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 circ.u.mstances 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 d.a.m.n me, body and soul. But you shan"t! by G.o.d, 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 pa.s.s 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 G.o.d strike you dead if you lie?"