Генри Хаггард - Mary of Marion Isle

But here again bad luck pursued her, for when she reached her door, in front of which quite a little crowd had gathered, since many had read the news or seen the headings on the placards, whom should she meet rushing up but Mrs. Josky and Laurie, each of them waving a halfpenny paper.

"What did I tell you, my lady," screamed Mrs. Josky. "He's living after all!"

"And you going to be married again," vociferated Laurie, always an uncontrolled person. "Well, I'd have waited a while, I would."

"Even if I hadn't stopped to look for him," added Mrs. Josky.

Then Clara drove off, leaving the pair explaining everything to an interested and ever–increasing crowd.

The end of it was that, with the assistance of her lawyer, Clara wrote a most discreet letter to the noble Viscount to which she had promised herself en secondes noces , saying that under the circumstances, painful as they were unexpected, everything must rest in abeyance until the facts were ascertained. She added that, as he would understand, her "poor woman's heart" was "torn in two."

His lordship answered by special messenger that he quite agreed with her, since bigamy, even if accidental, was an awkward business.

About her poor woman's heart he said nothing at all, contenting himself with the dubious finale of "Yours in mingled hope and fear."

"The wretch!" ejaculated Clara. "Within three months he will be married to that odious Lady Atkins." And he was!

On further reflection Clara saw that in order to obliterate this ridiculous interlude in her career from the public mind, it was necessary that she should do something interesting which would awaken sympathy for herself. To explain her woes on any and every occasion and to demonstrate the raptures of her hope were not enough. No, she herself must head the relief expedition to search for Andrew, and be careful that the fact was well advertised in the Press. She did not in the least wish to undertake any such adventure, having had quite enough of the sea, especially in the neighbourhood of those horrible islands. Andrew was a past episode in her life. Long ago she had written him off her account. As a husband he had disappointed her, and it was probable that if he reappeared, he would continue to do so. The truth was that she felt as much annoyed with that albatross as, had she but known it, Andrew did himself, and devoutly wished that the tin plate had never been found.

Of course the chances were that after all this fuss no Andrew would be discovered. For the message seemed to have been sent off some years ago, and it was most unlikely that he could have lived so long upon a desert island in an extremely inclement climate. At least no one else would have done so, but of Andrew she was not so sure, since he was a man who had a way of achieving the unexpected, of doing those things which he ought not to do, and of leaving those things which he ought to do, undone.

Who else, for instance, would have managed to get himself bottled up below in that inaccessible part of the ship which he insisted upon inhabiting and thus giving everybody the impression that he was finally and romantically drowned? Who else, being thus bottled up, would have managed to emerge and to reach an uninhabited island? Who else would have bethought him of tying a tin plate to the neck of an albatross?—a most unexampled expedient. If he could do these things, it was quite possible that he would manage to exist in circumstances under which anybody else would have died, and to reappear after he had been officially declared deceased. Also—this was a new and dreadful thought—if that should be so, what would he be like after four years alone on an iceberg? He was peculiar enough before, now he would be positively mad. Still, as a philosopher Clara recognized that in life the rough must be taken with the smooth, and that therefore she must go to look for him, leaving the issue to Providence. Perhaps she would find his bones and be able to bring them home for burial, a ceremony that must attract much attention.

So she communicated with the Admiralty and found "my Lords" most kind. Indeed, they promised to place a small cruiser which was attached to the Cape station at her disposal, with orders to give her a passage and to search any and every uninhabited island within a thousand miles radius of the spot where the Neptune had gone down. Also she communicated with the Government, and from it obtained a half–promise that when the man who had been appointed to the Governorship of Oceania upon the supposed death of her husband, resigned, as it was expected that he would do very shortly, the post should again be offered to Andrew.

There was foresight in this move of hers, since she had made up her mind that if he should chance to be rescued and to prove too impossible, she could always allege ill–health and allow him to go to Oceania alone. Then, with indignation in her breast and a wistful look of hope deferred carefully stamped upon her attractive countenance, Clara, suitably attended by servants, took the mail steamer to the Cape, and there in due course embarked upon the cruiser which she found abominably uncomfortable, especially as there was no one on the ship who was in touch with her world, or who interested her at all.

Once more on Marion Isle the long winter was merging into spring. As usual it had been a happy winter for the three inhabitants of that desolate place, except that during it the fear, which he always felt, seemed to grip Andrew's heart more closely than it had ever done before, and from him had spread to that of Mary. Still, of this they said little to each other and now were engaged upon their usual task of making ready their land for sowing.

One morning early, Mary, leaving little Janet in Andrew's charge, went out to see to her fish–nets, and in due course returned with the fish but looking very disturbed.

"What is the matter, dear?" asked Andrew, who saw at once that something was wrong. "Has the new net been carried away?"

"I don't quite know, Andrew," she answered gravely. (By now she had lost the habit of speaking in the third person.) "Last night I dreamed that Old Tom came to me and told me that something very bad was about to happen, he would not say what. He did say, however, that I must 'keep a stiff upper lip'—he always used those funny words about meeting trouble—since if I did so everything might come right at last, as he had always told me it would."

"Well, there isn't much in dreams," said Andrew cheerfully, "and at any rate this one had a good ending. Is that all?"

"No, Andrew. When I was on the rocks yonder a squall came up and covered me. Then suddenly in the mist and drift I saw the Shape―"

"What shape?"

"That I told you about which three times warned me of danger and saved my life before you came. Since then I have never seen it till this morning."

"Well," said Andrew, "what did it look like?"

"It looked very terrible, Andrew. It looked like Death. It came upon me suddenly and passed away against the wind out on to the Race between the islands, pointing to the Race where it vanished. Andrew, some one is going to die there in that Race."

"Then pray God it may be me," he answered in words that were startled out of him, "though I don't see how I should get into the Race where no man can swim and live for long."

"No," she answered, "pray God it may be Mary."

"Don't say that, don't say that!" he cried and kissed her.

"Why not?" she asked. "We have been very happy, haven't we? And I do not fear death since my heart tells me that in death we really find all we think we lose."

"Look here, Mary," said Andrew. "Rightly or wrongly you believe in this shape which, you say, has three times saved your life. Why then should it come a fourth time to take away your life, or to tell you that it will be taken away?"