after having whiled away about two hours of the night in this agreeable occupation. “No, I mustn't bore you, and you look, upon my soul, as if you had been suffering.”

“No, no, I assure you, I never enjoyed anything more than that story of—of—the Surgeon-General and the wife of—of—the Commissary.”

“The Adjutant-General, you mean,” interrupted the major.

“Of course, yes, the Adjutant; a deucedly good story!”

“Ah, not bad, is it? But there goes six bells; I must think about turning in. Come and join me in a glass of brandy-and-water.”

“No, no; not to-night—not to-night. The fact is I feel—I feel queer.”

“You're not quite set on your feet yet, my boy,” said the major critically. “Take care of yourself.” And he walked away, wondering if it was possible that he had been deceived in his estimate of the nature of Mr. Markham.

But Mr. Markham continued sitting alone in the silence of the deserted deck. His thoughts were truly otherwhere. He lay back upon his seat and kept his eyes fixed upon the sky—the sky of stars towards which he had looked in agony for those four nights when nothing ever broke in upon the dread loneliness of the barren sea but those starlights. The terrible recollection of every moment he had passed returned to him.

Then he thought how he had heard of men becoming, through sufferings such as his, oblivious of everything of their past life—men who were thus enabled to begin life anew without being racked by any dread memories, the agony that they had endured being acknowledged by Heaven as expiation of their past deeds. That was justice, he felt, and if this justice had been done to these men, why had it been withheld from him?

“Could God Himself have added to what I endured?” he said, in passionate bitterness. “God! did I not suffer until my agony had overshot its mark by destroying in me the power of feeling agony—my agony consumed itself; I was dead—dead; and yet I am denied the power of beginning my new life under the conditions which are my due. What more can God want of man than his life? have I not paid that debt daily for four days?” He rose from his chair and stood upright upon the deck with clenched hands and lips. “It is past,” he said, after a long pause. “From this hour I throw the past beneath my feet. It is my right to forget all, and—I have forgotten all—all.”

Mr. Harwood had truly reason to feel surprised when, on the following day, Oswin Markham came up to him, and said quietly:

“I believe you are right, Harwood: after all, it would be foolish for me to part from the ship at St. Helena. I have decided to take your advice and run on to the Cape.”

Harwood looked at him for a few moments before he answered slowly:

“Ah, you have decided.”

“Yes; you see I am amenable to reason: I acknowledge the wisdom of my counsellors.” But Harwood made no answer, only continued with his eyes fixed upon his face. “Hang it all,” exclaimed Markham, “can't you congratulate me upon my return to the side of reason? Can't you acknowledge that you have been mistaken in me—that you find I am not so pig-headed as you supposed?”

“Yes,” said Harwood; “you are not pig-headed.” And, taking all things into consideration, it can hardly be denied that Mr. Oswin Markham's claim to be exempted from the class of persons called pig-headed was well founded.