The Marriage Of Esther Part 21

"Don't you find your stay in Thursday Island rather uninteresting?"

"On the contrary, I am so far interested that I am thinking of spending another month here. I want to see all I can of the pearling industry in that time."

"Then perhaps I can help you."

"The Resident was kind enough to say he felt sure you would."

"If you will give us the pleasure of your company, my wife and I will try to make your stay as pleasant as possible."

"I am vastly obliged to you. You are really a most hospitable people. I hope, if ever you visit England, you'll let me return the compliment."

"Thank you. We're rough and ready, but we're always glad to see folk from the outside world. Our intellectual circle, you see, is rather limited."

Esther rose to go into the house. She turned to their guest:

"You will hear a great deal about sh.e.l.l, copra, beche-de-mer, etc., before you leave us. But I hope it won't bore you. Now I will go and prepare your room for you. Cuthbert, will you send one of the boys across to the settlement for Mr. Merton's bag?"

"With pleasure."

"It's really very good of you to take me in like this," said Mr. Merton, when they were alone.

Ellison replied in suitable terms. Hospitality was one of his strong points, and the stranger was evidently a cultivated man. He looked forward to a week or so of very pleasant intercourse. It was years since he had enjoyed an intellectual conversation.

"You have a pretty place here, Mr. Ellison," said the other, after a brief stroll. "The jungle on the hill, and the cl.u.s.ter of houses among the palms at the foot, present a charming effect."

"I hope you will be able to say you like it when you have seen more of it. It is pretty, but one is apt to find it a little quiet."

"How many men do you employ?"

"About a dozen; mostly Kanakas."

"But surely I saw you walking with a white man just now. Rather afflicted, I think."

"Ah, yes; my storekeeper, Mr. Murkard. A very old friend. I'm sorry to say he's not well enough to a.s.sist in welcoming you. By the same token, I think if you'll excuse me for a few minutes, I'll go across and see how he is. I'm rather anxious about him."

"Do, by all means. I'll walk back to the house." Ellison went down the path to the hut. He listened for a moment at the door, but only the sound of heavy breathing came from within. He went in, to find Murkard lying p.r.o.ne upon the floor insensible. The hut reeked of brandy, and Ellison was not surprised when he found an empty bottle underneath the bed.

"This is getting to be too much of a good thing, my friend," he said, addressing the rec.u.mbent figure. "I shall have to keep a sharper eye on you for the future, I can see."

He lifted him up, and placed him on the bed. Then he began his search for concealed spirit. At the end of five minutes he was almost convinced that the bottle he had discovered was the only one. And yet it seemed hardly likely that it could be so. Suddenly his eye lighted on a hole in the palm leaf thatch. Standing on a box he could thrust his hand into it. He did so, and felt the smooth cold side of a bottle. He drew it out--an unopened bottle of Hennessey's Cognac. Again he inserted his hand, and again he drew out a bottle--another--and still another. There was enough concealed there to kill a man in Murkard's present state. He wrapped them up in a towel, so that none of the hands should suspect, and conveyed them across to his own room. Once there, he sat down to think.

"He'll not move for an hour or two, then he'll wake and look for these.

When he can't find 'em he'll probably go off his head right away, and we shall have to watch him in grim earnest. Poor old Murkard! Poor old chap!"

Fortunately for his spirits that evening, Merton proved a most sympathetic and agreeable companion. He ingratiated himself with Ellison by praising his wife, and he won Esther to his side by the interest and admiration he displayed for the baby. He was a fluent and clever conversationalist, and by the time dinner was over both husband and wife had agreed that he was a very pleasant addition to their party. But the triumph of the stranger was yet to come. They sat smoking in the veranda, watching the wonderful southern stars and listening to the murmur of the wavelets on the beach. Only their pipes showed their whereabouts, and when Esther joined them she could hardly distinguish between her husband and their guest.

"Won't you play us something, Mrs. Ellison?" Merton said, after a few moments. "I feel sure you are a musician. Indeed, I saw a pile of music by the piano."

"Do you play or sing, Mr. Merton?" she said, as she turned to comply with his request.

"A little," he replied. "If you will perform first, I will do my best to follow you."

"A bargain," said Ellison. And his wife sat down to the piano.

When she had finished both men thanked her, and Merton rose from his chair and went in to fulfil his promise.

Esther seated herself by her husband's side and her hand found his.

Merton struck a few chords and then began to sing. The attention of the couple in the veranda was riveted immediately. Few men could sing as Merton sang; his voice was a tenor of the richest quality, his execution faultless. He sang as one inspired, and the song he chose suited him exactly; it was "Si j'etais Roi!" When he had finished not a sound came from the veranda; he smiled to himself. That silence was greater praise than any thanks. He knew his power, and he had discovered by intuition that the man and woman were in sympathy with him. He began to play again; this time the song was an English one. The music was his own, the words some of the most beautiful Tennyson ever wrote:

"Sweet is true Love tho' given in vain, in vain; And sweet is Death who puts an end to pain: I know not which is sweeter, no, not I.

"Love, art thou sweet? Then bitter Death must be: Love, thou art bitter; sweet is Death to me.

Oh, Love, if Death be sweeter, let me die.

"Sweet Love, that seems not made to fade away, Sweet Death, that seems to make us loveless clay, I know not which is sweeter, no, not I.

"I fain would follow Love, if that could be; I needs must follow Death, who calls for me; Call and I follow, I follow! Let me die."

His voice sank almost to a whisper as he uttered the last words. They seemed to hang and tremble upon the silent air for some seconds after he had finished; the effect was complete upon his audience. He left the piano and came out again to the veranda.

"Thank you. You are a wonderful singer," said Esther, tears still wet upon her eyelashes. "I have never heard anything like your voice before, and yet we have had many well-known singers among the pearlers in the settlement."

Ellison was silent. The influence of the music and the wail of the song were still upon him, and he could not shake them off. They seemed in some mysterious fas.h.i.+on to remind him of his dead but not forgotten past.

Merton seated himself, and turned the conversation into another channel.

He had created the effect he desired, and that was sufficient for the present. He did not want to appear conceited.

"Hark!" said Esther suddenly, holding up her hand. "I thought I heard someone calling."

They all listened, but no sound rewarded their attention.

"The sea," said her husband, "or a night-bird in the scrub."

"Where is Mr. Murkard to-night?" asked Esther. "I have not seen him since you returned."

Merton suddenly leaned forward, and then as suddenly sat back. Ellison noticed his action, but attached no importance to it.

"He's not at all well, dear. As I'm rather anxious about him, I induced him to go to bed."

Merton sat suddenly upright.

"You were quite right, Mrs. Ellison. _I_ heard someone call then. Who can it be?"

Again they listened, this time with more success. It was the voice of a man in deadly terror, and it came from the hut opposite. Ellison sprang to his feet.

"Murkard!" he cried. "I must go to him."

He dashed across the veranda and down the path to the hut. On the threshold, and before opening the door, he paused to light a match. When he entered, the room was in total darkness. He knew a candle stood on the table near the door, and having found it, he lit it; then holding it aloft, he looked about him. The bed was disordered, half the clothes were lying on the floor. A moment later he sighted the man of whom he was in search. He was crouched in the furthest corner, staring wildly before him. His long legs were drawn up close to his chin--his broad shoulders seemed to overlap his body. But his eyes were his chief horror; they seemed to be starting from their sockets. Streams of perspiration--the perspiration of living fear--rolled down his cheeks, and every now and then he uttered a cry of abject terror.